“I’ve got a hankering, Frye,” Jackson said while illuminated by the dull blue service lights overhead.
	“For what, exactly?” Frye asked. He adjusted the strap that held an unwieldly and heavy tech-shot rifle to his shoulders. Frye’s feet ached—Jason and he had been standing guard at the far side of a corridor in a Charon-class military frigate, stationed just outside the orbit of Earth.
	“I don’t have a clue,” Jackson said. “We’ve been standing here for ages it feels like. I need, you know, a small pick-me-up. Nothing fancy, nothing crazy.” Jackson’s eyes followed the long glossy-white corridor.
	“And you’d think they would have put a window in here.” He said.
	“It’s only been two hours,” Frye replied. “It’s really not that bad.”
	The strap of the tech-shot was beginning to chafe against Frye’s shoulder, and he could not take his mind off it. To Frye’s right stood Jackson, who leaned against the curve of the wall. Jackson had taken his tech-shot and found a groove in the floor, using the rifle as a prop to keep him against the wall. The pair were silent for a couple minutes, until Jackson snorted and scratched his face.
	“I know what I want,” Jackson said.
	“Which would be?”
	“Coffee,” Jackson bellowed. “That’s what I want, I want coffee.”
	Frye was taken aback by Jackson’s sudden proclamation.
	“Calm down, not too loud,” Frye said. “We aren’t even supposed to be talking while on duty.”
	Frye scanned the corridor and adjusted the tech-shot again.
	“The color of chocolate, sweet and nice. Lots of caffeine. The good stuff,” Jackson said.
	Coffee was in short supply, however, and the price of coffee was well out of a space-grunt’s monthly salary.
	“That is fancy,” Frye groaned.
	“I don’t think it is.”
	“It’s crazy. Where do you think you’re going to get some? Definitely not the canteen.”
	Jackson was hushed and was looking up at the ceiling. He inhaled slowly and looked all around.
	“The Squadroneer’s quarters, that’s where,” he said.
	Frye lifted his eyebrow and glowered.
	“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
	“Not at all, Frye. What we don’t use we can sell.”
	“I don’t even like coffee.”
	“Let me rephrase that—what I don’t use we can sell.”
	“No.”
	“Just think about it, ponder it. We’ll be here for another four hours.”
	Jackson lifted his tech-shot and threw the strap over his shoulders. He then fidgeted and started taking short paces in front of Frye. Frye gave him a look and Jackson shot back into his post. The doors at the opposite end of the corridor opened with a low hum and ended with a hissing decompression noise. Jackson and Frye heard the clicking of boots in a rigid pace through the fog of the door mechanism.  The man who stepped through the fog was tall and firm and wore red and black camouflage along with his shiny black boots.
	“Shut it Jackson, looks like an officer,” Frye said while prodding Jackson.
	“Shit,” Jackson mumbled under his breath.
	The boots rapped against the sanitary alumite floors until the officer was directly in front of the pair.
	“Evening, men,” he rasped. His voice sounded throaty as though he had been using tobacco extract for ages.
	Jackson and Frye stood to attention and saluted the officer.
	“Our pleasure, sir,” they both said in unison.
	The officer put his finger to the door print scanner and stepped through after the door opened. The door closed with the same loud hiss. Jackson relaxed and returned to pacing a short distance in front of the doorway.
	“Does that make you want to rethink your idea, Jackson?” Frye asked. “Do you want those eyebrows and mustache to be the last thing you’ve seen after you commit your act of perfidy?”
	“…it’s not going to happen,” Jackson snapped. “C’mon, live a little.”
	A shrill beeping noise played on the ship message relay intercom. It was a ship hanger maintenance drill. Only routine.
	“Perfect opportunity now, Frye. That officer has been the only one to come through here for hours.”
	“That doesn’t mean a damn thing.”
	Frye sighed and rubbed his face.
	“Lay off it man,” he said.
	“I’m going to do it myself,” Jackson replied. “Stay here, that’s fine.”
	“Don’t.”
	Jackson started walking to the door at the opposite end of the corridor. Frye was feeling more and more frustrated and attempted to bite back harsh words.
	“Where in shit are you going?”
	The fog from the door obscured Jackson’s exit. The door then closed. Frye was now alone. He was now complicit—what would the Judge-Advocates say? Harsh military regulation did not look favorably upon the abandoning of a post. As irritating of a person Jackson was—he was still a friend. The corridor was now completely silent except for the ambient hum of the spacecraft. Frye could feel himself sweating and was fixated on the heavy tech-shot.
	“Damn it,” Frye thought while he walked towards the door.