Black-eyed peas with rice. Ging looked from the front of the khaki green pouch to the insides and back again to the package’s front. The package said Hopping John, which sounded festive and at least edible. Instead it was just more brown sludge that smelt of beans. Ging poked his fork in the pouch and retrieved a slimy mouthful. Prepared for the worst, the soldier opened his mouth. That’s when Ging saw the red dot.

The Sniper had found him. With a shrug, Ging returned to his breakfast. At least it was evenly hot, he thought. Last night’s korma was molten on the bottom and icy at the top. A lot of the MREs were defective. Capt. Clark said cold rations were the price of war. Ging thought that meant Olde Earth was cheaping out and buying discounted rations from Mars. He read the list of ingredients. The red dot on his chest moved slowly up.

Snipers liked to play games. There had been heavy fighting earlier in the week, but the last few days had been peaceful. Baker Company was mostly patrolling the Brandywine, rooting out any rebel robots that had been missed. Ging looked at the burnt umber dirt and the twisted blackened trees. He had been born on Mars to a mining family. His folks and baby sis immigrated to work as miners on Saturn. Ging had decided to join the military to earn a homestead. Ging took another mouthful of beans. He’d had worse. The red dot was off his chest and was probably on his forehead for all he cared.

The Sniper was ready to make their move. Eating more quickly, Ging could taste onions and red peppers in the beans. He thought of his mother’s stew and wished for home. Ging didn’t understand this war with the Androids. They were either tools or people. If they were tools then the Androids should follow the rules. And if the Androids were real life people because they caught feelings and learned thoughts they should still follow the goddamn rules. Everyone followed the rules. No one got special rights. Ging’s folks worked their fingers to the bone for next to nothing. No one gave his family anything. In the bush, Ging heard a gentle rustle to the left as he picked a hunk of garlic out of his teeth.

Ging belched. That wasn’t half-bad, Ging thought. With a wrist flick, he flung the empty pouch to the right. It whacked the Sniper in the forehead.

“Damn it, Ginger, you got guck on my helmet,” Mirre said. “I just came to give you a hand.”

Snipers loved to take trophies. His pal lobbed a disembodied Android arm onto Ging’s lap. Grey and flaccid, it stank like rotten broccoli. Tossing it, Ging gagged and Mirre giggled. Content, Ging scratched at his belly. The hopping john was good but it knew it would give him an ache by nightfall. As Mirre went to retrieve her latest prize, Ging leaned back and hoped for a quiet night.