The End of All Things: The Third Instalment by John Scalzi

PART ONE
    It was Tuesday, and we had to murder a revolution.
    “It is Tuesday, yeah?” Terrell Lambert asked. There were four of us in the squad for this mission, and we waited, slowly circling, in a shuttle twenty-five klicks above the planet surface.
    In one way, it was a reasonable question. Days fade into each other in the Colonial Defense Forces, especially when you’re traveling from one mission to the next. One day is very much like another on a starship, there are no real “days off.” Tracking days might make sense if you were waiting for your term of service to end, but recently we’d been made aware that our terms of service were likely to be extended indefinitely. This is what happens when your sole source of soldiers has been taken from you and you have no way to get any more anytime soon.
    That being the case, tracking specific days didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Was it Tuesday? It might be. Did it matter that it was Tuesday? Not as much as it might otherwise.
    In another way it was a ridiculous question because every CDF soldier has a computer called a BrainPal in their head. The BrainPal is a marvelous piece of equipment which can tell you instantly what day it is, what time it is, what the ambient temperature around is, and every single mission spec—along with, really, anything else you might want or need, information-wise.
    Lambert knew exactly what day it was, or could know. He wasn’t asking as a point of information. He was making an existentialist point about the nature of a life in the Colonial Defense Forces. It’s worth saying that it’s doubtful that Lambert was specifically intending to bring attention to the existential nature of his question. That didn’t mean it wasn’t there.
    Also, he asked because he was bored, waiting for our mission to begin. Boredom also happened a lot in the Colonial Defense Forces.
    “Yeah, it’s Tuesday,” Sau Salcido replied. “Ask me how I know.”
    “Because of your BrainPal?” Ilse Powell asked.
    “No. Because yesterday was Pizza Day in the Tubingen mess. Pizza Day is always Monday. Therefore: It’s Tuesday.”
    “That messes me up,” Lambert said.
    “That it’s Tuesday?” Salcido asked.
    “No, that Monday is Pizza Day. Back on Earth I was a custodian at an elementary school. Pizza Day was always on Friday. The teachers used it to keep the kids in line. ‘Behave yourself or you don’t get pizza on Friday.’ Having Monday be Pizza Day subverts the natural order of things.”
    “You know what’s worse than that,” Powell said. “That Tubingen ’s mess serves tacos on Wednesday.”
    “When it should be on Tuesday,” Salcido said.
    “Right, ‘Taco Tuesday.’ It’s right there. ”
    “Well, only in English,” Salcido pointed out. “If you speak Spanish, for example, it’s ‘martes de tacos,’ which isn’t alliterative at all. I think it’s ‘martes de tacos.’ I could be messing up the translation.”
    “You could just check with your BrainPal,” Lambert said.
    “And you could have checked with your BrainPal about what day it is, so what’s your point.”
    “At the school we always had tacos on Thursday,” Lambert said, changing the subject.
    “Why would you do that?” Powell asked.
    “Why wouldn’t you? It’s still a day that starts with a ‘t’.”
    “In English,” Salcido interjected.
    “In English,” Lambert continued. “It’s still alliterative.”
    “ Technically it’s alliterative,” Powell said. “Functionally a ‘th’ sound and a hard ‘t’ aren’t alliterative at all.”
    “Sure they are.”
    “‘ Thhhhhhhh, ’” Powell hissed. “It’s nothing like ‘t’.”
    “You’re reaching,” Lambert said.
    “Help me out here,” Powell said, to Salcido.
    “She’s got a point,” Salcido said, to Lambert.
    “‘Taco Thursday’ still makes more sense than ‘Pizza Monday,’” Lambert said.
    “Only in English,” Salcido said. “In Spanish it’s lunes. So ‘lunes de