The Ghost Brigades (Old Man's War, #2)

by John Scalzi

“Thank God for Karl Marx,” intoned the second. “That’s the first time in history that has been said at a poker table,” said Cloud. “You should be proud.”

Realborn go for years without the slightest clue what they’re going to do with themselves. From what I understand, some of them never actually figure it out. They just walk through life in a daze and then fall into their graves at the end of it. Sad. And inefficient.

one thing he did know was that he didn’t want to lose his shit in an elevator filled with strangers. Social conditioning was, for the moment, stronger than panic over confused identity.

Let’s see if that shit’s flammable. It was.

Jared’s primary regret at the end of his life was that there had been so little of it. Just a year. But that year, so many people and experiences. Jared walked with them in his mind and felt their presence a final time: Jane Sagan, Harry Wilson, Cainen. General Mattson and Colonel Robbins. The 2nd Platoon, and the closeness they shared in integration. The strangeness of Captain Martin and the Gamerans. The jokes he shared with Lieutenant Cloud. Sarah Pauling, best beloved. And Zoë. Zoë who would live, if only Sagan could find her. And she would. No, Jared thought. No regrets. Not one. Not for anything.

it was if his senses had been at low volume all his life and then were suddenly cranked up to full. Even a science lab looked good.