“Yanai’s just a jerk,” I said when we started walking again.

“That’s his name?”

I nodded.

“Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, I’ve met worse.” She asked how long we’d been serving in the outpost. I told her that the seniors were closing in on six months, but us juniors had only arrived from the training base three weeks ago.

“You don’t look that young,” she complimented me.

“Neither do you,” I said, and immediately started apologizing profusely for how that came out. She laughed. It made me happy. She asked whether Korczak was a junior or a senior.

“Junior, but he’s twenty-four, just immigrated here.”

“No kidding. And his name is really Korczak?”

“Nickname.” I told her that on our first night at Neptune the soldiers from the senior platoon woke us up in the middle of the night. They made us stand outside in the lineup square while Sakal presented the Ten Rookie Commandments, from the unconditional requirement to salute a senior soldier to the strict rule against eating chocolate pudding cups. After he read the commandments, Sakal pulled Korczak aside and told him he was aware he was three years his senior, and that he had no intention of pulling rank on a guy who could be his grandfather.

“But Korczak wouldn’t have it, he demanded to be treated the same as everybody else. Which is why they started calling him Korczak, because he’s like that guy from the Holocaust who went with the children.”

“A righteous man,” she said. Instantly regretting having portrayed him in such a good light, I mentioned that it was simply the logical thing to do, and that it was just surprising because Korczak was a loner.

“Don’t take it personally if he’s not too excited to see you. He’s just that kind of person.”

“Believe me, a display of excitement is the last thing I want from anyone around here,” she replied and kept walking.

3.