“What the AFTERLIFE LOCALE are you doing?”

“My job,” Rogers said. Though he meant it as a joke, he realized that it was mostly true.

“Your job is to wave at people all day? You’re not even doing it very well.”

“It’s not waving,” Rogers said, his teeth clenched, sweat running down his face. “It’s saluting.”

“Well, you should stop,” Deet said as another starman first class jumped in the back of what was becoming a very long line to salute Rogers. All movement in the hallway had completely stopped, everyone waiting their turn to salute everyone else. A pair of very confused corporals saluted each other on accident.

“It’s not that easy,” Rogers said.

“Well,” Deet said, “what would happen if you were to break your arm? If you couldn’t physically salute, nobody could blame you for it, right?”

“I think I’d rather keep my bones intact, thanks,” Rogers said, breathing heavily. Who had invited the entire enlisted corps of the Meridan Marines to the command deck? Where did all of these people come from? Why wouldn’t they just go away? He should have hung himself. Hanged himself ? It didn’t matter. He should have just pressed the big red button in the garbage chute, holes in his suit or no holes in his suit.

“So, fake it,” Deet said.

Rogers stopped, his arm falling to his side. He turned, slowly, staring at the little droid with all of the rusty parts sticking out of him at strange angles. The command deck was completely frozen now, especially since Rogers had stopped saluting people. People were crowding in the doorways, practically climbing on top of each other just to prepare to salute Rogers. A group of three troops—a major, an ensign, and a master sergeant—had gotten caught in what Rogers had named “the grind” and were walking in a small circle, each saluting the other as they passed. You couldn’t get out of the grind unless someone bumped into you or one of you broke down crying.

“Fake it,” Rogers said. “Fake it!” Why hadn’t he thought of that before? What had happened to him that he couldn’t even come up with the most basic of cons: pretending to be sick? He’d learned that when he was four years old—thermometers in space heaters, swallowing kitchen cleaners to induce tremors for a few minutes.

“Give me that,” Rogers snapped. Deet had been carrying the tattered remains of the VMU that McSchmidt had lent him. Tearing a strip off the soft interior liner, he hurriedly created a sling that he looped around his right arm and his neck. In truth, it actually felt kind of good; his arm was so tired that it was practically broken anyway. Rogers secured the sling in place and looked up at the crowd, daring them to salute an injured man.

There was a brief moment of silence, followed by loud pattering noises as the entire hallway emptied in a matter of seconds. Rogers and Deet stood alone near the entrance to Rogers’ stateroom. He hadn’t even realized how close he’d been.