“Oh,” Munkle said. “Admiral. Sir. I’m not used to seeing. Ah. Sir. Yes, sir.”

Dear god, this man was completely addled by the mere presence of someone that barely knew the size and class of the ship he was in command of. Rogers felt his teeth clenching. Who was this lieutenant lieutenant, anyway? By the way he looked so uncomfortable briefing the admiral, Rogers would have guessed that he was another “voluntary” transfer.

The screen blinked once, and suddenly there was a picture of the entire fleet’s disposition. It showed the “border” of the system and gave what Rogers thought might have been an approximation of how the Thelicosans’ own border fleet was arrayed.

Rogers was only guessing, of course, because he couldn’t understand a word coming out of the man’s mouth.

“Mrrmrrr mrr nrr nrrr mrr mrr mrr. Mrr Thelicosa nrr nrr. Exit on the right.”

He was from the Public Transportation Announcer Corps.

“A PTAC?” Rogers whispered into Klein’s ear, ignoring any further useless babble. “You made a PTAC into your intelligence officer?”

“He asked for the transfer,” Klein hissed. “I’m just trying to keep him happy. Besides, what value comes from intelligence briefs, anyway?”

“You’ll never know if you keep listening to this guy,” Rogers hissed back, pointing at the briefing screen. It had now switched to a screen showing the technical readouts of a Thelicosan Battle Spider, so named for its eight-legged torso, each of which had a terrifying array of weapons on it. Munkle took up a device that allowed him to make notes on the screen and began writing next to one of the eight weapons bays.

MRR MRRR, he wrote. He drew an arrow to a specific point and then nodded, apparently having completed whatever brilliant dissertation he’d been disgorging.

“You can’t be serious,” Rogers muttered. “This is where all the rumors of the brewing war with Thelicosa came from? How does anyone on this ship even know how to spell ‘Thelicosa’?”

The PTAC very clearly wrote the word THELICOSA underneath his commentary of MRR MRRR.

“See?” Klein said.

“That’s not the point,” Rogers whispered. “You need to fire this guy.”

“Why?” Klein whispered. “He asked to be here.”

“No, he didn’t,” Rogers said. “I don’t know who asked for it, but I’m pretty sure he’d be much happier talking into a microphone at an aircar station on Merida Prime. Look at the guy!”

Munkle was shaking, sweat pouring down his face. From a small portable table on his left, Munkle retrieved a cloth from a basket marked CLEAN and put the cloth he’d been using to dab his forehead in one marked NERVOUS. The latter was filling up rapidly. Part of the defining characteristic of a PTAC technician was his aversion to speaking when anyone else was around. They were far more at home in small, dark booths underground.

“Fine,” Klein said. “But who am I supposed to replace him with?”

Rogers frowned for a moment, thinking.

“I think I have an idea.”