“Uh, going down?” one of the marines said.

“No,” Rogers said. “Sorry. This lift is broken. We’re, ah, the maintenance crew. We’ll be riding this back and forth until further notice.”

“If it’s broken, how are you going to ride it back and forth?” asked another marine.

Rogers chewed on his lip. “It’s just that, ah, there’s a squeaky noise as it passes the zoo deck. We think there might be an animal trapped in there, but we have to ride it past the zoo deck a couple of times to make sure it’s not mechanical.”

Some of the marines looked convinced—it was a brilliant lie, after all, if Rogers did say so himself—but one of the ones in front squinted and pointed at Rogers’ uniform.

“You’re not an engineer,” he said. “Shouldn’t the engineers being doing the fixing? And who are all these other people? None of them are engineers either.”

Rogers cursed to himself. Why was everyone so suspicious? It’s not like there wouldn’t be another car coming along in just a minute to take these meatheads wherever they wanted to go.

“In fact,” the marine continued, “I don’t even know what that specialty badge is.”

Rogers looked down at his own collar, remembering that he was still wearing his AIGCS commander badge—execs didn’t change their specialty, since it was only a temporary duty that typically ended in suicide, anyway. Of course the marine wouldn’t know what it was. But that also meant it could be anything.

“I see you’re not familiar with the new specialty code,” Rogers said. “This is the elevator tech badge. There are only a few of us on each ship.” He patted the edge of the doorframe affectionately. “These babies need a personal kind of love that a general engineer can’t give ’em.”

“That’s a pretty stupid specialty code,” the marine said.

“Hey,” Rogers said, somehow feeling genuinely offended at the slight on his made-up profession, “I don’t come into the marine barracks and call you all a bunch of drooling jarheads that shoot about as straight as you piss after sex.”

“Maybe because that would get your ass kicked, officer or no officer,” the marine growled. “Now, why don’t you get the—”

“Hey, you,” the Viking said, shoving past Rogers to stand in (and completely fill) the doorframe of the up-line. “Why are you standing there, running your mouth and stopping this elevator tech from getting to work?”

The marine’s face paled and he took a step back. “Oh, shit, captain. I didn’t know. I’m—”

“A drooling jarhead that shoots about as straight as he pisses after sex?”

“Uh,” the marine said, stammering, “yeah. Sure.”

The Viking leaned forward and growled. “Sure?”

“I mean, yes, ma’am! Absolutely, ma’am! Piss like old windshield wiper fluid in the winter, ma’am! I’m sorry for interrupting your ride.”

The unfortunate marine backed up, saluting no less than three times before he ran into his companions, starting an awkward domino effect of stumbling marines. The Viking took a step back, pressed the button to close the door, and entered the refuse deck as their next destination. As one of the lowest levels on the Flagship, that would certainly give them more time to talk.