Taking a deep breath, Rogers accelerated. He hoped the droids hadn’t taken control of the Flagship’s guns, or this was going to be a very short ride. Throttling the engines to full as soon as he was clear of the external airlock doors, Rogers took a hard turn to swing back and start heading toward the top of the Flagship. According to the schematics he’d pulled up on his datapad, the gravity generator was located on the opposite side of the ship from where he’d launched, and, the Flagship being the size of a small city, it was going to take time to get over there.

As he turned around to face the ship again, Rogers got the treat of a full view of the 331st’s command ship. He was a little more appreciative of its beauty this time around now that it was on the verge of being turned into a hunk of melting metal with everyone he knew dead inside of it. That sort of thing tended to increase the sentimentality of the situation, he supposed.

As he sailed up and over the Flagship, Rogers took a deep breath. There was nothing he could do to prepare, no way to rush this any further, so he just sat back and took a couple of deep breaths. Open space was all around him, the rest of the 331st totally oblivious to what was going on aboard the Flagship, thanks to the lack of communication. It almost looked peaceful, but he knew it was just a matter of perspective. If he didn’t stop the droids, the War of Musical Chairs, the largest human conflict in space history, would look like child’s play.

He didn’t feel particularly good about what he was about to do—he wasn’t really the self-sacrificing kind of person, and he thought the whole thing was kind of tacky—but he didn’t see much of a choice. Glancing around the cockpit of his ship, he remembered the events that had kicked off this insane term of military service, and couldn’t do anything except shake his head.

Doing so put his eyes on the storage locker where he had kept his supply of Jasker 120, which, he noticed, was slightly ajar. Rogers was positive he hadn’t been able to get the thing open; he’d spent many frantic days trying to do so, to no avail. But there it was. Rising out of his seat, Rogers went over to the lockers and opened it, then cursed.

He’d had eight bottles of it when he’d accidentally bashed it shut. Now there was one—and it was half empty. On it was a note.

Rogers, it said, you always had good taste. Thanks for the payment.—Hart.

Chuckling, Rogers picked up the note. On the back, it said, P.S. Stop stealing Meridan government property. And whoever did this paint job is a moron.

Rogers nonchalantly threw the note away, taking the half-empty bottle from the shelf and walking back over to his seat. None of that was going to matter for much longer, anyway.