Not for the first time, Rogers wished he had been able to take his own ship. But the engines needed enough work that he’d have to wait to get to the dry dock on the Flagship to fix them, if they were salvageable at all.

“So, what’s the game of choice nowadays in the fleet?” Rogers asked, still standing in the gangway. “Holo-carving? Gravitational darts? Good old poker?”

“I wouldn’t know,” the pilot said. He made a couple of quick corrections on the control panel and spoke some jargon-riddled pilot-speak into the communication system. He received similar gibberish in reply and seemed satisfied. The Flagship took up the whole of the cockpit window now, its dull gray surface washing out the colors of the shuttle’s interior.

“You don’t play games?”

“Not while I’m on duty.”

“That’s the best time!”

The pilot turned and regarded Rogers with something between confusion and contempt. He pointed mutely to the passenger compartment, and Rogers sighed as he turned around.

“Might as well have a droid as a pilot,” Rogers said under his breath as he sat down and fastened his seatbelt. Crossing his arms, he grumpily looked out the window and watched as the docking bay swallowed the tiny shuttle like a whale swallowed plankton, padded clamps fastening around the hull like baleen. As Rogers had suspected, the whole procedure was as smooth and automated as it had been when he left the military. Seatbelts . . . pfuh.

Speaking of droids, Rogers couldn’t help but notice that the docking bay had quite a few of them running around. Almost humanoid, their tin-can bodies moved around on either a wheeled base or a convincing pair of bionic legs with the knee joints reversed to offset their heavy torsos. Some of them wielded welding torches or wrenches, and some others had their data extension cables plugged into consoles operating cranes and various machinery. Rogers had expected to see some of his old engineering troops running around, but there was barely a human in sight.

“Damn,” Rogers said. “Shinies everywhere.”

The pilot cleared his throat.

“What?”

“I’d thank you not to use that term on my ship,” the pilot said. “I don’t tolerate racism.”

“Racism? They’re droids! They don’t have a race.”

The pilot made some final adjustments on the control panel, and Rogers felt a rush of air as the passenger stairway extended down to the docking bay floor.

“Enjoy your stay,” the pilot said coldly.

Shaking his head, Rogers collected his meager belongings—most of his stuff was still on the Awesome and he hadn’t been allowed to retrieve it—and made his way down the plank and through the docking bay, carefully avoiding any contact with the droids. Not only did they creep him out a little, but they were boring.

According to Tuckalle, his orders had been transmitted to the Flagship, but he didn’t tell Rogers much more than that. The first stop, of course, would be the supply depot. He’d need to be reissued everything from uniforms to hygiene supplies to flashlights and tools for his engineering duties. The supply depot had always been his favorite place; it was where he moved the best contraband and where he had the most friends. Of all the people on the ship he wanted to keep happy the most, the supply clerks were of the highest priority, which is why Rogers never, ever gambled, swindled, or dated any of them.