“Hi, there,” he said. “I’m headed to Supply.”

“It’s that way,” she said, pointing down the hallway. She didn’t move to let him into the boarding area.

“Right. I’d like to ride.”

The woman—a starman first class, someone with only a couple of years in the Meridan Navy—looked him up and down with a disdainful eye. “These are for official use only.”

Rogers fought to keep the smile on his face. “It is official use. I’m being reinstated and I need to go to the supply dock for my official equipment issue.”

“Do you have orders?”

Rogers’ smile almost slipped. “Since when do you need orders to ride the in-line?”

“It’s the regulation. If you have business, you should have been given orders or at least be wearing a uniform. That’s the way we do things.”

In no way was this the “way they did things” from what Rogers could remember. Hell, they used to ride the in-line back and forth just to get back to the beginning of the “landing strip,” which is what they used to call the section of the hallway they slicked down with cleaning fluid in order to slide along it on their bare chests for fun. Walking back was dangerous—you might get plowed over by a wayward soldier tittering with glee as he spun out of control.

“Just once,” Rogers said. “I need to get my stuff.”

“No.”

The woman looked at him with such implacable indifference that Rogers wondered if she would have reacted had he stripped naked in front of her. What was wrong with these people?

Rogers sighed. “Come on, it’s just—”

“These transportation systems are for the orderly movement of personnel and supplies through the loading deck. If I let every joker on, what would happen if fighting broke out? The cars would be crowded with loitering slobs like you.”

Letting the insult slide off him, Rogers pressed on. “What fighting? There’s no fighting.”

The woman narrowed his eyes at him. “That’s not funny. Are you really that dense? Now, if you don’t mind, I’m very busy.”

“You’re not doing anything at all!”

“My position is, as all positions are, crucial to the war effort. Please make your way down to the supply depot that way”—she pointed again—“or go and find whoever assigned you here and get orders to use the in-line.”

Resisting the urge to make an obscene gesture, Rogers turned in a huff and stomped down the hallway. War effort! That was like saying you were stationed on a communication station to help with the heat wave.

He realized he was starting to sweat after the first couple of minutes of speed walking, and he slowed his pace, shoving his hands in his pockets and grumbling to himself. A pair of droids rolled down the hallway, their incessant beeping and whirring making him want to knock their metal faces off (if he had been wielding a torque wrench or had ever visited the gym).

A poster on the wall made him stop for a moment to examine it. There was nothing strange about having motivational posters on the wall—every organization Did it despite its utter ineffectiveness—but something about this one seemed different. It read, in all capital letters, EVERY POSITION IS CRUCIAL TO THE WAR EFFORT. Above it was a dramatically shaded portrait of a young soldier licking envelopes, a look of fierce determination in his eyes. Rogers shook his head and moved on.