“Wait,” Rogers said, the blood draining from his face. “Did you say war?”

The corporal nodded. “That’s what the rumor is. Things are tightening up around here. We can’t spend all our time screwing around anymore. Uh, sir.”

“Just Rogers. But what makes anyone think that the Two Hundred Years’ (and Counting) Peace is going to fail? The treaties are airtight.”

“They’re as airtight as any treaty is,” Mailn said with a shrug. Unlike Rogers, she didn’t seem at all perturbed by the fact that the military actually might do some fighting. Did the 331st even know how to conduct a war? Rogers didn’t think they’d be fit to conduct a small chamber orchestra.

He supposed that would explain some of the attitude change, but . . . it didn’t seem right. And leave it to Rogers to rejoin the military right on the cusp of a Thelicosan invasion. Tuckalle’s deal didn’t seem so good anymore.

“I’ve got to get going,” the corporal said. “I was only up in the quarterdeck because I needed to deliver something to the Viking’s room. Next time you feel like being a punching bag, maybe I could take you down to the unarmed combat training room and throw you around a bit.” She winked at him. “I could at least teach you how to duck.”

Rogers touched the bruise on his forehead again and winced. “I appreciate that. Right now I think I need a couple of painkillers and a coma.”

Mailn grinned at him and walked away, leaving Rogers to punch in the code that Suresh had given him into the keypad and enter his room.

An ensign’s room was, apparently, not much better than a sergeant’s bunk. Though it was decorated with the same vintage tastes as the quarterdeck hallways, the room held only a bed, a wardrobe built into the wall, and a small desk with a network terminal and some other administrative paraphernalia arrayed neatly on its surface. His personal datapad was slung neatly into its charging holster on the side of the desk, and, instead of a window, there was a tacky porthole-shaped painting of a bland starscape hanging on the wall. In the background was a painted planet, which, strangely, looked like Jupiter from the old Milky Way. Considering that Jupiter had become the only planet that didn’t get their own system when humanity migrated to Fortuna Stultus, it seemed a strange choice for art.

The first thing he did, however, was take down the poster on the wall that said REGULATIONS: THE KEY TO SUCCESS above which was portrayed a maniacal parade commander lording over a group of soldiers standing in formation. As he took it down, however, he noticed something peculiar. The nametags on the soldiers in formation were all legible, and one of the soldiers apparently was named “Droids.”

In fact, reading the soldiers in formation from left to right gave the strange imperative: “Love Your Droids.” Maybe the poster creator had a sense of humor, after all. Rogers might like to have a drink with him.