Shoving the poster under his bed, Rogers began to open drawers and cabinets to see what he’d been furnished with. It was all plain. Uniforms, emergency SEWR rats, a med kit and, strangely, two toothbrushes. One of them was so coarse he was sure it would cut his gums to ribbons, but he noticed after a moment that it wasn’t a toothbrush at all. Engraved into the handle were the words SPECK CLEANER 2000. TAKE YOUR SPECKS STRAIGHT TO HECK!

“Oh, hell no,” he said, and tossed the toothbrush under the bed with the poster.

Boring. He felt like he wanted to lie down in the middle of his room and die. This wasn’t part of the bargain at all. And it still felt wrong. There was something missing in the room that he couldn’t quite place. Obviously, all the modifications he’d made to his sergeants’ quarters for hiding alcohol, weighted dice, and other contraband were missing, but he’d remedy that soon enough. There was something else.

Then he noticed the time on the small clock on his desk. It was 12:41 PM ship time. The beer light should have been on for forty-one minutes.

Rogers spun around, panicked. It wasn’t here. It wasn’t here. The beer light was gone.

Just as he was about to have a breakdown and start throwing furniture, a knock came at his door.

“Open up,” came a voice. “It’s time for your inspection!”

I. Not eyeglasses, though there was one portrait of General Nelson Rockshaft holding a stylish pair of lenses. He had become famous for removing said glasses while observing tactical displays, resulting in strategic maneuvers that were almost always unpredictable and almost certainly ineffective.

White Gloves

It was a testament to his mental state (or the recent powerful blow to the head) that it took several seconds for Rogers to realize he was trying to climb into a painting and not out a window into open space. The picture fell to the floor, the extinct Jupiter landing facedown.

“Well, that’ll be a demerit,” a voice came from behind him.

Turning around, fists balled, Rogers found not one but two members of the Standardization and Evaluation squadron aboard the Flagship. One of them, of course, was a droid. Carrying a clipboard. Wearing white gloves.

The other was a lean, full-cheeked sergeant with a uniform tailored so tightly around his body that it looked more like an elaborate tattoo than clothing. Aircraft could have landed on the airstrip of hair that was on the top of his head, closely buzzed on either side. His buttons and medals had been blindingly polished to the point where they could have been used as independent sources of illumination. In short, he looked like a major tool.

“What’s this all about?” Rogers asked.

“CALL FUNCTION [TIRELESSLY REPEAT SIMPLE INSTRUCTIONS]. TARGET [ENSIGN ROGERS]” the droid said, “OUTPUT STRING: YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED FOR A MORALE, HEALTH, AND WELFARE INSPECTION. ALL PERSONNEL ARE SUBJECT TO MHW INSPECTIONS TO BE CONDUCTED BY STANDARDIZATION AND EVALUATION—”