“Yeah, great,” Rogers said. “Whatever. But I just got here.”

“Then you shouldn’t have anything to worry about,” the sergeant said.

“Look, sergeant, uh . . . ” Rogers peered at his name tag. “Sergeant Stract. Really?”

“I was born to be Stan/Eval,” the sergeant said with the utmost seriousness.

“Right,” Rogers said. “And I was born to acknowledge radio transmissions. I’ve been in the service a long time. Inspections don’t really happen in this fleet.”

“CALL FUNCTION [REPETITION AND ASSURANCE],” the droid said—boy, this one was a talker—”OUTPUT STRING: INSPECTIONS HAPPEN ACCORDING TO A REGULAR AND REGIMENTED SCHEDULE TO WHICH ALL PERSONNEL MUST ADHERE.”

Rogers looked at Sergeant Stract. “Do you always let droids do your talking for you?”

The sergeant frowned. “Insults aren’t going to help you much, sir. Now, if you’ll please stand at attention in the center of your room, we can conduct the inspection.”

“Yeah, I’m not really into standing at attention, either,” Rogers said. “Look, I’ll just sign the bottom of your sheet, and you can mark everything as acceptable, and we can both get on with our day.”

“CALL FUNCTION [PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY]. OUTPUT STRING: REFUSAL TO ABIDE BY MILITARY PROTOCOL,” the droid said. “ONE DEMERIT WILL BE AWARDED.”

Back in Rogers’ day, a “demerit” was a penalty in a drinking game that necessitated a shot of alcohol. Somehow, he didn’t think that’s what the droid was talking about.

“CALL FUNCTION [ISSUE ORDER]. TARGET [SERGEANT STRACT],” the droid said. “ASSUME CONTROL OF THE RECORDS.”

“Wait,” Rogers said. “The droid is leading the inspection?”

The sergeant snapped to attention and grabbed the clipboard like a rifle with a resounding crack.

“I have assumed control of the records, sir!”

“Did you just call that droid sir?”

The sergeant glared at Rogers. “As you don’t seem to be familiar with military protocol, sir, I will explain that it is customary for us to address those who outrank us by sir or ma’am.”

Rogers stared, dumbstruck, at Sergeant Stract as the droid began walking around the room, its metallic legs clanking against the pseudo-wood floor of the officer stateroom. Stract followed the machine in lockstep, duck-walking in the ridiculous fashion that someone, somewhere along the line had decided looked “official.” Had Stract been wearing a black-and-white outfit, Rogers would have confused him with a penguin.

“No,” Rogers said. “No, absolutely not. There’s no way this droid has a rank.”

“CALL FUNCTION [DECLARE IDENTITY]. OUTPUT STRING: I AM CYBERMAN FIRST CLASS A-155. CALL FUNCTION [SMUGLY CITE REGULATION]. IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE MERIDAN RANK AND ORGANIZATION REGULATION MR-613, I AM SUPERIOR TO ALL ENLISTED PERSONNEL RANKED E-5 AND BELOW. SERGEANT STRACT’S RANK OF SERGEANT IS E-5 IN THE MERIDAN GALACTIC NAVY.”

“Absolutely, sir,” the sergeant said, nodding. “An excellent reference to the regulations.”

“Do the regulations say you’re supposed to kiss his ass, too?” Rogers asked. “How do you even know it’s a sir and not a ma’am? Does it have an extra pair of turbines between its legs?”