“Keep your seats,” Rogers said. He looked at Mailn, who was grinning at him. “And don’t call me speed bag.”

“Don’t get hit in the face,” she said. “Speaking of which, it kind of looks like a bunch of little girls just shook you down for lunch money. What’s on your mind?”

Rogers sat down, grimacing. “Just missing the old days, I guess.”

“Old days?” Mailn chuckled. “What are you, sixty?”

“Just forget it.” Rogers opened the SEWR rat and started unpacking the contents, grabbing a glass of water that one of the other marines had courteously poured for him from the pitcher in the center of the table. “Bon appétit,” he said, and hoped he didn’t chip a tooth.

He valued the silence the marines offered him as he choked his way through the disgusting meal. It was almost instantly interrupted, however, by a fast-approaching and massively distracting symphony of metallic noises coming in from the hallway.

“What’s that?” Rogers asked. “The scrap-pile drum corps?”

“Shin . . . Droids,” Mailn said, making no attempt to hide the venom in her voice, though Rogers couldn’t help but note the near-use of his favorite term.

Turning, Rogers witnessed a small platoon of droids, all marching in formation, as they came into the dining facility. They moved—thankfully—to the far corner of the room, where a special table had been outfitted for their peculiar bodies. There were no chairs, of course, but droids also, as far as Rogers knew, didn’t need to eat, so their arrival seemed a little silly in the first place. Instead of ordering food, however, which would have really been absurd, they each extended a cable from their torsos and plugged into the power system.

“Is that really necessary?” Rogers asked.

“Gotta eat too, I guess,” Mailn muttered. “Wish they wouldn’t do it here, though.”

A dim part of Rogers’ subconscious thought briefly what it would be like to involve the droids in one of his famous food fights, which used to be a highlight of just about every meal in the Uncouth Corkscrew. The thought of hydraulic arms firing baked potatoes at him at half the speed of light, however, buried the idea quickly. Droids were no fun at all.

“Well, I think that’s killed my appetite,” Rogers said. He almost pushed himself to his feet but stopped when he thought of the consequences of standing up surrounded on all sides by seated enlisted troops.

Was this the fate of every Meridan officer? Scared to enter rooms, scared to stand up at tables, one shoulder much larger than the other from saluting so much? He imagined himself walking down the hallway, the knuckles of his right hand dragging against the floor, and the bitterness inside almost dove headfirst into full-on depression.

“Everyone listen to me. I have an appointment on the training deck, and I’m about to stand up,” Rogers said slowly, looking around the table. “I want you all to act like absolutely nothing has happened and continue eating your meals. Do you understand?”