“This isn’t on edge,” Rogers said as he brushed a splinter off his uniform. “This is weird. And boring. Why would they transfer an engineer into the kitchens?”

“There have been a lot of transfers lately,” Mailn said. “A month ago, they wanted to cross-train me as a pilot.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“I’m colorblind and I get airsick. Thankfully, Captain Alsinbury got me out of it. She can be very persuasive.”

A flash of heat worked its way through Rogers’ body as he thought of what could constitute “persuasive.” He knew there had to be some way to break the ice with her, but not before he got himself a good, solid helmet.

“What about Admiral Klein?” Rogers asked. “Doesn’t he know about any of this? This is his fleet.”

Mailn shrugged. “I hear most of the transfers are happening up at his level, so he must know about it. I know he’s under a lot of stress, though, so maybe he’s making mistakes.”

“How do you know that?”

“Well,” Mailn said. “his executive assistants keep hanging themselves. He’s gone through two of them since I’ve been aboard, and just got a new one the other day. You can always tell how much pressure a commander is under by how bad his execs look.”

Rogers whistled. He could remember some of the speeches that Klein gave to the troops while he’d been in the fleet. They were some of the most masterful uses of words he’d ever heard in his life—even Rogers couldn’t help but feel a sense of duty when Admiral Klein spoke, and that said something. Whatever the fleet needed—funding for beer, transportation assets for beer, or new pumping systems to make sure the beer always tasted fresh—the fleet got because the admiral was fighting for them. Although, come to think of it, he did seem to go through execs pretty quickly, even during Rogers’ last tenure on the ship. They hadn’t been hanging themselves, though.

“With Klein in command,” Mailn continued, a look of admiration on her face, “the Thelicosans will think twice about attacking.”

Rogers grunted. He didn’t want to talk about Thelicosa or their supposed belligerence. He still didn’t think it was possible for any system to violate the Two Hundred Years’ (and Counting) Peace.

As they walked, Rogers couldn’t help but notice yet another poster on the wall. He’d been trying to ignore them, but some of them were just too ridiculous. The loud text on the bottom read, FILL OUT FORMS PROPERLY. Above it was a capsizing frigate, flames shooting out from the many breaches in its hull, and frozen space-corpses floating around it with dark, horrified expressions on their faces. Pieces of paper, ostensibly incorrectly filled-out forms, were depicted slamming into the side of the ship like plasma cannons.

“Who writes this crap?” Rogers said.

“I have no idea,” Mailn said. “But they keep popping up everywhere. There’s one in the Peek and Shoot that says ‘When you slurp soup the enemy wins.’ ”