They rounded the corner, and there she was: the Viking, in all of her splendor. Baggy uniform, short hair rimming her round face, monstrous gait carrying her toward them at a tremendous speed even though she was walking casually.

Rogers ducked reflexively.

“Way too early,” muttered Mailn.

“What are you doing associating with this turd?” Alsinbury said as she approached.

Mailn snapped a hasty salute, which the captain returned, and Rogers slowly uncurled from his defensive position to offer one as well. She did outrank him, after all. That was exciting, too.

“I’m escorting him to the droid training room, ma’am,” Mailn said. “He’s never been there before.”

The Viking spared him a distasteful glance. “I don’t want to see you associating with my troops, metalhead.” Rogers was accumulating a lot of strange nicknames on this ship. “I don’t want any of them tainted by your droid-loving ways. We’re the ground force around here, and don’t you forget it.”

“I won’t,” Rogers said, his heart beating hard. Was there music playing somewhere? “But I’d love to talk to you about it sometime. Maybe I could pick your brain about, ah, fighting . . . things . . . over some drinks?”

“I don’t feel like vomiting right now, thanks.” She turned to Mailn. “Corporal, I need you to run Bravo Company through their rifle-stripping again. One of those clowns tried to lick one of the plasma converters clean and burned the hell out of his tongue.”

Mailn sighed. “You got it, boss. I’ll head over there now.”

The Viking nodded, gave Rogers another glare, and pushed past them, elbowing Rogers in the side as she went. His breath left him for more than one reason.

“Boy, you’re really on her bad side,” Mailn said after the Viking was out of earshot.

“Thanks for noticing,” Rogers said as they continued walking. “What’s wrong with Bravo Company?”

Mailn gave a bitter chuckle. “You ever wonder where all those cooks ended up?”

“They transferred them to ground combat ?”

“Yup. Said we needed more firepower. But all I’ve gotten so far is a bunch of fat, sweaty troops that don’t know the first thing about shooting anything and won’t take off their damn chef hats.” She paused, considering. “And some pretty good chili dogs.”

Rogers shook his head. Motor oil in his eggs was one thing. Pancake batter in rifles was another. Someone in personnel needed to have his head examined, though Mailn had suggested that the orders were coming from higher up. Was Klein really losing it? He was about the only man in the entire fleet that Rogers had confidence in.

“I’d better get a move on,” Mailn said. “I don’t want to know what I’m going to find when I get to Bravo’s training room. The droid training facility is this door right here. Good luck, speed bag. You’re going to need it.”

The corporal broke into a jog before Rogers could say anything else, and he found himself staring at the door that she had indicated, not wanting to go inside. His hand hovered over the button to open it, but he couldn’t make himself press it. He hated shinies, hated what they were doing, hated these damn posters on the walls. But was there any way out of it?