Rogers blinked. “Did you just call me fat?” He turned to Sergeant Stract and pointed at Inspect-o-Droid. “Did he just call me fat?”

“It is not for me to interpret the comments of my superiors, sir,” Stract said, the ghost of a smile hiding behind the flat expression on his face.

“That’s exactly what enlisted are supposed to do, you idiot!” Rogers yelled. He turned back to Inspect-o-Droid. “Get that out of my room. Now. There’s no regulation that says I have to have a blinding poster of your ugly faces staring at me. I’m not even going to be able to sleep!”

“CALL FUNCTION [SMUGLY CITE REGULATION]. OUTPUT STRING: MERIDAN PATROL FLEET REGULATION MR-415 STATES THAT ANY CHANGES TO PERMANENT FIXTURES IN QUARTERS MUST BE REQUESTED BY AN APPLICATION ROUTED THROUGH AN INDIVIDUAL’S CHAIN OF COMMAND AND APPROVED BY THE STANDARDIZATION AND EVALUATION COMMANDER.”

Rogers grimaced. “Who is the commander?”

“That’ll be Colonel Bellham, sir,” Stract said.

“And where is he?”

“He’s on sabbatical.”

“He’s on what?”

“Sabbatical, sir,” Stract repeated. “He’s studying the motivational impact of hospital corners versus the twist-and-tuck technique when making beds. It’s a very popular subject.”

Rogers looked at his bed, which was currently employing the “crumple and whatever” technique. You couldn’t bounce a trampoline off his bed, never mind a quarter.

“He’s never coming back, is he?” Rogers asked.

“Nope.”

Running his hands through his hair, Rogers turned around to where the absurd permanent poster hung from his wall. It was enclosed in a Plexiglas case and rimmed by a thick metal frame, with no clear openings or switches. He guessed it wasn’t designed to be turned on and off.

“Hey, CB-101,” he said, glancing sideways to where the carpenter droid was making a slow exit from his room. “Can I borrow a hammer?”

“CALL FUNCTION [FRUSTRATE SUPERIOR OFFICER]. OUTPUT STRING: SIR, HAMMERS ARE AVAILABLE THROUGH THE SUPPLY DEPOT. PLEASE FILL OUT AN OFFICIAL REQUEST FORM AND—”

“Get out.”

The carpenter droid left, its grisly work complete. As he turned around to tell Stract and Inspect-o-Droid some creative uses for their clipboard, he was shocked to find the droid’s face within inches of his own. Rogers stumbled back, colliding with his bed and falling abruptly to a sitting position.

“CALL FUNCTION [PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY]. OUTPUT STRING: IMPROPER FACIAL HAIR GROOMING. ONE DEMERIT WILL BE AWARDED. AUGMENTED FUNCTION [VEILED INCONVENIENCE]. AN APPOINTMENT WITH CYBERMAN SECOND CLASS BAR-BR 116 HAS BEEN SCHEDULED FOR TOMORROW AT 0830.”

“No!” Rogers said. “No, no, no! I’m not going to the barber shop. I’m not going to talk to creepy Barber Bot. I’m not going to let anyone cut my beard. And I’m not going to look at your stupid face on your stupid poster!”

He was standing now, waving his finger in the droid’s face, his own face hot with anger. If he still had that command pad from the AIGCS, he would have ordered the combat droids to blast Inspect-o-Droid to pieces. If he could unlock the thing and figure out how to do it without blowing a hole in the side of the ship.