Again, for some strange reason, the droid’s eyes changed color. Only for a fraction of a second, Rogers saw that red glow emerge and disappear so fast, it was easy to believe that it hadn’t happened.

“REJECT FUNCTION [PROTOCOL 162]. CALL FUNCTION [PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY]. OUTPUT STRING: LOSS OF MILITARY BEARING. TWO DEMERITS WILL BE AWARDED. INSPECTION COMPLETE. A REPORT WILL BE FILED IN YOUR PERSONNEL RECORD, WHICH YOU CAN ACCESS BY FILING A REQUEST WITH THE PERSONNEL SQUADRON AFTER A MANDATORY FIVE-DAY WAITING PERIOD. ALL INFRACTIONS MUST BE RECTIFIED WITHIN ONE STANDARD DAY.”

“The only thing I’m going to file are my nails,” Rogers said, “and I’m going to leave the dust all over Sergeant Stract’s boots.”

“Sir!” Sergeant Stract exclaimed, scandalized.

“Now get the hell out of my room before I threaten to do something really crazy,” Rogers said, pointing at the door.

With one last look of something mixed with fear and disgust, Sergeant Stract left the room, the droid shortly behind him. Rogers was going to find some way to get back at those two. He just didn’t know how yet. And he didn’t know if he really felt like putting forth the effort.

Sighing, he sat down on his bed and put his face in his hands, his fingers barely able to block out the light coming from the poster. He hadn’t been so tired in all of his life, and he’d barely done anything at all. The fact that he didn’t want to put forth the effort to mess with Sergeant Stract made it all the more clear that this stint in the military was doing bad things for him.

Rogers needed . . . something. He needed a drink. He needed to get out of this starchy, uncomfortable uniform and sew a couple of pockets on the inside so he had somewhere to put his hands instead of around someone’s throat. He needed a really big crowbar to take that damn poster off the wall. In fact, any kind of tool in his hand would feel really good right now. It had been far too long since he’d done any meaningful engineering work.

So, he headed down to where he knew he belonged: the engineering bay.

An immediate feeling of relief washed over him as he emerged into the familiar surroundings of the Pit, their affectionate nickname for the noisy, dirty hovel that was the home of the engineering squadron. Unlike the rest of the Flagship, the engineering bay was a tangled mess of ventilation shafts, machinery, and dark corners well suited for just about anything fun. Aside from that, it was mostly made up of the giant area that was the Pit, the maintenance bay, and its own hangar. He couldn’t wait to see the old wrench-turners in their greasy coveralls—if there were any not in the kitchens—though he hoped he didn’t see any of the ones he owed money.

The Pit was unusually busy, people running to and fro with tools and datapads, though Rogers noticed that almost none of them were wearing their utility uniforms. Come to think of it, nobody on the entire ship seemed to be dressed in anything except the semiformal wear normally worn only by administrative personnel.