“Alright, folks,” came a shout. “Inspection in two hours. Remember what Winston Churchill said. ‘Russia is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.’ ”

Despite Rogers’ expectation that wrenches would be thrown at the gross incongruity, nobody seemed to care that Russia had vanished from old Earth—along with old Earth—a thousand years earlier and had absolutely nothing to do with engineering or inspections. The mismatched quotation had come from a serious-looking ensign with dark, mud-colored hair. He tucked the datapad he was carrying behind him as he pulled aside a tired-looking female engineer and muttered what appeared to be some encouraging words. He patted her on the back and nodded, though she didn’t look very encouraged, and finally noticed that Rogers had come into the Pit.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I was going to ask you the same question. What’s this about an inspection? We don’t have those in the Pit.”

The ensign laughed. “I didn’t know they were sending a comedian to Engineering. We have them every day.”

Rogers suppressed a shudder. It appeared that the charade that was the Morale, Health, and Welfare inspections had made its way into the engineering bay, too. Though he shouldn’t have been surprised. This whole ship was going crazy.

“I’m not a comedian. My name is Rogers. I, ah, used to work here.”

The ensign’s eyes widened. “You’re Rogers? I’ve heard of you. I thought you’d abandoned ship to be an entrepreneur, or something.”

“I did,” Rogers said. “I’m back, though apparently I’m not working here anymore.”

“Well,” the ensign said, “welcome to the place you’re not working.” He extended his hand. “I’m Ensign McSchmidt, engineering squadron commander.”

Rogers shook his hand hesitantly. He remembered Oh One saying something about this guy. “McSchmidt? That’s kind of an odd name.”

“Half of my family was German, the other half was Irish.”

Rogers blinked. “I’m not sure that’s how it works.”

McSchmidt didn’t seem to want to argue about it. “Well, welcome back. But, if you’ll excuse me, I have an inspection to prepare for. The droids will be here in two hours, and I want good marks.”

“Good marks aren’t good for much if you blow up the engineering bay,” Rogers said, pointing to where some boominite containers had been stacked in a very pretty, if stupid, pattern. “That’s not how to store those. If someone farts near them too loudly, you could blow a hole in the side of the ship the size of a small dreadnaught.”

McSchmidt’s expression turned cold, but he didn’t spare the boominite containers a glance. “I know how to do my job, Rogers. The instructions for stacking tri-plasma rods is clear in the manuals.”

“Those are boominite containers. What the hell are tri-plasma rods? Did you just make that up?”

McSchmidt turned up his nose. “I’m the engineering commander here. I know my business. I hope you don’t have any aspirations to take over your old unit, Rogers. I worked hard at the Academy to get where I am now, and I’m not ready to turn it over to a smooth-talking gambler like you. Are we clear?”