“The paint is different.”

Behind the Awesome, Rogers could see a couple of figures moving around, dressed in what Rogers thought were coveralls. But they didn’t look quite right. Taking a few steps closer, he realized that they weren’t coveralls—they were aprons.

“That’s Hart,” he said, a little tingle of excitement working its way through him. “He’s fixing my ship!”

“Master Sergeant Hart?” Lopez said. “What’s he doing here?”

“I asked him for a favor,” Rogers replied.

The ship already looked in better shape than it had been when it had been towed to the Flagship. Those folks would have it up and running in no time. Though what Rogers would do once it was fixed was still a mystery. But at least when this tour was over, he’d have something to fly away on. Fly away fast.

“Well, aren’t you something?” Lopez said. “Your own ship and everything. What are you still doing in the military?”

“It’s a long story,” Rogers muttered.

“Well why don’t you—”

“CALL FUNCTION [SURREPTITIOUSLY FOLLOW]. TARGET [ENSIGN ROGERS].”

Rogers and Lopez stopped in their tracks.

“What the hell was that?” Lopez asked.

Rogers spun around, looking for the source of the voice, but couldn’t find anything. They were in a mess of shipping crates and other random detritus, the only open view heading out toward where the Awesome was being repaired.

“CALL FUNCTION [MAINTAIN CLEVER HIDING PLACE].”

“Shiny,” Rogers muttered. Lopez whacked him on the arm.

“I’ll say it if I want to say it.”

“CALL FUNCTION [MAINTAIN CLEVER HIDING PLACE].”

Rogers whirled. Where was the damn thing? Why was it hiding? Why was it so hard to find it even though it kept announcing its presence?

“Come out, you hunk of scrap metal!” Rogers said. “What are you doing following me around?”

“CALL FUNCTION [MAINTAIN CLEVER HIDING PLACE].”

Rogers leaned toward one of the crates. “Is it coming from here?”

“I don’t see it.” Lopez said. “Boy, you’re on the droids’ shit list, aren’t you?”

“They’re droids,” Rogers said, creeping around a corner, crouching low. “They don’t have—”

“CALL FUNCTION [SPRING TRAP AND PERFORM PRIMARY FUNCTION].”

One of the nearby crates burst open, the metallic lid flying through the air and nearly knocking Rogers unconscious. Rogers ducked, screaming, and Lopez let out a stream of curses. He barely saw the flash of a pair of scissors before Lopez tackled him to the ground.

“Barber Bot!” he cried.

“What the hell does that mean?”

Rogers stood up, prepared to find a heavy object to swing at the oncoming droid, only to find that BAR-BR 116 hadn’t moved. It was still stuck in the crate from the waist down, its hydraulic midsection pumping up and down uselessly as it tried to dislodge itself. The crate was barely big enough at the base to allow the droid’s treads enough room to stand.

“CALL FUNCTION [REASSESS CLEVER HIDING PLACE].”

“How did you even get in there in the first place?” Rogers asked. “You know what? Never mind. I don’t care. I told you you’re not touching my beard, and that’s final.”