“Sir, if I may,” said Oh One, who had stepped out from formation to greet him.

Rogers cut him off with a wave. “Look, I know you’ve been appointed my deputy and that you technically outrank Tunger with all this new rank bullcrap that they’ve published, but I want you to step back in formation and stay there until I give you an order.”

Rogers wasn’t sure where the outburst had come from. Maybe it was the fact that even the coffee in the Uncouth Corkscrew this morning had tasted like motor oil—he willed himself to believe it was actually just bad coffee—or maybe it was the fact that after less than a week on the Flagship, he wished he’d been spaced by the Garliali. And that made him think of calamari. And that made him sad.

Oh One stood there for a moment, as if considering what to do. Rogers scowled. Oh One was a droid; there should be no considering about it.

“Back in formation,” Rogers said again.

Oh One’s eyes flashed red—Rogers was absolutely positive he saw it this time—and he stepped back into formation without another word.

Turning back to Tunger, Rogers leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. Being grumpy was helping him be just the sort of commander he was trying to be: bad.

“You were supposed to charge the control pad and figure out what to drill today so that we don’t build another one of those.” Rogers pointed at the column of steel that was still in the middle of the training room. “You do remember me telling you that, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Tunger said. He moved to the cabinet and retrieved the control pad. “I charged it up for you all night. Should be good for the whole day. And I spent some time looking at the manual.”

“The piece of paper with nothing on it but an unlabeled chart of the buttons?”

“That’s the one,” Tunger said. “I think maybe we should focus on some target practice. I had Corporal Suresh in Supply bring up some targets for us.” He gestured to the far side of the room, where a modified shooting range had been constructed. That hadn’t been there the day before; Rogers was sure of it. Now, long rows extended down the opposite end of the training room, ending in target silhouettes.

Rogers leaned forward. “Tunger, why are all the target silhouettes shaped like animals?”

Some of them weren’t easily identifiable, but Rogers was almost positive that the shadows of ostriches occupied the first few targets, followed by some sort of gorilla and, strangely, a muffin. Rogers could recognize the shadow of a muffin anywhere.

Tunger blushed. “It’s all I could find, sir.”

“I’m kind of surprised these exist, honestly.”

“They’re actually not targets. They’re visual recognition training for zoo personnel,” Tunger said. “You need to know the difference between a red-footed booby and a blue-footed booby at two hundred meters in the dead of night in case the power goes out.”