Now the whale was back, and he was not very happy.

Rogers swam through a sea of broken unconsciousness and medically induced adventures, vaguely aware of tiny blossoms of pain that came and went all over his body. Images of droids flashed by, their disruptor rifles flaring as they fired indiscriminately, the deep red eyes of Oh One glaring at him with admonishment and hatred. He saw a pair of sizzling, delicious over-easy eggs dancing in the sky that, when pierced with a fork, dripped dark black oil onto a mountain of SEWR rats into which he was cast, screaming. He watched with horror as the Viking hit other men, all of whom spoke in drunken Thelicosan accents as they slathered her face with kisses. He saw Dorsey sailing away in an escape pod, towing the Awesome behind him and taking large swigs from a bottle of Jasker 120.

In between these nightmares, he woke in fits and starts, barely able to take in his surroundings before dipping back into the land of the sonorous sperm whale. The infirmary was his new home, no doubt, and he lay in an open-air recuperation chamber under thin sheets that did little to keep him warm. Over and over again, he saw the same few faces staring sternly down at him, officers, he thought, all wearing grave expressions. Surely, they were part of the Meridan JAG, coming to court-martial him.

He also saw Corporals Mailn and Tunger a few times, and heard Mailn arguing with someone very loudly. Once, he was almost positive he heard Inspect-o-Droid awarding him a demerit.

In the end, it was the sound of scissors scraping together and the feeling of an acute heat on his face that brought him very suddenly awake.

“Get away from my beard!” he screamed, smashing BAR-BR 116 in the face with his fist and receiving an immediate reminder that metal was tougher than bone.

“What are you doing in here?” a woman—Mailn—yelled, and walked quickly to his bedside, where Rogers was now clutching his fist and whining piteously.

“CALL FUNCTION [PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY].”

“Can’t you see this man is injured?” Mailn said, stepping between them. She put her hands on her hips, and Rogers noticed her finger was very close to the holster strap of her disruptor pistol. “Now is not the time for grooming.”

“CALL FUNCTION [DE-ESCALATE]. OUTPUT STRING: HE MISSED OUR APPOINTMENT.”

“I don’t care,” Mailn said. “If you don’t get out of this room right now, I’m going to do something with those scissors that involves your ass and a blast of hot plasma.”

Barber Bot seemed to hesitate for a moment but eventually started wheeling slowly backward.

“CALL FUNCTION [RETREAT FROM SCARY LADY]. AUGMENTED FUNCTION [VOW TIMELY RETURN].”

“Yeah, whatever,” Mailn said, her hand easing away from her pistol.

Barber Bot’s torch flared to life one last time before he made a slow exit from the room, which Rogers now saw was a private suite in the Flagship’s infirmary. He was no longer in a recuperation chamber but a regular bed. A remote vitals monitor chirped pleasantly.