Rogers didn’t even have the cognitive capacity to yell at Tunger for his slip back into the Thelicosan accent. The spectacle beyond the doorway held every inch of his attention.

The executive officer’s quarters was nothing short of spectacular. A bed fit for a king, or at least a very successful pimp, was expertly made up with a shimmering red velvet comforter and a gaudy wrought-iron bed frame. A desk of expensive-looking wood with golden handles. A double-door wardrobe of stained oak, complete with a full-length mirror attached to the side with a silver frame. A computer terminal with not one, not two, but three screens displaying various systems on the ship and a daily calendar. A bookshelf with actual, no-kidding books. And, for some reason, a pet cat.

That would have all been great had it not all been floating around in zero gravity.

“What,” Rogers said, unable to fathom what he was seeing in front of him, “in all of the circles of hell is going on here?”

“Ah,” Tunger said. “I forgot to mention that part, sir.”

“That my room’s gravity generator was broken? That’s a pretty big piece of information you forgot, Tunger. It could have saved us the trip up here. I’m not moving in here until it’s fixed. Get maintenance on the line and—”

“Oh, it’s not broken, sir. It’s been disabled.”

“Disabled?”

“Disabled.”

“Why the hell has my room’s gravity generator been disabled?”

“It was Klein’s idea, sir, as a suicide deterrent. His last few executive officers hung themselves, you see.”

“So?”

“Can’t hang yourself in zero-g, sir.”

Rogers looked, mouth agape, at Tunger. “You must be joking.”

“As I said earlier, sir,” Tunger said, “I don’t joke very well. Could I have made a joke about this?” He made a tugging motion above his own head. “Something about hanging yourself in no gravity? It doesn’t seem like a very funny subject.”

Slowly, Rogers reached out and grabbed his personal effects from Tunger’s hand and turned to face the interior of the snow globe that would now be his own personal hell.

“No,” Rogers said, feeling a lump in his throat as he stepped over the threshold and floated between the hissing cat and a glowing poster of a droid. “There’s nothing funny about this at all.”

I. The rank of Lieutenant Junior Grade, formerly the rank just below full Lieutenant, was abolished during the Great Naming Crisis, during which all families ran out of ideas for their offspring and simply started calling them “junior.” It became far too confusing, and the MPF introduced the rank of Lieutenant Lieutenant, similar to Lieutenant Colonel in that it signified the rank just below Colonel. There are some (many) in the MPF who regret this decision.

Ein Klein Flottenchef

“Lieutenant Rogers, report to the bridge immediately. Lieutenant Rogers, report to the bridge immediately.”

Rogers, floating in the middle of his room, glared at the computer terminal and attempted to throw a chair at it. The chair, as it turned out, was much heavier than he was, so it merely resulted in his doing a very uncoordinated backflip. His shins slammed into a pair of books that had wormed their way off the bookshelf, sending them flying across the room to crash into the poster of the droid. The poster, Rogers learned, had been encased in shatterproof material. The books merely turned the poster into a rapidly rotating moving picture, sending bright flashes of light spinning around the room and nearly making Rogers lose the breakfast he hadn’t eaten.