“We are the shield of Merida,” he was saying. “The hands of this great fleet hold the straps and brace ourselves, spears in hand, ready to strike whomever dares to break their forces on our wave of tenacity, duty, and patriotism. We are the epitome of synergy. We will employ galactic agility, responsive, multi-tiered facets of strategy, diplomacy, and perseverance to repel any enemy.”

He paused for a moment, looking around the room. Anyone that wasn’t engaged in furious button-pressing and lever-pulling was staring at him with their heads held high, their chests out, their eyes shining. Including Rogers. Every time Rogers heard the admiral speak, he could feel a little tiny bit of energy inside him that might, had Rogers the diligence or introspection to cultivate it, have been duty. Never had he felt it so strongly as he did now, here in the heart of the 331st. Rogers could take on the Thelicosans himself, should it come to it. Even if it meant picking up a weapon and shooting at something.

“In short,” Klein said, “we will fight. And we will win.”

There were no cheers. No fists in the air. But every troop on the bridge slowly extended an arm in a dramatic salute.

Rogers tried, but his arm was so sore from walking through the command deck the previous day that his hand barely made it to his chest before he dropped it with a quiet whimper.

Klein sat down, and, as though that had been the cue to charge headlong into a superior enemy force, everyone doubled down over their consoles, necks bent, backs up like angry cats. Rogers desperately wanted to find a button to press just to please that man.

That man was looking straight at him.

“Rogers, I presume,” he said. Conversation in the room had picked up again, with various spacers delivering reports, but it was still as though Klein was the only person talking for a thousand light years.

“Y—yes, sir,” Rogers said, hurrying forward to ascend the few steps leading up to the command platform. “Lieutenant R. Wilson Rogers reporting for duty.”

“Good. It’s been rough around here without any help for the last few days. I’m glad to see you’ve fully recovered.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I assume you understand that there are matters of great responsibility that are about to be levied onto your shoulders.”

“I do, sir.”

“I assume you will execute them to the utmost of your ability.”

“Absolutely, sir.” Rogers even meant it. A little, anyway. At least while there was no beer light to call him to something more interesting. He felt the tingle of duty that had risen during the admiral’s speech fade a bit.

“Great,” Klein said, sinking back into his chair, his eyes suddenly becoming very tired. “I’ll be needing it.”

Rogers blinked, not knowing what to say to that. It looked as though the admiral had aged ten years in just a few seconds. The moment he stopped speaking to the troops, his fatigue cut through his stoic image, and there sat before Rogers a tired old man. Rogers couldn’t help but feel an intense desire to help him; this man had the burdens of thousands upon thousands of lives on his shoulders, and if there was a war coming—there was not a war coming—he would need all the support he could get.