“Routine work for Admiral Klein,” Rogers lied. “He’s so busy being a brilliant tactician that he doesn’t have time to put his laundry in the chute. In fact, every time he gets up to drop off his underwear, the Thelicosans win.”

Tunger’s eyes went wide. “Really?”

“Really,” Rogers said. “It’s on one of the posters.”

That wasn’t a lie. There really was a poster that said that.

“Oh.”

“Anyway,” Rogers said, “that will be all. I want you to take the rest of the day off, Tunger. You’ve been working hard for me since I became the executive officer, and I want you to know how much I truly appreciate it.”

“I’ve barely done anything at all, sir,” Tunger said.

“I know,” Rogers said. “And I can’t tell you how thankful I am about it. It’s a lot easier for me to scheme . . . I mean, get things done when I don’t have to wonder which window I am going to throw you out of the next time I hear your Thelicosan accent.”

“Aw,” Tunger said, “it’s nur sur bad.”

“Yes,” Rogers said. “Yes, it is. Now, dismissed!”

Tunger saluted, and Rogers returned his salute, which suddenly became a salute for a Meridan Marine major, who was already saluting a corporal approaching from the in-line entrance, who had a droid behind him of undiscernible rank who may or may not have saluted Rogers back. Since nobody really knew who had saluted who, everyone’s arm stayed in the air until the major realized he was the highest-ranking in the exchange and shouted for everyone to carry on.

“God, I hate this place,” Rogers said, shaking out his arm. Turning back to the cart, Rogers grabbed the thin piece of fabric that covered the top of it and pulled it back.

“CALL FUNCTION [PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY].”

He barely heard the sudden whirring of an electric razor before he saw cold metal hands reaching up at him from the bowels of the laundry cart.

“No!” Rogers screamed as he felt the distinct pulling of a poorly maintained electric razor on his beard. A great, searing pain traveled through his jawline, and, he swore, he could hear a ripping noise not unlike the tearing open of the sky during a raging thunderstorm.

Time froze. Three curled beard hairs drifted slowly from his chin and landed with a rumble atop a dirty sheet that Tunger had forgotten to take out of the bin.

“CALL FUNCTION [ASSERT MINOR VICTORY]. OUTPUT STRING: YIELD TO MY INSTRUMENTS, LIEUTENANT ROGERS. THERE IS NO ESCAPE.”

“You son of a bitch!” Rogers screamed, and, in a feat of strength he was thoroughly unable to comprehend, flipped the laundry cart in one fluid motion. Barber Bot, his arms flailing like the contents of an upturned bathroom vanity drawer, spilled backward into the zero gravity of Rogers’ stateroom.

“CALL FUNCTION [ISSUE DISTRESS BEACON]. OUTPUT STRING: NOOOOOOO.”

Barber Bot tumbled and rolled, bouncing off the walls, though its hard metallic exoskeleton didn’t seem to be taking much damage. For good measure, Cadet the Cat, identifying an apparent interloper, attached itself to the droid’s face in a flurry of relatively ineffective claw swipes. He suffered a smoky tail at the hands of Barber Bot’s welding torch but otherwise remained uninjured.