Barber Bot continued to flail in the unfamiliar setting for a few moments, its tracked base spinning with a whirring noise not unlike that of its instrument-laden hands. After a few moments, however, it began to slow. Cadet the Cat, encouraged, redoubled its efforts to claw the robot’s eyes out. Rogers was beginning to think he might actually miss that cat.

“CALL FUNC . . .” The annoying robotic voice slowed and trailed off like a piece of machinery that had run out of lubricant. A moment later, a small ding noise resonated through Rogers’ room.

“Low battery,” said a familiar voice—Rogers realized it was the same one from the datapads.

“Ha!” Rogers said, adrenaline flowing through his body and making him a little crazy. “Ha! HA HA HA! Guess you shouldn’t skip meals, you worthless, stupid, good-for-nothing shiny!”

Barber Bot’s eyes flashed red for a brief moment, then went completely dark. Rogers stood there, his chest heaving, sweat pouring down the sides of his face, wondering what he’d done to exert himself so thoroughly. He’d only screamed a little and flipped over a laundry cart.

It took him a moment to get the cart right side up again, but once he did, he pulled on a couple of ropes that had been dangling—floating, really—from beyond the top of the doorframe. Attached to each of the ropes was a piece of his critical equipment—the SEWR rats and the VMU, mostly—which were far too heavy for him to lug all the way down to the garbage dump. A series of tugs positioned each of them just on the other side of the door, and one final tug tossed them effortlessly into the cart as they reentered gravity. No real physical exertion needed. Rogers allowed himself a triumphant smile as he re-covered the cart and pushed it toward the up-line.

It was time to get out of this madhouse.

The “dump” was actually just a series of hatches on the refuse deck of the Flagship, utilized exclusively for the jettisoning of trash, bio-waste, and finance paperwork. It consisted of a single hallway, the in-line system on this deck replaced by conveyor belt–like moving walkways to transport anything that wasn’t directly pushed into the release chambers by the Flagship’s pipe system. The hallways were huge, round, and empty, the soft hum of the conveyor belt serving as the only real noise. There weren’t even any propaganda posters. In fact, Rogers was starting to consider putting in a request to move his office down here if this plan didn’t work out. The smell wasn’t exactly inviting, but that was a small price to pay for a lot less saluting.

A group of Meridan Marines passed him, moving what appeared to be cases full of spent disruptor cartridges. Those wouldn’t be shot into space but stored in one of the special chambers until a cargo ship picked them up to be exchanged for fresh ones. Rogers wondered what they were using all of that ammunition for, but he supposed the marines still needed to practice. Thankfully, absolutely none of them saluted him.