“What is going on here?”

Tennal didn’t turn around. “Six inches to the left,” he said, waving at the ranker carrying an armchair. “Yes, in the corner, thank you. Secure it there.”

The ship’s warrant officer, towering and irascible, stood in the door of the small cabin and glared at the clutter of furniture. Tennal had been briefly introduced to them earlier that day and the two of them had not gotten on, but if that was going to be anyone’s problem, it wasn’t going to be Tennal’s.

The warrant officer snapped, “Explain yourself, Fifty-Six.”

“My name,” Tennal said, finally turning to face the door, “is Tennalhin. Tennal, if you want to be friendly. I don’t think I’ll go by my code name, thanks. It makes me feel like a box of groceries. Can I help you?”

The warrant officer gave the armchair, the three trunks, the decorations, and the cushions a further incredulous look. Tennal had covered an entire wall with old sports banners: most top racing teams had designs in Vanguard blue, and most of the best wrestling teams were Cavalry red. There had been some gaps, so he’d filled them with banners from Zin’s debate team. “You can get this crap out of my ship, is what you can do!”

Tennal opened his eyes wide. “But I’m within my allowance, Officer.”

“You have a fifty-pound clothing and effects allowance, same as any ranker,” the warrant officer said, their patience visibly fraying. The two rankers Tennal had co-opted to help him move furniture were barely hiding smirks. “It may be that I’m somehow walking around with my eyes fucking shut, but none of this shit is in your allowance so far as I can see.”

Tennal opened his mind, focused on the warrant officer, and unrepentantly read their surface feelings. He got impatience, worry at this new responsibility, and a crack of uncertainty at how they were supposed to handle a conscripted soldier who was also the legislator’s nephew. Good. All of that was useful.

“That’s very strange, Officer,” Tennal said, overflowing with baffled innocence. “Let me just—oh, look, here we are, knew I’d marked it somewhere—” Shipboard regulations spilled over the wall, projected from his wristband. One section of text was marked by a soft blue glow. Tennal made a show of rereading it. “It looks like—and correct me if I’m wrong—a civilian is entitled to reasonable adjustments in living quarters, pending approval of the commander or other delegated authority and—this one is interesting—if a dispute arises, the civilian can be removed to appropriate commercial transport. Do we have a dispute?”

“Do we have a fucking dispute—”