"Drama queen, isn't he?" Signalman Second Class Carter, bleary-eyed and in the final minutes of his watch, nodded at the display glowing before him. "All that 'crush them under our heel' stuff. You don't really believe it, do you, Chief?"
The target of his comment, a portly Chief Petty Officer with twenty years experience on his arm gave that knowing, seen-it-all smile that is unique to senior NCOs. " 'course I do, Wag. The man's the Fleet Admiral. We've got the best damn fleet this side of Sirius, and crews to match, if you believe the broadcasts." There it was, that faint glint of amusement in his eyes. That was the thing with Petty Officers, Carter decided. You never knew when they were testing you. "But Chief, the Gallics-"

"The Gallics'll die sure as anyone else standing on the wrong end of star lance, son." The Petty Officer retrieved a cheap cigar from somewhere within the folds of his uniform. His voice softened a fraction of a degree. "Word to the wise, Signalman. It don't do a man's career any good to start telling Fleet Admirals when they're being idiots. Best we can hope for is to let the man have his moment and hope to hell he calls on some other poor fool when the time comes to play soldier. Now-" A harsh edge slipped back into his voice. "Eyes back on that display before I glue 'em there."