Commissar-Lieutenant Commander Vicenta Gonzalez sat behind the desk in the recruitment office, clicking the safety on and off her heavy revolver. The burly guards at the doors flinched undetectably every time the safety came off, but said nothing.
"NEXT!" she called. As Bishop entered, she eyed his shirt. "Is that your shirt, or did a Nomad throw up on your torso?" Without giving him time to answer, she snapped: "Name, occupation, nationality!"