Free Terminus (Fringe Worlds #1) by Kevin Hardman

a large, two-story building painted a drab gray. Close to the door were a number of parking spots reserved for generals, admirals, and the like – a few of which were occupied.
    Maker stared at the door for a moment. This was as close as he could ever remember getting to the Officer’s Club of any base he had ever been on. It hadn’t occurred to him before how odd it would feel to be on this side of the fence, to not just be an officer but being committed to their institutions and traditions.
    Oh well, too late for second thoughts now…
    And with that he walked up to the door and went inside.
    The interior of the club was a minor disappointment. Of course, he hadn’t expected to find water fountains dispensing champagne, paintings by Old Earth masters on the walls, or any of the other drivel they tell you when you’re new to the Corps about how special the O Club is. But what he hadn’t expected to see when he walked down the various hallways were things he was already well-acquainted with: familiar busts of famous war heroes, framed copies of well-known military documents, etc.
    In short, in terms of aesthetics, the O Club wasn’t particularly different than any NCO Club that he’d been to. Apparently the only thing exceptionally appealing about the O Club was its exclusivity, and now that he was – nominally – a member, it wasn’t that impressive.
    Maker let out a dissatisfied, almost disgusted sigh. A moment later, he stopped a passing captain and asked where the mess hall was located. Five minutes later, he was sitting down at a table with a plate full of food and a glass of water.
    The dining area was spacious, with cafeteria-style seating. While not completely packed, there were enough diners present that Maker actually had to share his table with other people – a party of three other lieutenants seated at the opposite end of the table.
    Against one of the walls, Maker noticed three tables that constituted more traditional dining room furniture – not the picnic-table crap that he and his fellows were currently seated at. In fact, those tables (and the heavy, cushioned chairs that went with them) were positively ornate, and each was emblazoned with a star on top.
    It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the area he was looking at was reserved for general officers. In fact, there were a half-dozen of them presently sitting at one of those tables now – including a Navy rear admiral who was staring at Maker with a particular degree of intensity.
    Maker tried to ignore the man and focused on his food. His meal consisted of some kind of indigenous fowl, a local strain of wild rice that was as long as his finger and had to be cut with a knife, and a couple of rolls.
    After a few minutes, Maker picked up movement out of the corner of his eye. The admiral he’d noticed before was beckoning a young officer over – a Navy lieutenant. The young man bent down and the admiral began whispering vehemently in his ear. Suddenly, the lieutenant’s head snapped in Maker’s direction; at the same time, his fist curled up into a white-knuckled ball. This in no way looked like a positive development.
    The lieutenant – a tall, well-muscled fellow – gave Maker an angry look as he returned to his seat. Once there, he began speaking in an urgent manner with the other officers seated with him, occasionally pointing in Maker’s direction.
    Maker knew what was coming next; it was something he had started experiencing shortly before he was run out of the service. The whispering began spreading across the room like a plague of locusts, always accompanied by a glance or a nod in his direction. Eventually, it reached the young officers seated at the other end of Maker’s table. One of them gave him a dumbfounded look, but at the urging of his companions picked up what was left of his dinner and moved to another table.
    All the while, Maker kept eating, acting as if nothing was wrong. If this was the worst that they did,