Lance McLain opened his eyes to the dim, blue-lit ceiling of his quarters. His body felt heavy, a deep-seated ache in his bones that had nothing to do with yesterday’s training.

He rolled over, the motion automatic, and reached for the small, secure compartment built into the wall beside his bed. The panel slid open with a quiet hiss.

Inside, nestled against the gray metal, was a slim, nearly empty blister pack. Three small, white pills remained.