“But if it was a refuse heap,” Rogers said carefully, “what’s the problem?”

The ensign grabbed a datapad from the docking tech’s workstation and tapped on what was presumably the report about Rogers’ arrest.

“No permit,” he said. “Can’t dump without a permit.”

Rogers’ heart settled down a little bit. This would be a piece of cake, if a little inconvenient. For him, getting out of a littering fine was as easy as pulling the “got your nose” trick on a marine private first class.

“We’re all set, sir,” the technician said. “Opening the hatch.”

The hatch to the bridgeway opened, revealing a short corridor with no windows to give Rogers any idea of where exactly he was being transferred. Three days of traveling could have put them almost anywhere in the system, but that was assuming that the Lumos had made a straight line. They could have finished a patrol route before bringing him to this outpost, or, more likely, they had spent three days doing beer runs and making sure the ship was fully stocked with their favorite snack foods. That was what Rogers would have done, anyway.

Regardless, they were clearly still in free space; Rogers hadn’t heard anything about making a landing planetside, nor had he felt the jolting atmospheric impacts that always used to make him clutch the nearest piece of furniture.

A pair of mean-faced Meridan Marines stood on the other end of the hatch. Marines didn’t bother him so much—they were some of the best drinking buddies in the galaxy—but he couldn’t say the same for the loaded disruptor rifles they had at the ready. One of them held a datapad, which he showed to the ensign, who pressed a few buttons on his own. The pad emitted a pleasant ding followed by a pleasant feminine voice that said:

“Congratulations! Your prisoner has been transferred, and the system is now a safer place because of your actions. You are entitled to one free round of nachos at the Lumos Lanes, courtesy of Snaggardir’s Sundries. Happy bowling!”

“Sweet!” The ensign pumped a fist in the air. “He’s all yours, boys. I have a date with the lanes.” He turned to Rogers with a surprisingly genuine smile. “Enjoy Parivan! If you go to the Birddog Restaurant in the capital, don’t get the fish. It’s very . . .”

“Salty?” Rogers offered.

“Exactly! How did you know?”

“Just a guess.”

The sergeant with the datapad motioned for Rogers to move ahead of them, staring daggers at him the whole time. Rogers felt very uncomfortable with these two grunts at his back, their disruptor rifles humming with their signature low-pitched rumble.

As they emerged out of the bridgeway and through a second hatch, Rogers immediately recognized where he was. It wasn’t another ship—it was an administration station, an organ (most similar to the intestines, for various reasons) of the Meridan government, located on the fringe of the system. He’d passed through here once during a station transfer, though he hadn’t stayed long enough for him to remember the name of it. He had stayed here long enough, however, to make off with a couple extra hundred credits, thanks to a little card game he had organized with the personnel in the armory. Those credits had bought him his first bottle of Jasker 120.