“So, here we are,” the magistrate said. “I’m going to make sure this goes nice and quick. This station’s jails are too comfortable for the likes of you. I want you doing hard labor ASAP. Do you even know what labor is? I don’t remember you doing much work.”

Think fast, Rogers thought. What do you have up your sleeve?

Then it came to him, and he couldn’t help but smile.

“What are you so happy about?” Tucky asked, the barest hint of hesitation in his voice.

“Do you remember,” Rogers said, sitting back in his chair, “that lovely lieutenant in personnel? What was her name? Namazi? Sharp as a tack, very pretty.”

The magistrate’s face went white. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about flirting with the very edges of the fraternization regulation,” Rogers said. “Among other things.”

Tucky snorted, though he did a very poor job of exuding confidence. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “I don’t remember a . . . Namazi, or whatever. I’m a happily married man.”

“And I am sure your wife would be very interested in how you look in a brassiere and stockings.”

Rogers was treated with a lovely few moments of awkward silence as he let that sink in and watched the old colonel’s face go just about as white as his hair. If there was one thing he had learned in his life, it was to always have a backup plan. And that backup plan usually involved having dirt on someone.

Finally, Tucky spoke. “How could you possibly . . .”

“That doesn’t really matter, does it?” Rogers said. “Let’s just say that the security cameras don’t always turn off when you want them to, especially if someone else doesn’t want them to. What are you, an A cup? B cup? You weren’t the fittest of specimens.”

Drumming his fingers on the table in a furious tattoo, Tucky licked his lips. “There’s no way you still have that video.”

Rogers shrugged. “You’re right. I don’t have it.”

Tucky visibly relaxed.

“Because it’s still stored on a little datapad I keep connected to the main computer of my ship, along with a whole host of other little vignettes set to transmit after a certain time period if I don’t get to them.”

Had the chair not been bolted to the floor, it would have flown backward as Tuckalle rushed to his feet. His face was dark red, and his eyes looked like they might be ricocheting off the walls at any moment.

“You can’t!” he blurted. “You couldn’t possibly!”

Rogers held up his hands. “It’s not really in my control right now, is it? You’re the one about to send me to the salt mines, far away from that datapad . . .”

“What if I got you a remote terminal?”

“I hear salt isn’t very good for keypads,” Rogers said, leaning back. “Turns the keys into pretzels.”

The muscles in Tuckalle’s cheeks bulged as he rhythmically began clenching and unclenching his teeth.