“What’s that?” Dorsey asked.

“It’s nothing. Ignore it. Never believe computers. Just keep your eyes on the controls and keep us steady. We’re going to jump back out of the same point we jumped in from as soon as we’re done.”

The beep sounded again.

“Rogers,” Dorsey said. “There’s a ship coming in.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Rogers said. “We’re in the middle of nowhere. The Meridan Patrol Fleet doesn’t even bother scanning this sector—that’s why I picked it. It’s probably just a late pirate cruiser or something.”

Just to prove him wrong, a void opened in Un-Space and disgorged a bright silver ship bearing the markings of the Meridan Patrol Fleet.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Rogers said.

“It’s the MPF!” Dorsey yelled. “I don’t like them, either!”

“What the hell?” the Purveyor yelled over the radio.

“It’s a setup!” the Garliali shouted.

“Cancel the calamari and get to the guns!”

“Wait!” Rogers said, but it was too late. And he wasn’t sure what channel he was talking on, anyway.

Everyone from both sides started to talk into their radios at once, creating such a cacophony of panic that Rogers felt like he should be shooting something. But shooting something would immediately reveal to whatever side he shot that he was not their ally. Running away would do the same thing for both sides. So, Rogers did what he did every time he was in a battle: nothing.

Because in ten years in a peacetime military, ex-Sergeant R. Wilson Rogers had never been in a battle. And he was already pretty sure he didn’t like it.

“All fighters, break formation and engage the Purveyor ships! We’ll teach them to cross us!”

“Take down that Garliali freighter! Those sons of bitches won’t get away with this!”

The Garliali wedge charged toward the Purveyors’ motley formation, engines flaring to life as they converged on the center position that was, unfortunately, the Awesome. A rainbow of cannon fire lit up space like some kind of deranged slot machine in the Heshan casino, and stuff started blowing up.

“Oh god, oh god,” Dorsey said, devolving into an utterly useless stream of babble as he sat back uselessly in his chair and held his hands awkwardly in front of him. He shook his head, his bland expression rapidly approaching panic.

“Snap out of it, Dorsey,” Rogers said, “and get ready to boost us toward the Un-Space point when you can. Who is in that damn patrol ship?” He still knew people in the Meridan Patrol Fleet. Maybe it was a buddy of his and he could convince them to jump back into Un-Space and stop ruining his swindling.

“This is ex-Sergeant R. Wilson Rogers of the Awesome,” he said, keying in to a known Meridan patrol code. “You’re, uh, interrupting me! Interrupting this! Go away! Who is your captain? What’s his favorite beer?”

There was no response. Rogers brought up a command console and started doing research as fast as he could. Maybe if he could find out the ship’s name, he could contact someone he knew on board directly.