Part 2 (1/2)

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 b.u.t.tons 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 ent.i.tled to one free round of nachos at the Lumos Lanes, courtesy of Snaggadir'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 s.h.i.+p-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 pa.s.sed 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.

Rogers was marched silently through the station for a short while, pa.s.sing through corridors packed with people going about their daily business. Rogers couldn't shake the feeling that there was a sort of tension in the air. Like the kind of tension that was generated by having two armed guards at your back-maybe that was it.

They pa.s.sed a group of paper-pushers doing customer service drills in a small room off to the side; a group of fresh recruits was practicing looking busy while drill sergeants sat in chairs and looked at them expectantly.

One of the recruits, unable to take it any longer, broke and looked up. ”Can I help you?”

”No, no, no!” a drill sergeant exploded, jumping out of his seat and bearing down on the unfortunate recruit. ”How do you expect to inconvenience people if you're asking them if you can help them all the time? Give me twenty pushups and then ignore me properly!”

Administration stations were always a little weird.

Only after the last turn in the hallways did Rogers notice that the almost-pleasant hum of people had died down to a whisper. An unsettling silence crept up from the polished metal of the walls, and for a moment, Rogers could only hear three sets of footsteps, the beating of his own heart, and, strangely, the clucking of a chicken. They came to a door, and, without saying anything, one of the sergeants opened it and roughly shoved him inside.

”Hey,” Rogers said. ”You could have just told me to go in.”

”Shut up and sit down,” one of the sergeants said. ”They'll be with you shortly. And someone get this chicken back to the zoo deck!”

Without saying who ”they” were, the grunts locked the door behind him, and Rogers was left alone in a small room that was clearly built for either interrogation or a very serious game of checkers. Some welcome for a guy who was only being charged with littering. A square, plain table in the center of the room was bolted to the floor, with a pair of chairs on either side. The room was devoid of decoration, but Rogers did notice the security cameras mounted on the ceilings in all four corners. Their unblinking eyes made him want to find a stick to poke them with.

Sitting down with a heavy sigh, Rogers stared at the surface of the table and ran his fingers through his short beard. He hadn't had a chance to trim it since he'd been arrested. He wondered how it looked now. A fair-skinned man with a cherub face, he had taken quite some time to grow it, and taking good care of his beard was Priority Number One. Well, maybe Priority Number Fourteen; he had lost his list somewhere on the Awesome (and he rarely paid attention to it, anyway). Maybe he could get ”them” to bring him a trimmer and a mirror, whoever ”they” were. By G.o.d, he hated putting p.r.o.nouns in imaginary quotes.

The room was eerily silent, and after a moment, Rogers realized it was soundproof. He didn't really want to think about why, but for some reason, rubber hoses kept popping into his head.

For that reason, he didn't hear anyone coming before the door slid open to reveal two men in uniforms-sector police this time, not Meridan military. One of them, a grizzled older man with a pale, pockmarked face and yellowed, watery eyes, barged into the room in a huff and, before Rogers could say anything, began shouting.

”You sc.u.m,” he snapped. ”You worthless pile of trash. How dare you show your face in our facility?”

”You brought me here!” Rogers said, but the man didn't seem to hear him.

”You are a disgrace to Meridan society!” The officer pointed a long, bony finger at him, inches from Rogers' nose. ”In fact, you're a disgrace to all humanity. People like you make me wish we had stayed monkeys!”

Inexplicably, the other man, a younger officer with charcoal skin and dainty little eyebrows, stood at the doorway politely and rapped on the edge of the doorframe.

”h.e.l.lo, Mr. Rogers. May we come in?”

Rogers wordlessly gestured to the other officer who had been shouting at him. The younger man took this as acceptance of his request and tiptoed gingerly inside the room, smiling the whole way.

”It's so good to finally meet you,” he said. ”I'm Officer Atikan, and this is Officer Brooks from the sector police. I've read so much about you from the report.”

”I've read your report,” the older officer-Brooks-spat. ”I wiped my a.s.s with your report, and it added character. How can you look at yourself in the mirror?”

Rogers didn't know what to do. He looked back and forth between the two police officers, clutched feebly at the arms of his chair, and hoped he never touched Brooks's datapad.

”But,” he said, pointing at Atikan, ”he just said . . .”

”I don't care what he said,” the mean officer shouted. ”I don't care what anyone says. I know what you're about. I've seen hundreds of so-called 'men' like you. I know your type.”

”And we could use more men like you,” Atikan said.

”You . . . need more sc.u.m?” Rogers said.

”Oh no,” the younger officer said. ”No, we need more men of valor and honor, with the const.i.tution and fort.i.tude you displayed.”

”That's right,” the older officer said, and Rogers thought it had finally been settled until he continued. ”You are sc.u.m. You only look out for number one, and you'd stab your mother in the back for an extra dime.”

”Well,” Rogers said, bristling a little, ”who the h.e.l.l else is going to look out for number one? Who is number two? How many numbers are there?”

”Don't get arithmetic-ish with me,” Brooks said. ”I know how to count!”

”Oh yeah? Let's use our fingers to find out. Here's one-”

”I should explain,” the younger officer broke in.

”I wish you would!” Rogers shouted, his face red. Who was this idiot to come in here and start telling him who to look out for? And who the h.e.l.l used dimes anymore?

”You see,” Officer Atikan said, ”you're being commended.”

”You're in deep s.h.i.+t,” the older officer said. ”Neck deep. Eyeball deep. You'll be wearing s.h.i.+t for mascara.”

Rogers pointed at the younger officer. ”He just said-”

”Don't talk back to me!” The older man slammed his hand down on the table. ”I ought to bust you right on the lips if I could find them behind those dog shavings on your face. What kind of glue did you use to get that stuck on there?”

”You watch your G.o.d-d.a.m.n mouth,” Rogers said, pointing at the police officer, but before he could defend his facial hair any further, Atikan waved a hand in the air.

”The Meridan judicial system is in a bit of a pickle,” Atikan said.

”And you're in hot water.” Brooks snorted.

”The intelligence gathered from where you were picked up showed that both the Purveyors of Vitriol and the Garliali Mercenaries were nearly totally obliterated in a s.p.a.ce battle at which you were the center. The records on your s.h.i.+p filled in only some of the remaining details.”

”Dealing with pirates,” Brooks said. ”Despicable.”

”Hang on a second,” Rogers said. ”I thought I was picked up for littering!”

”Littering, too?” Brooks said. ”On top of the rest, you're an eco-terrorist! I've got your number, Rogers. I've got it right here.”

Brooks slid a piece of paper across the table with ”40R” scrawled on it.