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one volunteered an alternative. Most now were watching Steg with undisguised interest, some with a possible challenge in mind.
    After a subdued conversation between three men, one of them, urged by his immediate companions, staggered to his feet, swayed for a moment, and then stood upright. He was untidy, his uniform torn, and his face revealed scars from prior confrontations.
    “Who t’ frek are you?” the man asked as he moved forward, his entire body promising a physical threat.
    This, Steg realized, was a challenge that either he accepted and won, or else he backed down now and discarded any future attempt to organize or influence the group. He was not inclined to back down.
    “Steg de Coeur. Sentenced to death by ImpSec. And you?” He positioned himself as the man edged closer. Steg was intuitively relying on in-built muscle memories for the pending confrontation.
    “Trooper—or should I say, ex-trooper Rippin. Sentenced to three life terms for killing a frekin’ officer an’ his two lady friends.” He spat on the floor. The man stood tall. He was more six feet tall and carried at least twice Steg’s weight.
    One of the trooper’s companions interjected, “Rippin was drunk at the time. He can’t remember doing it.”
    Steg wondered if the man had been unfairly sentenced. The trooper soon disabused him of his doubt.
    “It’s me second frekin’ officer—they didn’t catch me for t’ first one.” He was almost in reach of Steg. Other prisoners had hastily moved away from the threatening storm and as a result, there was a cleared space around the two men.
    Steg relaxed, muscle memories rushing to his aid. He felt no fear. His stance failed to impress the trooper and the man continued his approach. Others, however, took note for the future. Steg saw his opponent had somehow gained possession of a knife and was holding it across his body, the promise of a fatal ending contained in its thin sliver of a blade.
    “This’s what does ’em in,” Rippin proclaimed. “This little feller.” He waved the knife back and forth.
    Steg did not hesitate. He moved forward and snap-kicked Rippin’s knife arm while the man was waving the weapon. The blade spun towards the ceiling, reached its peak, and fell, clattering, to the floor. The trooper staggered backwards, screaming incoherently. His forearm was broken and his arm hung, useless. Steg picked up the weapon and slid it into his belt.
    He said, “Anyone else?”
    Rippin cursed and rushed forward, attempting to end the fight with a blow from his meaty fist. Moments later he screamed with added pain as Steg broke his other arm. Rippin backed away, pain and bewilderment conflicting on his face.
    “Someone? You,” Steg pointed to Rippin’s companion. “You seem to know this man? Look after him; stop him from trying more stupid stunts.”
    “Yes, I agree,” said a voice from the door. A man wearing an apparently military uniform stood in the opening. His shoulder badges indicated he held the rank of captain; otherwise his uniform was anonymous. The roomful of prisoners had been intent on the action between Steg and Rippin, and no one had noticed his entry. “You—with the scar—hand me the knife. You won’t need it. The rest of you—Scar’s now your senior officer. Do as he instructs or face consequences; be aware they may be fatal. Scar—what’s your name—de Coeur?” Steg nodded, and the stranger continued. “He will be in command of this group for as long as you’re on board Wasp. Do you understand?”
    There was a general and subdued murmur of assent. Steg walked to the mercenary captain and handed over the knife.
    “You come with me. Rippin, an escort will be here in five. They’ll take you to our medics. I expect you’ll be in plaster for a while. Any more trouble and I’ll find an airlock for you, understand? The rest of you—get some sleep. I know, I know, there are no beds. Sad. Roll up some floor. Tomorrow will be a long