"Miles," Gregor says gently. "We've been issued jobs. It is slave labor, even if we're technically getting paid in a currency we can only use here, which doesn't matter because of our complete inability to escape. But good try."

His mouth thins and he levels an accusing finger down at Miles.

"And for God's sake, don't jinx it, what's wrong with you? I expect a half-dozen of Admiral Oser's finest--by which I mean 'largest' and 'most foul-tempered'--around a corner any minute now to shove us out another airlock."