Regers went over his ideas in his mind, how many explosives he’d need, neurotoxins, sniffers, poison drops, assault rifles, compact flares, the like. A man couldn’t be too careful in these troubled times with murderous squids jetting around in their war Orbs and those filthy locusts with their creepo, slimy tanks. He’d slipped up once, got caught by the squids, betrayed by one of his own, that motherfucker Yul, and thrown into a bug tank to die. But that would not happen again. No, not ever. And when dear old Yul and his pals met for a sit down face to face with Uncle Regers, there’d be a fierce reckoning.
Regers relaxed. He flexed his replacement hand. Let the blood simmer down, Charlie. Too much angst was not good for the heart. He laughed. Understatement of the year.
Regers stroked the fake skin on his left hand. The prosthetic looked realistic enough, fingers, nails, the whole deal. Never would he have guessed that hand was once a mutilated mass of jelly after the giant heptadoria had near chewed it off in the Mentera tank he was stuck in down on Phebis. He gritted his teeth. The strength of his new mechanical hand was greater than his normal grip, compliments of modern day technology. Hell, why didn’t they make all men titanium these days? Regers shrugged off the macabre thought. Heads would roll for that grisliness down there on Phebis in the crashlanded Zikri Orb. Lucky he had escaped and reached Alastra station in time to replace the lacerated flesh and have the clinic people install a working prosthetic. Had to dig into the bottom of his savings, what little was left now in his universal bank account.
Next stop, Phallanor City. CEO Mathias had a little explaining to do himself, that same fuck who owed him for the contract out in The Dim Zone. If Yul, his faithless crew mate who’d abandoned him on the Orb, had made it back and delivered the alien plant specimens, Uncle Regers was owed his share. If not—well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Maybe big cheese Mathias of Cyber Corp would compensate him for his injuries incurred. Even contract him for some other work. Though this time he would not sell himself as cheaply.
“We need supplies for this next gig,” Regers muttered. “Probably get ’em down on Phallanor, if we’re lucky. I sprung for food for a few days. Anybody with a few hundred yols in their back pocket?” He grinned.
Blank stares greeted him.
“It was a joke.” Regers mooned his eyes, exhaling a weary breath.
“Not me, boss,” said Vincent after a time. “You know me, penniless to the end.” He turned to the others. “Anyone up for a couple of robberies to help pay for Regers’ replacement hand?—and some food to spare for a few starveling travelers?”
Regers curled his lips. Threadbare funds. This little rogue posse was operating on a shoestring budget. “You’re reading my mind, Vincent. There’s hock shops everywhere that’ll likely go in for a bit of trade.”
Jennings opened his mouth but Regers silenced him. “Before you start preaching about the sins of theft, Jiminy, let’s get on with the program. Get me full diagnostics on Xaromar—also a full report on probable heists on the nearest worlds, Delta sector. Robot parts, household bots, drifting ships, anything salvageable. We move a serial number here or nameplate there, strip out some general signatures, make it clean, saw off some circuits that don’t belong and pawn the wares off at the nearest hock shop. Should raise us enough capital to keep us afloat for a time—especially for this next venture.”
Jennings tapped keys on the console with little enthusiasm.
Regers coughed. A dry chill ran up his bones. He shivered and gripped the butt of the black, ten-inch E1 at his belt. Ever since he’d come out of the Mentera tank, he felt as if he were in withdrawal from some evil drug. This bridge space was too cramped for his tastes. Grainy holo screens scattered everywhere, low-tech scanners, various other equipment too, and instruments squeezed into a widening L, with dual viewports in fore, Captain’s chair set in back. Low ceilings made for a tight space even for midget Daulks. What he wouldn’t give for a seat on Albatross again, the state-of-the-art Alpha-explorer that Mathias had commissioned them for that doomed mission out in The Dim Zone. Xeses the uncharted alien world, with its strange, quivering plants and flitting moths, had been a lark. But the ship was dead, back on that forsaken moon Phebis in the belly of a Zikri pirate Orb, like the rest of his crew members. This lightfighter was a cozy fit for six. He preferred the roomier V-Zon cruisers or XL-4 explorers. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. This old Daulk model, captured by the Zikri squids who knows how long ago, had sat chained there in the Orb, until his boys had blowtorched it free and started her engines. Still, he’d have to thank his luck they got the lightfighter operational, otherwise they’d have been Zikri fodder. He knocked his metal hand on the steel nav for good luck.
Jennings turned and whipped back his blond-grey hair. His pale eyes glowed. “Deep profile scan
