“What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means we’re losing pressure of atoms—the ones firing on her radial-core. If they don’t fire at a specific rate, we get warp fatigue or Varwol misfire then are kicked out of hyperdrive.”
Regers groused. “‘Varwol misfire’ or some shit like that. Hmmn, Jiminy. Sounds bad. Good thing we have you along to explain it.”
“Any pursuit by the squids or Class B Orb action?” demanded Deakes.
“Negative,” muttered Creib. “No such activity.”
“Good, Creib, keep watching,” Regers advised. “I don’t trust those squidly beasts not to have some new gadget for tracking us.” He grimaced. “We gave them hell down there on the Orb but they could come back and squeeze the love out of us.”
“How long to Phallanor?” asked Ramra.
“0600. Give or take a half hour, depending on how our andredine fares.” Jennings murmured into his scraggly beard. The man was still dressed in his blue spacer uniform from when he was nabbed by the Zikri squids aboard his Aldebaran freighter. “I still say we go to the nearest New Order Alliance base and report all this…the Zikri war Orb and the horrors aboard and everything else we’ve seen. There were a hundred men and women down there floating in tanks, still alive in suspended animation, though god knows how. Who knows how many more in other bays.”
Regers knew how many more there’d been as he’d scouted the lower levels before smashing the glass tanks to release his current crew members…those victims’d numbered around eight hundred.
“I say we don’t, Jiminy. We’ve been through this before. We’re not the pirate police or any do-gooder Samaritans. You just sit tight.”
Jennings bridled. “Maybe you aren’t a ‘do-gooder’, Regers, but I am and at least have a conscience.”
“Sit tight, you dumb fuck. Or I’ll sic Vincent on you.” He laughed. “He’s screaming to unleash a bashing on someone’s head. Look at him, wringing his wrists and eyeing you with those black killer eyes of his. We do things my way, Jiminy. You should be bending over kissing my ass, the way I see it. Rescuing your pansy ass from those tanks.”
Jennings snorted, but he glowered and shut up.
“We got a hock shop errand to run and it’s looming up fast,” Regers intoned.
Jennings’s ears perked up, jarred once more out of his listlessness. “Why? You still haven’t told us what this big ‘plan’ of yours is, Regers—”
“No need for it. Just pipe down and monitor those damn control gauges. I don’t want Xaromar crapping out on us any time soon. Clear avenue to Phallanor through the light drive tunnel. You and Ramra are our early bird sensors. Anything looks sour, like it’s going to bird shit, I want to know all about it well in advance. We’ve made it this far. Hell, we’ve even made it out of those bitching tanks—elevated to free rogues on our own personal starship. That’s quite a feat. It should go in some galactic record—”
“Are you about done? What about customs, authorities, jail time, that kind of thing—surely you—”
“There’s no worry here, Jiminy. We just ride through everything.” Regers pushed Jennings back down toward the console. “Keep your mouth shut and keep monitoring.”
Chapter 3
The next hours passed with the Jakru humming a dull tune. From the sounds of it, it was starting to drive Deakes out of his mind. “Could you please knock it off?” Deakes growled. “This ain’t no karaoke carousel.”
“Right.” Ramra licked his lips and mumbled dark words into his scanners.
Regers popped out of his reverie. “Listen. We get supplies, fuel up on food and beverages, get some meat on our bones. We gather us some weaponry and gear, then head out to pay good old Mathias a visit. I’ve got spoils coming to me.”
“That’s it?” said Vincent.
“What else to say, Vincent? Should there be more?”
Vincent frowned. “I guess it’ll all work out. Not sure about this Cyborg Core place though.”
“Cyber Corp. Simplest means is the direct one.”
Vincent blinked. Ramra threw up his hands.
“Trust me, I’m an old dog that follows his nose.” Regers grinned, a smile that quickly turned into a sour grimace. Yeah, and one that got you thrown into a fucking tank with fishy brutes nibbling at your arm. Regers, you’re a dumb ass. Don’t be too sure. He looked down yet again at his once-mangled wrist whose stringy flesh had somehow cauterized and healed over in the greenish brine. Damnedest thing. Could never figure out how those tanks worked their magic or where those locusts got the crazy idea to build such macabre briny prisons.
Salma always said he was a magnet for trouble. If she could only see him now… Regers grimaced. She’d never see him again though, as she was six feet under, wasted by those brutes out in Meslon he used to be affiliated with. Olg and his motherfucking gang. He stuck the memory of her deep down. And that spidery script of Olg’s, written in Salma’s own blood on a note pinned to her mangled corpse, the still-warm blood caking her glossy blond hair decked with flowers.
That life was over, a million miles away. A personal promise lingered deep in his gut that Olg would be the next to fall after Yul.
Phallanor came up on the holo nav. Xaromar dropped out of hyperdrive. The Varwol eased out of its monotonous hum, allowing the ship to settle into a high orbit around the industrial planet of Phallanor, a greenish-blue disc that glowed beneath the ship.
Creib eased the vessel in close to Baltar station on impulse thrust, the checkpoint for all offworld ships…also the center of customs which scanned each vessel’s drive codes and processed arrival craft for stolen machinery. Regers had long since overridden the drive codes of Xaromar’s registration with another. Automatic scan from the
