“Those are rare ships, Regers!” objected Dez, gritting his teeth. “I’m trying to get an equivalent starship for you.”
“Try harder.”
Dez shook his head and marched off in a huff.
Deakes and the others were content to live in the lap of luxury, enjoying the downtime from risking their hides out in The Dim Zone. Breaking heads, running cons, fooling with underground thug rings, blowing up installations, stealing goods…all tough and dangerous work. “Why not stay here and milk Dez for all he’s worth?” Deakes rumbled.
“Because it’s boring,” said Regers. “Dez’s going to figure out a way to get out from under my thumb. Then we’ll face waking up with ice picks in our heads.”
Ramra grimaced. “Always thinking two steps ahead, eh, boss?”
“That’s what I’m here for, Ramra, and why I’m still alive.”
Jennings rolled his eyes.
By the end of the week, Dez had procured a lightfighter which met Regers’ approval—a buffed and polished Alpha Roamer berthed in the research hangar, ready to go. Deakes was in awe of the vessel as he and Vincent scrutinized the sleek grey fuselage, its twin jets and roomy forward belvedere with expanded bridge, stocked with custom features like enhanced hyperdrive targeting, AI tactical and weapons deployment. Ramra and the others held Regers in even higher stead while Dez stood strangely aloof. “Vintage, Reg. How’d you manage to pull this off?” praised Ramra. “Equipped with turbo impulse ion drive and four cannons, versus the usual two—a lean, mean fighting machine.”
Regers showed a set of flashing teeth. “Only the best for the best.”
Even Jennings had to grumble his approval, though the man was doubtful their luck would hold up. “Haven’t seen one of these classics for ten years. Not convinced there won’t be some repercussions.”
Regers waved it off.
Dez addressed Regers with cold formality. “Your new ship is called Grendel. I named it myself, felt it was appropriate, considering the nature of your ‘brigade’.”
Regers gave a grunting laugh. He slapped his thigh. “Good call, Dez.”
“The armor is topnotch. Ample range and heavy fire, the shields force 4. Guns able to stand up to L16 destroyers. It comes with an amphibious assault vehicle, a two-man craft for light excursions on-world…air, water, sky. A recent model in Cyber Corp’s long line of portable amphibious vehicles, APVs we call them.”
“Mighty fine, Dez. Appreciate the gesture.”
“When’s it ready?” asked Deakes.
Dez scrunched up his mouth. “Tomorrow around noon.”
“Good, we’ll hold you to it,” said Regers.
Chapter 17
The flagship destroyer Orb, Viscurg, hurtled down the light highways toward Quenrix. Admiral Nrog of the Zikri armada faced his sparring partner with a rippling snap of his strongest left motilator. The combat took place in a special war room enlivened with creeping bottle-green foliage growing hydroponically from the walls. Nrog’s pocked, rubbery face was alive in a feral grin. A low, warbling chitter rumbled in his wattled throat and depths of his chest. The robust young pup bobbing before him was a splendid specimen. Also an accomplished wrestler whose elongated motilators, thick with rigid muscle, rippled and constricted in the menacing patterns of time-honored intimidation. Normally, intimidating one’s supreme commanding officer wasn’t recommended, yet the Zikri were notorious for parading their physical prowess in front of one another, like those of old in the gladiator pens, regardless of consequences.
A chittering voice from the spectators intruded on Nrog’s concentration. “Consul Jnedz wishes to speak with you, Admiral Nrog. He is here, aboard this vessel, transported across by amalgamator to see you, as proxy for Princeps Jring.
Nrog scowled. “I know for whom he is proxy.” He resisted the urge to lash out and punish his officious aide for distracting him at an inopportune time. “Tell the skulking Mentera to wait.” With a flick of stinging tentacle, Nrog sent him on his way.
Nrog let his own seven-foot long, sucker-marked motilators rise high over his head as he glided forth to assess better his first opponent. Let the youngblood do his dance. The only reason he allowed such cocky displays in his private battle chamber—and aspirants as arrogant as this pup—was because they were worthy adversaries. They tested his mettle, kept him sharp, fit, and his fighting skills honed. Too many of his fellow Zikri had gone the way of softness over the generations, even the well-intentioned ones, weakened by technology and overindulgence. He would not fall prey to such enticements. That was why he was ‘admiral’ and other competitors of his race remained shredded pulps in the unfolding drama of his constant intrigue, assassinations and machinations.
The memories of the warm blood spilled in the dark, agonized chitters, squads of many hapless contenders as they fell under his crushing motilators revitalized his soul. Even more so while he had worked his way up the ranks, from lowly marine to squad commander, to stormtrooper, death squad overseer, weapons deployment monitor, intelligence officer, and finally commander of his own fleet.
Nrog had marked and mapped the steps in his mind—the small, deliberate sacrifices, the shady betrayals, the well-timed trysts and the bloodshed, all necessary manipulations on his road to supremacy.
Nrog’s wide, inverted-V-shaped upper body gleamed with muscular strength. A robust vessel built up from obsessive conditioning. He locked motilators with the youngblood, Baglaiksh. A freakish pinkish tinge clung to Nrog’s flesh and set him apart from his peers. That and his more massive rubbery build marked him a special breed.
Four spectators hovered to either side of the sand pit and now scuttled closer to check that no transgressions were committed amid the chittering gasps and slimy heaves of tentacle and torso…Rules must be obeyed…and more importantly, should Nrog lose or start to suffer appreciable injury, the attendants would leap in to
