* * *
Subcommander Krin, garbed in air mask and nozzle, watched the lander take off with a mixture of disgust and frustration. His squid-like face rippled with apprehension, emotions too complex for even a Zikri to process. The events played through his mind in a savage blur, as he struggled to pinpoint where he had gone wrong: his arrival just moments too late after his scouts had been scouring the lower levels searching for the intruder, following the incident in the main specimen room. His gliding in to investigate, only to find the place a shambles and the warning buzzer blaring.
A strange thing, all those tanks, and bodies strewn about like kibble from a starving pup’s maw, and that strange butterfly gliding about the air like some commandant. How it killed Rarl, his number one field officer, when he had reached up to apprehend it, was unexpected. The insect had carved razor-sharp wings through Rarl’s probing tentacles like a butcher’s knife, then doubled back to cut his throat, slicing a deep line through glottalus and epithermial... Poor fool’s innards had spilled out like mash before he had a chance to catch them as another pass sliced a thin line along the abdomen. He and his squad had been unable to seal the chamber completely. Let the practiced forensic team take care of it, Krin thought. Explosions had sounded from above and they had been forced to move.
And yet, several mysteries remained.
When the cold air had pushed in from outside, he and his soldiers had grabbed masks. The freezing air had not affected them unduly, Zikri bodies being more resilient than those of humans. The four humans whom the retreating ship had left behind had been a serious error on the part of the invading team. But why had they left them? It seemed stupid.
How they squealed like young Zikri pups upon being caught in his scouts’ tentacles! Two of them stared out from tanks in the torture room like dead fish. The others had died earlier, scrabbling for their weapons too late.
During the interrogations, a name had come up. A certain ‘Mathias’ of ‘Cybernetics Corp’. The primitive translator module he had commandeered from the Orb’s bridge had identified the human-speak as a business mogul on a world called Phallanor. The human was owner of a galactic robotics firm, which partially explained the mission to the Dim Zone, certainly the financing, but not the purpose. What a cybernetics’ mogul would want with plants still mystified Krin. Krake, his superior, had put ships on high alert for this ‘Mathias’ and he had little doubt Zikri intelligence would track the suspects before long.
Krin paused, considering another thread of events: stealth Orbs landing on the moon, laden with welcome reinforcements and murderous intentions. The Orb, deemed ‘unsafe’, to be thoroughly investigated in due time. The hull breached and all breathable air sucked out. Systems might have been damaged with the onrush of cold air and the resultant temperature drop. The ship would remain where it was, not considered space-worthy. But Krake had ordered a contingent of guards assigned to ensure the Orb was not pillaged by scavengers. Without a doubt, the Zikri were masters of the art.
Meanwhile, the Zikri fleet was in the air, ready to execute Krake’s plan. Krake and his superiors were in savage moods. The humans had slipped away—but they would not escape for long. Krake had made it sufficiently clear to Krin that there would be no rest for him until all the humans had been apprehended.
Krin mused upon the fact. The human they referred to as Yul would not escape. He had his honour to uphold. Zikri code demanded an exact reckoning. So would it be, even if it went badly for him.
Krin scratched the blue-grey scar on his neck, a large oval gash, which always throbbed in moments of stress or panic. The wound was the size of a tentacle width. He recalled the mark ever since the coming of age ceremony when he’d had to prove himself against another young pup. The event was coloured with triumph rather than pain, him suffering terribly, of course, but so had the other, bearing grievous wounds.
His impressive musculature rippled as he shifted position, the tissue extending from shoulder to mid tentacles. Another distinguishing mark on his lower scaly leg, denoted an old wound that had never completely healed, grey-scarred now. It ran several inches from what would be considered knee downward. If he had any weakness, it was that, which limited his speed and dexterity. But coupled with his training on the harsh, Zikri-conquered world Vyan-Ry from an early age, it was relatively insignificant.
Krin shook his head and resolved himself to a course of simple vengeance upon this human. To dwell upon the matter was a waste of time. Other pressing concerns lingered and he would punish the desecrators of the Orb, or would die in the attempt.
The alien plant ring that had gripped his minion Dax earlier was still an enigma. Another specimen with similar red and yellow bands had latched onto Rok’s left motilator and the tentacle was raw and rosy with constriction. Nothing could get it off, even after he had rigged winches and applied manacles taken from the bridge to pry it off. Short of amputating the whole tentacle, which Rok was loath to allow, it seemed hopeless. In fact, the thing had struck back with an acidic spray from jets in its fern-like outerbody that blinded any Zikri attempting to excise it, also severely burned their skin. It seemed the ring considered Rok its
