He picked several fresh tanks with human contents and marked them with some of the white stuff that still coated his skin. He had to be sure, and nothing like good old intuition for picking subjects which he had in spades. There were some women too, choice pieces of ass, but alas, practicality must prevail over pleasure, and they looked too traumatized for the use he had in mind. He used his E1 like a sledgehammer to smash the tanks he had chosen. Glass shattered; green water gushed out, the victims flowing with it.
While he whipped about smashing tanks, he conducted mock colloquy with himself, calling out the attributes of the men he had chosen, brawny physique, defiant looks, glares of roguish cunning.
“Regers, dear, Regers, why not just pull the trigger and blast these poor wretches out of their jars, do it the easy way?”
In answer, he jumped over to the spot of the imaginary figure he talked to. “As a matter of fact, Mister-in-the-Tank, it’s more fun this way.”
He moved on past one of the tanks previously marked with white chalk, peered with a frown at one who looked too pedantic, easily intimidated, skipped it, moved on to another. Yes, he liked this one. The man had a perpetual leer.
He took his time, smashed the glass of the second last tank, and sat back to watch. He amused himself, eyeing the goggling antics of figures coming out of their watery hibernation: groaning, retching, jerking pitifully in convulsions like mannequins. Some were recovering too slowly for his tastes. “Get up, you shivering fuckwad,” he called.
The dazed man in the dripping slime grunted as Regers’ foot met his midriff, viscous fluid spewing from his mouth. “There, probably did you a favour.”
He shook another with one hand, till his teeth rattled. “Time for you lotus dream catchers to wake up, and your happy nightmare to begin.”
The other he booted with the back of his heel.
One refused to respond, and he flipped this wretch over and slapped his face. “Get up, you!” Still nothing. Grabbing a handful of putrid water from a half-shattered tank, he dashed it into the man’s face. That didn’t work. He grabbed another handful and forced it down the man’s throat.
Gagging, clawing at his throat, the man loosed gibbering protests.
“There, you’ll be fine. Just a little mouthwash.”
The man retched and, rubbing his temples, garbled out curses.
Regers slapped his thighs and laughed, a gleeful hyena sound that had the rousing men turning in confusion. “You’re all fine specimens.”
“Who the hell are you?” croaked one, a lank-haired marine who looked like an officer. “Where the hell am I?”
“I’m your Uncle Regers,” said Regers with a happy grin. “You’re in the middle of funland, call it a ‘squid Orb’.”
The ten men looked at each other, as if assessing the state of Regers’ sanity.
“Don’t give me that prissy look!” Regers cried, stomping over to thrust his blaster in one man’s mouth hard enough to make his gums bleed.
The man’s muffled groan echoed weirdly in the creepy gloom.
“That’s better,” chuckled Regers. His crooked smile returned. “Now listen up, girls! We’re going to take this hold, that’s about 2500 feet down those filthy halls, through black, slimy corridors of hell. Problem is, we’ve several squids just waiting to squeeze all the love out of us and put us in those bitchy tanks. Get it?”
They stiffened and remained silent as they peered around the high-ceilinged hall clouded in gloom. The disgust and apprehension lighting up their faces was not feigned. The gleaming resin on the walls slicked with a rank shellac was real enough, likewise the off-putting, squid-like forms with gruesome heads and questing tentacles sculpted in low-relief on the walls.
Regers caught their disturbed glances and chuckled to himself. “I’ve scouted out the hall already, along with my friend, Shredder. In case you didn’t know, Shredder is my dragonfly-pet in the next room. That’s him hammering against the wall. It looks as if there’s one ship, a lightfighter, intact in the hold. That’s our target. Any one of you engineers?”
One man crowed, “Name’s Jennings. Mechanical engineer.”
“Guess my lucky picks were right on then. Figured one of you boys would be the mechanical type. Question is, can you fix it?” He lanced Jennings a glare. The man stared back wide-eyed. “It’s got a big bash in its side. I fooled around with the panel box on-board, even pulled up the diagnostics boot sequence. Was showing a ‘multi phase’ yellow disorder on grid RC2, whatever the hell that means?”
“My guess is it’s one of the rear stabilizer cells. Must be fried.”
“And? Can you fix it?”
The engineer shrugged. “I can try. Maybe patch in series one of the working cells with the blown one.”
“Atta spirit, Jenner.”
“That’s Jennings.”
“Whatever the fuck, Jennings, Jenner, Jiminy Cricket, I could care less...” He lifted his E1. “Gather weapons from these stiffs. These dead fucks won’t need them. There’s enough firepower here to raise Lazarus from the grave, by Jesus, praise the Lord!”
A meaty man with a fleshy jowl stared at him in awe. “You a religious man, Regers?”
“You betcha, now get your ass moving! We have work to do.”
The ten men groped about, arming rounds in their rifles, testing weapons.
Industrious. Just like he liked them, thought Regers. That fat fuck who had asked him about Jesus wouldn’t last long, but the others? A shit-eating grin had begun to curl on Regers’ face
