Creib closed his eyes. Ramra gasped, white spittle dripping from his mouth.
Regers saw the man’s face suddenly stretch like a horrible pumpkin, and the others’ bodies reformed and stretched, then morphed and reformed again, pulled like putty men. Then they were tall stick-like caricatures spinning like tops, shaking violently, blurred at the edges. Regers looked down at his own body, saw his own limbs stretched as if viewed through a distorted lens. Then normal. He relaxed as the ship lurched into the light highways and their forms became whole and still again.
Regers roared, “Woohoo! Hot damn! Boys, we have liftoff!”
Creib loosed a moan of relief. He swayed against the console, his trembling hands clutching for support.
Deakes laughed and Ramra slapped Creib on the shoulder. “See that? Creiby here almost shat his pants.”
Creib retorted, “If you knew what danger—”
“Can it, Creiby,” croaked Regers. “This is no time for dour reminisces; methinks celebratory acts are in order.”
The ship slipped along the lightstream on a general course for Perseus. Deakes had programmed an auto vector into the smart nav leaving the Dim Zone only a memory. Nothing less than complete engine failure, or the wrath of God could stop them now.
The men were significantly lighter of spirit after the successful jump and they flopped on padded seats in the bridge or prowled around the ship.
Jennings continued to study the navigational charts while Vincent and the others raided the larders, ravenous as wolves. Deakes found shelves full of bagged coffee, packaged meals, protein liquids, and nutrient pastes in twelve assorted flavours.
They also found booze. Only mild spirits by Regers’ standard, but gallons of it. Those Daulks sure knew how to stock a ship, even if they were donkey-eared anthromorphs from faraway Gfand, laughed Regers.
The lightfighter purred along smoothly as a kitten through the ethers despite her banged up side. Regers wondered where the squids had captured her. He didn’t recall many Daulks down in the tank rooms. Perhaps the squids had blasted them? Or eaten them? Regers shrugged.
The rabble of men he’d recruited was not ideal, but exceeded expectations. Deakes was probably the most useful of the lot. The man had a good head on him, especially in times of danger, as proven by the way he had hewed down those squids with his knife and blaster. Best of all, he didn’t flash any priggish looks behind his back like that smug fuck Jennings. Likewise, Vincent had performed well, racking up squids, doing the old feint and blast while watching Deakes’ back. Jennings, he grudgingly admitted, was a close third, though he would have to lose that stodgy, passive-aggressive personality. Ramra, while devoted, was a bit of a whiny bitch who’d get his horn and tongue clipped in the near future if he wasn’t careful. Creib, he could take or leave. A bit of a mamma’s boy in his opinion. Surprised the stocky fuck had made it out of that corridor with tentacles taking men’s heads off. But then again, if Deakes and Vincent hadn’t been paving the way... He shook his head at the memory.
Jennings approached the drive console, motioning to the com. “We’d better fly this thing to civilized territory, Regers. Some port in the free colonies where we can make a full report. A proper intelligence report of what we know to New Order Alliance base on the outer peripheries, to the Jakru, the Daulk.”
Regers stared at him as if he were a talking fish. “They’ll want ship’s identification papers, credentials, the whole lot. Then they’ll take away our ship. Ever think of that, Jenner? Even accuse us of stealing the craft. Interrogation.”
“We can swap information for exoneration,” grunted Jennings.
“I say we can’t,” sneered Regers. “I say we keep flying this pretty little ship to Alastra station, as I intended. It’s a gift from above, and I don’t plan on losing it.”
Deakes and Vincent muttered agreement.
Ramra croaked his own wish to alert some of the authorities, licking his lips, a fine sweat beading on his throat. “At least tell somebody the coordinates of those people down there.”
“And have it traced?” queried Vincent.
Jennings hesitated, seeing he was outnumbered. “I mean—”
“Jennings, when you’d get so righteous?” spat Regers, rounding on him. “Get all goody-goody pansy-ass on me? I didn’t peg you as the do-gooder type.”
Jennings purpled. “Maybe since I fell victim to those brutes—being on that Aldeberan freighter and getting pulled out of my bunk by one of them, then bobbing in that freak-tank. I wouldn’t wish that hell on anyone. Call me sentimental, but if I could save anyone from—”
“Oh, so a saviour type? We’re all supposed to sit back and pay the piper while you get a bleeding heart for some philanthropic mission? You going up against the squids, solo?”
“Just a simple anonymous call.”
Regers swept out an arm toward the com. “Be my guest.”
Jennings jerked away like a marionette to make the call. Ramra and Creib who had said little or nothing, looked away non-committedly.
Regers turned back to the others at the table, with sober, sullen looks. “Jenner over there thinks he’s the martyr to carry the torch of some damn galactic war. But it’ll never end. There’ll never be any winners in this war. Bloodshed maybe. One side trying to dominate the other. I say, let them eat each other’s balls for breakfast, stuff each other in tanks, same deal.”
“Calm down, Regers,” cautioned Deakes. “Sounds as if you’re the one getting sentimental on us.”
Regers winced and shook his head, peering down at the leftovers on the table. “Yeah,