“Excuse me, Chief. You’re needed on the bridge.”
Taylor threw on his boots and Generals cap, then hustled back upstairs. “Whatcha got?” He paused, finding Stan seated alone at the comm station holding a slate. “Where’s everyone else?”
“They’re still asleep. Here. Come check this out.” Stan directed his CO to the main Tri-V down front. Sure enough, night had fallen outside, and ground activity had picked up considerably.
“Great, it’s gotten busier,” Taylor observed. “I still don’t see any Dutya in the crowd.”
“Patience,” Stan said.
A trio of figures inched their way down the freighter’s boarding ramp, where they were met by one of the local dock hands. As it turned out, Rex’s description of the Dutya as “slimy-ass slugs” hadn’t been far off the mark. At just over two feet tall, the slick-skinned aliens didn’t offer much in the way of height. They were, however, twice as long from the rumps of flesh behind their eye-stalked heads to the tips of their thick, stubby tails.
“That same group came out just before I woke you to meet with the port officials,” Stan said. “See that one there in the middle? The one with the scar between his eye stalks? I’m pretty sure he’s in charge.”
“Why’s that?” Taylor asked.
“He did all the talkin’ with the authorities,” Stan said. “That and pretty much anytime he opens his leaf hole, everybody around him snaps to attention.”
No sooner had the Mississippian spoken than the scarred Dutya barked an order to the dock hand resulting in the latter’s abrupt spin into action.
“Okay, so Scarface is the captain,” Taylor said. “By the looks of things, I’d say he’s still got some business to attend to here around the port.”
“Don’t be so sure.” Stan pointed across the yard. “See those freight loaders beside that empty platform? They were chock full of crates about an hour ago. Nobody’s loaded anything since.”
Taylor raised a shoulder. “So what?”
“So whatever the Dutya came here for is likely already aboard that freighter,” Stan said. “Toss in the flurry of last-minute tune-ups the ground crews have been performin’ on their starboard capacitor housing, and I’d wager these smugglers are gearin’ up to bug out, probably tomorrow.”
Taylor snapped upright. “We need to act now, then. Wake up Jack and the others. I want 40 troops ready to move on that freighter in—”
“Just wait a second.” Stan grabbed his CO’s arm. “There might be a better way.”
Taylor wrinkled his nose.
“I need your Yack and 10 minutes,” Stan said.
“For what?” Taylor asked.
“Call it the cost of doin’ business with a scalpel instead of a sledgehammer. I promise I’ll explain later. For now, though, I need you to trust me.”
A slew of new questions raced through Taylor’s mind, but the issue of trust wasn’t one of them. He handed over his UACC without a second thought. “Am I gonna find out one day what I’m buyin’?”
“You’ll learn that today, actually.” Stan doffed his fedora, then bolted for the door. “Hold down the fort. I’ll be back shortly.”
Taylor heaved a sigh and returned to the Tri-V as the Dutya smugglers inched back up the boarding ramp into their ship. I sure hope you know what you’re doin’, Stan.
True to his word, the Mississippi commander re-entered the bridge about 10 minutes later.
“You ready to tell me about this plan of yours?” Taylor asked.
“Why tell when I can show?”
The Tri-V chirped an alert, indicating the presence of an incoming craft—a lone civilian transport carrier. The shoebox-shaped vehicle taxied into the dockyard on its dual roller balls, then swung wide at the fence, before halting in the gravel in front of the Dutya freighter. Two massive shapes climbed out, both armed.
Lumar. Taylor tensed. “Why are they here?”
“Wait for it,” Stan said calmly.
The first Lumar paced the area as if assessing the space for threats. Apparently satisfied, he signaled back to his colleague at the transport, who leaned inside.
What are you…?
Three more aliens exited the transport and posted themselves in a sort of ambassadorial kneel at the foot of the freighter’s boarding ramp. Elaborately dressed in purple and magenta robes that ended just above the knee, the regal beings were vastly smaller than their Lumar watchers, and clearly female, judging by the shapely form of their green-skinned extremities. Beyond that, their clothes and garments—specifically their loose-fit cowls—prevented Taylor from observing much more about them.
“They’re called the Chendoah,” Stan said. “Nobody knows where they come from exactly, just that they possess a heightened sense of intuition, which gives them keen insights into the mindset of those they interact with.”
“They’re psychic,” Taylor deduced.
“Not that heightened,” Stan said. “The Chendoah can’t read thoughts, per se. It’s more like an augmented awareness of another’s emotions, predispositions, and internal tendencies. This makes them extremely effective negotiators.” He grinned. “It also makes them highly adept at certain other occupations that center on the wants and desires of their clients.”
Taylor made a slow turn toward his officer. “Psychic hookers? That’s your plan? You’re gonna lure the Dutya out into the open with…psychic hookers?”
“Why not?” Stan rocked back and forth. “Aliens or not, they wouldn’t be the first wayward sailors to crave a little tender loving care after a long trip at sea, right? Besides, we’re thin enough on manpower as it is. Why risk what numbers we have in a firefight when we can just as easily sit back and wait on these slime-bags to get good and liquored up, then snatch them on their way to their ship before sunup?”
Taylor blinked. “How did you—”
Stan brandished the slate he’d been reading when his CO walked in. The screen featured an ad depicting a nude Sirra’Kan in a seriously suggestive pose alongside the words “call for a good time,” which the device had translated
