The com burped again.
Now what? Groat pressed an eyestalk to the airlock glass. The shuttle had begun its final approach, surely the pilot hadn’t screwed up already. He flicked the switch. “This is Fleet Commander Groat.”
“Ah, Groat.” Mopus’s voice oozed out the speaker. “Don’t get on that shuttle.”
Groat’s eyestalks stiffened. The politico should know better than to give orders on his ship. “The Lunaria will not be able to support life after another few minutes.”
His head already ached from the lack of oxygen.
“I know that,” Mopus snapped. “There’s a delegate cruiser behind the shuttle. We’ll be taking that vessel.”
The com crackled.
Groat toggled the switch. Off. On. Off. On. His blood heated with each flick. The stinky politico had terminated the conversation. He had half a mind to ignore Mopus. This was war. The Fleet Commander was to be obeyed, not to obey politicos.
But the Commerce Board didn’t always view things from a practical standpoint. They were slaves to their balance sheets.
And the Municians excelled at working things out.
In their favor.
Groat would need a witness. There was none better than Tridit. He stalked the corridor waiting for his second-in-command to emerge.
Waving his hands, Tridit backed out of the smoke-filled room. “That’s right. We’re going to wait in the landing zone. The air in here is unbreathable.”
In twos, the rest of the Scraptor crew shuffled out. Groat nodded as they passed on their way to the airlock. A thump and grind of metal battered the opening doors.
The shuttle had landed.
When Tridit moved to follow, Groat set his hand on his claw. “Mopus has arranged another ride for us.”
“Us?”
“Me.” Groat had fallen for one of the politico’s trap before. He would not do so again.
“Ahhhh.” Raising his hand, Tridit unscrewed his optic ball. Next, his fingers delved under his breastplate and removed a small, black cylinder. “Good thing I rescued one of these.”
“A portable camera. Excellent work, my friend.” Accepting the cylinder, Groat dropped it down the throat of Tridit’s empty eyestalk. He maneuvered the appendage until it could see directly in front of him.
“Maybe I should have it looking behind me?”
“Too obvious.” Groat tweaked it a little to the left then stepped back. “Besides, it has sound.”
Side by side, they ushered the last of their men through the airlock. The leaders of the group climbed ladders into the belly of the crate-like ship.
Groat acknowledged the pilot’s salute. “Tell him we’ve accepted another ride.”
Tridit angled toward the ship then stopped. “Any other message?”
“No.” Groat didn’t think the situation called for alarm or he would have used the agreed upon phrase.
“Understood, Fleet Commander.” Tridit stalked away.
Fabric rustled in the airlock.
Mopus. Groat didn’t turn. This time the stinky politico could come to him. The stench of flowers assaulted his nostrils. Mopus never smelled of flowers. Why would he deliberately mask his scent? Unless… Unless he was hiding something. Groat almost called his second back and changed to the warning phrase.
In a swirl of blue and gold, Mopus glided to a stop. A suitcase thudded to the deck.
Groat’s mandibles tightened. The fool had returned to his cabin to pack. He glanced at Mopus. By the vacuous pit of space, he’d changed his clothes, too!
Mopus adjusted the cuffs over his slim, green wrists. The silky blue fabric shone in the bright lights of the landing bay. Knife-edge creases marked the folds of the new garment. He adjusted the trigold crown on his neatly braided lime-colored hair. “Can’t you hurry your men along? I’m anxious to be underway.”
“No.”
An unhappy stench pierced Mopus’s floral assault. “Don’t you want to know where we are going?”
Groat would rather eat his own mandibles than ask. “We will reunite with my men.”
“Eventually, but we’re making a tiny detour first.” Throwing back his head, Mopus laughed. The sound was torture, pure torture.
Groat’s waste flaps sealed shut. Nothing good ever happened if a Munician laughed.
Tridit pounded on the closed hatch of the shuttle then he bounded away.
Mopus’s mirth died on a hiss. “Why isn’t he on the ship?”
“Because he is my second. Where I go, he goes.”
“I suppose he can carry the baggage.” Mopus shouted over the roar of the engines. Then he retreated to the airlock.
Tridit skidded to a stop next to Groat. “Was it something I said?”
“He wants you to carry his luggage.” Groat nodded to the suitcase on the deck.
“Will do, but as it wasn’t in my training I might drop it a few times.” Tridit’s boot touched the side, and the bag tipped over.
Groat would have kicked it across the deck. “Perhaps, in time, you will learn.”
“Lots of time,” Tridit confirmed.
In silence, they watched flakes of paint chip off the ship as it tilted in the air. The engines roared then dulled then roared again. Metal creaked as the rudder was corrected. The shuttle listed to the right as it puttered toward the bay doors, then sailed across open space.
Dusting his robes, Mopus sauntered into the bay. “I hope you ordered your men to give a good accounting of this disaster.”
“They will.” Groat’s claws clacked at his sides. The fault will lie squarely with the decrepit equipment the Founders had provided to the Scraptors.
A sleek saucer glided silently into the bay. The Municians’ state seal adorned the smooth, white hull. Landing gear deployed quietly and the engines sighed to a stop. A hatch opened. A liveried, furry servant lowered carpeted stairs.
Groat’s fists clenched. The bastards kept all the good tech for themselves.
Mopus snapped his fingers. “Come along. We have a timetable to keep.”
Tridit’s mandibles clicked shut.
“Remember, the others care only for appearances. It is probably a hollow shell inside. Stripped bare of any comforts.” Like Groat’s quarters and everything the Scraptors were issued. Confident, he marched up the stairs and ducked inside.
Never had he been more wrong.
Never.
Gleaming wood paneled the lounge. Frilly leafy things sprouted out of cloisonné urns. Plush chairs and sofas were clustered around stone tables. The deep pile carpet muffled their footfalls. Artwork hung on pristine walls. Fresh fruit overflowed crystal bowls.
His stomach grumbled, a cauldron of rage. If the Municians lived in such luxury, how did the other species live?
Mopus turned on his shiny shoes. “You may sit, but try not to damage anything.”
Staring at the mural on the ceiling, Tridit swung the suitcase. It collided with a vase. Water and purple blossoms showered a white settee. The servant rushed forward. Two more furry servants popped out of side rooms with towels and brooms in hand.
Mopus sighed. “Perhaps you should place the suitcase on the floor and sit before you do any more damage. This is a delegate vessel and must remain a showplace of the Founders’ power and influence.”
Right, and Groat wore a kitchen appliance for armor. He dropped onto the nearest couch. The soft padding sucked him down. His fist slammed onto a nearby table to stop his descent. The stone cracked.
“Is your tantrum over, or should I wait?”
Two-faced maggot. Groat flattened his palms on the table and carefully folded his claws beside his body. “Where is this detour?”
“We’re going shopping for armaments.” Mopus clapped his hands before reclining on a chaise.
A servant swept forward in long, swaying lengths of fur. Aside from a set of arms and legs, no other features were discernible. A fuzzy mitt plucked the shoes from Mopus’s feet and carried the glossy heels away.
> “Shopping where?” Groat selected a piece of fruit from a nearby dish. He bit through the rind. Bitterness and sugary sweetness rolled across his palate. “All Scraptor armament requisitions must go through the selection committee.”
If such a thing actually existed. The armor was the only new weapon his men had received in years. And they had to pay for it themselves.
Adjusting the drape of his robe, Mopus squirmed on the lounger. “Some members of the Founding Five have more vision than others. The Municians have been exploring other options.”
Juice ran down Tridit’s chin.
Groat licked the flecks of rind from his fingers. Ennes were rare on his ship. They were usually rotting when they arrived. He replayed the conversation. His gut clenched. The politico couldn’t possibly mean… “What kind of options?”
“Weapons deemed too dangerous or expensive for development.” Mopus swished his hair over the back of the chaise.
A furry servant plucked round saiches from a vine and dropped one in his open mouth.
Sliding his hand over the tabletop, Groat reached for another Ennes. Only a slight tremor in his fingers betrayed his emotions. There had been talk for years of a secret weapons base. But he’d searched the archives. His predecessor had searched the records before he disappeared. The place didn’t exist. “Ships? Cannons? Armor?”
Bits of fruit protruded from Mopus’s teeth. “And more. All courtesy of your Munician friends.”
Groat chewed slowly. Could the stinky politicos have been planning a coup? “Why have I never heard of this before?”
“It wasn’t necessary before.” Mopus brushed aside the next offering of fruit. “Now, I see we’ll have to guard our investment a little better. The Board may be too slow to protect our way of life.”
“I see.” Groat set the half-eaten fruit on the table. The rest turned to ash in his mouth. He smelled a trap, and it stank of Munician.
“Relax.” Mopus pointed to a green tuber. “Not even the Commerce Board knows about Sentinel.”
Tridit spewed his mouthful across the white chairs opposite him. Anger gleamed in his remaining eyestalk. “Sorry. My new armor pinches.”
“Well, fix it, you buffoon, before you ruin any more of my ship.”
“Sentinel?” Groat kept his tone neutral. If the base existed then what else was true? The rumors that the new weapons would make Scraptors obsolete?
“Yes. The base’s name is Sentinel.” Mopus spoke slowly as if to a child.
“I look forward to this shopping trip.” And if the rumors were true, then Groat and the Scraptors needed to consider a takeover of the Commerce Board.
A very hostile takeover.
Chapter 14
The Syn-En don’t want me here. Nell sank deeper into her bucket seat behind the vampire pilot. Warmth radiated through the butter soft leather. Gold edged the knobs and switches on the shuttle’s dashboard. Gumdrop lights blinked beneath the band of screens in the circular cockpit. Ambient lights glowed softly and complemented the white and gray patterns of the wormhole on the forward viewers.
The Syn-En are worried about you and the babies. Bei swiveled away from the console. Gray tinged his almond-shaped blue eyes. This mission could be dangerous.
Nell snorted. Could be? What part of heavily, guarded research base screams walk in the park on a summer afternoon to you?
Omest, their Picaroon captain, stared at her reflection in the screens. “Are you certain it is safe for your wife to be here?”
“We, Syn-En, look out for our own.” On the matching seat opposite Nell, Havana Keyes jacked into the makeshift port. Wires and dead buttons dangled from the open access panel. Green, red, yellow, and blue conduits identified each system of the ship.
The Founders liked their tech just so. Or maybe it was the Municians whose ship the Picaroons had salvaged and repurposed. Nell picked at the synthetic fibers emerging from a slit in the upholstery. When she caught her reflection in the shiny panelling, she stuffed the white tuffs back inside and ran her thumb over the cut. Fermites zipped the gash closed. She rubbed the repair. Boy her fermites were good. She couldn’t even tell the difference.
“Nell’s abilities might come in handy.” Bei turned back to the dash. His hands clenched and unclenched in his lap.
Omest had insisted on piloting the vessel, leaving her husband with nothing to do. “I thought she was to stay on the vessel after we land?”
“She is,” Bei confirmed.
But I won’t be doing nothing. I’ll be worrying. Nell folded her arms over her chest. We didn’t even get to say a proper farewell. He’d returned to their cabin to wake her and not in a good way. She’d had ten minutes to dress and meet the mission team in the hangar. They had barely kissed, let alone did anything fun.
We’re not saying farewell. This mission should be easy. Bei caressed her through their connected thoughts. We’ll get in, retrieve our fallen, and get out.
Nell’s heart rate picked up speed. Heat flooded her limbs.
Careful Bei. Keyes chuckled. Pregnancy heightens libido in some women. Nell is obviously one of them.
Oh, good grief. I’m transmitting on all frequencies? Heat suffused Nell’s cheeks. What about our private link?
Everyone was worried. Bei shrugged. So I let them in.
For a man who can talk to others in so many different ways, you suck at communication. Nell tried kicking her husband’s chair to emphasize her point. Her boot missed by inches. Dang leg room.
He also doesn’t listen to advice. Although Shang’hai was two decks below tweaking the fusion reactors, she spoke loudly in Nell’s head. Bringing you on board sets a bad precedent for the biologics. Some want to become Syn-En. The fools.
Bei threw up his hands. Are we talking about my wife or your lover, Montgomery Smith?
Her lover obviously. Keyes rolled her eyes. Blue light pulsed around her index finger. Nell Stafford isn’t a biologic.
Neither is she a Syn-En. Shang’hai sent lightning bolts through the WA. Not everyone can become what she’s become. It doesn’t matter how clever a mechanic they are.
Nell picked at her cuticle. Fermites dissolved it before she hurt herself. Look, I’m here. I’m not going into combat, so I don’t have to know how to kick ass and take names. She clamped a hand over her mouth. Whoops. So much for her vow not to swear in front of the babies.
Bei swiveled until he faced her. Eyes twinkling, he held out his hand. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
She slid her palm across his. Awareness prickled along her nerve endings. Her insides shimmered. This was the real reason he’d insisted she come along. She was afraid. Afraid something might happen to him that her superpowers could fix. Afraid the traitor on board would kidnap her. Afraid her fermites would just bedazzle her out of existence. He was an anchor in her mind, keeping her firmly in this world. “I love you.”
His fingers tightened. “You should know Rome is planning to teach our children to swear in three hundred twenty-nine languages.”
The air around their clasped hands glittered. Nell chuckled at the sheer evilness of her thoughts. “I wonder if the fermites can seal lips?”
Bei grinned. A moment later, his smile collapsed and his face smoothed of emotion. If the mission goes South, I want you to use your fermites to get to safety. Don’t worry about me or the team. Save yourself and the children. I’ll find you.
If he was able. Nell stroked the slight bulge in her lap. He asked too much. I couldn’t live with myself if I left you when I thought I could save you. I won’t leave if there’s a chance.
He scooted forward, using his size to intimidate her. Nell Stafford, you are under my command.
She stuck a finger in her ear and wiggled it. What? I can’t hear you. The fermites must be interfering with our connection.
That happens a lot with biologics, Shang’hai shot back.
Keyes nodded. Maybe I could try it on Rome.
You both have memory clips that can
be replayed. Bei pinged them both. Nell, if both of us fall into enemy hands the war is over. The Alliance has lost. Do you want that?
Nell tugged her hand free. Guilt won’t work on me. I was raised Catholic and acquired an immunity. Besides, if we were… She refused to form the word dead. If the worst happens, then the fermites will make us all disappear. Her attention flicked to the pilot. Well, almost all of us.
Omest stiffened. A lock of black hair quivered on the mass plastered against his skull. “We’re approaching the event horizon. I can still turn around and sneak in the back way.”
“Negative.” After one last searing look, Bei faced forward. “This is a Founders’ shuttle. We go in the front. Anything else would be suspicious.”
Not to mention that our entry codes expire in three hours and we have no idea where we’re going. Shang’hai’s negativity billowed like a black cloud in cyberspace.
Keyes’s mouth formed a slash in her round face. I’ll reactivate the location beacons in the Syn-En remains once we have boots on the ground. Quarantine your personal problems and get your circuits tuned into the mission, Shang’hai.
That’s an order. Bei rested his hands on the console. Realign the reactor core. I’m getting a fluctuation.
Aye, Admiral. The anger left Shang’hai’s connection.
Should she leave it alone, or poke the rabid bear? Nell mentally slapped herself. Shang’hai was the annoying, overbearing sister she never had, and she was hurting. I’ll talk to Smith when we return, tell him that ginormous responsibilities come with superpowers and sometimes that sucks.
Thank you, Nell Stafford. If you could mention those abilities are fueled by chocolate that just might work. Monty hates chocolate. Shang’hai chuckled.
Will do. Toeing out of her shoes, Nell hugged her knees and rested her chin between them.
The emotions simmering in the WA subsided. Chatter ended entirely. The Syn-En had switched into battle mode.
Static electricity danced across Nell’s skin. She grounded it on the chrome walls.
Keyes flinched. “A little warning before you do that again. Their circuits may be archaic but they still conduct electricity.”
Syn-En: Pillar World Page 13
