by Tripp Ellis
“I’m sure that will go over well at dinner.”
“You won’t eat. You’re our personal guard,” Malik said.
“Have you taken a good look at us lately? We don’t exactly look like a diplomatic envoy.”
Their body armor was covered with rust colored dirt and mud from the desert planet. They looked like three warriors who’d been through hell and back.
“If you can come up with a better idea in the next five minutes, please let me know,” Malik said.
Walker grumbled under his breath. He fumbled for a helmet and put it over his head.
At 6’5” Walker could pass for a short Saarkturian. The average male was around 7 feet tall.
The body armor was sleek black form fitting battle protection. Like all Saarkturian designs, it was curved and organic. It looked like an exoskeleton. If you didn’t know better, you would think this was the natural form of the Saarkturians. Not the pale-skinned, dark-eyed, humanoids that they were.
The Phantom cruised toward the imposing fleet. With each passing second, the knot in Walker’s stomach grew tighter. The sweat on his skin grew thicker. He was an elite Special Warfare Operator—a Navy Reaper. He had been in plenty of unsavory situations before, but there was something unsettling about stepping aboard a ship full of cannibalistic aliens.
As they drew closer to the Korvectus, one of the escort fighters took the lead and approached the flight deck. Malik could see the massive bay and the optical landings system to the side of the flight deck. But he was completely unfamiliar with the Decluvian landing protocol. The Decluvian equivalent of a Landing Signal Officer was a Landing Control Specialist.
The LCS crackled over the comm line. “Saarkturian Phantom. I have you clear for landing. Can you see the Landing Guidance System?”
“I have a visual.”
“I’m sure it’s a little different than what you’re used to. But the principle is the same. Right now you’ve got a good approach. Keep this vector, you’ll be fine.”
“The approach is mine,” Malik said.
Walker was about to see how good a pilot Malik was. Anybody could hop from planet to planet. Flying through open space required little skill. Landing on a carrier was no easy task. You had to manage the transition from Zero G to full gravity flawlessly. Smacking the edge of the flight deck was generally frowned upon.
Malik stayed on glide for the entire approach. He made a textbook landing.
“Well, this should be… interesting,” Walker said.
“That’s one way of putting it,” Malik replied.
Walker petted Bailey and scratched his chin. “You stay aboard this ship. You got me, Sergeant?”
Bailey barked.
Walker pulled down his visor, obscuring his face.
The Phantom stuck out like a sore thumb on the flight deck of the Korvectus. It was a stark contrast to the design of the Decluvian fighters.
The normally elegant vessel looked like a hunk of shit. It had seen better days. Only one of the engines worked. The other had been damaged and was scorched and charred. The hull was pocked and scraped and scarred. There was no mistaking this for a diplomatic envoy.
Things only got worse when the Phantom’s ramp lowered and the three of them stepped onto the flight deck.
10
ZOEY
Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Harley stomped toward Zoey—his finger wrapped tight around the trigger. This was it. She was going to die in this little shit hole bar. Harley was big and drunk and dumb and out of his mind with rage. He was probably a nice guy when he wasn’t drinking. But after a few shots he was meaner than a constipated rattlesnake.
Just as he was about to pull the trigger, Harley was knocked off his feet by a Disruptor beam. It was the last thing Zoey remembered before waking up in the Nova York City Jail.
The NYPD didn’t screw around. They shot first and asked questions later. With a less than lethal Bösch-Hauer STN 50 Disruptor, they could do just that. The gun emitted a wide beam that could neutralize anyone within a 65° spread from the barrel. The beam would disrupt neural pathways, causing a loss of motor control and consciousness. The effects were usually temporary.
Usually.
Sometimes people never woke up. But that was less than 2% of cases. It was also reported that a small percentage of people never regained motor control function. But these were all deemed acceptable risks by the NYPD.
Zoey’s head was throbbing and her extremities were still a little numb and tingling. But she could move, and that was a good thing. She was in a holding cell with 8-Ball and several other bar patrons. The NYPD had an unofficial motto: arrest them all, sort them out later.
“Remind me never to go drinking with you,” 8-Ball said.
“What time is it?”
“0230.”
Zoey’s eyes widened. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Who’s going to break us out?” 8-Ball joked.
Zoey glared at him.
“Bryant,” a guard yelled. “Come with me.”
Zoey stood up and walked with trepidation to the steel bars that enclosed the cell. The guard cuffed her and led her to an interrogation room. It didn’t look like she was getting out of this place anytime soon.
After twenty minutes, a detective finally arrived. Twenty minutes was more than enough in the tiny room. Everything about it was designed to drive you crazy. It was dead silent. So quiet you could hear your pulse pounding and the blood rushing through your veins. Everything about the room was slightly askew. Just a little bit off. It was like a subtle version of a circus fun house. Nothing was at perfect 90° angles. After several hours in the room, it would make you feel uneasy and question your sanity.
It was all designed to elicit confessions. If you keep somebody in a room long enough, ask them leading questions over and over again, exhaust them, isolate them, make them feel like they’re never going to get out, they’re likely to say anything. Zoey was familiar with interrogation tactics. It was part of her basic training to resist enemy interrogations.
The detective sat across the table from her. He was about 35 and had scruffy brown hair. He wore a leather jacket and looked straight out of a cop show. He scanned over her file on his personal data unit. “Lieutenant Commander Zoey Bryant. Assigned to the Scorpion. Former, Lieutenant Commander.
There was that damn phrase again—Former Lieutenant Commander.
“You have quite an interesting resume.” He read over her list of priors. “Drunk and disorderly. Disturbing the peace. Public intoxication. Assault… should I continue?”
Zoey shrugged. “All lies. I’m just a soft cuddly girl.”
The detective chuckled. “I’ve had an opportunity to review the security camera footage from the bar. The video doesn’t lie. It looks like you threw the first punch. That makes you liable for this whole event.”
Zoey scoffed. “That’s bullshit. What was I supposed to do, let him swing first. I don’t know if you’ve gotten a good look at that guy, but he’s a wrecking machine.”
“You seem like the kind of girl whose mouth gets her in a whole lot of trouble.”
Zoey couldn’t argue with that one.
The detective read from his PDU. “Zoey Bryant is an excellent pilot, but is too impulsive and lacks respect for authority.” He scanned through her file. “Reason for discharge: personality disorder.” He looked at her with condescending eyes.
Zoey shrugged. “Well, nobody’s perfect.”
“You’re lucky nobody got hurt.”
“Newsflash. Have you see my face?” The sclera of her eye was filled with blood from ruptured capillaries. She had a dark circle under her eye that was purple and green and yellow. She looked like she just stepped out of the ring with the heavyweight champion of the world.
“Unfortunately, the bar owner doesn’t want to press charges. If it were up to me, I’d nail your ass to the wall.”
“I bet you’d like that,” Zoey smirked.
> The detective sighed. “Get out of here before I change my mind.” The detective released her cuffs and let her out of the interrogation room. “You might want to work on that attitude of yours.”
“But it’s my strong point.”
The detective shook his head.
8-Ball had already been released and was waiting on the street for her outside of the jail. It was 0330 hours. They had thirty minutes to get to the space port.
11
ZOEY
Zoey cringed. “That’s your ship?”
“Yes,” Declan said. “That’s my ship. You got a problem with it?”
They stood in a docking bay in the Wright-Hammond Space Port.
“It looks like it’s held together with bubblegum and duck tape.” Zoey quipped.
The ship was scarred and tattered from years of battle. The hull had been patched in many places, and no consideration had been given to the appearance of the repair work.
“She may be old, but she’s fast and built like a tank.”
“It has a quantum drive, right?”
“Yes, dear. It has a quantum drive. It’s not that old.”
“That’s a pre-war Thunder Cat, isn’t it?” 8-Ball asked.
Declan nodded.
“I didn’t think there were any of these left,” 8-Ball said.
“Trust me. She’s space worthy. I’ve done all the maintenance myself.” Declan looked at the vessel with a grin. “We’ve been through a lot together.”
“Well, all aboard the flying museum,” Zoey snarked. She started toward the ship.
“Hold up. Not so fast,” Declan said. “Weapons aren’t allowed on board.”
“What about him?” Zoey said, eyeing Jaxon. He was clutching an M729 Light Automatic Weapon. It was a selective fire machine gun, and was never far from his grasp. You could tell he was just itching for any opportunity to use it.
“Passengers aren’t allowed weapons.” Declan proceeded to frisk Zoey. He patted her waistline and felt up and down her thighs.
“You enjoying yourself?”
His eyes narrowed at her. “What happened to your face?”
“I tripped.”
“It’s an improvement.”
Zoey scowled at him.
Declan frisked 8-Ball. Both of them were clean.
“Can I board now?” Zoey asked.
Declan nodded.
Zoey headed up the ramp and Eddie followed behind.
Declan grumbled under his breath. “I’m not getting paid enough for this job.”
“Shit, I don’t do this job for the money, boss. I do it for the sport,” Jaxon said.
Declan rolled his eyes and headed up the ramp. Jaxon followed.
In the cockpit, Violet was in the copilot seat. She was going through the pre-flight checks. All systems were green.
Mitch took a seat at the navigation console. He grabbed the handset and spoke into the intercom. He sounded like a cheesy radio DJ. His voice boomed throughout the ship. “Welcome aboard the SS Zephyr, non-stop to the resort at Alpha Ceti 7. A luxurious tropical destination with today’s temperature at a toasty high of 300°. Hope you brought your sunblock. Looks like we’ve been cleared for takeoff, so sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight.”
“Declan hates it when you do that,” Violet said.
“That’s why I keep doing it.” Mitch smiled. He had sparkling eyes, blond hair, and a round face. He was a likable kind of guy that never met a stranger. He had put on a few pounds since he left the service—more than a few, actually. And he hadn’t kept daily PT as part of his routine.
Declan grimaced at the sound of the announcement. He showed his new passengers to their cabin. It was a small compartment with two bunks. “This is you. The head is down the hall.” He pointed aft. “The galley is on level one. Make yourself at home.” He pulled out his PDU and paged through a few screens. He checked his bank account. “Looks like the money is all there. I’ll have you to Alpha Ceti 7 in no time.”
Declan marched to the cockpit. “I hear that ridiculous announcement one more time, I’m kicking you off the ship. Preferably during flight.”
“Oh, come on. It’s funny,” Mitch said.
“If you were funny, you’d have your own comedy show.”
“Hey, I’m big on Zeta Cygnus. My standup kills it there.”
“Those people have no taste.” Declan took a seat.
“All systems go,” Violet said.
Declan engaged the thrusters. The powerful engines roared. The ship creaked and groaned as it lifted from the ground. It didn’t totally inspire confidence. The Zephyr was at least 50 years old. It rumbled and shook and plodded through the atmosphere like a lumbering elephant.
“Are you sure this thing is safe?” Zoey asked as she strolled into the cockpit.
“I don’t really like passengers in the cockpit,” Declan said. “Besides, you should really strap yourself in.”
Declan jerked the controls in an attempt to throw Zoey off balance. But she held onto one of the consoles. She glared at him, then took a seat and strapped in at an empty console. 8-Ball strapped in next to her.
An alarm sounded.
“Shit,” Declan said.
“We’ve got a leak in one of the hydraulic lines,” said Violet.
“It’s nothing major. I can fix it once we’re in slide-space.” Declan flicked a switch and silenced the alarm.
The old ship screeched and squealed as it rocketed toward space. It finally broke free of the atmosphere, and the ride smoothed out.
“Engage the artificial gravity,” Declan commanded.
Violet pressed the button, and Zoey felt her ass plant firmly against the seat.
A proximity alert sounded. It buzzed over a klaxon until Declan silenced it. “Shit.”
“What is it?” Zoey asked.
“It’s no big deal.” Declan tried to play it cool.
“Sir, I’m getting a communication across all channels,” Violet said.
“Mitch, have you got those jump coordinates plotted yet?”
“Working on it.”
“Work faster.”
A craft pulled alongside the Zephyr. A voice crackled over the intercom. “SS Zephyr, this is the Customs and Planetary Protection Agency. Stop your vehicle and prepare to be boarded.”
“Is there some kind of problem?” Zoey asked.
“It’s nothing really,” Declan said, trying to hide his concern with a grin. “Just a few outstanding warrants.”
Zoey shook her head. “I want a full refund if you get arrested.”
“I’m not getting arrested.”
The customs patrol ship fired two shots across the bow.
“I think they mean business,” Violet said.
“How are those jump coordinates coming?” Declan asked.
12
ZOEY
“Locked and ready to rock, sir,” Mitch said.
Declan grinned from ear to ear. He looked through the window at the customs officer pacing next to him. Declan smiled and flipped him off. Then he engaged the slide space-drive.
The bulkheads warbled. Zoey felt her stomach twist up in knots. The Zephyr vanished, and there was nothing the customs agents could do about it.
“One of these days they are going to catch up with you,” Violet said.
“Maybe. But not today.” Declan smiled and put his hands behind his head, triumphantly.
“What are your outstanding warrants for?” Zoey asked.
“Parking tickets,” Declan said, his voice thick with sarcasm.
“You might want to take care of those before you take on your next client.”
“Look, honey. You can’t hire a bunch of outlaws and expect them to be squeaky clean.”
“I’m not your honey.”
“Thank God.”
Violet arched an eyebrow at him.
Zoey grumbled.
“Lighten up, princess. We got away, didn’t we? I’ll uphold my end of the bargain. I’ll get
you to Alpha Ceti 7. I’ll get your beloved captain out of jail, and take you wherever you want to go. But what I won’t do is listen to anymore of your grumbling. So, let’s all try to have a positive attitude. Fair enough?”
Zoey scowled at him.
“Great. That’s settled,” Declan said. “Well, I don’t know about the rest of you. But I’m ready for a little breakfast.” He climbed out of the pilot seat and ambled toward the galley.
“Is he always this much of an asshole?”
“You have no idea,” Violet said. “But he grows on you.”
“Like a fungus,” Mitch said.
It wasn’t long before the smell of bacon and coffee lured everyone into the galley.
Declan was at the stove. He was cooking the old fashioned way. Bacon was sizzling in a pan. He was frying up a ham and cheese omelette in another. “I’m taking orders, if anybody wants anything?”
“Don’t you have a food fabricator?” Zoey asked.
“You know, sometimes you just can’t beat the real thing.”
“Two eggs, sunny side up. Bacon. And toast,” Violet said.
Mitch pondered his options. “Spinach and cheese omelette for me.”
“French toast,” Brody said.
“Scrambled eggs and bacon,” said Jaxon.
“Are pancakes on the table?” 8-Ball asked.
“I can do pancakes,” Declan said. “I got waffles too.”
Zoey melted for an instant. “Oh, my God. Waffles and maple syrup.”
“Shit, I change my order,” said Mitch. “I want waffles too. But I still want an omelette. Fuck it, give me both.” Mitch wasn’t shy about eating.
Declan slaved over the stove and fixed everyone’s breakfast. One thing was certain, he took care of his crew. They may have been a ragtag bunch of outlaw mercenaries, but they were the closest thing to a family that any of them had.
After everyone was served, Declan finally sat down to eat. It was one of those meals where nobody said a word—everyone was too busy stuffing their faces. After a night in jail, it tasted better than any breakfast Zoey had ever eaten.
Max jumped up on the table and surveyed the feast. He was an Antarian Sphynx from Beta 2 Majoris. His skin was royal blue and his eyes were emerald green. He was sleek and graceful, and lacked the wrinkly appearance of most hairless cats.
