Lord Essien stood atop the throne platform inside the former Varokin headquarters. Jai and the other four Varokins stood around the platform with their plasma rifles cradled to their chests. The Dimathiens remained seated at their consoles, looking bored and deflated. One of them sighed. Another spun around in his swivel chair at a slow and pathetic pace. Essien loomed over the throne with a pistol in hand, tapping her thigh with waning patience. A splatter of green blood painted the back. Trevor’s headless body slumped off to the side. The squishes of reassembling flesh broke the dead air. An eyehole reformed and sucked up the last drops of blood, causing Trevor to stir. He shook off the resulting headache, adjusted his posture, and lifted an annoyed gaze to Essien.
“You make an interesting argument,” he said.
“All,” Lord Essien said with a stern tone.
“Half.”
“All.”
“Three quarters.”
“All.”
“Most.”
“All.”
Trevor huffed. “I can’t just relinquish full control of the Moreon fleet to your command. Do you know how long it took us to build it?”
“All.”
Trevor groused. “Fine, I’ll give you everything but two warships and a jump shuttle.”
“All.”
Trevor narrowed his eyes. “One warship and a promise to convert.”
“You can have Jai as a conversion.”
Jai furrowed his brow.
Trevor slapped the armrests and leapt to his feet. A lump on his face pulsed with anger as he shook a furious finger at Lord Essien. “I have already agreed to much more than you deserve. What the hell am I supposed to do with a groupie convert and one warsh—”
BLAM! Essien shot him in the face.
His headless body collapsed into the throne as blood and brain goo rained upon the platform. The groans of wearied Dimathiens filled the chamber.
* * *
Under the cover of night, Max and Ross snuck towards the Yarnwal camp. Ross took point, gliding over and around obstacles with Max trying to keep up. Every now and then, the tiger would stop and grumble as his human companion scrambled over roots and rocks. The glow of a large bonfire appeared in the distance, denoting the camp’s location. Max stared at the dancing flame, which allowed his foot to catch a root tangle and send him flailing to the ground. He yelped before slamming face-first into the dirt.
Ross grimaced and glanced back at the clumsy human. His voice lowered to a harsh whisper. “You know, it’s shit like that that will get us killed.”
“Bite me, Hobbes,” Max said, matching the whisper.
“That’s racist.”
Max climbed to his feet while plucking the twigs from his beard. “Cats can see in the dark, so you have to cut me some slack.”
“That’s only relevant to Earth evolution, you twit.”
“So you’re as blind as I am here. Stop being a dick.”
“No, I can see in the dark here too.”
“Goddamnit, then why even make that retort?”
“That’s kind of my whole shtick, remember?”
Max huffed while dusting off his duds. “We’re about to risk our lives with a dangerous infiltration, yet you still find the time to be an asshole.”
“Your life.”
“Huh?”
“I’m a force of nature. We’re only risking your life.”
Max shook his head. “You know, my confidence in this mission just took a startling nose dive.”
“Why, because I can’t technically die?”
“That kind of skews your perspective, don’t you think? What possible motivation do you have to see this through?”
“Are you kidding? This is going to be hilarious.” Ross turned away and resumed his stealthy approach.
Max’s frustration caused him to flail like a pouty toddler and yank his dreadlocks. The resulting pain conjured a yelp in his chest, but he swallowed it back and groaned instead. He slumped forward and followed the tiger.
Ross lurked around the perimeter of a wooden fence standing several meters tall. The wall surrounded the entire compound, an area about the size of a city block. The lower canopy hung overhead, concealing the Yarnwal camp from Yankar’s towering beasts. It was safe and secluded space, in relative terms. Numerous bonfires reflected off the canopy leaves, giving the entire area a faint orange glow. Guards stood watch over the two main entrances, forcing Max and Ross into a climb. After a short hike, Ross came to a stop at a knobby log used in the wall. He peeked through a knothole and scanned the immediate area inside.
“Here’s our entry point. Climb up and over this log. Meet me behind the mud hut to the right.”
“Shouldn’t we—”
Ross crouched for a split second and bounded to the top of the wall. With a claw and yank, he sailed over to the other side and landed with stealthy silence. Max watched through the knothole as Ross trotted over to a mud hut and settled behind it. He plopped into the dirt and started grooming a paw without a care in the world.
Max glanced up to the wall crest and took a deep breath. He jammed a toe into a knothole and started his non-feline ascent. His muscular frame made short work of the barrier, but an unexpected slip caused him to grunt and reset. Soon after, he raised a taut brow over the ridge like a special ops soldier emerging from a swamp. A collection of mud huts cluttered the ground beneath him, each with matching flags and adornments. A clan or family, perhaps. At the center of the village, bonfires raged with bands of Yarnwals dancing around them. Several donned leafy skirts and white paint, like an aboriginal tribe of lizard bears. Max glanced over to Ross behind the hut, who swung an open paw as if to say anytime, dude. Max rolled his eyes and tossed a leg over the top. With a final yank and dangle, he released his grip and landed on the other side. Not as graceful as a tiger, but the stomps and chants of the Yarnwals concealed his thump and stumble. Max regained his balance and jogged over to Ross.
“That was easier than I thought,” Max said.
“What did you expect?”
“I dunno, something a bit more guarded and a little less scalable.”
“The illusion of safety. Take human homes for instance. What sense does it make to put locks on doors, but then fill the exterior with panes of glass?”
Max paused for thought. “That’s a good point. What the hell is wrong with us?”
“Nothing. Fear breeds irrationality and you are hardly unique in that regard. Not to point out the obvious, but the fear of losing your friends has you risking your life inside a camp full of hostile beasts.”
“But that’s love.”
“The ultimate irrationality.”
Max grimaced.
Ross peeked around the hut and studied the area. “You see the central bonfire?”
Max peered over his shoulder. “Yeah.”
“The ship is off to the left. The tribe is in the middle of a worship ritual, so we can sneak off to the right and assess a reasonable approach. We’ll find a good vantage point and proceed once they wrap up. Sound good?”
“Why are you asking me?”
“This is your show, knob head.”
“Like I know what the hell I’m doing.”
“That much is obvious.”
“Just, ugh, fine. Yes, that sounds good.”
“Was that so hard?”
Max glared at the feline.
“Follow me, wanker.”
They sneaked around the perimeter, hiding behind huts and woodpiles. A rack of hanging meat reminded Max of his grumbling stomach. He paused to savor the aroma of a perfectly charred piece of, well, something. Ross paid him no mind, content to let him perish for lack of hunger control. After a moan and lip smack, Max snapped back to mission mode and hurried to catch up. Ross came to a stop behind a large log stack resting beside a storage hut. An overhang of dried leaves created the perfect hidden wedge. Ross took a seat as Max ducked inside. The stomps and chants of the Yarnwal ritual boomed nearby, allowing them to chat at a normal volume.
“Want to take a look?” Ross said, then resumed his paw grooming.
Max raised from a crouch and peered over the stack. A bustling crowd of Yarnwals strutted and stomped around a roaring bonfire. A select group danced around the center as ceremonial leaders, wearing white paint and ornate attire. They jumped and flailed as if possessed. Beaded necklaces bounced and swayed with every jerky movement. Looming behind the crowd was a large black ship with a round hull. The lifeless vessel rested upon an elevated platform made of thick logs. Towering pylons stretched its tentacles to either side, creating the impression of a mounted octopus. Various flags and accoutrements hung from the tendrils. Every now and then, the raving mob threw their arms into the air and bowed to the machine, as if prepping for a virgin sacrifice. Ross paused his grooming session to address the gaping jaw and unblinking stare of his human companion.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
“That’s the ship?”
“Obviously. Why?”
Max slogged his gaze over to Ross and gestured to the spidery contraption. “That ... is a Ripper.”
“So?”
“So? Are you not the slightest bit curious why a Varokin fighter ship is marooned on Yankar?”
“Red, blue, pink with tassels, the hell does it matter? It’s a ship, ain’t it?”
“Yeah, in the sense that a great white shark is a fish.”
“So we’ll have some firepower. Seems like a plus.”
“Dude, that thing is more loaded than Lindsay Lohan on a weekend bender. The air conditioning and nuclear hellfire controls are on the same damn console. Turning on the radio could mean Death Starring a planet.”
“You’re overthinking this.”
“Why are you so dismissive?”
“Why are you such a wuss?”
“Why are you such an asshole?”
“Why is a flock of crows called a murder?”
“Why—what?”
“Oh, sorry. I was bored of this conversation and decided to change it.”
Max stammered in response.
“So you don’t know? I’m genuinely curious. A gaggle of geese makes more sense than a murder of crows.”
Max glared at the feline, then turned his attention to the flying death machine. He sighed, grunted, and thumped his forehead onto the log pile.
* * *
With a flick of the wrist, Nifan polished off her martini and stood from the couch. She wound the train of her dress around an arm and floated towards the wet bar behind Zoey and Perra. Nifan tossed them a casual glance as she passed, blinking her cobalt eyes with the callous indifference of an alcoholic mother. She reached the counter and plunked the martini glass on top. Ice cubes fell into a shaker, followed by a healthy pour of clear liquor and a dollop of green fluid that resembled battery acid. She shook the contents and poured herself another drink. The concoction started to glow, lifting a sly grin on her face. She nabbed the glass, turned towards the Mulgawats, and leaned back on the counter. Zoey and Perra stared back at her with cautious intrigue.
“What I want from you two is quite simple,” Nifan said before taking a first sip. “I want you to make a delivery.”
Zoey and Perra glanced at each other.
“Um, you could have just paid us for that service like a normal psycho,” Zoey said.
Nifan chuckled. “I doubt you would have accepted.”
“Illegal goods?” Perra said in a meek voice.
“I prefer to call them ... problematic.”
Zoey scoffed. “Lemme guess, bioweapon? Dirty bomb? Some other clichéd spy shit?”
Nifan swirled her drink. “Cleaver nukes.”
Perra gasped and covered her mouth.
“What?” Zoey leapt to her feet. She stepped around the couch towards Nifan, prompting the beefy guard to take a step of his own. Zoey slowed her pace in response. “Correct me if I’m wrong, and I hope to Tim that I am, but I think I just heard you say that you expect us to haul Loken-banned nuclear munitions. The very same munitions, I might add, that are notorious for their volatility.”
“Not some,” Nifan said. “50 crates are being loaded into your ship as we speak.”
Zoey shuddered.
Perra started to tremble.
A tense silence infected the room.
“And if we refuse?” Zoey said in a subdued tone.
“Do you really have to ask that question?”
Zoey expelled a fluttering breath.
Nifan floated around a stunned Zoey on her way back to the couch. She set the glowing martini on the table, lowered to the cushion, and resumed her casual lean. A flick of her wrist sent the guard back to his station. “The PCDS has no jurisdiction, making it more powerful than most military outfits. The only limitation is what you carry, not where or how. It’s the optimal way to smuggle some less than savory cargo.”
“Less than savory?” Zoey said as she turned to Nifan. “That’s a cute way to describe the peril you’re saddling us with. A single unit is unstable enough, but 50 crates? That is a risk beyond comprehension. They would likely kill us long before delivery.”
Nifan smirked. “Then I suggest you be careful.”
Zoey clenched her jaw and bowed her head.
“I trust you understand the necessity of disclosure. You are not delivering bonbons to some fat cow in the reef.”
“What’s the destination?” Perra said.
“You will rendezvous with a merc named Migg at the Terramesh. He is stationed at a remote outpost on Grondon. Each crate carries its own cloak and beacon. Coordinates will be delivered once you are in the vicinity and contents have been verified. Do you understand?”
Perra turned to Zoey, who slowly nodded.
“Good girl.”
Perra scrunched her brow. “Wait, what does this have to do with Lord Essien?”
“Jarovy is the Varokin stronghold.”
“Well, it was. You destroyed their fleet, remember?”
Nifan shifted her posture. “Jarovy was usurped by the Moreons, a religious sect that spread throughout the mesh. Lord Essien is plotting to regroup with the aid of their fleet. Suffice to say, this cannot happen.”
The realization hit Zoey like a punch the stomach. She crossed her arms and glared at Nifan. “You want to implode the mesh.”
Nifan glared back and took another sip.
Zoey huffed. “That’s a tad extreme for an assassination, don’t you think?”
“I should also mention that each crate carries its own remote detonator. Should you wander off course or emit an unauthorized signal, I will chalk this up to an unfortunate accident.” She swirled the glowing martini and took another sip, allowing the silence to fester. “If you do your job and do it well, you need not worry. Your reassurance is standing by the door.”
Zoey eyed the guard, who stared back at her through an icy gaze. She turned to Nifan, then back to the guard, then back to Nifan. “You lost me.”
“Henry is going with you.”
Perra snorted. “Henry? I would have expected Crusher, or Zargoth.”
Henry eyed Perra and narrowed his gaze by a tiny sliver, conjuring enough menace to quell her amusement.
“Henry is a valuable and trusted confidant. If he’s safe, then you’re safe. He will part ways at the rendezvous point and you are to remain there until he returns. Once he does, you will return him to me.”
“What will he be doing?” Zoey said.
“What he is tasked to do.”
“For how long?”
“As long as it takes.”
Zoey started to respond, but sighed instead.
“Any more silly questions?”
“Just one.”
Zoey gripped her hips and moseyed over to Henry. She stopped beneath his chin, close enough to smell his heated breath. Her lips shifted as she stared into his sunken eyes. Yellow orbs with pale irises stared back, unblinking and full of menace. Zoey chewed on her lip as she looked him over, studying the meat tower like a crafty nerd sizing up a bully. She turned to Nifan and pointed at Henry.
“What the hell is he? The guy looks like a shaved Shar-Pei in a pimp suit.”
Henry ruffled his brow.
Nifan emitted a polite chuckle. “Henry is a Boobybork, a race—”
Zoey and Perra burst into laughter, filling the room with howls and wails. Perra gripped her chest and doubled over, slapping the table between gasps. Zoey covered her mouth with both hands as squinting eyes squeezed tears down her cheeks. Even Nifan joined the foolery, grinning between soft chuckles. Henry maintained his statuesque presence, despite the unfortunate goading.
“Henry the Boobybork,” Zoey said through teary-eyed laughter, then punched his shoulder.
The collective mockery drew a grimace and head shake from the brute.
Nifan took a sip and regained her composure. “As I was saying, a race known for their resilience and long life spans. They come from a desolate planet with scarce resources and crushing gravity. As a result, they can adapt to and survive almost anywhere. They can even withstand the vacuum of space for hours on end. Their tenacity is unmatched in the biological realm.”
“In other words, he’s an ideal errand boy.”
“I prefer to think of him as an unkillable enforcer.”
“A delightful twist to this charade.” Zoey moseyed back to the couch and plopped beside Perra. “So what’s the gain then? Why sever the mesh to kill a mark?”
Nifan glanced away as if to wave off the question. She sighed and took another sip before returning her cobalt eyes to Zoey. “Just do your job.”