The First Nova I See Tonight by Jason Kilgore (the false prince .txt) 📕

himself attracted to her, remembering the touch of that soft hair. "Eow," he called out. She didn't turn, but her ears did. "The Bloodhawk is coming. We need to leave now." She turned her head just enough for Dirken to see the concern there, but didn't answer.

Dimitri the Giant answered instead. "Don't you worry your little head. That bastard is no danger against our cannons and the natural defense of the comet. Grimmag's power far surpasses that of some little pirate captain."

Dirken hoped so. But given Grimmag's reputation, he and Yiorgos might not live long enough to see if Dimitri was right.

CHAPTER TWENTY

THE SANCTUM

They entered the dripping corridor, passed the desk with the Morlani administrator near the entrance, then went farther to the wide double doors that led into the "Sanctum." The heavy beat of synth-metal from the Ruby Lounge echoed down the corridor, but almost everyone who had crowded the corridor had apparently fled or taken cover. A few prostitutes stood along the walls down there, staring back at him and the guards. Gone was their put-on lustfulness, replaced with curiosity at Dirken's predicament.

The human guard with the melted face, whom Dirken had seen at the Sanctum doors before, grunted and opened the portal, then he raised his pulse rifle to rest against his muscled shoulder. Though the guard's face showed the sort of sternness that comes with battle experience, Dirken thought he saw a glint of pity in his eyes.

The air in the corridor had been the typical stale essence found in most starships and space stations, mixed with the jocentooc smoke of the Ruby Lounge hookahs and the ionization of starships from the hangar. But when the doors opened, Dirken's senses were hit with a chemical aroma that left him coughing and bewildered — a mix of sour, acrid scents like vinegar or ammonia, the smell of melted plastics, and the sulfur of rotten eggs. But it wasn't really exactly any of these. It was so strong he could taste it, and his eyes started watering.

The short hallway opened up into chambers on either side where species of many types worked at packaging white, blue, and black powders into small bags. Stripped naked to reduce the chance of them stealing any of the goods, each worker wore a mask over their mouth and nose (or whatever respiratory orifices their species had) and an electroshock collar around their necks. Humans, Pleiadeans, Proximans, and others toiled side-by-side, thin, sickly, with sores on their bodies, shaved bare if they were a species with hair. Guards armed with blasters stood at each corner of the room. And in the back of each room was an Eridani mafioso — a giant maggot — the tentacles around its mouth waving, directing the action of the workers with a Morlani interpreter by its side, and tasting the powder or solution as it was delivered. Impervious to poisons or drugs of any kind, it was said the only way to get an Eridani high was to make the rest of the galaxy depressed.

The next rooms they passed weren't much different except that instead of powders there were glassware set-ups, boiling away at multi-colored concoctions, the slaves pipetting the solutions into small vials. These workers seemed even more infirm, their skin pale and flaky, eyes dark and sunken. Pity welled up in Dirken at the sight of them, then anger at their oppressors.

This was a drug operation on a massive scale — the sort of illicit activity that the Eridani Mafia was most noted for. It was what had made them rich and powerful beyond measure.

Dirken didn't want to end up like the slaves. His mind raced with possible escape plans. He considered fighting the guards, but there were too many of them, and they were armed. He had at least one asset, but he needed a distraction to put his plan in motion. He leaned toward his partner's ear. "Yiorgos," Dirken whispered. "If I yell 'eyes', close yours immediately."

The cyborg looked at him quizzically but nodded in acknowledgment.

"What's that?" Dimitri the Giant asked, the Martian poking Dirken in the back with the barrel of his weapon. "What are you whispering?"

"I said, 'It smells like Mars in here. Go back immediately.'"

Dimitri slapped Dirken hard across his right ear and shoved him against the tunnel wall.

Dirken recovered, then stood there staring down Dimitri's pulse rifle at his large, dark eyes, so like other humans born and bred on Mars colonies. The rifle was so close to Dirken's nose that ions from the emitter made his nostrils tingle.

"Boys," Eow cooed. "Cool your jets." She ran a hand over Dimitri's shoulders. "Let us deliver our guests to Grimmag in one piece."

Dimitri didn't acknowledge her, but he slowly lowered his weapon. "Walk," he commanded, gesturing with the rifle.

The hallway curved, lost its squared off appearance and became more tube-like, like a burrow carved through the ice. Lighting was embedded in the ice and cast a bluish tinge onto everything. Multiple tunnels split off, some sloping downward or upward, but they continued following the largest, which stayed more or less level. With the twisting directions of the tunnels, Dirken soon lost his sense of direction. The air freshened, thankfully.

"Hands on your heads, boys," Eow said, "unless you want them cut off."

"I think you might miss them," Dirken replied, raising his hands.

Dimitri added, "And I suggest you shut your trap, too."

The tunnel widened a bit as they passed a security checkpoint, cameras and remote-operated mini-cannons following them. A dozen armed guards, including four Oranchians outfitted in mirrored plate armor, watched them as they passed.

The tunnel opened into a very large chamber lit by flickering, smokeless torches with red flames, giving the icy walls and ceiling an ironically lava-like appearance. Individuals of many species and genders stood in pairs or sat on ornate benches, whispering to each other, their mutterings and movements echoing off the black-and-white tiled floor. All were dressed in formal clothes of their respective