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The Galaxii Series Omnibus 1 By Christina Engela Characters: 5417

Updated: 2018-06-29 19:02

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The brig aboard the Antares was typical of most ships of her class. It was bare, functional. There were ten cells, five on each side of the complex. There were no typically sci-fi type electronic barriers, no force-fields, and no means of escaping just because of a convenient power failure. The cells had solid doors, which closed with good-old-fashioned hinges and remotely operated locking mechanisms. The doors may have been transparent, but they were made of a high strength durastress alloy. It would take an industrial laser about an hour to penetrate it. All but one cell was empty, and five very bored security marines had been assigned to guard the one solitary prisoner who sat in cell number one. They were currently playing a game of Uno at the front desk, and taking bets. They were playing for money. Inside the tiny five by seven foot cell, a man sat on a hard bench. He was out of sight, and trying hard not to listen to their jovial banter. Sergeant Maguire had just dealt for the other four players.

"Dayum!" Said the voice of a jaded female security marine. "How the hell do you rig a game of Uno, Sarge?"

"Uh-oh." Joked a male counterpart. "Robo-chick is unimpressed with her hand!"

"Screw you, dickhead." Said the female voice again, "Robo-chick is always unimpressed, period."

This was followed by a quick round of laughter.

"Hey, let's have a little respect for rank here, you lousy grunts!" Maguire bellowed, and just as the assembly was about to take him seriously, "That's Corporal Dickhead to you, marine!"

Another round of raucous laughter rippled round the table and e

cal bay with a doctor craning over him, treating his injuries. She was a woman, the Terran doctor who treated him and tended him. He could tell she didn't like him, in fact, he was sure she despised him – but she still seemed to do her best for him as much as he was sure she'd done for her own people. He respected her for that.

Commander d'Angelo had beaten him, and in a way that made his estimation of the man's abilities ring a little hollow. He'd underestimated d'Angelo – the man was a good deal better than he'd originally thought. Or he – Blachart – was slipping. He had to actually think about it to work out how old he was now… forty-four? Forty-five? He was forty-five years old! He was bound to have slowed down a little… and as sharp and frosty as he'd tried to stay, the years of comfort, power and rank aboard his ship were likely to have influenced that. He'd almost been killed this time. He'd lost the game fairly and squarely and been beaten by a man he'd asked to join him – and who had turned him down. He respected d'Angelo as well, no – he admired him.

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