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   Chapter 64 No.64

The Galaxii Series Omnibus 1 By Christina Engela Characters: 5226

Updated: 2018-06-29 19:02


Mykl found it unsettling, having a Corsair of such reputation standing at his side. When you were alone in the dark, the thought of a man like Blachart the Bloody could be a very frightening thought indeed… Especially if you didn't always know where he was standing.

Hanson sat at the combined helm and weapons station a few feet in front of him.

"Helm, take us out." He ordered.

"Aye, sir." Hanson replied, working his console. "Standby for detachment."

The docking clamps holding Undertaker to Antares' side released, and withdrew. At first, the hull of the Antares, cast in shadow by the light from Tremaine, loomed large on their view screen. Antares would stay there, pending further orders from Hobbs. No messages were sent to them, no communications at all, as per his orders. Undertaker slowly backed away from the larger ship, then turned around and pointed her prow towards the black expanse of the Omegan Quadrant.

On the bridge of the Antares, Ripley found the note he'd left for her – stuck to her armrest at her station where he knew she'd see it. She handled it tenderly, like it was fragile. He felt it best described the way they both felt.

'Gone on suicide mission.' It read. 'Back later.'

It brought a tear to her eye and a smile to her lips, as he'd hoped it would.

"What's our ETA, Lt?"

"Um – sixteen hours, forty-three minutes, sir."

He stood up. The mission had begun. He looked at Blachart.

"Walk with me." He said. They left the bridge and walked a way down the corridor.

"What's on your mind?"

"We need

hen. He smiled. Inside, gleaming, lay a small chromed automatic pistol. He took it out and showed it to his adversary, who smiled.

"Don't you like surprises?"

"Not your kind, thanks." Mykl sighed, relieved his instinct had been spot-on. He dropped the pistol back in the drawer and closed it. Blachart sat opposite him, the old velvet-lined chair creaking as only a wooden chair can. Mykl felt for his own weapon. The blaster was where it was supposed to be, in its holster, ready for use. Another artificial fireplace blazed over to the right, casting weird shadows on another part of Blachart's weapons collection. Glinting steel. Cold and sharp and shiny. Daggers, swords, guns, blades and barrels.

"Where'd you get all this stuff?" He asked the man. "Did you buy it – or steal it?"

"What?"

"Your weapons collection."

"A little of both, actually. You could say I inherited them." Blachart chuckled. "Do you like old things? Antique weapons?"

"Not really. Just from a historical point of view, perhaps." Mykl conceded.

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