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   Chapter 69 No.69

The Galaxii Series Omnibus 1 By Christina Engela Characters: 5289

Updated: 2018-06-29 19:01


The sky was just beginning to darken as Undertaker swooped over a part of the city close to the landing point, the stars beginning their night shift. There was no moon, which people from Earth tended to look for in a night sky. A magnetic aura played over Undertaker's hull as she descended. Bright lights lit the area from 50 foot tall masts at the edges of the field. It was bright as day on the tarmac, although it was just after dusk. Vague multiple shadows fell everywhere as Undertakers full weight settled onto its landing skids, accompanied by the hiss of jets and the squeaks of tired hydraulics. The sky above the lights had become an inky black, filled with vague looking stars, which had lost their contest with the lights for the moment.

"Okay." Said Hanson as he killed the drive. "We're down. Safe."

"Safe?" Casey asked. "We're sitting on Meradinis, for Alf's sake!"

"Yes, " Mykl grinned excitedly. "Isn't it great?"

Everyone – including Blachart – turned to look at Mykl to ascertain his sanity. Then Blachart snapped his fingers at Casey to draw his attention. The young marine looked round at him with irritation.

"Contact Spaceport Central, " He instructed the comms operator, "And tell them we've got a load of goodies ready and waiting."

"Goodies?" Casey repeated sarcastically, and glanced at Mykl to get his ok. Mykl nodded.

"How do they collect?" Mykl asked Blachart.

"A convoy of trucks and forklifts comes out with a negotiator or cargo inspector."

"An inspector." Mykl said, activating the intercom over Casey's shoulder. "Great."

top of his head looked greasy. He huffed with the effort of hauling his ass out of the vehicle, retrieved a black briefcase, and then shuffled hurriedly round the back of the vehicle toward them, the briefcase swaying in time with his swaggering waddle. His white suit was a food and grease stained, wrinkled sloppy remnant of the white 'club' suit favored recently by successful businessmen, at least in all the adverts Mykl could recall seeing. The man obviously had no respect for a 300 credit suit.

"Hello, Mac." Blachart greeted, using a surprisingly friendly tone. "How're the teeth?"

This question had an odd, unsettling effect on the man, who almost dropped his suitcase and stopped in his tracks. He seemed to force himself to walk the rest of the way up the ramp, where he finally managed a greeting – flashing a mouthful of platinum replacements at them in a very nervous smile.

"Hi, Cap'n Blachart." He said shortly, "I oughta thank you – the babes like 'em."

"Ah, you know me." Blachart replied warmly. "Always willing to help."

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