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   Chapter 73 No.73

The Galaxii Series Omnibus 1 By Christina Engela Characters: 5936

Updated: 2018-06-29 19:02

"When I was young I lost everything." Blachart told him in a voice thick with suppressed emotion. "I lost the only person I ever loved… in the most horrible way anyone could imagine. I lost all I stood for. My experiences turned an innocent kid into a monster. I looked for justice and I found none, so I lived for revenge and trained for it, and I had plenty. Once that was done, I fought for ambition, power and riches and influence, and I tasted them all until they became stale in my mouth. I lost myself somewhere along the way, you see, Mr. d'Angelo. Or perhaps… perhaps I let myself go… maybe too far, when I should've tightened my grip instead."


"You could go back." Mykl suggested. "You could try."

"You really think so?" Blachart asked cynically. "After everything I've done?"

"When we get back, you'll get your pardon. You can get that fresh start you wanted. Not many people get that chance." At least, he added mentally, not as many as TV cop shows would have you believe. Blachart had realized his faults. Killing people was doubtlessly one of them. Only he could make peace with his conscience, if that were possible. Only Blachart would know for sure how bloody his hands really were.

Just then, they rounded the end of a row of black ships, and the terminal building came into view for the first time. The terminal building was part of the high concrete wall that surrounded the spaceport. This was a very, very long wall indeed. The building's smooth glass sides rose to a height of about five floors. Large doorways shed light on the already well lit sidewalk. Parked along it was a line of the jeep-like taxis. Theirs pulled in at the back of the line.

Blachart chuckled just as the jeep stopped.

"You know, just for once, it's

and spitting blood.

"Great." Said Blachart, flexing his aching knuckles. "Cops."

"Cops?" Mykl asked in genuine surprise. "Here?"

"What d'you think controls all this rabble? Someone has to do it, or there'd be chaos!"

Mykl spotted the four men approaching. They had unpleasant expressions on their faces, as men who have been standing in a windy doorway for hours and been visited by all the stray dogs on their nightly rounds, and afflicted by boredom. He spotted one or two well-placed scars as if placed for dramatic effect. Men like these appeared to be designed to be the stereotypical bad guy. Scripts in Hollywood used them in droves, after all. They gave them names like 'Bad guy with knife' or 'Man with chainsaw'. Occasionally they were also allocated numbers like 'Bad Guy #1'. The one with the neat little brown mustache and three little white stars on the front of his shiny black helmet appeared to be the leader. At least, the other three had nothing on their helmets. They had black and red shoulder patches displaying the words CITIZEN CONTROL in bold white capitals. The large, bulky auto-rifles said it all. These guys were trouble with a capital shit.

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