((Sorry guys! Real life always gets in the way
))
Corliss grins at Temrash. "Good question. I think the bartender would probably win in a staring contest. Sorry Shal," he adds apologetically.
He pats Keirdan on the head as the child is handed to him, but his attention is elsewhere and he lets Keirdan do his own thing.
<Fiesty little chap,> Corliss muses.
<Yeah, reminds me of me,> says Michael.
Corliss glances worriedly down at his comm link, biting his lip.
---
"We should be emerging from z-space soon," Myitt yawns, leaning back in the creaky metal chair designed for Hork-Bajir. The thing had been unceremoniously bolted to the floor to replace the general Taxxon-catering lack of proper nav seating years prior, and it was a miracle that its corroded metal base was still in one piece, with all the abuse it took. Myitt's boots rested on the control panel, her hands behind her head. It was a journey of only a few hours, but it was still a good opportunity to catch up on some sleep. There wouldn't be much time for it in the days ahead, especially if all hell broke loose.
She picked up the link. "Corliss, are you there?"
After a moment: "Yeah, mate. What's doing?"
"We're about to emerge from z-space. I've contacted Reven, he says no scouts have been spotted, but the first med ships are away to the failsafe just in case. We're also sending some bulk cargo. In the meantime we'll find out soon enough just how much damage I've done. Whether Seran has sent the information wide range or not, or even triangulated our position, it will be gratifying to find the smug bastard and smack him around a bit."
"Jesus, love, just be careful. Yeah?"
"You know it." Myitt signs off and leans back again, wincing and scratching at her arm. The bandages are off and big patches of her right arm appear frighteningly white--an after effect of the nanograft technology that is stitching her deep wounds back together. The edges are still red and swollen, but luckily no major arteries had been hit, or she wouldn't have been able to sit around drinking with nothing but putty bandages for a day or two after being injured.
"Mar, how are you feeling? Zoshonel, Kara?" She narrowed her eyes at the human girl, who was dozing in the weapons controls, wrapped in a grey fire extinguisher blanket hijacked from a garage sale.
The Sony discman that hung swinging from the glowing white wires of the control panel's underside was softly piping Daft Punk into the clean, pale grey cabin. Above the tinny music, the computer beeps.
"Coordinate triangulate alert," the calm, androgynous voice informs them in Yeerkish.
"Shaddap," Myitt murmurs, tapping a floating holoscreen as it buzzes around her head.
