Spaced Out

Sorry About The Mess

"Nervous, love?" Gen asked.

The L-Striker's hum filled the room. Slippery hands made the jittery weapon difficult to manipulate. Lily fumbled for the density and propulsion controls.

"Where's my keeper?" She asked.

"With Artemi."

"I want to see him myself. I want to see he's ok."

Gen's brow furrowed. The scar marring the left side of his face further puckered his features. "Why don't you contact him on your talk-round. They should still be functioning. Artemi wouldn't like us leaving without permission." He jutted his chin at her gun. "You're putting yourself in more trouble than you and one L-Striker can handle."

The talk-round lay under the cot with her ammunition belt. She couldn't get to it without taking her attention off Gen. A shake of her Striker directed the medic around her.

"You get it."

Lowering his hands, Gen edged towards the cot. The L-Striker trained on him as Lily backed up. Displaced air buffeted her when he passed. Gentle gusts brushed her nakedness. Nose scrunched and lips twisted. The medic crouched and pulled out the chunky band.

"Contact him. His channel's the first button," Lily ordered.

No matter how many times Gen clicked Vortrand's channel button, nothing came over the line. Not even the usual static. Lily choked her L-Striker's handle. With their positions shifted, the Verakian man couldn't see her thumb down the settings on her liquis pistol. If she had to shoot him she wouldn't kill him.

Clicking his tongue, Gen said, "Artemi probably had him switch it off. He doesn't like negotiations interrupted."

"Then I want to see. Take me to him. Right now."

Gen rose and cocked his head at her. "What if I say no?"

"Then I'll shoot you."

Gen watched her for one beat, two, then he huffed a bit of laughter. "I don't think so."

What was it? What was it about her that said, I'm not a threat? Vlex had warned her the first time she'd held him at gunpoint.

You don't bluff well. Don't try it with me or anyone else your life depends on again.

Well, this was no bluff.

Lily fired.

The trigger clicked. A hollow buzz droned from the barrel. The scent of o-zone radiated from the Striker's whirring mechanisms. She squeezed the trigger again.