Galaxy at War: JEGRA, #5

By Tristan Vick

HE TOOK EVERYTHING FROM HER. NOW SHE'LL FIGHT TO GET IT BACK.

The evil entity known as H'aaztre has conquered most of the known galaxy and the Commonwealth of allied worlds is no more. Now, the Fusion enemy forces control everything and Jegra must gather together and lead a battered and tired resistance in a desperate attempt to take back their worlds and push the invaders out.

Meanwhile, Lycia and Allie the indigo panther are on a secret mission to find out more about her origins and who created her to be the perfect living weapon.As the war comes to a head, Jegra will need to call in every favor she has left to get the fractured worlds of the Commonwealth to join her in making a last stand against H'aaztre and his minions. The famed Gladiatrix of the Galaxy turned Empress of the Dagon Empire must now set diplomacy asside pick up her trusty battle-axe, and defy the odds and take on her greatest challenge yet--SAVE THE GALAXY.

Fans of Star Wars, John Carter of Mars, and Red Sonja will be thrilled to the heavens with JEGRA: GLADIATRIX OF THE GALAXY where a woman made a slave discovers a greater destiny waiting for her in the stars.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tristan Vick
• Release date: Feb 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393284741

Book preview

A REGOLITH PUBLICATIONS BOOK

The Chronicles of Jegra: Galaxy at War

Gladiatrix of the Galaxy Book: 5

By Tristan Vick ©2020. All Rights Reserved

Published by Regolith Publications

First Edition, copyright © February 26, 2020

Edited by Sheila Shedd

Cover art by Tum Dechakamphu

Interior book design by Tristan Vick

www.tristanvick.com

References to the Dominion and Nova Centauri Red are the copyright of A.A. Warren and the Talon universe, ©2019-2020.

Used with permission.

All rights reserved. This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people without the permission of the publisher or author. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events portrayed in the novel are products of the author’s imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN-13: 978-1-950106-07-3

ISBN-10: 1-950106-07-3

1

THREE HUNDRED YEARS ago the Commonwealth crumbled. An alliance of eight great empires shattered like a precious gem fractured by the pressures of a million eons of tension all coming to a head. And, then, in the cosmic blink of an eye, everything was lost forever.

The greatest of them, the Dagon Empire, weakened by endless wars and imperial expansion, faltered and left a power vacuum. This allowed for an evil force from another universe to take root and infest the galaxy. An ancient entity known as H’aaztre of Aldebaran, re-emerged with a single-minded mission to destroy the universe and recreate it in His image.

The hope of freedom rested with the prophecy of a woman destined to come from a distant world to lead a rebellion that would rise up to defy this ancient evil. Called the Daughter of Sol, one such woman fitting the hallowed description did arise. It was she who was able to finally bring H’aaztre to a standstill; her strength of will proved to be an immovable object which he could not overcome.

But the cost of victory was great. And, after the Great War of Light, as it had come to be known, the galaxy lay in ruin. Struggling to piece itself back together, new factions emerged to replace the once great cosmic alliance. Not all of them were just, however, and numerous worlds became co-opted into spheres of power and corruption.

Chaos and lawlessness reigned supreme. Justice was only a fading memory from a bygone era of peace and prosperity that the galaxy would likely never see again.

For Jegra Alakandra, however, everything else was pretty much as it had always been. There was always another galactic tyrant to replace the previous one, always another corrupted empire to topple. As ever, another oppressed people cried out for liberation.

But at three hundred forty-seven years old, she was finding it rather difficult to give a damn about any of that anymore.

Who writes this rubbish? Jegra mumbled to herself and tossed the holopad of the latest galactic hit, The Savage Jegra: Vol. IX, onto the console beside her.

After the Great War, she’d become something of a legend, and a popular novelization of her adventures manifested shortly after her retirement. She didn’t know who wrote these far-fetched tales, but they were highly exaggerated and focused way too much on her sexual exploits for her taste.

She let out a sigh and leaned back in her seat, stretching her arms over her head. One thing the novels had gotten correct, however, was how harrowing it had all been and how deeply scarred the trauma of her past had left her. It wasn’t something one simply got over.

In fact, she was finding that the only way to combat the miserable voices that haunted her conscience was to drown all ghosts’ cries in endless bottles of the crimson liquor called Nova Centauri Red.

Although rather pricey and hard to come by, it was worth getting one’s hands on. It always went down smoothly, so easy to imbibe that, like a fine brandy, you never realized exactly how much you’d had.

She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. She’d accomplished much in her three-hundred plus years, but now she seemed to be cruising through life on autopilot. How long she’d go on living, she didn’t know; it wasn’t something she dwelt upon. It wasn’t fun, like life in the old days. She’d lost her taste for adventure.

While her exploits lived on in the stories of The Savage Jegra and in the archived televid footage of her gladiatorial matches, the silver-haired vixen with a few more lines around her eyes, a few more wrinkles across her forehead, preferred not to draw attention to herself.

As for the fame of being the champion of the arena, she’d put all that behind her. Besides, it was Gamagor Dar’Vek’s great, great, great, great granddaughter, Evelangor, who was reigning champion now. And she pandered to the crowds just as much as Jegra ever had.

These days, Jegra preferred to hang out in unassuming, backwater dives, drinking away the memories of her past. Out on the fringes of the galaxy, very few people knew who she was anymore, with the exception of die-hard gladiator-heads who loved the entire history of the tournaments and held high esteem for what they deemed the golden age of the Intergalactic Gladiatorial Syndicate. But IGS had become a pale imitation of what it once was and acted more as a booking agency for gladiators these days.

Instead of being slaves to the arena, all modern gladiators were volunteers. Mostly bloodthirsty ex-cons and psychopaths all chasing their fifteen minutes of fame. Very few pure athletes ever appeared these days because nobody ever had to fight to survive—not like Jegra had once had to do. No, these days a gladiator could throw in the towel at any time. Which made for far too many anti-climactic matches, in Jegra’s opinion.

Times change, though. Things change. And she preferred the anonymity which, ironically, came with a past that was larger than life. People who recognized her doubted their eyes; what they saw never stacked up to the legends about the great savior of the galaxy.

In the end, it was all just bittersweet memories. She’d given everything she had to bring peace to the galaxy, and it had blown up in her face. Everywhere she went, she met nothing but assholes. It was as if the universe simply liked to breed them, like a neglected garden sprouts weeds with abandon.

This seemed a universal fact, which is why she’d all but given up caring. And, in her impoverished state of depression, she looked forward to the next bottle of Nova Centauri Red over everything else.

Jegra sighed at the emptiness around her, knowing she’d soon be in space traffic and back amongst the living. She wore a black suede jacket over a brown leather corset; her denim hotpants were ripped across the thighs and buttocks, revealing tantalizing peaks of her sun-kissed skin.

She swung her legs off her console and sat up. Leaning over the blinking lights and buttons, she plugged in her landing coordinates and then let the autopilot handle the rest.

Still stiff, she stretched again, pressing her hands against the small of her back and leaning backward as far as she could manage without toppling over. The stiffness receded, and she reached up and touched the headrest of her leather seat and smiled to herself.

About the only thing she valued anymore was her ship. She’d christened it the Valencia, in memory of Danica. Jegra shook the thought from her mind and rubbed her thumb under her eye to brush away the rogue tear. Like she said, bittersweet memories.

Then she grabbed her nearly empty bottle of Nova Centauri Red from where it sat on the console, kicked her head back, and lapped up the last few drops of the glorious liquor.

The fire of the brandy warmed her belly and she belched out loudly as she scratched an itch on her right butt cheek.

A little lightheaded, she swayed as she stepped out into the corridor, pausing to catch her balance before heading down the circular passage that wrapped itself around the ship’s core. Her quarters were in the aft portion of the ship and, as she passed the engineering bay windows, she took a peek at the hyperborean drive running her ship. It looked old, but it was a workhorse of an engine. Don’t make them like that anymore, she reflected.

Finally, she came to her quarters and tossed her long white hair over her shoulders. The platinum color had replaced her original chestnut; it had happened on her one-hundred and twenty-first birthday. The color just evaporated, and all that was left was silver.

A glimpse of herself in the mirror reminded her that, although her aging had slowed to a vorpian snail’s crawl, she could definitely see an older self behind her eyes. Luckily, she still retained her physical prowess and outward beauty; she didn’t look a day over...fifty-two-ish, she thought. But, deep down in her bones, she definitely felt like Old Lady Jegra.

As she gathered up her things, she felt the ship set down on the dusty, korridium mining planet of Pentanox. Slinging a rucksack over her shoulder, she half-drunkenly headed back down the corridor to the cargo bay.

She waited for the loading ramp of the gondola section of the ship’s underbelly to slowly open before exiting. Proceeding down the ramp before it even managed to clank down onto the rocky surface outside, she hopped out, her loosely tied boots crunching as they landed on coarse gravel.

She draped a laurel colored tunic over her bare, angular shoulders to help shield her from the biting dust storms of Pentanox and pulled up the hood. The air was thick with silicate that sparkled like glitter in the haze of the yellowish-orange dust. She wrapped her face with a scarf she wore around her neck to help protect her from inhaling the jagged fiberglass like fibers of the sand.

I hope they have some nice brandy, she mumbled to herself through her scarf as she began her long walk toward the dusty village that sat in the distance. She was growing tired of all the micro-ales and turpentine liquors that tasted like piss. Which is why she always shelled out her hard-earned credits for the good stuff whenever she could find it.

The whole town was constructed from corrugated tin and welded steel and looked like a second-rate hovel. But most mining towns beyond the Outer Rim did. And this one was no exception. It was just further out than anywhere she’d previously visited, meaning it was all new frontier.

It never ceased to amaze her, though, how so many of the places she encountered far from home always seemed so familiar. Regardless of what aliens she encountered, or what intelligent beings she came across, people were still people. And most were still a bunch of self-serving twats. Everything else, whatever differences that may exist between all the lifeforms she’d ever encountered, given enough time, just blended into the background.

Still, refilling her supply of alcohol wasn’t the only reason she’d come here to Pentanox. The other, and, perhaps, more important reason, was that it was the only planet in the system with an Obsidian Gate.

Obsidian Gates were a recent archeological find, a galactic game-changer, really. They consisted of a series of ancient, wormhole-based jump gates, and popular speculation was that only a fraction had yet been uncovered. The technology, left by an alien race long since extinct, allowed one to instantly transport oneself from one portal to another.

What’s more, the Obsidian Gates were infinitely more efficient and quite a bit faster and more reliable than traditional teleporters. The downside was, the code hadn’t quite been cracked yet; they seemed to pop up on random worlds with no rhyme or reason to their location or purpose there.

Jegra didn’t know if the Obsidian Gate on Pentanox was operational, but she needed it to be. It was the only one she knew of in this system, and she didn’t want to make the eight-month journey to the neighboring system to use theirs.

In any case, first things were first. She needed to be sloshed before she took on any serious work.

She swayed down the sparse main street of what resembled a futuristic frontier town right out of a Western. Upon finding the pub, a place called Zordak’s, she stumbled through the entrance and scanned the unsmiling faces that stared back at her.

The regulars, long time patrons by the looks of it, eyed her up and down with uneasy gazes. When she undid her cloak, her massive cleavage swelling in the v-cut of her bodice, people looked away.

She sauntered over to the bar and flung her tunic casually across the barstool, taking up extra space to ensure she wasn’t bothered by some half-drunken nitwit wanting to get into her pants, and then settled down onto the one beside it. A pint of Brilaxian ale, if you have it.

A mug of green liquid, which practically glowed, slid down the bar and she caught it in her hand. She downed the entire pint in one go and then let out a wet sounding belch.

Jegra wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and, in a loud voice, demanded another. Barkeep, keep them coming!

A tall, strikingly handsome man dressed in fine threads appeared beside her and leaned on the bar, his eyes slithering up and down her figure.

And what, may I be so bold as to pry, is such a fine and elegant woman such as yourself doing in these galactic boondocks? the young man inquired.

When her second drink came, she took a sip, and then, without looking at him, Jegra answered, I appreciate the compliment, but I won’t be sleeping with you.

Surprised by her blunt, unorthodox response, the young man merely chuckled to himself. The thought hadn’t crossed my mind, I assure you...miss?

Jegra knew he was fishing for her name, but continued playing coy and smiled without answering.

Suit yourself, he said, turning away to regard the other patrons in the bar.

She sighed and looked over, planning to tell him to get lost. But as soon as she set eyes on him, she forgot about any lingering irritation.

Here was this demigod, approximately six-foot-three, eyes that were as cool as brushed steel, and shoulder length flowing black hair—but, she assumed, he was human.

She had never seen another human this far out from the galactic core. Her curiosity piqued, she asked, And who, pray tell, might you be? I haven’t seen you around before.

The name is Alendar. I’m what you might call a wanderer.

Aren’t we all? Jegra turned back to her drink and took a long swig of her ale then stifled another loud burp.

Let me tell you what. If I can guess your name, you let me buy you the next one. He nodded down at her drink and she shrugged, as if to say what could it hurt? After all, it was a win-win for her.

Alright then, she said, swiveling around on the barstool to get a better look at him. She crossed her legs in a lady-like fashion, resting her elbow on the counter and her chin on her open palm. You have yourself a deal.

You’re Jegra Alakandra, he said, a sly grin trying to conceal the fact that, judging by the look on her face, he’d gotten it in one.

She shot Alendar a sideways glance and asked, Read minds, do you?

No, nothing like that, he chuckled. Alendar leaned back, placing his elbows behind him, on the counter, and scanned the hung-over faces of the patrons. I am just a knowledgeable man, Ms. Alakandra.

Jegra swiveled in her chair and stared at him long and hard.

Don’t be so surprised, he laughed. Half the galaxy knows who you are.

Tell me, Alendar, are you a descendant of one of the Mars survivors?

No, no, he said, waving a hand as if to dismiss the notion. I was one of the early asteroid miners back in the late twenty-first century. Worked for Archer Industries Interstellar Mining Group, AIMG, for short.

Never heard of it, she said, turning her attention back to her drink. She ran a slender finger along the lip of her mug and made the synthetic crystal glass sing for a moment.

He shrugged before continuing on with his story. At any rate, there was a...mishap on one of the asteroids; about a dozen of us got blown clean off the rock and out into space. About ten hours later, my oxygen warning went off and I resigned myself to a quiet, uneventful death. A Dragonian cruiser using an illegal cloak picked me up, just in time.

Poachers, Jegra mumbled under her breath.

Alendar smiled. Are you sure you’re not the one who can read minds, Ms. Alakandra?

She made a tart face and shook her head. You make it sound like I’m some old schoolmarm.

Sorry, he apologized. His tone genuine, he slid a hand across the counter and placed it over hers. Jegra, then?

She looked down at his hand, deliberated whether to break free of it or just break it. Ultimately, her curiosity got the better of her and she decided to see where this was going; she would allow the touch—for now. She took another drink.

Unlike you, however, he continued, leaning back on the counter again, I wasn’t sold into the Arena. Rather, I was sold to a collector of rare alien species.

Let me guess...Vorgalen?

You know of him?

I’ve run across him a few times. Let’s just say the meetings never ended well...for him.

I see. I’m afraid, Alendar said, taking a moment to compose himself, I wasn’t so lucky. I was put in crystalline stasis for over three-hundred years, as a, well, a trophy piece.

How’d you escape? Jegra asked, her curiosity in the man’s tale beginning to grow. At least he wasn’t boring; she’d give him that much.

A cargo ship was transferring some of Vorgalen’s prized possessions to his new Imperium Cruiser when they came under attack by marauders. Space Pirates, active on the fringe worlds, ransacked everything they could get their hands on and took my stasis pod along with the rest of their spoils. The next thing I know, I’m coming out of a deep-sleep, staring up into the face of the Pirate Queen Li’lek Zira Baroco the VII. She brought me onto her crew as a hired hand, and there I learned the finer side of intergalactic piracy.

So, you’re a thief?

No more so than you’re a drunk, he rejoined.

Touché, Jegra replied, raising her glass to him. She downed the last of the ale and held the mug up to the bartender and pointed at it, signaling she needed a refill.

Alendar continued on with his story. When I couldn’t find any other humans, I began researching what happened to my people. That’s when I learned about you. The Great Exodus, as the history books call it. The greatest rescue mission ever. You single handedly saved the human race. Gave us a fighting chance as a species on the verge of extinction.

Jegra balked at his version of events and was about to educate Alendar on what really happened when her drink arrived. She quickly forgot what she was about to say, and washed away any interest in reliving her past.

I suppose, the young man said, rubbing his fingers through his thick main of black hair, I’ve taken up too much of your time. It was nice meeting you, Jegra. Alendar touched his fingers to his brow and gave her an informal salute.

He was about to head off when Jegra reached out and grabbed him by the arm. Wait.

Alendar raised an eyebrow and turned to her with a suave look and a warm glimmer in his eye. Yes? he asked, his eyes roving up and down her amazing figure.

Maybe we could...? Jegra let him fill in the blanks. She let go of his arm and went back to drowning her sorrows in her ale as she waited for his reply.

Barkeep, Alendar called out, his eyes never once diverting from Jegra’s ample cleavage, a room for the night, if you’d be so kind. Make it your finest suite.

The bartender returned with a keycard and slid it across the counter. Looking at Jegra, Alendar held out his hand to her and asked, Shall we?

I thought you’d never ask. Jegra slammed her mug down on the table and then showed her wrist. Her holovid turned on, glitched a bit, the image wavering, cutting out, then solidifying again. This is for whatever I owe plus the room.

The barkeep scanned her wrist with the small glowing gem that was imbedded in his, and then nodded at her once the transaction was complete.

Jegra stood up a little too fast and realized all too late that her legs had turned to rubber. A dizzy spell snuck up on her, compounding matters, and before she knew it, her knees buckled and she nearly toppled over. To her surprise, Alendar swooped in and caught her from behind. She looked up at him and smiled.

My hero, she said, drunkenly.

Let me help you to your room, he said, setting her back on her feet. His hands slid down to her waist as he helped steady her.

I should tell you now, pirate, I have nothing to steal but the clothes on my back.

He laughed and fetched her cloak from the nearby stool before placing his hand on her side again and helping her to the back stairs. I may be a thief, it’s true. But I’m no scoundrel, he assured her.

A gentleman, are you? she asked.

Let’s hope not, he replied with a laugh. This bad-boy edge compelled her to smile and she batted her eyes at him.

They swayed down the hallway and found their room. Once inside, Alendar helped her lay down on the bed.

Slowly, he ran his hands down her shoulders, to her thighs, and down the length of her legs. He helped her slip off her boots, removing them one boot at a time, like a regular Prince Charming. His eyes never once broke from her gaze as he helped to undress her.

Having removed her boots, he began to massage her feet. Just relax, he said, his voice deep and soothing.

She could tell by the smoothness in his voice he’d done this a thousand times before, but she didn’t care. She was lonely, tired, and hadn’t been with anyone in ages.

His hands were firm, yet strong and rough enough to alert her to the fact that he was no mere pretty boy. Hands like that don’t come without a bit of rigorous labor.

You don’t need to do that, said Jegra, smiling at him from over the rise and fall of her chest.

Are you not an empress? he asked. Shall I not serve you and acquiesce to your every beck and call?

Oh, shut up and take me already, she said, reaching down and grabbing him by the collar. She drew him up and onto her, their lips crashing together. She quickly pulled off his shirt, taking in his taught physique as they kissed, and growing even more excited at the prospect of bedding this gorgeous man. Their hands undressed one another hungrily.

Fifteen minutes later they lay in bed panting as they gazed up at the ceiling. Their chests were glazed with the residue of their lusty encounter and, Jegra’s leg resting across his, they took a moment to catch their breath.

Jegra was the first to break the silence. That was...

Sorry, Alendar replied, cutting her off. I usually have better stamina than that.

You did just fine, Jegra said. I’m a little rusty myself.

Nonsense. You felt smoother than a well-greased Cambera shaft, he said.

Thanks...I guess, she replied, looking over at him.

He smiled at her.

Are you thinking what I’m thinking? she asked.

Depends, he said, climbing onto her and kissing her neck. Gradually, he worked his way down to her bellybutton, dappling her body with kisses as he went.

Jegra closed her eyes and imagined Dani’s face. She missed her terribly, as she had for over two hundred years. But there wasn’t much she could do about that. People aged and died. She, on the other hand, didn’t—not really, anyway. It was complicated.

She aged so slowly that it was barely discernible. The passage of a hundred Earth years was only five years to her enhanced metabolism. Three-hundred plus years, then, was merely fifteen by her estimation. Which meant she had, possibly, a millennium still to live before she was properly old.

But the very thought of living that long filled her with dread. She’d already outlived almost everyone she ever cared about, and she was miserable for it. She would not wish this isolated, lonely existence on anyone.

The only one from her past still kicking about was the wily satyr, Grendok. He’d continued cloning himself over the years, and he was well into his tenth generation of enhanced clones, intact with all the memories and personality of the original, to boot. But seeing him always dredged up painful memories of those mortals not so inclined to live forever, so, she limited her contact with the satyr as much as possible.

Jegra must have fallen asleep during sex, because the next thing she remembered was waking up in bed the next morning, face down on the sheets, buck naked and with a puddle of drool slowing soaking into her pillow.

After staring at the wall for a while, she sat up, wiped the excess saliva from her chin with the back of her hand, and basked in the warm morning rays beaming into her room. Alendar was nowhere to be found, but she figured it was probably for the better. She really wasn’t a morning-after kind of girl.

That’s when she heard the sound of all-too-familiar plasma-ion thrusters roaring to life. Jumping up, she ran over to the window and promptly drew the curtains, only to find her ship, the Valencia, slowly rising up into the air. Its plasma-ion drive thruster burning hot blue, the ship kicked up a veritable dust storm in its downdraft.

"No, no, no, dammit!" Jegra cursed. She threw on her shirt and grabbed her pants off the shelf. Hopping down the hallway, she finally got into her pants and then skipped every other stair on the way down, a perpetual frown accompanying her as she went.

Her long legs stretched out in front of her as she darted down the hall and scrambled down the stairs, nearly crashing into a housekeeping android at the bottom. The robotic maid bleeped and chirped a mechanical warning at her, which she conveniently ignored. Narrowly dodging the chamberbot, she glanced around the saloon only to discover it was empty.

Outside was a different story, however. She burst through the front doors of the saloon and shot into the main street. She found it bustling with locals going about their daily business, and almost too bright, after the morning spent inside the dim interior.

Startled onlookers watched with astonished faces as the naked human raced through street. Her clothes wadded up in her arms, she was a stranger here, and quite unusual to them.

Gradack! Jegra stomped, looking up at her ship pulling away from the city and climbing high into the drab gray sky.

In a rage, she threw all her clothes at the ground, kicked dirt at them and growled, Just fucking perfect.

Fists balled up tightly at her sides, she looked around at all the blinkered faces. What? Haven’t you ever seen a naked Terran before? she shouted at them.

Not wanting any trouble, they all wisely looked away and continued about their business. Spinning around, she merely kicked dirt at her own clothes again and let loose under her breath a string of uncouth obscenities.

A throat cleared just over her shoulder, and she gradually turned around to find a four-armed Bulovian standing over her.

Bulovians were wiry, seven-feet tall, and were the spitting image of what science-fiction writers back on Earth used to imagine Martians would look like.

They had green skin with darker green sunspots and large eyes atop sweeping, oval heads. Four fingers per hand instead of five...and no real nose to speak of.

This one had on what appeared to be a cowboy hat and wore a kind of duster trench coat over a fine black vest with a gold watch chain leading from the pocket to the button it was clasped to.

The Bulovian tapped the star on his chest, signifying that he was the law around here, and Jegra let out a disgruntled sigh and puffed at a tuft of loose, silver hair.

I can explain, Jegra stressed, hoping he’d hear her out.

Instead, the Bulovian sheriff raised a pair of magnetic shackles and gestured for her to turn around.

As the lawman clasped the shackles onto her wrists, Jegra groused in a sarcastic tone, "Wonderful. Just fucking wonderful."

2

The Commonwealth Alliance, three hundred years prior.

BLAST MARKS SCORCHED the sides of the walls of the docking arm and sparks rained down onto the korridium alloy deck plates then quickly fizzled out of existence. Grendok’s hooves clapped against the metal floor as he leaped over his dead copy and landed in a crouch on the other side of the deceased satyr.

Sorry, ole chap, he said, reaching into the left breast pocket of his clone’s blue suede waistcoat and pulling out a communicator device, but it would seem you’ve reached the end of the line. Enjoy the long sleep.

The only discernible difference between him and his dead doppelgänger was that his vest was burgundy. Other than that, they were virtually indistinguishable: white fleece beard, four-foot-eight stature, bovine face with black markings, cloven-hooves, an upright posture, anthropoid hands, and a couple of swept-back curving horns adorning the top of his head.

As heavy boot steps clamored up the corridor behind him, Grendok wasted no time. He promptly reached into his own vest and pulled out a weapon. Inspecting his communicator without looking up, he held out the blaster and let loose a slew of aimless shots.

The charged plasma bolts splashed the corridor’s surfaces, leaving blackened carbon on the walls and floor. Not that it mattered much anyway–the entire station was a veritable junkyard of cannibalized starships held together by twice-recycled parts. It was a wonder anything worked at all. A few more blemishes will only add character, Grendok mused.

Another spray of sparks lit up the corridor as return fire came streaking down the tube of the docking arm. Ducking out of the way, Grendok grew fatigued by the doggedness of the three bounty hunters who pursued him.

Not wanting to kill the bounty hunters, as irritating as they were, Grendok crouched down off to the side of the corridor, took aim at the pipes that ran alongside air ducts above his pursuers, and fired.

The blast broke open a hot water vein and steam began to pour out into the hallway, providing a white-shroud of cover. The air ventilation system helped disperse it quickly, so it quickly filled the entire corridor.

Grendok fired off another round of shots into the billowing haze, forcing the trio of nimrods to duck into the inlet of an adjoining airlock for fear of getting vaporized. This momentary distraction allowed Grendok to skip away with hastened strides.

As he reached the end of the enclosed docking arm, Grendok paused briefly to admire the sleek new Seyferrian shuttlecraft poised there. Its elongated teardrop design and chrome anti-blaster coating glistened beneath the docking bay’s running lights. Nobody builds ships like the Seyfferians.

Holding up the wireless communicator, he dialed in the access codes to the shuttle. The door bleated at him impatiently, and he retyped the code. But it still fussed and denied him access.

Blasted Seyfferian encryption! You and your perfect three-tier protocols. You couldn’t have picked a worse time to lock me out of my own ship.

You there! Ssstop! a booming voice welled up from the far end of the corridor.

Grendok ignored it. Hoping to rattle it into working order, he smacked the communicator device across the top with the palm of his hand and then tapped it against the side of airlock door for added measure.

"I said ssstop!" the disgruntled voice from down the hall reiterated.

Nettled by the constant string of interruptions, Grendok let out a long, fatigued sigh. Slowly, he turned his slatted eyes toward the trio of bounty hunters emerging from the misty corridor at the opposite end of the passage.

A musclebound, scaly, green Dragonian with well-worn body armor and an oversized blaster gripped in his four-digit hand shoved his two comrades aside and postured threateningly. He glowered at the satyr with lime-green reptilian eyes and an intimidating python-like brow.

Dragonians, Grendok lamented. It had to be Dragonians. Although not a fan of the warlike and gratuitously violent species, he did admire their warrior spirit and the drive that compelled them to never give up the hunt.

Did you hear me, space-goat?! If so much as a single hair on that curlicue tail of yours twitchesss, I’m going to put a few more breathing holes in you. Capisce?

My good sir, Grendok said in his erudite fashion, "Although I have been known to traverse these galactic backwaters on occasion, you should know that I am not overly fond of the pejorative label ‘space goat.’ It sounds...how shall I put this...uncivilized. I, sir, am a noble satyr of Galliforn."

The Dragonian glanced at his two partners with an incredulous look. Isss he lecturing me? Nictitating eyes turned back toward Grendok. "Are you lecturing me, ssspace-goat?"

Indeed, I am. And I’m glad to report your mental acuity is not as slow as we all first thought.

You insolent little... the brawny Dragonian growled. If you weren’t so valuable to me alive, I would have blasssted you to ashes already.

Is that so? Grendok asked amusedly.

As he kept the Dragonian preoccupied with idle chatter, his hands worked furiously trying to correct the malfunctioning communicator.

Believe it, ssspace-goat, the Dragonian hissed. Lucky for you, though, I ain’t gonna blassst you just yet.

That’s wonderful news, Grendok chirped as the light on the airlock door to the ship turned green. But, alas, I must be getting along now. Good luck to you, chaps; here is where we must part ways. Taking a deep bow, he added, I bid you adieu.

With a pneumatic hiss, the airlock door behind him rolled open and, stowing his blaster inside his dapper vest, Grendok backed up, smoothly crossing the threshold. Once he was safely inside the confines of the ship’s airlock, he winked at the Dragonian bounty hunters and slammed the hatch shut again.

The larger Dragonian raced up to the porthole window on the door and pointed a thick, clawed finger at the satyr. His nostrils fogging up the glass window with angry huffs, the lizard-man hissed, You! Open thisss door, now!

No can do, friend, replied Grendok receding further into the safety of the ship. He tapped his brow and gave a casual two-finger salute to his would-be captors, bidding them farewell. Then, without so much as another word, he turned and sauntered into the main cabin and planted himself in the pilot’s seat.

Gradack! the Dragonian cursed and slammed his fist on the glass window. That infuriating weasel of a goat had slipped right through his fingers...again.

Delighted by the success of his grand escape, Grendok chuckled to himself and sank down in his chair. Seated at the controls, he let his fingers dance across the console with finesse as he released the docking clamps.

Outside the hull, there was a resounding clunk and the clamps relinquished their hold on the small craft. The sleek shuttle tilted slightly starboard as it fired its maneuvering thrusters and pulled away from the