[Sump, Cycle 17, Era 24]

Before they learned the art of conquest, before they broke Irk's atmosphere, before even the first recorded Almighty Tallest, in an era before Eras, the Irken race used to shed their skins. Instead of dragging it around for the rest of their lives, when Irkens grew too large and too great for the smaller creatures they used to be, the obsolete skin fell away.

Discarded. Gone. Welcome to Irken 2.0.

Understand, it was nothing like how other inferior species shed themselves. It didn't happen piece by piece in little scraps and strips of old flesh. It did not need to be peeled or scraped or scratched off. (Even in their pre-industrial state, let no one call the Irkens messy.) No, Irken skins fell away in one solid piece. More shell than skin, really.

Red saw one once, in the Education Plug. It really had looked exactly like an Irken except transparent, colorless, and hollow on the inside. A physical ghost. While Red had never been one for history—why look backwards when you're moving forward?—he'd always liked the idea of that.

Aside from snack baskets and a day off to recover from the soreness, Irkens didn't really have anything to commemorate height. New encodings came with new ranks, but it wasn't the same. Evidence of physical growth through PAK data, stats, scores, and trophies were cool and all, but it'd be way cooler to have something solid to hold on to. Something to touch and show off and say, "Check it out, this used to be me".

That's what Red would do if he could shed his skin: keep it and marvel at the short little thing he used to be.

And then he'd stomp it under his boot over and over and he wouldn't stop until nothing remained but a pile of dust. Yeah. That sounded pretty good.

But the Irken race didn't do that sort of thing anymore. Now their skins stretched and warped and evolved with them. So Red settled for dumping his outgrown uniforms on the roof, setting them on fire, and chucking the ashes over whoever came walking by. It lacked the visceral satisfaction of stomping old shells to dust, but still gave him that warm furnacey feeling.

Someone in the fleet (Skutch, maybe?) had pointed out that soldiers were supposed to turn their old stuff in. Something about it being protocol to recycle stuff for new recruits or whatever. In twenty years of growth spurts and roof fires, nobody'd ever so much as given Red a warning, though, so Skutch was probably just sniffing around for junk to complain about. He was like that. Most Irkens were like that. They couldn't handle their own garbage so they rooted through everyone else's. As if it could make up for their own lousy height or rank or ugly face or low scores or whatever else dragged them down. Pathetic.

That said, Red wished that he hadn't been so quick to torch that last pair of boots. They'd still be a half-size too small, but better too small than what he had now.

He frowned at the jagged acid burns that scarred his left boot from calf to toe-tip. In some places, it had eaten all the way through the leather and metal plating. If Red waggled his toes, he could actually see the fabric of his socks through the holes.

Bad look for any soldier reporting for fleet duty. Terrible look for a sub-commander reporting to an official summons. Red glanced at his gauntlet's screen and the short statement written in official martial green:

IRKEN ELITE RED PAK#e82d10:

Report to PLANET DEVASTIS no later than the date designated below.
Disregard ongoing missions as null and void.

A personal summons. They'd used his name and number and everything. As far as Red knew, he'd been the only pilot in the fleet to get one, meaning he'd done something awesome… or something extremely not-awesome. Demotion and re-encoding levels of not-awesome. Someone would've said something (or snickered behind his back) if it was the latter, but with this backwater rock's shoddy communications, who knew.

Either way, arriving with a ruined boot without a phenomenal excuse for it made for a rotten first impression. Unless someone nearby doubled their shoe size in the next five minutes, Red was out of luck. Showing up early wouldn't make up for it but it'd take the edge off. Maybe. Plus, he might squeeze in time for boot shopping.

A shot squealed in the distance, and a scattered series of shots followed it. Pink and red pulses lit the firing range on the far side of the tarmac. Right on time.

Red peered out of the corridor. No sign of the Vortians either, save for the trio of mechanics asleep on a trolley cart. Not that they'd care enough to gossip, but those nerds had a bad habit of getting in the way. He triple-checked the perimeter and slipped into the dull black morning, armed with a fresh cherry slooshie and the beginnings of a plan.

Shadowed beneath the rows of Voot Runners and Shuuvers, Red strode quickly through the hangar until he found her: a state-of-the-art midsize Spittle Runner, fitted with the latest and greatest mods and comfy customizations, including a self-adjusting cupholder.

So far so good. Made it all the way to his ship and nobody'd noticed him. He felt sure of it.

The silhouette of an Irken soldier slipped out from under a nearby Voot and turned towards him.

…Then again, he'd also felt sure that Vortian transmission fluid didn't explode in Sump's pressurized atmosphere either.

Red felt the wind through the holes in his boot and held back a sigh. Oh well. Better one than one hundred.

Elite Tenn wiped her oily gloves near the base of the ship, and as he approached, Red couldn't help but notice how lovely she appeared under the hangar lights. The Spittle Runner, of course, not Tenn.

A soldier with an unsophisticated eye may not have noticed her in the crowd at all—just a slightly larger Spit in a fleet of thousands. Regulation size, regulation form. They wouldn't appreciate the sharp deadly curve of her fins. They couldn't understand the pulsing snarl of her engines, hungry to score a new kill. They'd never know the might of her cannons, nor the eager high-pitched squeal of her lasers before they blasted a ship to shrapnel. (And if they did, they didn't live to remember it.) Her imperial blue paint job matched The Almighty Tallest's robes, and even under Sump's putrid asphalt sky, she gleamed brighter than a blade. The day she leveled Conventia's capitol city, Red had named her The Lenient . She had no parallel. None but Miyuki's own Indomitable came within a breadth of her beauty. She was the greatest vehicle to grace this backwater solar system, and if Tenn did not back away from those fins in the next five seconds, Red was gonna make her eat her own antennae.

"What're you doing all the way out here this early, sir? Shouldn't you be on the range or the snack bars right now?" Tenn glanced at Red's expression and took a step away from The Lenient .

Red frowned. "More."

Six steps back.

"Better."

The tips of Tenn's fingers fidgeted with her extendable wrench, a delicate little instrument perfect for fine-tuning motherboards and cracking skulls. She watched Red's approach without breaking eye contact, though she had to tilt her head back to do it. Judging by that sour little squint of hers, she still hadn't adjusted to the new view.

Seven years ago, Tenn's five feet and nine inches had meant something. In fact, it'd made her the tallest in the fleet, barring the commanders. But then for whatever reason—laziness, insubordination, too hesitant, too bold, too soft, or just plain unsuitable for higher places—she'd peaked and hadn't gained so much as a centimeter since. Kind of a shame to see talent stagnate that way, but if Tenn wanted to stay a shrimp, that wasn't Red's problem.

Red watched his shadow skim across her face as he passed. He'd expected the novelty of being able to look down on her to eventually wear off. It hadn't. " I'm out here minding my own business. What about you?"

No answer, though Red still felt Tenn's eyes on him. Thinking. She leaned on the hull of her own hunk-of-junk standard Spit. "You got the Devastis call."

So much for getting out of here quietly. Red paused at the entrance hatch and glanced back. "What'd you hear?"

"It's not what I heard, it's what I know, and I know you're not the only taller going off-planet. Poki left last night. I saw Sponch hoarding extra bagels the night before that. Everybody'd know if Irk sent something, so either Devastis is summoning Elites or somebody's hacked the system." Tenn huffed and flipped the wrench closed with a deft little click. "And I know nobody's hacked the system. Whatever's going on…" She jabbed her thumb at the bare patches in the lines of parked ships. More than there ought to be in downtime. "…it's big. You know, they say it'll be Invasion Season soon."

Of course they did. They'd been saying it every year for the last fifty years. It had been exciting the first couple times, back when Red was fresh above ground, short and dumb and troubleshooting turret sensors, but it got old fast. Always "soon," never "now". "Soon" was a guess, a wish, a waste of breath. Come back with hard numbers or shut up.

Still.

Red's antennae gave a hungry little twitch, as if he'd scented something on the air. He absently rubbed his gauntlets. "Invasion Season, huh?" The thought had occurred to him more than once. Wishful thinking, yes, but it had to happen sometime. Why not now?

Without another word, Red climbed into the cockpit and set course for Devastis. The hangar roof yawned open to reveal a flat sky waiting for him. Sump's sun twinkled far in the distance.

One last time, he eyed the ships around him, the Vortian mechanics, the soldiers attending their duties. He thought of his own fleet of Irkens who'd followed him into the heart of battle, who'd flown and fought and died beside him for the last two decades. He'd probably never see them again.

Awesome.

Almost as an afterthought, Red shot off a dry salute. "Later, losers."

Back on the ground, Elite Tenn bobbed her wrench to him. A gesture of good luck.

Red put his feet on the dash and sipped his slooshie. "Don't need it."

[SPACE. Cycle 17, Era 24]

The reception was garbage out here. To be fair, it was garbage everywhere once you got a couple million miles past a planet's solar system. Out past the regular traffic and satellites and space stations and junk, out of the shallows and deep into the thick of space. The real stuff.

A dark void speckled with suns and stars slid past the windshield. The last few crumbs of Sump's star system swirled and stretched iridescent in the rearview. Twenty minutes after that, it vanished completely. Thirty minutes after that, nothing but The Lenient and a dark heartless void.

"It's the hardest part of Elite flying," Red's old commander had once said between mouthfuls of sandwich. (Jellybean and mayo on rye, if Red remembered right.) "'Specially sucks when you're not on fleet or armada duty. It's the traveling between missions that'll get you. Boring, boring, BOR-ING. You're eight-hundred lightyears from nowhere, nothing to look at, nothing to do, nobody to shoot. Get used to it, suckers."

Other superiors said the same: "it's dull", "it's bleak", "it's lonely", "it's so quiet you'll rip out your own PAK and swallow it whole just so you won't hear that incessant hum of the fan for hours and hours oh no there it is again merciful Irk why won't it stop", and so on.

All fancy ways of saying, "You'll get some peace and quiet for once."

Finally, some quality legroom. Red rolled his shoulders, leaned back in his contoured gel-padded chair, and stretched all of his limbs. And just because he could, he did it again. "Now these are the goals, people. Am I right?"

The Lenient 's panels glittered in the dark. Silence. What a sound.

"Of course I am."

No inferiors crowding his legs, whining about drills and rations. No Vortians getting their big stupid horns in his face. No tallers or former tallers giving him the sore loser stink-eye every five seconds. No incompetent fleet ships getting themselves blown up or hogging his space.

They might have had a point about the boredom, though. A little. Red tapped his monitor as if he could brush away the snowy static covering The Announcer's face. The speakers popped and hissed in their valiant struggle to relay Top Twenty Extinct Idiots Who Thought They Could Face The Irken Empire: Part 2, The Sequel . Shifting starboard, the ship could scrape out a clear sentence or five, but not much more.

*kffsssst* "—ust look at those little guys run! *kffst* "—hat's what I'd call a real tongue twister—" *ffsst* "—should I say tongue fister? Ahaha!"

"Guess I should've splurged on that entertainment package after all, huh?" Red patted The Lenient's control stick just to show no hard feelings.

She still had that clean clinical new-ship-smell, as she ought. Every part of her, rivets to reactors, came custom-ordered fresh off the factory line and assembled by Red's own hand. (Good to know those years as a mechanic drone had been good for something.) All regulation, naturally, with some fancy bits suitable for a soldier of his stature. Only the best for the best.

Red flinched at the screech of radio static. Probably could've afforded that entertainment package if he hadn't gone overboard on the drives and thrusters—and also ordered a new pair of boots—but it was worth it. For the price, it better have been.

Admittedly, that 80k debt set his teeth on edge when he thought about it too much. If rumors of Invasion Season were true, however, The Lenient could pay herself off within a month. Even if not, an Elite's payroll covered it in about a cycle. Seven years wasn't too bad if he just cut back a little on snacks. Not counting drinks, of course. Red reached into the deluxe cupholder and took a long slurp of slooshie.

*kffst* "—ou re—ember the Fweezians, old-timers? Think bigger—" *sst* "—less teeth!" *fffkkkssst* " —thou must make it count. "

That last bit sounded off. Too formal, too serious. And last Red checked, The Announcer's voice didn't sound so feminine. He didn't have an accent either.

"We've but one chance, but if we strike true—" *ksssh* "—wound the Irken Empire so badly 't'will take decades to—"

Wait, what? Red sat up, one leg curled under him as he leaned in to adjust the signal.

*krrshhh* "—whole lineup of royals just ripe for the rebellion. Ooops! Make that ripe for the slaughter! Ah, and herrrrre she comes! So long Tallest Fecks, all hail Almighty Tallest Miyuki. See ya, Prince Whatever."

The Announcer was back and coming in clearer now. That had to mean The Lenient was nearing Devastis' star system. Not exactly what he'd been looking for, though. He shifted the signal in the other direction.

"—vulnerable on the western hemisphere, so says Mauv." There—the stray transmission. A distant signal glinting through the static, and by the sound of it, nothing good.

" Lenient . Track that, if you can."

And she could. The star map display shifted, sprinkling dotted lines to trace a winding trail. They weren't far. Understandable, if they could cut through the broadcasts so easily. Anything strong enough to spray their signal all the way out here had to be running some serious power or significant tech.

Red checked his time and his maps. More than enough time for a detour. "Let's go say hi."

The Lenient snagged their signal and leaped hot on their trail. The debris of their transmission dragged behind them like the slime they were. These insurgents, whoever they were, had been messy. Careless. Not only could Red track where they were, but where they'd been.

From its launch point on the battlefronts of Callnowia, the renegade ship had skimmed the proposed conveyor belt planet a few times before meandering through the heart of the production district. Red chewed his straw and scanned his memory for what lived out there. Smoke Folk. Screwheads. A couple of Blob colonies. Larkazoids and Truffloids out on the far edges of the territory, if there were any left. Of course there were also assorted Irkens at their designated posts, but the ship couldn't be one of their own. Red would've recognized an Imperial signal, and besides, no Irken out of the ground could be that sloppy with a data trail. No Irken would put up with this kind of anti-Empire talk, either.

At Foodcourtia, the mystery ship didn't reroute so much as it tightened focus. Its looping meanders suddenly snapped into a clean line, all straight shots and sharp angles. From there they'd stopped at an asteroid or five—these guys sure liked their convenience stores—but aside from that, it had a set course. Meaning The Lenient could weed out the final destination.

"—of course the intel's correct! Why wouldn't it be? Do you think Mauv doesn't know what he's doing, or do the last four years mean nothing to you now?" New voice. Male. Kinda overdramatic. "Look, you hurt his feelings." The speakers still fuzzed and squeaked on the hard consonants, but the signal came in clear. They were close. Maybe a lightyear away.

"Hey Lenient , are we close enough to hack their navigation system?"

She gave it a shot and… nope. That didn't surprise him; the ship was still a good distance away, and it wouldn't surprise him if they hadn't even locked in a destination. Red just had to work with his best guess.

A proposed flight path sprouted from the rogue ship's current position and branched out to circle five potential planetary destinations and eight convenience asteroids.

"Hm." With his free hand, Red pulled up the Era Twenty-Four Price Guide on a side screen and checked the current bounty rates for insurgent forces.

Dragging in a wasted crew (he'd heard at least three aboard), the monies covered a new pair of Elite-issue boots with plenty left over for primo snacks. Brought in alive, the bounty covered new boots, extra snacks, five nap passes, and nullified a quarter of his debt. And that was just the base rate.

" Lenient , highlight the current path and let's see the most likely target." Though he already had a decent guess.

Planet Devastis lit up like The Tallest on Probing Day.

Red grinned. "Yep." He wouldn't even have to waste time with a rerouted chase; at this speed, their paths naturally dovetailed in under an hour. But hey, why wait?

The Lenient 's N.Y.O.O.M. drive flared. She kicked up double-time and closed the distance in five minutes. Caught the renegade ship in two more.

"I love you, ship."

Pity the same couldn't be said for the scrapheap floating in front of him. Thin lines of tiny windows ran the perimeter of a triangular vessel for small-to-midsize sentients. Her thrusters were a joke, and anybody with an ounce of self respect wouldn't have been caught dead with that minimum-wage paint job. A peeling "IRKEN EMPIRE SUXX 8C" sticker flapped pathetically on the side.

If she packed any firepower, Red couldn't see it and The Lenient couldn't detect it. Understandable. At a glance, she'd originally been a civilian vessel—repackaged from freight delivery or cartography or astrogation or something. If her current crew couldn't even afford a decent paint job (Irk's sake, who flew silver anymore?) they sure couldn't afford to install cannons.

The signal came crystal-clear now. "Uh, team? Don't look now, but we've got company."

Unless it was disguised. Unless these guys were serious. Sneaking under the radar as a delivery ship full of morons wouldn't have been a bad plan… ignoring the fact that a freight wandering into Irken airspace was like a bubblefink landing in an acid marsh.

"What are—aw, no. No, no, no, please tell me that's not what I think it is."

He had found someone really smart, or someone really REALLY stupid. Like, Category 7 levels of stupid. And if spraying their data trail all over the stars like some love-struck Rat was any indication (and it was), Red cast his bet on stupid.

"I dunno, do you think it's an Irken ship? 'Cause if not, then it's not that."

Someone with an exceptionally annoying voice swore in the background. Loudly.

"Fear not, Mauv. I hold fast to my word; we shan't let them touch you."

Red sniffed. "Don't make promises you can't keep, lady."

The guy in the background—Mauv, apparently—cursed even louder. Probably knew he was doomed. Smart guy.

"Get us starboard, Plinka! Boot the warp dr—what do you mean the warp's dead?! We updated the system last month, it's brand new!"

No drive at all, then. Not even a flimsy delivery warp. "Huh. Lucky break." No visible weaponry and no audible orders to retaliate confirmed Red's suspicions. The ship was toothless. But just in case…

The Lenient's turrets took aim and spat one, two, three vibration pulses; one for each corner of the ship. The renegade vessel stopped dead in its tracks. Her lights flickered for a second, then went dark.

Red turned down the radio signals before the crew's screaming gave him a headache. His claws twitched against the ingrained reflex to blow the thing to space dust. One shot. That's all it'd take.

But without solid identification or even confirmation of insurgent activity, he'd get credit for eliminating an unregistered ship at best. Bounties needed bodies (or at least 51% of one).

Fine, he'd do it the old fashioned way. Manually.

The opaque helmet snapped around Red's head with a click—a slick little number with reflective black visors and vent spikes on the sides. Spikes were cooler than fins.

The Lenient swooped close. Her cables lashed out to snag the other ship's airlock, clamping down like a lamprey.

He opened communications. "Hey! You've got eight minutes to give me one good reason why you're in restricted Irken military territory."

The call went through audio-only. "Sheesh," Red mumbled under his breath, "how old IS this heap?" Using a visual call like the rest of civilized society would've given a better idea of what he went up against, too. Oh well.

"Wait," said the overdramatic guy. Someone in the background spilled their drink in a flurry of activity. "Wait, can he hear us?"

"Methinks he can."

"Well, who opened the feed? Taso, did you sit on something?"

"H-hey, don' lookit me! Mauv's in charge of the communication and—"

"Oh goodness, Mauv! I forgot all about him. Tinka, make sure he's somewhere safe."

Voices spilled over each other in the growing chaos while someone (the female?) tried and failed to keep everyone calm. You'd think they'd have seen it coming. What, did they really think they could just cruise around space without running into even one Irken ship? Maybe they'd been running on luck this whole time and gotten overconfident.

In the corner of Red's eye, his gauntlet blipped. He glanced at the incoming communique. Something coming from… Foodcortia? Red rolled his eyes and flipped the panel closed. Of course it'd be now that Foodcourtia tried to sell him coupons or whatever.

The connection cables went taut as the ports clicked, locking on both ships. Connection secure. Prepare to be boarded, douchebags.

The Lenient's airlock opened with a rolling hiss. Red took a quick inventory check and slipped in. The thump of his boots echoed through the slick metal tubing. At the end of his path, a green circle of light pulsed slow and steady.

Red could already see the shifting shadows and silhouettes of his enemies. He crouched low, pressed against the warm tubing as he crept closer.

Flashes of something white and furry moved in the dim emergency generator's lights. Red's antennae perked straight up. The scent overwhelmed the cable tunnels. Fweezian!

The Collective Memory silently screamed out to him: a split-second clip show harvested from all who'd come before him and learned the hard way what Fweezians meant.

War. Ten-year siege. Famine. Danger. Twenty-year siege. Dust. Fifty-year siege. Blackout. The sky's all wings and lights and wings and eyes. Too bright! Death. Bad. TOO BRIGHT. Too much. Cold. Hurt. Scared. Rage. Rage. Rage.

Beware.

Be careful.

Red blinked, steadying himself of the walls of the connector cable. Remembered that the Snack Wars ended before he'd even left the Education Plug. The residual panic faded, but it echoed softly under his skin, thrumming through his muscles: Be careful, soldier. Be careful.

He blinked again. Harder. Okay, so at least one moth on board. How about the others?

The tips of Red's antennae bobbed and twitched at the scents and vibrations of two, five… no, seven individuals ahead: one Truffloid, a few Screwheads, one Fweezian (which he should've figured out from the audio transmission), and someone else. The seventh crew member had a weak familiar scent but he couldn't isolate it through the stink of the Truffloid on board.

Yeah, that's doable. Red nodded to himself. Alright, new plan:

(1) Forcefully board ship (Done).

(2) Subdue/neutralize insurgent crew (optional: alive).

(3) Collect bounty monies.

(4) Obtain snacks.

(5) Obtain boot replacement, additional snack.

(6) Report for duty on Devastis.

(7) Obtain praise, promotions, sweet new encodings, be awesome forever.

(8) Wash The Lenient.

The Fweezie sat at the control panel, rubbing her foxlike face with one hand while the other three struggled to bring the ship system back online. Two Screwheads crowded around her, whispering between themselves. The Truffloid huddled in a nearby chair, floppy mushroom cap bent around her head like a fancy sunhat. The others couldn't be accounted for. Hiding, maybe. Hopefully they wouldn't be too much of a pain to track down.

The long stalks of the Truffloid's fingers clasped together, and the damp sour stink of her fear clung to the air. "Has he said anything else? It's been kinda quiet." Hopefully, she glanced about the cabin. "You don't suppose he's decided to reconsider? O-or just leave us alone?"

"If you seriously believe that," one of the Screwheads snorted, "I've got a bridge in East Twinfast to sell you."

His fellow Screwhead gave a humorless smile over his shoulder. "You would if wasn't demolished last month."

"Yeah, but maybe if we could just reason with him?" This Truffloid really didn't want to let it go. "I mean, lookit how it turned out with—"

The Fweezian raised a wing. Ragged old wounds split the delicate lacy membrane—seared and scarred from an Irken blaster. Functional, but (hopefully) useless for flight. She hadn't taken her eyes off the control panel. "Pray, gentle Taso, thou must understand our own Mauv stands as the exception, not the norm. For all things the Irken race is known for, the quality of mercy stands not amongst them." Her plumed antennae curled inward, twitching against the back of her chair. With a little sigh, she smoothed the frills of her musty uniform and glanced over her shoulder. The pupils in her enormous blue eyes narrowed into slits. "Is that not true, soldier?"

On cue, the others turned to behold the figure stepping out of their airlock.

"Yeah. Sure is." Pulling himself to full height, Red's shadow stretched along the walls until it touched the ceiling. Clad in a space-worthy uniform the wounded scarlet of an imploding sun, Red made towards them. He stared behind a black visor bleak and fathomless as a really spooky thing that couldn't be fathomed. A black hole, maybe.

That mirror practice had really paid off.

The ragtag collection of rebels tensed. Both Screwheads pulled close together. One reached for a weapon.

"I wouldn't." A pair of blasters sprang from his PAK, already trained on their targets. Crud, he'd meant to say something smart and intimidating when he came in. "Time's up, by the way." Yeah, that worked.

In the thick of the main cabin, the familiar scent grew stronger. Red tried to isolate it, but the Truffloid had gone into panic mode. Under the stench of spores and sweat, he couldn't even smell himself. These things were disgusting.

Red took a quick headcount while one of the Screwheads went into a series of lame threats or a speech or whatever. Something something, can't kill ideas, something something, heart of the rebellion, something something freedom. The usual.

There'd been seven on board; he knew that for sure. Four here, three more in the rear chambers. Right? Red glanced at the hollows dug into the sides of the cabin: a series of cubby holes large enough to squeeze into. Each one had a pillow. Each one stocked with trinkets, posters, blankets, and photos—stray shrapnel from the crew's personal lives. They'd been sleeping in here.

Yet they flew a mid-size cruiser. These things came standard with at least two compartments—three, counting the engine room—with one acting as a dedicated living/sleeping space. Seven crew members split across two rooms meant only one should've been sleeping out in the cabin, if even that. Not unless they had a Blob or something on board, but anything that huge would've left evidence of itself.

Did they use the spare rooms for cargo storage? Red frowned. He hadn't altered his whole schedule for a bunch of pirates, had he?

In the background, the passionate Screwhead had moved into the second paragraph of his speech.

Nah. Pirates weren't this preachy.

"Sir. Fellow soldier." It came from one of the Screwheads. The one with the shorter screw who'd been quiet until now.

Red's head snapped around. Had that thing just…?

"Please, you don't must to do this." The words came raw, poorly conjugated and untranslated. Because it didn't need to be translated.

The Screwhead was speaking Irken.

Hardly daring to move, the Fweezian and the Truffloid exchanged a look. The other Screwhead had gone the color of bleached burlap.

"Be this way, not-must it need be!" It got worse. Either he'd been working from a practiced script or he'd just realized his mistake and panicked. Or both. "Your enemies be ours enemy. This, know…" The rest of the sentence trailed away pathetically.

"Excuse me?" Red's voice hissed soft. "Off-worlder, I think I must've misheard that." He stalked closer. "Repeat yourself."

The Fweezie braced hard against her chair. "Oh Tinka," she whispered, "what did you do ?"

The Screwhead (Tinka, apparently) stood firm, surprisingly. Stupidly. "Well, what else can we do? Taso's right, we should at least try, or else what kind of hypocrites are we?"

"Thou needn't try like that ! Moon save us, of all the profitless endeavors I've never—"

"Nobody was talking to you, moth. You." Red's PAK blaster tapped the Screwhead's temple. "Repeat yourself, I said. Now."

He did. It was even more putrid the second time around.

"Okay, I have got to be hearing things. My translator's busted or malfunctioning or something because I know…" Red shook his head with a furious little chuckle. "I know I did not just hear MY language just come out of YOUR disgusting off-worlder face."

How had the grody thing even learned it? Or even heard it? Red could understand if it'd been the moth—their languages had similar roots here and there—but still, Irkens kept their stuff on lockdown. The translators naturally hid their native language, even when speaking to each other.

Even if it had been overheard, a novice couldn't pick up more than a handful of nouns at best. This Screwhead had actually managed a half-coherent sentence. He'd spoken the language before. He'd had practice. Which meant someone had to have taught him.

Red's squeedlyspooch twisted. I think I'm gonna be sick.

"Listen." This Screwhead didn't know when to quit, did he? "I meant no offense."

To his credit, the one called Tinka truly didn't seem to understand the gravity of what he'd just done. He was just exceptionally stupid. Didn't make it any less repugnant, though.

After a moment to calm himself, Red turned to him again. "In that case, tell me what you wanted to tell me. And keep my language out of it this time."

A frown wrinkled across the Fweezie's muzzle. She glanced at the Truffloid, who'd perked up hopefully, and tisked.

Tinka looked to his fellows—none of them seemed to specifically be in charge—and when nobody reproached him, he tried again. Same stuff as before, smoother coherent sentences this time. He tried to draw commonalities between himself and Red, as if sharing military backgrounds erased species lines.

He pleaded that Red could be "better" and "more than this". Weird take from a Screwhead, but true enough. One always had room to improve, to grow higher, to elevate. Constant improvement, constant progress. Of course Red could be more. That's why he'd been headed to Devastis in the first place.

It almost seemed as if this Screwhead had some sense. "In the end, your enemies are our enemies." Until that, anyway.

Red tilted his head to the side. The spoot was that supposed to mean?

"The Empire," the one called Tinka said. "The Empire hurts everyone, even you. They've hurt you the same way they've…" He blinked at the Fweezian's ruined wing. "Well, not the exact same way, but…"

"Uh-huh." With a shift of the shoulder, the helmet retracted into his suit. Red arched an eyebrow and smirked. "You sure about that?"

There's a look everyone gets when they know they're boned. Not outmatched, not defeated, not bested. Completely and utterly screwed now and forever. No do-overs, no take-backs. That's it. It's over. Say bye to life, say hi to your ghosts and gods if you've got 'em.

Red had to admit, face-to-face work had its perks. It had been a long time since he'd seen that look.

The crew stared at the simple icon burned into the Irken soldier's forehead. That last 00.5% of hope they'd held onto since The Lenient's appearance withered and died. "An Elite," one of them whispered.

They should've figured that out from the sweet ride and uniform, but hope made people kind of dumb sometimes. Hope or misplaced confidence. Screwheads and Truffloids might have been stupid, but they weren't morons. Clearly from their scars and anti-Empire pamphlets (anti-Empire but not anti-Irken, interestingly) they understood the threat they faced.

Yet something had given them the sheer gall to think they could've talked Red down. A familiarity.

Red's antennae twitched, freer outside the helmet. That scent hiding under the stench of off-worlders. He knew it now. "You've got an Irken aboard." It explained the language stuff, the lack of total panic, everything.

There'd been a rush to hide someone when Red's ship appeared. "That's this… Mauv guy, right?" He looked amongst the jerry-rigged garbage crew, got no answer, and shrugged. "Thought so. I don't suppose any of you are gonna tell me where he is?"

Nope. Stubborn defiance all around. It wouldn't take much to squeeze a confession out of them, but information extraction took too much time that he'd already wasted.

With a great roll of his eyes, Red turned for the remaining chambers of the ship. "Fiiine. Gotta do everything myself." One of the PAK blasters swiveled backwards as he approached the door. "None of you move; I don't want to shoot anybody and lose my premium."

In hindsight, he should've brought along a Capture Capsule™ or a pocket web or something. "Whatever, I'm five seconds from the planet. It's fine."

As expected, the first hub housed the main engines and hardware. Signs of Screwhead manufacturing covered the room top to bottom, all dust and grit. Nobody'd touched it since completion. Except…

Red squinted at the engine's entry compartment: a shiny clean rectangle glinting in the grime. He swiped his finger along the side. Cleaner than an autoclave.

"Huh." Someone had come digging in here recently, and definitely not a Screwhead. The disinfectant killed their scent and prints, whoever they'd been.

Approaching the second door, Red's gauntlet blipped. It detected another Irken PAK on the premises. No signal until he'd gotten into close range, either; someone had jammed it.

That meant whoever waited behind that door was one of two things: a prisoner or a defective. Or a prisoner kept so long that they'd lost all senses and become defective, if such a thing were possible. Though he hated to think it, all evidence pointed towards the second option. That Screwhead insurgent had been convinced that Red's betrayal—no, his defection—from the Irken Empire was not only possible but correct . He'd had the confidence of someone who'd seen it before.

All of them almost jumped out of their skin the second Red mentioned another Irken aboard. Not just fear of being caught, no, that had been concern . Nobody got that worried about enemy prisoners. Not unless they'd stopped being enemies.

The two Irken signals practically sat on top of each other. He's in there alright.

Showtime. Red took a long drag of his slooshie, holstered it, and shot two pulses into the door. It melted into a smoldering puddle in the hallway to reveal…

Donuts.

Boxes and boxes of donuts. All arranged in haphazard rows and cardboard columns, half of them open, and all of them (regrettably) empty.

Not only donut boxes, either. Looking closer, Red discovered the debris of a banquet fit for a planetary warlord (or at least a high-rank governor). Old napkins, fry cartons, soda cups, sandwich crusts, candy wrappers, and crumpled bags of chips rustled in the air conditioning. Popcorn kernels cracked underfoot. Flecks of nacho cheese sprinkled the walls and rainbow sprinkles freckled the floor. Straws slanted half-mast in hollow ice cream cartons. Cans of whipped cream and Instant Fruit clustered along the shelves in herds. And that was just the first layer.

For a moment, Red could only stare. His insides gave an undisciplined growl, even though he'd just eaten monthly rations a week ago.

A beep pierced the air. Red snapped back to his senses. He pivoted on his heel, blaster raised, and in one clean shot, blew up a microwave.

"HEY!" Someone coughed inside the clouds of smoke and microwave dust. That same irritating voice from the audio feed. The one they called Mauv. "What's the big idea?!"

Red squinted over the fortress of snack boxes. Within it laid a cozy nest of pillows and blankets arranged upon a large pliable cushion. I looked kind of like a couch, and not the bouncy hard kind used for nap passes, either. This was the sink-down, foam padded, feather-stuffed, luxurious lie-down-and-never-want-to-get-up stuff of Vortian couches. Looking closer, he realized it had no armrests or backboards.

A bed. Not a bunk, not a cot, not a couch. An honest-to-Irk actual bed .

In the center of it all, cocooned in Fweezian silks and furs, another Irken frowned at him. He sprawled taut with an odd kink in his back, either coiled to strike or tuck in for illegal naptime. His eyes—the rich violet of grape smoothies and shiny wet intestines—narrowed, annoyed. As if someone had forgotten to put chocolate shavings on his sundae. He held a fresh plate of steaming pizza rolls.

"If you wanted one you could've just asked, sheesh." Mauv brushed a stray chunk of microwave glass off his robed shoulder. "I wouldn't have given you one, but I probably would have thought about it."

"I…" Red blinked at the room, still dazed by the sheer decadence of it all. "What IS all of this?"

"Oh! Neat, huh?" He bounced himself on the cushions. Silk blankets billowed out in waves of supreme coziness. "They call it a bed. A lot of species haven't evolved out of needing sleep, so they use it for their temporary shut-downs. I've been using it as a snacking couch though, so I dunno if technically it still counts as—"

"I know what a bed is!" Red unclenched his fist. The situation called for calm procedural questioning. Cool and calm. He unclenched his other fist. "I mean what are you doing here?"

"Working." Mauv blew on a pizza roll and popped it into his mouth. "Obviously." Stretching, he rubbed the hunch in his back. "You're kinda rude, you know that? Blowing up someone else's microwave and walking into their mission like this." He glanced over his shoulder with a sniff. "Didn't anyone teach you not to interrupt your tallers?"

That tore it.

Red pounced.

The full force of his PAK legs lashed out and slammed down hard. Pierced something soft and wriggly. Cloudbursts of fur and feathers rolled through the air. Razored tips of the PAK leg scraped the solid metal beneath the blankets.

Missed.

The Irken known as Mauv crouched a few feet away with his smug stupid fat stupid face full of pizza roll. He swallowed, frowning. "I liked that blanket..." He swept backwards to duck Red's second strike. Didn't even drop the snacks. "For an Elite, you're not too good at this."

Red reached into his PAK, searching the weapon compartment for something sharp and deadly. Found only blasters—no good here. Not unless he wanted quadruple-digit fines on top of his debt. Fine; this skreg didn't deserve a quick death anyway.

He rushed the traitor again. Red's claws caught Mauv's robed shoulder and yanked him backward.

The defect's antennae sprang up in surprise. He dodged, but his bare feet slipped on the rumpled satin. "Whoa!" Scrambling, he reached out to catch the plate of pizza rolls before they hit the ground.

Mauv tucked and sprang before Red's boot could smash his eye. "When's the last time you did any hand-to-hand, last cycle?" His tongue coiled around another roll and snapped it up. "Last decade ?"

Red's PAK leg whistled through empty air. "Stay STILL, you gutless defect! You're disgusting—out here, nestled up and getting all snoozly with off-worlders. What would you know about the Irken Elite?"

Even as he said it, Red couldn't believe it. He should have found a broken prisoner hacking up blood in a prison cell. A foot-high drone gone half-crazy and full turncoat. A brainwashed engineer begging for death with his eyes. Red had expected damaged PAKs, hacked systems, viruses—weakness and failure.

But no. No, this gangly puke-pail dodged, swiveled, and sprang with the easy grace of an arena fighter. And even if this Mauv guy wasn't his taller—and he wasn't—he clearly had some significant height on him. Yet even with height, rank, and the respect of his race, even still he'd thrown in his lot with Irk's enemies. A level of defection unimaginable.

The other Irken raised an eyebrow. "Uh. Because I am one?"

"You're gonna pay for this, you two-faced—I'm sorry, what?" Red lowered arms and blinked. Slowly, their earlier conversation came back to him. He'd said something about a mission. "What's your business here?"

"I told you I was working, you moron." The Irken formerly known as "Mauv" pulled a wet cloth from his PAK and rubbed it on his forehead. Green concealer and bits of tomato sauce wiped away to reveal an Irken Elite icon. "Elite Purple, division of Infiltration and Information Extraction. And I think the better question is, what's your business here, butting in on someone's assignment without any clearance?"

Red put a hand on his hip and sneered, "Since when do you need clearance to engage an enemy vessel?"

"Buh!" Purple's hands gestured wildly at some invisible answer. "What part of Infiltration Division don't you get?!"

"Why didn't YOU say something?"

"I sent a stand down signal, what more do you want?"

A likely story. Red pointedly ignored the unread Foodcourtia communique still blinking on his gauntlet. "I dunno maybe a simple 'don't shoot, we're on the same team'? Besides, you look pretty cozy from the looks of—"

"Um, Mauv? Are you okay in…" The Truffloid in the doorway put her reedy fingers against her mouth. She looked between Red and the messy Elite insignia on Purple's forehead. "…oh. Oh goodness."

She hadn't come alone. Behind her, the Fweezian stared with bright furious eyes.

Before Red could move, the silent scent signal hit him: HOLD. WAIT. PLEASE.

The Fweezie's fuzzy antennae perked and twitched; she'd smelled it too. Gotten a stronger whiff, by the look of it. She hesitated in the doorway with an odd little expression.

Red followed her line of sight and did a double-take.

Another Irken stood in Purple's place. He was a pathetic little thing, sickly and hollow-eyed, stooped so low his antennae drooped past his knees. The once luxurious robe, now bedraggled and damaged from the scuffle, hung sideways off his thin shoulder. Someone could've beaten him to death with a feather. This one here, this was the one known as Mauv.

A handy trick, Red had to admit. Demeaning, revolting, and vomit-inducing, but handy. Kind of.

"O-oh, Taso! Lady Greendown! Oh, I'm so happy you're alright. I went to hide somewhere safe like Tinka told me too, but when I heard all the commotion I got worried. When I came out I found, um…" He glanced at Red.

Red stared back, no help at all.

"I found this guy! We've been talking, and gosh, I think there's been a misunderstanding." Purple clasped his fingers together with a hopeful little smile sweet enough to rot Fluoriden steel.

The Fweezian's wings flared at her back. She didn't return his smile. "Aye, so I see. By the crest impressed upon thine fair head, thou sharest much with this ally, indeed. 'Mauv'."

"Uh." Purple cringed close to his pillow nest. "The thing about that is, see, before the evil empire chased me out I used to…" He sighed. "Aw, screw it."

In one smooth movement, Purple reached behind his back and pulled out a long metal bracer. His spine popped and cracked as he dragged himself up to his true height.

He rose to meet Red eye to eye.

Same height. They were the exact same height. Right down to the curve of their heads and the tips of their antennae.

How dare he.

Elite Purple looked Red up and down with a surprised little hum. "How about that? I'm really not your taller after all. How are you tall as me and still this—"

A throwing knife hissed over his shoulder. It thunked into the wall, veins of ice spiderwebbing over the varnish.

"I knew it!" The Fweezie rushed them. She smashed through snack debris, waves of pizza crust and donut boxes crashing behind her. Out of her pocket flashed a knife. With a flick, the knife extended to a spear—curved, wicked, and gleaming. "I knew we couldn't trust you bugs!"

The blade caught the collar of Purple's robe and sent it fluttering across the room. He tucked and rolled to avoid a Screwhead leaping through the doorway. "Great, now look what you did. I had a great thing going and you just had to ruin it!" He rounded on the Fweezian. "And who're you calling bug, moth ? What kind of language is that for an altruist? So much for peace and love."

The Screwhead's massive hammer smashed inches from Red's torso. PAK legs clawed at the screw as Red kicked him in the ribs. "I found a rogue ship hovering vital Irken territory and leaking raid plans all over the circuit! What was I supposed to do, ride by and ignore it?"

"Yes!" Chased into a corner, Purple's PAK gripped the walls and climbed for it. "Didn't any of that seem weird to you? I mean, what moron decides to attack Devastis of all places?!"

The Truffloid drooped sadly in the corner. "Hey…"

Purple shrugged. "Sorry, Taso, but that plan really was the worst."

The Screwhead's hammer slammed the wall. Hard enough for Purple's legs to lose grip. "I wasn't gonna say anything, but…"

"You're not sorry at all," the mushroom sniffed.

"No, but thanks for the free ride to—WHOA!" The hammer vibrations shook Purple off the wall. He crashed into a mountain of fry cartons and booked it before the hammer smashed his head into jelly. "Would you cut that out?!"

Red caught the harsh scent of frost. Dodged too late.

The Fweezian spear caught his shoulder and bit deep. Sub-zero shocks of venom shot through his system. Red staggered backward, wheezing as his right arm went numb; freezing from the inside out. His PAK hummed in turn as it countered with anti-venom.

The Fweezian's wings—grounded but functional—hummed and buzzed around his head. Rapid winks of light flashed off her scales. Searing. Blinding. It swerved at the sight of Red's blaster.

Wheezing, and half-blinded, Red swung towards the light and fired.

Several screamed—Red, included. Had he just shot a Fweezian in the face? One of the fancy kinds? Over two hundred-thousand monies down the drain!

When the light dissipated, he found the Fweezie clutching her bottom left arm. A nasty green mass of fur and blood hanging by a thread. She gritted her teeth and watched his blaster warily.

Red coughed against the chill in his chest. "Get cute and I'll shoot off the other three."

The PAK blaster threateningly reared over his back to show he meant it. It beeped for a reload.

Purple looked up from where he had the Truffloid pinned in a corner. "Maybe next time, don't waste your shots on an innocent microwave—HEY!" He ducked the empty blaster chucked at his skull.

It ricocheted off the wall, caught the Truffloid in the mouth, and knocked her out cold.

Purple skittered up the wall before anyone could knock him off this time. "I'm on your side, you know!"

"Hand slipped." Red rolled his numb shoulder and shifted backwards.

And here came the last Screwhead—the one who'd tried talking Red down before. Judging from the spiked hammer he held, Red guessed that peace talks had finally broken down.

He mentally flipped through his armory: acid spitters, saws, legs… weapons to maim, not subdue. Oh, well. Red tugged the Fweezian knife out of the wall and rushed the Screwhead.

The Screwhead swung back at him, but he got distracted trying not to step on the unconscious Truffloid. The swings came slow and middling. He couldn't bring the hammer down without accidentally hitting her. Finally, that mushroom was good for something.

Red took his opening and tackled.

Above them, high on the ceiling, Purple gave a crow of triumph. " There it is!"

An air vent crashed to the floor. The brawl broke apart, and one by one, the fighters looked up.

Purple waved back at them. Slowly, he dragged out a massive metal chest out of an air vent. With a twist and a leap, he landed in a wreckage of pillows and candy wrappers. Out sprang a blaster of his own, not trained on his attackers, but the chest at his feet.

"Lucky for you, Elite, one of us thought ahead. Watch and learn." Grinning with all his teeth, Purple kicked the lid open. "OKAY, nobody move! I've got a hostage!"

"Uh, Elite?" Red tapped his shoulder. "I think you might want to check that."

Purple glanced down. Slowly, he lifted the blanket covering the lumps inside and blinked at the contents. Poked them a little. Lifted a little moth wing and watched it flop back down. "Oh, right. You're supposed to feed these things, aren't you?"

Well, that explained the missing crew members. Red winced and ignored the horrified shrieks and sobs of rage behind him. (That Fweezie had some lungs on her. At least she wasn't after him this time.) "How did you live in here all this time and not notice? Couldn't you smell them?"

Purple's PAK legs clashed against the Fweezie's spear, tangling around it. He grasped hard and swung both moth and spear over his shoulder. The tip snapped, leaving him with a fancy stick. "It's always smelly in here." He jabbed the splintered fancy stick at the Screwhead coming from his left. "I live with a Truffloid."

Okay, fair.

Movement blurred in the corner of Red's eye. Red grabbed the remains of the microwave and smashed it on the Screwhead's skull at the same time the hammerhead came down on his damaged boot.

Eighty pounds of steel slammed Red's exposed foot. It cracked.

Red buckled. He grabbed a ledge to prop himself, grinding his teeth against the pain. More than there should have been. Shouldn't his PAK have administered the painkillers by now? He rolled his right shoulder with a deep shuddering breath. The PAK was still busy dosing antivenom and rebuilding nerve centers. Great.

He eyed the unconscious Screwhead beneath him. The sharp tip of his PAK leg scraped along the thin skin of the Screwhead's throat. It'd be a quick throat puncture. Barely any effort at all. Red's broken foot screamed in agony. Bounties just needed a body… but still only half the amount for a live one.

Red withdrew the PAK leg, shifting his weight onto it. That's what legs were for, after all. He curled the real leg against himself, groaning at the relieved pressure on his injured foot, and looked around.

The room's chaos had dialed down to a simmer. On the far side of the room, Purple held the second Screwhead at gunpoint under his boot and the Fweezie at a stalemate. That was the nice thing about weak-hearted species and hostages. You could always find replacements.

At a glance, the worst damage had been to the Fweezie's arm. Maybe a skull fracture on the Screwhead if Red had thrown that microwave hard enough. Nothing that couldn't be fixed. Excluding the hostages Purple forgot to feed, they could land with the crew intact.

Good. A couple of hiccups along the way, but still good. "Okay." Red took a deep breath, realigned himself, and let the agony in his foot fade to background noise. When he exhaled and opened his eyes, he found Purple's gaze upon him.

The Elite arched an eyebrow and leaned his neck forward, interested. Thinking. His eyes flicked to the unconscious Screwhead. The compromised boot on Red's mangled foot. Back to the conscious Screwhead and fuming Fweezian at gunpoint.

Purple's antennae perked high and twitched. "Oh." He smiled a little, and Red didn't like a single thing about it.

Nothing in Red's expression had changed. He stared back flat, expressionless.

It didn't matter. The snotloaf dug it out anyway. "Now I get it. It's a monies thing." The little smile curled and grew teeth. "Isn't it? What, didja run into a gambling problem? Too many nights in the arena stands, shuttlebug?"

Red loped past him with a sneer, one careful eye still on the bleeding Fweezie. "I don't think that's any of your business. Look, it's like you said, we're eight minutes from Devastis. Right now let's just focus on landing and getting these—"

Purple shoved his way into Red's path. "Hey, you're the one who boarded my ship."

"YOUR ship?!" The Fweezian rounded on them with bared teeth and all her fur fluffed out. She kind of looked like an electrified snowcone.

"Hey. Excuse me." The tip of Purple's blaster poked the Fweezie in the nose. "We were in the middle of a conversation. Irk, why is everybody so rude today?" Purple put his free hand to his hip and spared her a glance. "The ship belonged to you, you're Empire property, and I haven't turned anything in yet. So yeah, my ship."

The snarling Fweezian's needle teeth glinted in the low light. Her three working fists clenched hard. For a moment, it seemed as if the moth might ignore the blaster two centimeters from her face and do something stupid. But a Class Eight sapient had better sense than that. Instead, she stared him in the eye and said, low and livid and very clear, "We are nobody's property."

Which was a pretty silly thing to say. In the end, everybody belonged to somebody.

Red chuffed under his breath. "Don't know why you're looking at us like it's our fault. If you don't wanna spin silk in a sweatshop, don't lose a war."

"I know, right? It's that easy. Anyway, like I was saying, you boarded my ship, compromised my mission, totaled at least…" Purple did a quick body count. "…nine of my favorite pillows, killed an innocent microwave, AND ruined my nap. Explain the part where this isn't my business."

Please. As if this waste of space was even authorized for naps.

"I already told you, I found a rogue vessel in—you know what? No. I'm not having this conversation again."

There shouldn't have even been a conversation. This was stupid. This whole thing was stupid. That was the trouble with other Irkens, nobody knew how to just shut up and do their stupid job. The sooner they landed, the sooner they could separate and never see each other again.

"It doesn't matter. You wanna be that nosy, we can trade life stories when we're back on the ground." Red rubbed his broken foot while the PAK legs carried him out of range for Purple's stupidness. He needed room to think. "Can we just worry about right now?"

Purple shrugged with an airy "Fine with me..."

"Fine."

Red checked the time. Eighteen—no, seventeen minutes until he had to report for duty. Counting the time it'd take to dock ship and pass through decontamination, more like ten minutes. Playing around with this idiot and his stupid idiot mission had devoured all of Red's excess time.

"Eugh." Distantly, Red wondered if he'd need to split the haul with the other Elite. Did it even qualify for a bounty if they'd already been accounted for in an infiltration mission? Probably.

Next to the clock, in the corner of his gauntlet's screen, the Foodcourtia messages from earlier were still blinking. Red skimmed quickly through them: one ad for snack coupons and two Do Not Engage messages. Too late for that now. Eyes forward, Red.

According to the price guide, insurgents under infiltration could still be harvested. Worst case scenario, Red would have to split the bounty, which would bring it to a little over half 100k, assuming the moth's fancy coloring wasn't a fluke. Not quite enough for all of The Lenient 's modification debt, but it covered the majority. And it still got him new boots.

Alright, so Capture Plan 2.0:

(1) Lock down remaining insurgents (Done).

(2) Replace boot. Repair foot (if time).

(3) Obtain snacks.

(4) Report for duty

(5) Bribe new commander with snacks to apologize for near-tardiness.

(5) Punch Elite Purple in the throat (stabbing also acceptable).

(6) Obtain additional snack.

(7) Wash The Lenient.

(8) Mop up the blood and dispose of the body that Elite Purple had just shot in the face—wait.

…Wait.

Wait, WHAT?!

Red stared in horror at the dead Screwhead at his feet. Dark blue blood stained his boots and soaked through his exposed sock. "I—you?! WHY DID YOU—?!"

"Whups." Purple blew the smoke off his blaster muzzle. He looked him dead in the eye. "Finger slipped."

Merrily, Purple skipped out of strangling range and pulled the plate of pizza rolls out of his PAK. They were still hot and steaming. "So, neat fact about that guy. His name's Tinka. Nice fella—knew how to make a mean Instant Fruit salad. Sang nice little Screwhead songs to me when I was faking trauma episodes." He popped a pizza roll in his mouth and gestured to the one Red had conked with the microwave. "He escaped the Belts a few years ago along with his brother over there."

"What's that got to do… with…" Red's thoughts bounced back to him. Everybody belongs to somebody.

But these two Screwheads weren't just conquered inhabitants. They'd been actively enslaved, escaped, and then quietly recaptured by the Empire. Purple may have been the one who'd fired the shot, but Red created the circumstances which had led to that shot. He had been the one who'd initiated the attack by compromising the infiltration mission. Meaning the blame ultimately came down on him, so…

"Anyway, it's a good thing you're not hurting for monies, 'cause—" Purple gestured to the Screwhead's body, spitting bits of pizza roll as he spoke. "—looks like you owe the Irken Empire ten thousand."

Red leveled a flat stare at Purple's comfy little smirk. Slowly, he closed his fingers around a chunk of loose shrapnel. With the heartless precision of an Irken Elite, he threw it and sent the plate tumbling out of Purple's hands.

Lights stuttered above them. Not dull orange emergency lights, but the bright whites of the main system. It happened again. How did—

Purple's fist smashed into Red's cheek.

Red went reeling backward, his good boot slipping through blood and blankets and pillow feathers. He stumbled into the hall behind him, righted himself and parried the second fist before it caught him between the eyes. PAK legs clawed the walls for leverage, braced, and ricocheted Red into his target.

They collided—a gnashing, slashing, flailing, hissing knot of fists and claws and legs and arms and metal. Environments whirled as the fight shifted out of the halls and into the bridge.

"You scuzzsack! You absolute SCUZZSACK! Who the spoots do you think you are, barging in here tearing up nests and snackpiles like you own the place?" Purple's claws clamped around Red's antenna and bashed his skull into the control panel. Hard. "You know how long I had those rolls in the microwave? Like twenty minutes!"

Claws dug deep into the flesh of Red's head. Dragged him up and slammed him again. Drew back with a yelp when the heel of Red's boot hit him in the spooch.

That was a nice sound. Red flipped over and kicked him again. "Aw, poor baby." He hacked a glob of bright pink and bloodied spit right in Purple's big ugly face.

"AUGH YOU GOT IT IN MY MOUTH!"

"So sorry doing my duty messed up your squeeby little naptime." But for a soft squeeb, the fucker still hit like a railgun. And he still had Red's antenna clenched in his glove. "You're gonna make me late screwing around here. Some of us have places to be!" Red lashed out and hit something soft.

Purple hissed and wiggled out of the way, but didn't loosen his grip. "No kidding, genius. Why'd you think I was headed to Devastis in the first place?"

Oh, you've got to be kidding.

He'd gotten the summons too. This festering pukestain had the nerve to get a summons for Invader training—THE most prestigious title in the Irken military—and had the total gall to be the same height as him?

Red snarled and lashed out—only to find nobody there and his antenna free.

"Quick question." Purple leaned over the control panel, his puffy eye squinting in the bright lights of the bridge. "Wasn't this thing broken before?" He tilted his head towards the light. "I thought the power went out."

It had.

Red met him at the bloodied and dented control panel. The lit and blinking functional control panel. How did… His antennae perked. "Where's the moth?"

As one, they turned and followed their path of destruction from Purple's room to the hall to the bridge to the wall. White fuzz mingled with a green blood trail smearing the gaping hole in the airlock.

The airlock with the cable connecting the rebel ship to The Lenient .

HIS Lenient .

A foreign body at this very moment was physically touching—or worse, sitting —in The Lenient . Hacking her beautiful power core. Sapping her energy to jumpstart the scrapheap ship. Shedding disgusting moth dust across her upholstery. Raiding her glorious mini-fridge!

"My baby!" Red bolted for the airlock.

Purple jumped a toppled command chair and followed on his heels. "Aw, spoots!"

To Reds surprise, a sharp scent of panic pulsed and spiked behind him. Antennae straight and flat, Elite Purple's bare feet slapped the floor in great running leaps. Every breath peppered with little "Spoots, spoots, spoots, oh spoots " all the way through the connector cable and into The Lenient 's cockpit.

A waste of energy. Sized for solo flights, The Lenient couldn't fit two tallers and a Fweezian, but that didn't stop Purple from trying. His lanky body crawled halfway out the airlock, one hand reaching for Red in vain. "Wait."

Climbing into his cockpit, Red spared the Elite a simmering glare and turned away. One intruder at a time. His skin shivered in the chill; she'd wasted no time making herself at home and lowered the temperature.

A low growl rumbled in his throat. Red stormed toward the Fweezie filth sitting her filthy body in his chair. Bleeding all over his console while the three working arms redirected his energy feeds and fuel lines. How hard did one have to pull to separate a moth's head from its shoulders?

More slapping and scrambling behind him. In the corner of Red's eye, Purple had squeezed most of his body through the airlock. "Irk's sake—wait!"

Oh, so now he wanted to hold back on his captives? Should've thought of that before.

The moth's antennae perked. She tucked and rolled before Red's claws reached her. He followed.

Forget the bounty. Forget the fines. Red could get the monies some other way. This alien was leaving his ship. Now. In pieces, if necessary.

The saws of his volt-cutters rose squealing out of his PAK, spitting sparks across the cockpit. They'd sliced through hulls and barricades. He'd never seen what they could do to a soft fleshy body, but it felt like a great day to find out.

The Fweezian bared her nasty needle teeth, unsheathing a knife. Maybe the tip of the broken spear, maybe a new one. Didn't matter; the cutters could handle both, and she knew it.

Purple squeaked in his throat. "WAIT! Lady Greendown—uh, Harpe! H-hey, can't we talk about this?"

The Fweezian retreated backward. Flinched when the sparks of Red's saws burned the fur on her cheeks. "Thou art a knave and a scoundrel, deceitful slave of the Empire!" She took shelter under the command console, sandwiched between the wall and the minifridge. "We've nothing to discuss."

What kind of disgusting coward used an innocent fridge for a body shield? Red bent down to go after her and nearly got his eye poked out by her stupid little knife.

"Come on, I didn't lie about every thing." Did this idiot Elite EVER shut up? "Like… um… I really did like those blankets you made! That counts for something, right?" Purple desperately rooted around his PAK for something. What, Red didn't care to know.

It served as a decent distraction, though. The second the moth's gaze shifted, Red lunged under the console, snatched her leg, and yanked.

Yelping, the Fweezie flipped over and fluttered her wings. In The Lenient 's fully functional lights, the flash of scales became an erratic strobe. Blinding, even when Red turned away and shut his eyes.

Didn't matter. Eyes or no eyes, nobody knew Red's ship better than Red. The minifridge sat to his right, meaning the secondary glove box was right above him. He punched it open, snatched the loaded blaster inside, and honed in on the quick vibration of Fweezie wings.

She cried out before Red fired a shot. Something thumped hard next to him. The moth's foot. Coughing, she stumbled and fell.

Red's vision cleared. Billows of smoke curled through the ship, dark blue and heavy with the scent of citric acid and clove. Purple had set off a smoke bomb.

"Non-lethal methods! Code… whatever!" Through the smoke, Purple's silhouette tossed a pair of cuffs through the air.

Red's free hand caught it. The moth struggled to her feet, weakly clawing at him. He grabbed a fistful of delicate wing membrane and kicked her feet out from under her. The second she went down, he caught her wrist and snapped on the cuff.

Instantly, mechanical cables snaked out to become a set of six, one to capture each limb.

Red blinked away the last of blinding effects and stood to consider the bound and subdued Fweezian at his feet. He prodded the intricate filigree patterns in her wing with the toe of his boot. "Greendown, huh? As in the royal Greendowns?" He raised an eyebrow at Purple's nod. "Huh. Thought we slaughtered all of those last century."

"We did, sorta," Purple said, coming up from behind. "But nobility's got all these little derivatives and stuff. Offspring of the cousin of a bastard duke's uncle's mistress's nurse or whatever, I dunno. Still counts, I guess."

"Sounds stupid and complicated."

"It is."

"No wonder they're dead." The Greendown had either gone unconscious or incapacitated from the smoke bomb. Red nudged her cheek with his boot. Unconscious. "Wait… you had those bombs this entire time?"

Purple looked up from his gauntlet. "Sure I did."

"Why didn't you use that in the FIRST place?!"

He gave a great big roll of his eyes. "Because I didn't think of it. Duh." Cramped inside The Lenient 's cockpit, Purple knelt on the floor, one elbow propped on the minifridge. He gestured to the scuffle's debris. "What was all that about, anyway? We both had her; she wasn't going anywhere. Even if she did, we just would've gone with her."

"She was in my ship," Red told him.

"…so?"

Red reset the thermostat while he took damage assessment for his beloved Lenient . Boot prints and wing scales and bloodstains. Scuffed minifridge. Annoying, but easily fixed. "So my ship is mine . She belongs to me ."

Elite Purple tilted his head, cocked his eyebrow at him, then shrugged. Figure an Infiltrator not to understand the value of a good ship; they spent all their time leeching off everyone else's.

With the Fweezian lying incapacitated and more room to roam, Purple stalked about Red's cabin, taking in the surroundings. The holographic star map slowly rotated alongside a flightpath the moth had begun to reroute before being interrupted. Muted in the screen above it, The Announcer silently counted down the Top Twenty Forbidden Snacks Of All Time , in order from least to most delicious.

"Not bad," he said, "but I've seen nicer. Ooh, nice cupholder though! Is this custom made?" Purple ignored Red's irritated huff. "You know, you never gave me your name, Elite…" He spotted the I.D. plaque engraved above the steering stick. "…Red."

"You didn't request it, and it wasn't important." Not that Red was required to release his identification to anyone besides superior officers in the first place.

Red wiped the moth dust off his suit and rose to dump the Fweezie into her own ship—and Purple too, while he was at it. Let him find his own way to Devastis. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at stars drifting by the window. He slowed to a stop.

Why were the stars drifting?

At the same time, Purple appeared over his shoulder. "Are we moving?"

The Lenient chirped as if in response. A thin scroll of yellow text ran along the bottom of the console: ENERGY TRANSFERAL: 100% COMPLETION .

Together, they stared out at a rogue Fweezian ship, fully powered and operational. Without a pilot.

And slowly drifting down to Devastis.

The Lenient jerked violently. Red's broken foot collapsed under him, and he fell backwards into Purple.

Drifting? Make that falling. Fast. Very fast.

"Disconnect! Lenient , disconnect from unauthorized ship immediately!"

INSUFFICIENT POWER. PLEASE DISCONNECT MANUALLY. A second message flashed above it in stark black and red. WARNING: INCOMING PLANET AHEAD.

"Thanks, I noticed. You—move." Shoving the useless Irken lump away from the chair, Red hopped into his rightful place and gripped the steering stick.

Nebulas and satellites and stars and ships smeared in a blur. Temperature control hummed as the falling ship dragged the tethered Lenient into Devastis' atmosphere.

The Elite behind him dug his claws into the back of Red's chair. "What are you doing? You can't rip us off; we'll just get sucked out of the air—"

"Not ripping us off."

Devastis streaked by the windshield in a whirling splotch of browns and greens, broken by the occasional landmark. There went the crest of the Arena Spire. Combat hubs. Firing ranges. The Punishment Cube.

Red axed Lenient 's thrusters and eased her into cruising speeds. Just enough to stay ahead of the crashing ship and give the connector hose some slack. "I just need to keep her in the air in the meantime until—"

SMASH!

Oof, that sounded expensive.

CRACK.

That, too.

They wrenched backward as the hose went taut. The rogue ship must have finally collided.

The Lenient eased into a hover and gently landed atop the insurgent ship's scorched and battered hull.

None of those voices outside sounded very happy.

The ship's entry hatch eased open. Slowly, Red poked his head out and looked around.

Over two-hundred thousand Irken Elite soldiers stared back at them, a line of stunned commanding officers at the forefront. In the thick of the crowd, a smaller Irken stood on tiptoe to stare. Tenn caught Red's eye and waved at him.

Unsure what else to do, Red waved back.

Light poured through the jagged crater in what had once been a roof. They'd crashed right into the orientation hall.

Purple dusted a cloud of rubble off his shoulder and checked his gauntlet. "Ha! Five minutes early." He snickered and elbowed Red in the ribs. "See? Toldja we wouldn't be late."