your quarters down the corridor and to your left. You can't miss it. There's a big sign made outtah cardboard that says 'VIP Quarters'. I made the sign myself."
There was no doubt in any of their minds that they were being dismissed. Facto grabbed the two small bags and headed down the hallway, and the Queen followed him.
"Pleasure to meet you," Taralin said, turning at the doorway.
"Uh huh," Drew grunted out.
"What the hell are you playing at, Qwah!" Erik screamed when he was sure they were out of hearing range.
"Hey! I made 'em a sign, didn't I?"
"You're a God damned smart-assed little bitch," he screamed, his face turning red.
"And you're a hairless, pencil-dicked old fuck," Drew said calmly. "But I love you anyway."
Erik took a deep breath and counted to ten. "What's that awful smell?" He asked after a second.
"Did you ever smell a Get Outtah The Truck Bitch?"
"Yeah."
"Well, that's what it smells like when it's been recycled."
Zarco had never been to Vares 7 before, and he decided he hadn't missed much. It was the least inhabited of Vares's eighty moons. Really nothing more than a spaceport, consisting mostly of hotels which had rooms which weren't much better than the accommodations on most ships. There were restaurants which looked like they might get shoveled out once a year, and there were trading posts. The trading posts seemed to have a little bit of everything. People traded what they didn't need for what they did. Or more than likely sold it, so that they would have enough money to get drunk, laid, or both at the most prominent business on Vares 7; one of the fifty clubs which littered the main street.
The only people who ever came here were riff-raff and Salvagers, if there was really any distinction between the two. Zarco didn't think there was.
Vares was a pit, a cesspool of a place on the edge of the cosmos, where the dregs of space congregated to share their diseases. But that was a large part of the reason they had decided to pick Taralin up here. He, Zarco, was dressed in normal spaceport clothes, and they were using the least impressive of his twenty private ships. He had given orders that no one was to know that he had left the palace, much less the planet. But he knew that was no guarantee his enemies wouldn't find out that he was gone. Things had a way of leaking out, even when you took every precaution. A servant told a friend. The friend told his wife. Before you knew it, everyone knew. But no one would even consider that he would be coming to a place like Vares 7. No one would believe he would come to such an awful place.
He still wished their reunion didn't have to be in such a horrible place, but he wasn't willing to take any chance that his enemies might stop his reunion with his wife. He wasn't deluded enough to believe that he no longer had any enemies. Winning a war didn't decrease your enemies, it increased them. If anything, they became more vengeful. There were always going to be those who would not admit to defeat. Those who had lost loved ones and were hell-bent on "justice". If you lost someone in a war that you won, their death seemed somehow justified. But if you lost the war . . . well, it just seemed like a waste.
Still, as he looked around him, he couldn't help but feel that meeting her in this place seemed a high price to pay for safety.
"Sire, I believe this is our hotel," Fitz informed him.
Zarco looked up at the three-storied building and frowned.
"Are you all right, sire?"
Zarco nodded yes.
"We married on the sands of Dradious, with the crystal clear waters of Uratis behind us. I just wish our reunion could take place someplace . . ."
He kicked a piece of something that might have once been fruit out of his way.
"Someplace cleaner. Less detestable." He forced a smile. "I'm fine, Fitz. I can't wait to see her again. To embrace her."
Taralin
There was no doubt in any of their minds that they were being dismissed. Facto grabbed the two small bags and headed down the hallway, and the Queen followed him.
"Pleasure to meet you," Taralin said, turning at the doorway.
"Uh huh," Drew grunted out.
"What the hell are you playing at, Qwah!" Erik screamed when he was sure they were out of hearing range.
"Hey! I made 'em a sign, didn't I?"
"You're a God damned smart-assed little bitch," he screamed, his face turning red.
"And you're a hairless, pencil-dicked old fuck," Drew said calmly. "But I love you anyway."
Erik took a deep breath and counted to ten. "What's that awful smell?" He asked after a second.
"Did you ever smell a Get Outtah The Truck Bitch?"
"Yeah."
"Well, that's what it smells like when it's been recycled."
Zarco had never been to Vares 7 before, and he decided he hadn't missed much. It was the least inhabited of Vares's eighty moons. Really nothing more than a spaceport, consisting mostly of hotels which had rooms which weren't much better than the accommodations on most ships. There were restaurants which looked like they might get shoveled out once a year, and there were trading posts. The trading posts seemed to have a little bit of everything. People traded what they didn't need for what they did. Or more than likely sold it, so that they would have enough money to get drunk, laid, or both at the most prominent business on Vares 7; one of the fifty clubs which littered the main street.
The only people who ever came here were riff-raff and Salvagers, if there was really any distinction between the two. Zarco didn't think there was.
Vares was a pit, a cesspool of a place on the edge of the cosmos, where the dregs of space congregated to share their diseases. But that was a large part of the reason they had decided to pick Taralin up here. He, Zarco, was dressed in normal spaceport clothes, and they were using the least impressive of his twenty private ships. He had given orders that no one was to know that he had left the palace, much less the planet. But he knew that was no guarantee his enemies wouldn't find out that he was gone. Things had a way of leaking out, even when you took every precaution. A servant told a friend. The friend told his wife. Before you knew it, everyone knew. But no one would even consider that he would be coming to a place like Vares 7. No one would believe he would come to such an awful place.
He still wished their reunion didn't have to be in such a horrible place, but he wasn't willing to take any chance that his enemies might stop his reunion with his wife. He wasn't deluded enough to believe that he no longer had any enemies. Winning a war didn't decrease your enemies, it increased them. If anything, they became more vengeful. There were always going to be those who would not admit to defeat. Those who had lost loved ones and were hell-bent on "justice". If you lost someone in a war that you won, their death seemed somehow justified. But if you lost the war . . . well, it just seemed like a waste.
Still, as he looked around him, he couldn't help but feel that meeting her in this place seemed a high price to pay for safety.
"Sire, I believe this is our hotel," Fitz informed him.
Zarco looked up at the three-storied building and frowned.
"Are you all right, sire?"
Zarco nodded yes.
"We married on the sands of Dradious, with the crystal clear waters of Uratis behind us. I just wish our reunion could take place someplace . . ."
He kicked a piece of something that might have once been fruit out of his way.
"Someplace cleaner. Less detestable." He forced a smile. "I'm fine, Fitz. I can't wait to see her again. To embrace her."
Taralin
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