"Team," the leader says, "Find anything useful here?" The other five all shake their heads slightly. He looks down at me. "You," he says, "Outside. Now." I get up slowly and walk toward the door. He steps aside to let me pass, then follows me. Just before he shuts the door behind us, he turns and orders the other strangers to "do what's necessary".
"What do you want with me?" I ask.
"You're a defective," he says, leveling his gun at me. I tense. "Against the wall," he orders. I don't dare disobey, but my mind is racing, looking for an escape.
"I . . .I haven't done anything," I hear myself say. Pathetic.
"No, but you will," he says. "You will or you'll die right here."
"What?" I ask. Did he misspeak? In the half-second of silence, I hear terrible noises coming from behind the closed door a few feet away. Laser fire and screaming. Lots of screaming.
"I am the captain of the unnamed black ship that has terrorized the Empire these past two years. I am a defective, as are all the members of my crew. Including you."
"You're asking me to be one of the black-ship raiders?" I ask in shock.
"No, I'm saying that if you refuse my offer of amnesty, you'll suffer the same fate as all the loyal little citizens of the Empire in that room."
As if on cue, the door opens and the other five emerge from the cloud of smoke and steam that now fills the room. They are all splattered liberally with blood, and two of them are carrying bags stuffed with PAKs. The captain notices me staring at them.
"We strip those for parts," he says, "for our own smeets. Now tell me, are you joining us or not?"
"I . . . I'll join," I say. After all, there's not much choice.
"Then come with us," says the captain. We all walk off down the hall, the crew members leading the way and the captain behind me, his gun still pointed at me. I don't blame him.
We arrive in one of the courtyards, where about twenty more of the crew are positioning crates of supplies and watching as a transporter from the ship takes them up. I take the lull as a chance to ask some questions. "So why do you want me, anyway?"
The captain turns his head slightly to look at me. There's a bit of a challenge in his eyes. "You're a defective," he says. "That's enough."
"But why defectives?" I ask. "Wouldn't normal Irkens be better?"
"You know them; do you want to live and work with them?" he asks, watching the crew load another crate.
"No." I understand what he's getting at now.
One of the crew who had been helping load crates comes up to the captain. I'm still not used to their black eyes. I shiver slightly as he looks me over. "That's the last load," he says.
"Let's go," says the captain.
Everyone hurries over to the massive cargo transporter, where the members of the loading crew are already gathering. At a signal from one of the more heavily-cloaked crew members, the transporter activates. Next thing I know, I'm standing in a cargo bay nearly half-filled with crates. The crew disperses rapidly, all running off to their stations, until only the captain, myself, and four others remain. Three of them are heavily armed guards. The captain seems to have borrowed his gun from one of them; they have the same type, and he is no longer carrying one. The fourth, a male a bit shorter than the captain and with the same athletic build (though he has metal flames on his boots and red net sleeves on his shirt), offers an opinion. "That went well."
The captain nods. "Quite well. We need to get out, though. Keep us safe, Mag."
"I will," says Mag, with a friendly salute. He exits the room, no doubt heading for the bridge.
"Now, as for you," says the captain, turning to me, "they'll get you a room for now. Once we're safe out of the Armada's way, you'll have a chance to meet some of the others. Sound good?"
"I suppose," I say.
"What would you rather do?" His antennae twitch upward as he says this. His amused expression is a bit disconcerting, but I figure he can't be as bad as I think. He's not a regular Irken.
"I . . . a room is okay, but . . . could I . . ."
"What?" The sound of his voice makes me look up, into the most encouraging eyes I've ever seen.
"Could I have something to draw on?" I hold my breath, waiting for the tirade.
"Kyo, grab her a tablet and a few tools, would you?" says the captain. One of the guards nods and runs off. I can't really move. It . . . he . . . it's okay. I'm allowed to draw.