Grinding my teeth, choking on my revulsion, I begrudgingly stand in front of the VidCam and compose a diplomatic missive to the Icky Apes. Zorg intently watching my every utterance.
Offer the Monkey Men a trade agreement. Barely manage to refrain from asking if their nose functions as a multi-purpose orifice, ‘cause it sure looks like it.
Send it off. Wait several months. Icky Apes still have an explorer in the Dispayri System so communication exchanges are relatively fast.
Zorg turns up to view their reply. Big event. All kinds of hangers-on poised on the edge of their seats waiting to see how the Monkey Men reacted to our friendly overtures.
Just to be on the safe side I’ve kept my foot down on the war machine. By now it should be ramping up to a decent hum.
Icky Apes ambassador in life-sized HoloVid. How do they manage that? Superior technology.
Difficult to place the expression on his face. Keep thinking I’m going to have to duck if he suffers an involuntary bowel movement out of his crazy honker.
He speaks. Zorg sucks in his breath. No go on the trade deal. Monkey Men have as many fancy new Vidplasmas as they need. Don’t call us, we’ll call you.
Shucks. Ain’t that a shame. Better fire up the Phasors.
No, no, NO! shouts Zorg, red with rage. ‘Negotiate with them! Talk to them. Do a deal.’
Isn’t that what I’ve just done? Apes said no. General Huss and the Second Fleet will be in position soon. Let loose the dogs of war.
Zorg failing to grasp the big picture.
Insisting I ‘grease their palms’. Dark, dirty looks clearly stating what is left unsaid. Snaps his fingers. Diplomatic Team enter with VidCam, ready to record.
With a herculean effort, I suppress my own demonic urges and man up to the challenge. Putting on my grimmest smile, I make the magnanimous gift of sixty credits to the pucker-faced primates. Suggest that they may want to revisit the Trade Agreement in light of our benevolence.
Sixty credits might just do it for a cheap nose job at a back-alley chop shop here on Zion. Knock yourself out.
* * *
Icky Apes aren’t going to give us a trade Agreement. Not interested in dealing with somebody whom they are about to attack.
But Zorg won’t let it go. He’ll keep pushing the Trade barrow until he rolls it straight off the edge of the precipice. Zorg, for all of his wicked, Machiavellian ways, has no concept of true evil. Nor of destiny.
What he needs is a reminder.
A small memory jogger of the imminent danger that the Icky Apes present to his Merchant Monopoly. Can’t make money if you’re dead, can you?
So say a big hello to the Leech. A man with a cutlass, no morals and sporting a brain that emanates more bad radiation than a throbbing, out of control, giant Pulsar.
General Huss and the Second Fleet accidently found the Leech in a life support pod. Drifting through the void. All alone. Dying a slow death from oxygen starvation.
Apparently an ‘advisor’ to the Ardaluun Gangsters. Telling the big-toothed T-Rex’s how to make it as a pirate.
Lost his job once their base was deep sixed by General Huss. Miracle he wasn’t immediately put to death by the good General upon discovery of his pod. A traitorous human willingly aiding and abetting reptiles has no right to a new life.
I suspect that the only reason he was kept alive was for purposes of creative entertainment for our sadistic, dwarf-sized Commander.
Threw him into the brig and, in his typical absentminded manner, forgot about him.
Son of Igor heard snippets of this and that on intercepted comms from the Second Fleet. Put two and two together and brought it to my attention.
Immediately sent a secret communiqué to the Emperor’s representative onboard the flagship. Every significant naval vessel has one of these. Undercover, of course.
Given extra pay and special privileges back home on Zion. Recycled secretaries actually. Zorg gives the girls to me and once I’ve finished the paperwork I parcel them off to the rep’s as trusty ‘companions’.
System working well. Nobody from Fleet HQ suspects anything. Even General Huss is ignorant of a fifth column aboard his flagship.
Given that the Toads managed to explosively terminate my interest in all things paperwork I can afford to be more generous with my Secretaries. In fact I’m sending them all off, bar a couple, to await the rep’s return.
Downside of having secretaries is that Zorg knows everything that I do. Wasn’t a problem before but now that our relationship has become more adversarial I need to close down his information pipeline. Throttle it back and feed it carefully crafted morsels of misinformation.
By now the Emperor’s representative on the Second Fleet’s flagship will have received my secret message and hopefully Captain Crazy, a-la ‘The Leech’, will be heading to the outer reaches of the Dispayri System in a beat-up old Escort with a small automated robo-crew.
Instructed to blow up as many of Zorg’s freighters as he can find. Act as if he is an Icky Ape.
Allowed to have as much fun as he wants. Right up until the self-destruct timer reaches zero.
Doesn’t know about that. Can’t be trusted to keep a secret. Unstable. Unhinged. At least he will die happy.
Can’t have Zorg realising anything other than the threat posed to his Mercantile ways by the assumed Monkey Men. Should be enough to shake him out of his profit-obsessed stupor.
Son of Igor handling all communications. Fully encrypted. The Emperors’ Rep in question earmarked for a priority sticky ending just as soon as he returns to Zion.
Trademark Emperor Fred move, that one. Always clean up after yourself. Never leave the garbage lying around where somebody may stumble over it.
Neat and tidy, that’s the secret.
To be continued...
Lancer
