contempt exploded from Cree. "I am a Reaper, Lona; I can do whatever the
hell I want!"
Drewe knew that was true enough. Even if the man had been severely censured by the
Court of Military Inquiry and faced a month of hard labor at the Helios Twelve penal
colony, his reputation had not been sullied by the stigma of his punishment. If anything, it
had been enhanced.
"What if the Ministry of Science won't sell her to you?" Drewe questioned, doubting that was a possibility though feeling he would be remiss in his duties if he did not
mention it.
Cree waved a dismissive hand at his second in command. "Offer the bastards an
ungodly amount of money, Lona," he snapped with irritation. "They're always bitching about not having a big enough cut of the budget pie."
"How high do you wish me to go?" Drewe asked and wasn't prepared for the reaction
his innocent question caused.
"Just buy me the gods-be-damned female, Lona!" came the enraged shout. Bowls,
spoons, and glasses flew off the table as Cree's arm swept a pathway across them. "Don't make me have to repeat myself, Sailor!"
Drewe's mouth sagged open and his eyes flared with shock. He flinched as another
thunderous bellow of absolute rage poured from Cree, "I don't give a shit what you have
to pay for her! I want her and I will have her! Do you understand me?"
All the pent-up anger and repressed hostility Cree had always felt had reasserted itself
ABC Amber LIT Converter
http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
ABC Amber LIT Converter
http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
just as the Director had predicted it would. Kamerone Cree—a very complex man with a
precise intellect, a personality that denied opposition, and an ironclad will that prohibited any—glared up at his 2/IC with such brutal fierceness of purpose, the young man took a
fearful step back.
"Get the hell out of my sight, Lona, and do as I ordered you! I want her in my quarters
by the end of the day. Is that gods-be-damned clear?"
"Aye-aye, SIR!" Drewe barked, snapping a smart salute into place. "Right away, Sir! "
Drewe exited the Captain's quarters with as much dignity as his flaming face would
allow.
Cree stared moodily at the clutter of dishes on the counters of his food preparation
center. "What a gods-be-damned mess!" he grumbled. He hated such mundane,
boring, female work as cleaning, and since he was not adapted all that well to doing it and did not trust strangers into his quarters to do it for him, his pigheadedness made it his
personal chore. Dishes and linens would pile up to the ceiling before he finally broke
down and sent them through the sonic cleaners. Everything was allowed to go to rack and
ruin until he could stand it no longer and rolled up his sleeves to tackle the job. If the
chore seemed too vast—as it did at that moment—or he was in a particularly foul mood
—as he was on most days he noticed the mess—he would simply throw out the old and
buy new. Since he couldn't do that with his Ministry of Fleet Operations issued uniforms,
he had to bundle them up and cart them off to the station cleaners so he would have clean
clothing to wear. If he had his way, he thought, spying a pile of rumpled uniforms lying in
the sonic sink, he'd go air-clad as his Chalean ancestors had. The thought of running
around FSK-14 with his manhood swinging free brought a smile to his lips.
"That would certainly scare the hell out of the Resistance." He chuckled.
Sweeping aside a pile of laundry, he flopped down in a chair. He had always thought
that if someone wanted to really torture him into giving away Empire secrets, all they had to do was make him do mindless cleaning.
"Torture cleaning," he muttered. How the hell did females endure it? How could they sweep and dust and mop and wash and scrub and scour and fold and stack then start it all
over again day after day after day? The mere thought of that repetitive agony made him
practically tremble with frustration.
" I
hell I want!"
Drewe knew that was true enough. Even if the man had been severely censured by the
Court of Military Inquiry and faced a month of hard labor at the Helios Twelve penal
colony, his reputation had not been sullied by the stigma of his punishment. If anything, it
had been enhanced.
"What if the Ministry of Science won't sell her to you?" Drewe questioned, doubting that was a possibility though feeling he would be remiss in his duties if he did not
mention it.
Cree waved a dismissive hand at his second in command. "Offer the bastards an
ungodly amount of money, Lona," he snapped with irritation. "They're always bitching about not having a big enough cut of the budget pie."
"How high do you wish me to go?" Drewe asked and wasn't prepared for the reaction
his innocent question caused.
"Just buy me the gods-be-damned female, Lona!" came the enraged shout. Bowls,
spoons, and glasses flew off the table as Cree's arm swept a pathway across them. "Don't make me have to repeat myself, Sailor!"
Drewe's mouth sagged open and his eyes flared with shock. He flinched as another
thunderous bellow of absolute rage poured from Cree, "I don't give a shit what you have
to pay for her! I want her and I will have her! Do you understand me?"
All the pent-up anger and repressed hostility Cree had always felt had reasserted itself
ABC Amber LIT Converter
http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
ABC Amber LIT Converter
http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
just as the Director had predicted it would. Kamerone Cree—a very complex man with a
precise intellect, a personality that denied opposition, and an ironclad will that prohibited any—glared up at his 2/IC with such brutal fierceness of purpose, the young man took a
fearful step back.
"Get the hell out of my sight, Lona, and do as I ordered you! I want her in my quarters
by the end of the day. Is that gods-be-damned clear?"
"Aye-aye, SIR!" Drewe barked, snapping a smart salute into place. "Right away, Sir! "
Drewe exited the Captain's quarters with as much dignity as his flaming face would
allow.
Cree stared moodily at the clutter of dishes on the counters of his food preparation
center. "What a gods-be-damned mess!" he grumbled. He hated such mundane,
boring, female work as cleaning, and since he was not adapted all that well to doing it and did not trust strangers into his quarters to do it for him, his pigheadedness made it his
personal chore. Dishes and linens would pile up to the ceiling before he finally broke
down and sent them through the sonic cleaners. Everything was allowed to go to rack and
ruin until he could stand it no longer and rolled up his sleeves to tackle the job. If the
chore seemed too vast—as it did at that moment—or he was in a particularly foul mood
—as he was on most days he noticed the mess—he would simply throw out the old and
buy new. Since he couldn't do that with his Ministry of Fleet Operations issued uniforms,
he had to bundle them up and cart them off to the station cleaners so he would have clean
clothing to wear. If he had his way, he thought, spying a pile of rumpled uniforms lying in
the sonic sink, he'd go air-clad as his Chalean ancestors had. The thought of running
around FSK-14 with his manhood swinging free brought a smile to his lips.
"That would certainly scare the hell out of the Resistance." He chuckled.
Sweeping aside a pile of laundry, he flopped down in a chair. He had always thought
that if someone wanted to really torture him into giving away Empire secrets, all they had to do was make him do mindless cleaning.
"Torture cleaning," he muttered. How the hell did females endure it? How could they sweep and dust and mop and wash and scrub and scour and fold and stack then start it all
over again day after day after day? The mere thought of that repetitive agony made him
practically tremble with frustration.
" I
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