Chapter Sixteen

"No wonder the Resistance is failing--can't keep track of your own ship?"

Ignoring him, Zarbon continued to tweak every button and dial on the console before him. He'd already tried all the frequencies traditional to the Resistance without success; he was now working his way through all the rest. It was a tedious process...he had to listen first until some message or another came along to identify who used the channel. After all, it wouldn't do to accidentally announce one's location to Cold's legions...

Jeice sighed irritably and shifted, trying to get comfortable: no simple task considering how long he'd been without food, sleep, or freedom of movement. If Zarbon was aware of Jeice's discomfort, it was not of great priority; in truth, he'd been considering killing off his hastily-chosen prisoner in interests of efficiency...Rennet wasn't likely to want him back, and he was taking up space and air which would be better used. Only one part of Zarbon's training kept Jeice alive now: if he'd been this much of a pain in the ass to capture, there was considerable potential in him to be a useful ally. Now wasn't the time to make proposals, of course, but it had to be considered.

'Of course,' Zarbon thought wearily, taking a break from the trials of the console to rebraid his hair, 'he'd be more likely to side with us given better treatment...' How annoying. Shoving roughly away from the console, Zarbon strolled over and knelt in front of Jeice; Jeice's head jerked up--he'd nearly fallen asleep again from pure exhaustion.

"You look like hell," Zarbon said pleasantly, giving Jeice a quick once-over. Bruises and scraped marked his body, but the blood stains, now dried, made accurate assessment difficult.

"Well, whose fault is that?" Jeice growled, glaring as well as his unfocused eyes would allow.

"You're going to smell up the pod if you don't get clean soon," Zarbon remarked, ignoring the outburst, "and I don't have the time or inclination to do so. I'll cut you a deal: I unbind you so you can clean yourself up and you don't try anything rash enough to get yourself killed. Sound fair?"

Jeice's eyes narrowed. "What's the catch?"

"The catch is that you can't attack me or interfere with what I'm doing. Oh, and don't eat all the food; it has to last us both until we can get more."

"You mean when your nonexistent mother ship comes for you?" Jeice sniffed. "We'll both starve."

"If they do not respond in time," Zarbon said stiffly, we'll land and scavenge if we have to. I've been trained to survive out here, even if your survival skills are severely lacking.

Jeice glared, and after much through couldn't produce a more impassioned response than "I don't like you." In absence of all else, he voice it; Zarbon laughed.

"I'm not asking you to like me. I'm asking you to behave so I don't have to just let you rot. It's a better deal than I should be offering and if you've any fragment of intelligence you'll take it, at least until our situation's stabilized."

Grumbling and fuming in response; Jeice glowered at the floor, refusing to meet those now-hated gold eyes.

"May I take that as a yes?" Zarbon asked politely, dancing on the edge of mockery.

"Untie me, idiot," Jeice snarled. "I'll wait to kill you later."

"Close enough, I suppose," Zarbon murmured, and set about releasing his prisoner's bindings, doing his level best to exude confidence. He could kill Jeice now, no question, but later--well, deal with it then and not before. It was only prudent to think as far ahead as you could be sure of being alive.

Jeice lurched to his feet the moment he was freed, and promptly collapsed back to the floor with a frustrated half-strangled sound--this followed by a long and colorful stream of obscenities, both time-tested and ad-libbed. Zarbon eyed him for a moment, then sighed and turned back to the console, calling up the usual frequencies once more.

It stood to be a very long trip.

* * * * *

Freiza was, to put it simply, royally (in every sense of the word, he reminded himself with no small degree of satisfaction) bored. Dalwen was proving less interesting than he'd shown promise to be, the raid on Rennet had done absolutely nothing to augment the understaffed army...and while the destruction of the Resistance in this sector was mildly placating, Dodoria's report had not been perfectly uplifting. In truth, Freiza was disappointed: he had given orders which tolerated no survivors. Why, then, had some apparently escaped? He needed more trustworthy soldiers, that's all there was to it. It was perfectly reasonable to except one's orders carried out to the letter, especially in his newly-elevated position. Cold never seemed to have problems like this...

The Retsujin's tail flipped lightly back and forth across the floor, a habit he'd been trying to break. It simply wouldn't do to look fidgety in front of the men; a leader had to be calm in the face of all things...but this was all so new. Freiza chastised himself (not too harshly) for being overexcited, and tried to focus on the cool implacable demeanor that King Cold both wore and expected. Freiza was well aware of being monitored, which helped him little in the area of fidgeting. Bah.

It was a wonder of technology, he mused, that it gave one excuses to keep one's hands busy: he tapped his new scouter for the umpteenth time and measured the truly abysmal power level of a potted plant. From Dalwen's grudging reports (for some reason, he abhorred wearing a scouter) the state of Freiza's troops was not much better. Cold had not provided him the cream of the crop--it was a test. Obviously, new blood (or more importantly, stronger bodies) had to be acquired through other means.

Planet raids seemed most logical, but so far the yield was far from promising. The natives fought, Freiza's troops killed them and only then remembered that they were to have kept some of the strongest. When questioned by his father, Freiza's excuse was as simple as it was ineffective: if these beings could be so easily killed, they were not strong enough to improve the army. Dodoria had at least retained enough common sense to wait until Cold's communication was through before tentatively pointing out to Freiza that more than one of Rennet's warriors had put up a significant fight...to say nothing of certain members of the Resistance.

Freiza sighed and glared a stern reprimand at his tail. Did nothing around here obey orders? Evidently not...the tail continued its insubordination, smug in the knowledge that it could never be court-martialed or executed. The young overlord was considering the possible merits of stepping on it when Dalwen requested an audience. Tail discipline would have to wait.

"Anything of importance, Dalwen?" Freiza asked, tone (so he hoped) studiously disinterested. It was important to reinforce the fact that he was above all this...

"I wouldn't have bothered you otherwise, Lord Freiza." Dalwen forced his aching back into yet another stiff little bow. Some times he'd have to check the records in the medical wing to determined just how much business the resident chiropractor received from Freiza's obsession with establishing hierarchy.

"Of course," Freiza said indulgently. "Now give me your report."

Dalwen shifted. "The prognosis isn't too good at present: nearly every planet within a week's travel of here is either dead or already sworn to your father."

A terse sigh, punctuated by a raspy shifting sound: Dalwen continued, keeping his eyes on the errant tail.

"I said almost, Lord Freiza; there is one planet three days' journey from here with a race that shows...er, actually a bit too much promise."

"Too much?" Freiza chuckled. "What sort of race are they?"

"Shape-shifters, sir; that's what makes me uneasy."

"Only because you yourself cannot change form," he sniffed. "Shape-shifting is not so uncommon...even the Changelings mastered it."

"It's...not quite the same...um, sir. I'm not sure of specifics, but it appears that they can change to any form or race they wish."

"Then they should prove quite useful. Three days, you said?"

"Yes, sir." Dalwen paused. "Sir, if I may be so bold as to ask you to consider more carefully..."

Freiza glanced over his shoulder, raising one eyebrow--or whatever ridge passed for it. For too long a moment he merely looked at his underling, and as Dalwen began to show signs of discomfort: "You question me?"

"Ah, of course not, sir, forgive me." 'Just trying to save your skin, arrogant little twerp...'

"I thought not. Dismissed, Dalwen. Have control set a course for this--what was the planet's name?"

"Abeter, sir."

"Yes...and bring me a fuller report next time, won't you? I would like to know precisely what and whom I am dealing with, not broad classifications and half-known facts."

"Of course, sir." Another flinching bow, and Dalwen took his leave to deliver Freiza's orders in as rude a manner as possible: it was soothing to pull rank on the engineers.

Dalwen's was not a mind that kept still, and by the time he reached the control bay not only had he dismissed Freiza's hopes for this trip, but was working out way to twist benefit from the inevitable failure. One man's mistake was another's opportunity--duty done, Dalwen turned back to his research, making careful note of which facts to leave out of his report.

After all, simple omission of truth didn't constitute true sabotage, now did it...