The bright white helix
of the Goran Wormhole blinked. Zento
scrunched his eyebrows together. “Did
the Hole just…?” he muttered.
The rigid spirals of the
Wormhole loosened and spread. They
unwound themselves in the space of a handful of Verion minutes.
Zento swore in every
language he remembered. “This is the
second time this cycle the Hole has gone out,” he said to his copilot, a young
man jacketed in ancient Kevlar.
“Which planet’s cycle?”
his copilot asked.
“Goran 3, sorry.” Zento turned to face the man. “What was your name again?”
“Breed Cornigan.”
Zento snapped his
fingers into a gun. “Cornigan; I
remember. You were with me when I maimed
that Senator on Incubar.” He looked up
and grunted, then jerked his control sticks to the side. The ship rattled as it skimmed against an
asteroid.
Breed’s eyes
widened. “Is the ship—”
“It’ll be fine.” Zento waved a hand at Breed. “It’s just a scratch.”
“Maybe you should land
in the generator station and check it out.”
Zento laughed. “We’re going to have to, Cornigan. The Hole is out. And I plan on fixing it.”
*
“Just one more spin,”
said Zento, hefting a large wrench up to the central pin of the wormhole
generator.
“You really think this
is going to work?” Breed said behind him.
Zento completed his
motion and took a massive breath, wiping his forehead with the back of one
cramping hand. “Look outside.”
One of the generator
station staff—a young Goran woman wearing a dull blue uniform that paled against
her green skin—took a step toward the room’s single window. “Sir, you fixed, it curls anew,” she said in
accented Verion.
“Nothing a top-notch
mercenary can’t handle,” said Zento.
Breed led Zento back to
the emergency hangar at the opposite end of the ship. “Where did you learn to do that?”
Zento shrugged. “You learn a few things after eight years of
odd jobs for the biggest mercenary company for fifty parsecs.”
Smoke battered Zento’s
eyes as he opened the door to the hangar.
“Can you repair a ship
as easily as a wormhole generator?” Breed asked, coughing.
“Sure. It’s just a really big, slightly fiery
scratch.”
A dull clatter
reverberated through the hangar. “Sir,
the left wing just fell off. Perhaps we
should call a mechanic.”
Zento activated his
communicator. “Carmel-Eyes, we’re going
to be a bit late for that hit on Karont.
My ship is on fire.”