“Humans are factual.” Carrington repeated herself. Max turned on the cart and started it toward the exit. Damn, this ship was humid. Max would have to change clothes when he got home because he had just about sweated through this one. He could have entered a wet T-shirt competition with it.
Carrington walked beside him. She was persistent. “Being factual, you should understand well that I would handle your sales more effectively.”
“I am happy with the effectiveness of Bundy.” Max smiled at her. He wondered if she took that as a friendly or threatening gesture. He didn’t care, but he did increase the speed of the equipment cart.
“There are facts which make me an improved administrator of your sales. There are facts that would endanger your ability to make sales,” she said as she followed him.
Max didn’t stop the cart, but he stopped to study her for a second before turning his attention back to it before he drove it into a wall. “That sounds slightly mobbish.”
“Clarify the term mobbish,” she said.
“Mob. Dishonorable individuals who work together to break the law or earn compensation by making others feel threatened or threatening them.” Huh. Max was getting good at being a dictionary.
Carrington’s neck gills slapped shut. “I am not lacking honor.”
“I never said you were,” Max said before he could drive his best customer away. “Your statement sounded like a threat, so the statement sounded mobbish, not you.”
Carrington followed as Max approached the main exit. Fresh air from outside leaked through the thick ship air like water through a sieve, assuming that water seeped through that sieve in such small quantities that a person was desperate for more. The humidity was killing Max. “From a certain perspective, perhaps,” Carrington admitted. “I dislike how humans see perspective.”
Max laughed. “We are annoying,” he agreed. He increased the cart’s speed now that he saw the open door.
“I would ensure you compensation beyond the ensuring of honorless Bundy,” Carrington tried again. She was the most persistent alien ever. Well, other than Rick, but that didn’t count because Max liked Rick.
“Max!” a voice called out in English. For a half second, Max feared Xander had followed him, but Xander’s voice was lower and more sing-song than clipped like this one. Dee raced toward him. “Run!” she screamed.
Max’s feet engaged before he could consider motives or possibilities. His squad member told him he had to run, so he dropped the cart’s remote and sprinted toward the exit. A Tribes alien came out of a side door, and Max went into a controlled slide, his feet forward, the sides of them digging up the slime that covered the ship’s floor. He hit the Tribe’s alien in the ankle, and with a bugle, the creature went down.
It scrambled to catch Max, but all it caught was the edge of a shirt that ripped when Max jerked free. He dashed for the open air, but the second he broke free, he spotted the line waiting for him. People of Red, their violet stripes and lips—their operatic cries as they spotted Max—their law-enforcer uniforms. Oh fuck. Something had gone wrong.
A body crashed into him from behind, and then human hands clutched his arm. “Oh fuck,” Dee whispered, an echo of his own thoughts. Yep, that about summed it up. An alien raised a stunning weapon, and Max raised his hands in surrender.
Chapter Seventeen
Max followed the leadlaw-enforcement alien, but most of his attention was on Dee who walked beside him. He had no idea what she had done, but she had done something. He knew it. He kept glaring at her, but she was immune because she didn't even bother looking chagrined.
Carrington’s ship was closer to the city, and that was where they were headed. It meant that every step took him farther from his family. Max wondered how long Rick would wait for him to return before he figured out that something was wrong. Selfishly, Max wished Rick were here to curl a tentacle around his arm and tell him that he knew how to fix this.
