Free The Gilded Cage by Blaze Ward

did you manage to keep her quiet?” Navarre asked. Well, slurred. It was a wet, messy sound, but all drunks have that same sloppy accent when two and a half sheets to the wind. It might be Shakespeare to them.
    “Bah, she is pussycat,” Tamaz roared back, slamming back another shot of something pink and then hammering down his shatter–proof shot glass. “And I use her to kill rest of them.”
    “Really, Abraam,” Navarre replied with the utter seriousness only a drunk can manage. “A pussycat?”
    “Come, my friend,” Tamaz continued. “You will see truth of it. They are all doomed. DOOMED!”
    Navarre nodded. As Tamaz started to move.
    It made perfect sense. Tamaz wanted to go walksies. We shall go walksies .
    All three drunks made it vertical. The accountant was there. Killer–babe was there.
    And who are you?
    Navarre was looking at someone new, from about the center of the other guy’s chest. Definitely a him. Pecs but no boobs.
    He leaned back, craning to see the man’s face, all the way up there, and nearly toppled over backwards. A hand, a gigantic paw really, slashed out and caught him easily by the front of his doublet, held him effortlessly, tugged him carefully upright.
    Navarre stepped back and executed a perfect Court bow. Deportment classes had not been a waste. He could do this even dead drunk.
    Or faking dead drunk, as he was now.
    In the middle of his motion, obscured by moving parts and backs of heads, Navarre clicked a small button hidden inside his belt buckle. Javier smiled.
    One silent Ping for mankind.
    “Thank you, good sir,” he slurred, rather louder than required, and then staggered after Tamaz and Erckens.
    Damn. That guy was big. And fast. And looked smart, too. Good thing this was only the scouting portion of the trip. Probably need some heavy artillery to take him down. Or just blow the whole damned section open to vacuum. Make the dude a space dragon or something .
    Right now, Navarre and Javier were both just looking forward to seeing Sykora again.
    Ξ
    The feet knew the way, having navigated it enough times that the mind could focus elsewhere. Abraam Tamaz felt the joy of absolute power wash over him as he went to visit his love, waiting for him like a songbird in a gilded cage.
    And traps, traps within traps. Doom within spirals of destruction.
    Tamaz did not trust this Captain Navarre fellow. The timing was too close. A helpful stranger arrives just as his grand trap for Sokolov was about to slam shut?
    What were the odds that the fates were conspiring so brightly on his side? They had never loved him so much before today.
    Thus, traps within traps.
    Tamaz smiled up at Morghan, his own personal Kodiak bear, as they passed through another set of hatches, closing on the edge of the station. He could be as drunk and relaxed as he wanted with that man about. Utter loyalty. Unbelievable ferocity. Absolute sobriety. Navarre might have brought along a killer, the woman had that look about her, but nothing could stand against Morghan.
    Around a long hallway, ever–so–slightly curved, the ship’s main personnel hatch came into view, carefully guarded by two of his crew. Tamaz smiled to himself.
    That was power. Right there. Crew on duty instead of drunk off their asses like their captain.
    Tamaz stepped to one side and gestured his new friend to precede him.
    “I give you, the starship Salekhard ,” he said grandly, knowing the title would be lost on them.
    After all, how many people would recognize the name of an Imperial Russian prison camp for exiles in the far wilds of Homeworld Siberia? Or guess how appropriate it might be…
    In through the double airlocks and onto his ship. Tamaz found himself jostling up against the woman Navarre had brought, as they waited for the airlock doors to cycle. He resisted the urge to reach out and caress one of her breasts.
    They were quite lovely.
    He was the captain, it was his ship. But it would be rude. Especially if Navarre might truly