His Majesty's Pet/The Slaver's Price

Overcrowded streets flowed with the scents and bright colors of countless cultures. The entire planet was smaller than a modest moon, and yet, this little tucked-away realm was one of the most significant destinations in the entire universe. From north to south, the land had been transformed into cramped, urban apartments, interspersed between the various Planet Trade Organization academies and university grounds–all of which were located on the planet known most commonly as the Citadel. The buildings were veritably in the style of the Planet Trade Organization. It was here scientists, installation commanders and governors, doctors, and even field officers came to be trained.

Zarbon mentioned this place before. This is where he got his education. He was so eager to boast.

Buildings rose on all sides, blocking out much of the sky. If one looked straight up, one could see a sliver of green, but only a sliver. The Citadel had blossomed from a small officer’s academy into one of the pre-eminent marketplaces and trade ports in the universe only in recent decades. All of this Vegeta read on his scouter’s ‘planetoid factoids’ scroll. It annoyed him, so he turned it off.

“I’ll get him.” Burter’s voice barely rose from the roaring, every-moving crowd. They were standing on a street corner outside of a Veko-Mano Shack, and even now, they could see Gerrin still, eating a bowl of steaming meat, completely oblivious to their presence. They were on the other side of the building now, with Gerrin’s back to them.

“He was arrogant to come here,” Asaio breathed. “He should know better than to hide out in imperial space, especially when there’s a bounty on his head. I’m surprised no one else has spotted him already. These officers-in-training are entirely useless…” he sighed, shaking his head.

Orlen dared not hide his panic. “He’s probably got buddies… no way he’s in there alone!”

“That wouldn’t matter,” Burter said sharply, scanning with his scouter. “There’s no one in there who worries me.”

It was the easiest thing to slip into the crowd and disappear. He hadn’t seen this many people in a long time, Vegeta realized. Their faces, all different shapes and colors and sizes, peered down at him, and he couldn’t help but feel a cold chill descend around his body as he found himself unable to return most of their looks. Amidst them all, he had never felt so lonely.

He kept the scouter off. If I turn it on I’ll just hear that stupid Nyarin’s annoying voice again. He wouldn’t. His cheeks burned. His back sweltered with sweat. He’s not stronger than me. No way. Vegeta cut through the crowd more aggressively, making his way to the other side of the building. He knew he had only a few seconds before Burter made his move, regardless.

Part of him didn’t know what pushed him onward; most of him went on without protest. He had to capture Gerrin. He had to prove himself. There was no other way. Already, his position was slipping. Lord Frieza had seemingly taken interest in Asaio, and making him second-in-command meant this rivalry would never die, not so long as Vegeta lived. It was an affront to his honor that someone as maddeningly casual as that Nyarin boy could be so proficient in combat. He swore to himself he would never lose to Asaio again.

Creeping in the back door, Vegeta blasted a fat space rat gnawing on a trash-covered, decomposing space-badger carcass, and ran inside. He kept out of sight and made sure he entered on the side Gerrin wasn’t facing so as to maintain his singular advantage. Flashes of his father came to Vegeta then, as the scent of cooked meat and stew filled his nostrils. Flying server bots were cycling through the air like teeth in the rippling maw of a moulting Nidrazi Scourge.

Unwanted though they were, they persisted, boring holes in his mind, worse than ki, worse than Zarbon’s fists. He clenched his own, trying to banish them, but there was no chance of that. He saw his father again, the Saiyan army, Nappa, Zorn, Dogom, Paragus… and then, as a ghost forming from fog, he beheld that most cursed image of all–his last training partner–his one true friend.

Snarling, Vegeta jumped over the counter from the kitchen’s side, knocking a patron aside, and causing the cashier to throw up his hands in a ridiculous, theatrical display. Before Gerrin reacted, the boy had already reached him. His fingers were prickling with paralysis and desire, and he was happy to unleash a warm burning tide upon the man. His mind ran to the beat of his heart, his father’s soft-spoken words in his ear, urgently reminding him of the power of the Saiyan race. All of you died. How could you get killed by a comet?

Tears–he almost didn’t know what to do. He hadn’t expected this, hadn’t planned for it, and there were so many people around. Luckily, most were running for their lives. His energy wrapped around Gerrin, smothering the alien from the back and neck, spreading like moss across his body, until he was fully covered.

Vegeta snapped his wrist back. Gerrin yelled, falling forward, spilling his bowl, shattering the glass. He staggered, the energy pressing down against his skin, and burning, sizzling, crackling, sparking, dissolving away… There was nothing particularly notable about Gerrin (he was a member of the same species as several others who served Frieza–most recognizably Cui). He had a power level of 16,000. Vegeta wasn’t afraid of that number. That number meant nothing now.

Bellowing a half-choked Saiyan war cry, Vegeta air-dashed into Gerrin’s back, knocking him over. Burter flew in on the winds, knocking patrons aside. Several flew into walls and did not get back up. So many people were shouting. It didn’t take long for the restaurant to clear in the smoky chaos.

“What the hell are you doing, monkey?!

“I got him,” Vegeta replied defiantly. “Look.”

“You fool!” Burter cried, rushing to Gerrin, but it was too late. The energy had fully coated him, and once it did, his entire body dissolved away in a matter of seconds. He never got the chance to power up. What a shame, Vegeta thought. But that’s why it’s kill or be killed.

His father’s voice reverberated on endless loop in his head. “I guess I overestimated him. Hmph. What a pathetic loser. Look at how easily he went down. Man, that was lame.”

Lights exploded in his vision. A sharp stinging sensation screamed up from his cheek, and he nearly lost his footing. Gasping, Vegeta brought a hand to his cheek. Burter, pulling his own hand back, stared down at the boy with sheer hate. Do it, the boy thought, make the biggest mistake of your life, lizard man.

“He was our only lead. I’ll have to let the Captain know…”

Burter turned his back to Vegeta. The others made their way in. A patron ran up to Burter and asked for an autograph. The Blue Hurricane did an embarrassing pose. Vegeta’s ears were hot. He had done all he could be asked to do. It’s not my fault he died so easily…

“Disobey my orders again, and I’ll leave you out here, Saiyan!” Asaio’s face was narrowed, his eyes twin indigo slits, the fury darkening in his cheeks.

“Try it.” Vegeta bristled, not backing down. He was more ready for this than Asaio could know.

The Nyarin kicked the burn mark on the floor that Gerrin had left. “All because of you we lost our only lead! I’m telling Frieza!”

“It’s not my fault he was so pathetically weak.” Vegeta raised his gloved hands, barely even trying to defend himself. He wouldn’t mind this turning to blows. His shame and obsession were enough to push him this far. “Besides, it’s not like–”

But it was. It was indeed. They had taken their time, and perhaps rightfully so, for when the first of Kiwano’s slavers descended from the high metal rafters overhead, where steam pooled and space rats lurked, Orlen was not even remotely prepared for what came next.

They could hear Orlen’s arm snap from where they were, near the cash register. Vegeta caught sight of it swing back unnaturally far–making him feel sick just looking at it. Like a broken tree branch in a storm… He and Nailo were standing by the door, talking quickly. The assault had been so sudden that when Orlen’s arm broke, Nailo had still been mid-sentence.

Falling, cradling his useless arm, Orlen cried. Vegeta’s rage grew. But it was Burter and Asaio who were faster. They had already leapt into the air to tackle this new foe when four more slavers dropped from the rafters, landing between them and Nailo.

“How’s the cap’n?” one asked behind a wall of crooked, half-wrecked teeth. “Heard he wasn’t doing so well, Burter.”

How could they know about that? Were the others involved…?

An explosion rocked the Veko-Mano. Nailo emerged from a dust cloud, clutching the slaver by the neck. “Kill the rest,” he said to them. “I’ve captured one.”

Silently, Burter looked from Nailo to the slaver and back again. He almost looked perplexed. Then, he vanished. Windows shattered. Tables flipped. Those who remained fled through the open door and through the broken windows. A bluish tornado was forming in the middle of the room. The three soldiers laughed. Two attacked Burter, the other turning to Asaio. That was a big mistake.

The two who went after the Blur Hurricane got exactly what they deserved. As they rushed him, the tornado forming around Burter’s body moved on its own. The first man didn’t realize in time. His entire body was picked clean in a moment. Like a sandstorm wearing down stone, Burter’s attack stripped the slaver’s body to the bone almost in the blink of an eye.

Vegeta stood breathless, watching. The second man jumped back, unleashing three successive energy balls upon Burter’s aura. None pierced through. It was now or never. Burter charged out of his attack, slamming a fist into the man’s gut, making him keel over.

“You’re lucky the captain isn’t here… for your sake.” Burter kicked the man upside the face. He staggered back, groaning.

Vegeta never saw what the next attack was. The man simply fell over dead, a wound leaking green-black blood from a tear in his shoulder. All of these aliens were of species currently serving the Planet Trade Organization. Every one of them defected. He felt disgust, looking down upon them. A rising, sprinting feeling filled his body. The prince clenched his abs to control it.

Asaio was easily handling his own opponent–the last one in the building. The pirate surely knew he was going to die, so he went all out. A few times, he managed to hit or kick Asaio lightly, but he never landed a good blow. The Nyarin boy, on the other hand, maintained what appeared to be a casual form, but Vegeta knew this as the boy’s defensive posture. Why is he so conservative?! Go fight, coward. Hmph, what a loser.

He would not allow Asaio to be so cowardly the next time they sparred. Again, the anger was building in him. He didn’t know exactly what it meant, exactly how he felt, but his body was already moving, reacting, and his mind could only hope to keep up.

Vegeta felt himself kick off from the ground. A Galick Gun was in each of his hands, and he threw them before he even knew he was holding them. Watching like a spectator, the boy, breathing hard, stepped back. His energy surged through the air, splitting into a dozen tendrils, snaking around the pirate’s body. Asaio cried out in surprise, jumping away. That was when the Galick Guns converged upon him, and when the dust cleared, there was no body left.

Satisfaction welled in his throat. The smell of burnt fingernails reeked throughout the room. Outside, a crowd had gathered, some even chanting Burter’s name. There would be no such chants for him or the others, Vegeta knew. They would have to earn that applause. I will, he thought fiercely. None of them will.

Again, Asaio gave Vegeta a look of annoyance. “We’re partners,” he said flatly. “We need to have better communication.”

“You’re not my partner,” Vegeta sighed arrogantly. “I don’t train with weaklings.”

“If I’m a weakling, what does that make you?” Vegeta hated how wry Asaio could get. “Don’t you remember what happened in our last fight, Vegeta?”

He shrugged. “Oh, he got you good, Vegeta,” Burter cackled, now in a much more pleasant mood. He strode over to survey the damage. Orlen and Nailo (prisoner in tow) came too.

Asaio was not one to relish in victory or defeat. That annoyed Vegeta. Show some passion, you fool. But you won’t. You don’t have the heart for this. He looked rather nonchalant, which again annoyed Vegeta. How a boy with so little charisma had been made second-in-command boggled his mind. His father’s whispering had turned bitter in his ear. No way a Saiyan like me should be worried about someone like him!

“Burter, Nailo, Orlen, stay here. Interrogate the prisoner and make sure Orlen gets to a juvey tank.”

“Will do,” Burter said coolly. “Where are you headed?”

“To check out the other planets. We’re going to see if there are any more leads. I want to be thorough.” Asaio cleared his throat. “I’ll be taking the soldiers with me, if you were wondering.”

Vegeta didn’t say a word, mostly because this was the perfect development. If he and Asaio were alone again… he would not hesitate to kill the boy. He greatly desired to be presented such an opportunity. I won’t let it go to waste, he promised himself. Him and me are not returning together. There will be an accident.

“If you’re going, I’m coming with you,” Nailo interrupted, dropping the dazed slaver. “I am going with you.”

“Vegeta and I need to work on our teamwork,” the Nyarin replied warily. “You’d just get in the way.”

“Zarbon’s orders,” Nailo said simply. “I am to stay with you no matter what. You are not yet strong enough to go out on your own like this.”

“He’s right, you know,” Burter hissed, kicking the space pirate lightly and doing a simple pose as he twirled about to reach for a fat bowl of orangish soup from the counter. “Yeah, I agree. If you’re going to leave me here, you’re going to need to take at least one more.”

“Fine.”

Just my luck. Nailo will make this much harder to pull off. The walls were peeling off where the attacks had hit. Ash drifted through the air. Outside, an unmoving sea of eyes peered in like spectators at a zoo. The last time I was in a zoo was with…

And again, the tears came, and again, he tore himself apart, beating himself down, hating himself. Vegeta would become the greatest warrior in the universe one day. And he wouldn’t do it crying. Blinking the wetness away, he was fairly certain no one else had noticed. They were still talking.

“After they get here, then what?”

“Then, you continue searching for clues–see what you can find.” Asaio kept his calm, which was not entirely cowardly, Vegeta had to admit. The way he stood up to Burter, nearly having to raise his head as if to see this world’s sky, was not done from a position of fear. “Do whatever you need to do to get the info.” He jerked his head but didn’t look at the prisoner. It was easier that way.

Vegeta could tell he was coping. Why? Why isn’t he as cold-blooded as the rest? He was weak. Or… was he? It was easy to think that, easy to assume, but in truth, Vegeta had never once gotten a sense from Asaio that he was weak. He was lazy and knew when to be serious, but his actual power was at worst just slightly below his. Gerrin was stronger than me, though. And if I could take him out by surprise…

“Come on, Vegeta,” Asaio said briskly, not looking at him. “And I swear, if you kill another potential prisoner…”

“Yeah, I know,” Vegeta mumbled, his pride catching in his throat, releasing in his veins, and the feeling of heat it produced ushering him on after the other boy. His muscles ached. Just give me a reason. Even if Nailo sees me do it, I can just kill him afterwards, the boy thought recklessly, knowing such a plan was probably thirty percent to succeed at best.

Maybe I’ll take out two birds with one stone, he thought, glancing at Nailo to his left, whose eyes never left Vegeta, and who acted more like a robot than any of them–even Nappa.

“Vintage Chillrose, my lord,” Sharlyk said, bowing as he poured the glass.

“Imagine if Frieza wasn’t around,” Kiwano sighed, leaning back in his chair, savoring the first taste in his mouth awkwardly. “Arcose would be prime looting territory. Ah, the wealth harbored under those snow-clouds…” He drained the glass in the next breath. “They’re not all bad. Shame Frieza’s a mutant, though. Everything would be clearer… simpler, if he wasn’t around.”

“There is no one in this army, my lord, who can stand up to Frieza. Even the Ginyu Force–”

“I know!”

Mefauxi’s dual suns huddled like shivering old men in the distant sky, their pale blue light reflecting unkindly off of Kiwano’s wide frame. Sharlyk’s lord was a big man, his orange, almost pinkish skin rising in jagged spikes around his body. He did not look unlike Dodoria, a fact Kiwano liked to bring up every now and then (usually when he was drunk).

It had been years, however, since the two of them had worked on Frieza’s ship together. The disillusionment had come long ago. He could never look back upon the days before with a clear mind any longer. Sharlyk was free–that much no one could take from him–and he never wanted to go back. Kiwano was an even more steadfast zealot than he was.

He poured his master a second glass. They were standing now, both of them, surveying the sunset at the palace window. Two years ago, this planet had been home to a vibrant, quickly-advancing species of bug-like aliens. The species wasn’t extinct–he would have been angrier had they been. Those bugs had fetched a pretty space woolong on the open market. Their endurance coupled with their general lack of strength made them premium workers. Sharlyk remembered how all of their slaves were sold to a single Quglith Nil producer by the name of Ctha’Nakki for enough money to buy a starfleet.

And so Kiwano had–well, for the most part. There was always money for space rum, for spiced Uu’goc, for pretty whores, whichever species his crew liked best. Kiwano himself never touched them, though. Sharlyk loved to get his hands on the ones with softer flesh. His dirty paws loved to grope, to poke, to squeeze, to feel, to touch. He grew intoxicated, fell in love no less often than once a month, and burned the rest of his wages on sniraak, gambling, and booze.

It wasn’t like Sharlyk didn’t understand what he was doing was foolish, but he couldn’t stop. He admired his master’s restraint. That was one quality he would never match Kiwano in.

The palace was all stone, though the throne was alight from the gravity pad beneath it, maintaining Kiwano’s seat cushion high in the air, where he would sit when he wished to play king. “We’ll get them, don’t you worry. I’ve got a plan. I wouldn’t have taken things this far without a plan! Don’t you trust me, Sharlyk?”

“Yes, sir,” the space-badger replied loyally. There was a pause in the conversation, enough for him to mention what he had come here to talk to Kiwano about. But when he tried, his voice hid away in the depths of his throat, and Sharlyk could hardly stutter out a cough. His cowardice, something he had always known, nevertheless took him aback. How did I let it get this bad?

Kiwano had drained his second cup and was thirsting for a third. “This one comes from the personal stock of Senator Bleiku.”

“It is absolutely aristocratic,” Kiwano said cheerfully, raising his glass, the wine flowing down his mouth as he drank sloppily before throwing the glass against the wall, shattering it. “How much did those animals from Planet Frieza 149 fetch for me, eh?”

“We sold half of the stock, sir. Fair prices all around from more than thirty buyers,” he lied. It wasn’t a big lie, admittedly, but he found himself enjoying the simple act of stretching the truth. They had indeed sold half of the most recent stock, but again, that had only gone to one buyer–a Quglith, but one Sharlyk did not remember the name of those. Again, he had the opportunity to speak up, to tell his master what had happened, but the opportunity came and passed too quickly for Sharlyk’s faint courage to show any signs of life.

“Fleet’s coming along nicely. We’ll be able to assault worlds without you soon enough,” the old man said.

It went unstated, of course, but Sharlyk would not neglect the implications in his own mind. I am the strongest warrior in our empire. I am the most important soldier out of everyone. Basic thoughts those were, but true, and in reality, Sharlyk often found solace. No one aside from Kiwano and The Surgeon even knew that Sharlyk was the strongest.

Kiwano, for all his bravado and pirate flare, hardly seemed to mind. Sharlyk liked that. He probably wouldn’t have stayed had the man showed even one bit of jealousy. It would have been nothing at that point to kill him. Nowadays, Kiwano was stronger, but the gap between them was still fairly substantial.

“We’ll expand soon. I’ll get some fleets arranged to go deep into Cooler’s and Nitro’s territories. They’ve got prime raiding territory, ya know.”

“Aye. Although it’s a risk, isn’t it? Stretching the fleet…”

“More money, more good men to do honest work for me.” His voice was grave and threatening. “This operation can only be profitable if I have multiple teams working at the same time. It’s going to have to be this way, Sharlyk.”

“I know. We already have several, and–”

“Bah, it’s just you and The Surgeon,” Kiwano complained. “Don’t you dare count Gerrin.”

He almost blurted out that Gerrin was dead. I need a better opening. Now is not the time. If he knows I’ve been sitting on this information for a day… “Ahem,” Sharlyk said, clearing his throat, “Gerrin’s team isn’t as large as ours, but he’s doing what he needs to do to keep a profit.”

“Blackmailing professors at that old science academy, bah!” Kiwano was pacing again, his boots stomping noisily across the dusty stone tiles. He wore thick clothes beneath his already-portly frame. His boots, gauntlets, and cape, were bordered with spotted brown-and-white fur. Space lynx, most likely. The fat bastard loves to indulge in his wardrobe. “He should be out rounding up natives like the rest of us!”

“He’s your only way back to Frieza,” Sharlyk observed. “Don’t you remember?”

“Aye,” the man replied quickly. He was drunk, and not just slightly. “But that senator’s my real ace in the hole.”

“Lord Frieza does maintain tasters,” Sharlyk said cautiously. “He never takes chances with such things.”

“He will in this case: a sealed case of Sorum Chillrose, aged five hundred thirty-four years.” Sharlyk had lost track of Kiwano in the dusty, abandoned throne room. He had walked over to the throne, neglecting to jump on the gravity pad, and instead bending behind the seated chair below the gravity pad to pull out a dark and dusty bottle. “From the winefields of Senator-elect Chilled,” Kiwano read from the bottle, dusting it off. “The last such bottle in existence, I’d wager. He won’t let his soldiers taste a drop.”

“Is Gerrin really necessary for that…? Couldn’t the senator just…”

“I need eyes on that ship,” Kiwano growled, placing the bottle back in its hiding place behind his throne. “I need to know what those fuckers are up to.”

“It’s impossible. Frieza screens his soldiers heavily before allowing them on his ship. He only carries elites.”

“We’ll have to turn one.”

“Easier said than done. How would we even get into contact with someone?”

Kiwano shrugged. “That’s not my problem.”

With that attitude, surely not. How could anyone like him expect to take on Frieza with that attitude? “Very well then, sir. I’ll see what I can do.”

“You may go,” he said drunkenly, brushing Sharlyk off. “I don’t care where you go next. Wherever it is, though, you better make enough profit so I can purchase another fleet or two. Do not come back with less.”

“I-I…” He paused, swallowing. He couldn’t leave without telling Kiwano the news. It would be a death sentence for them all. He had to, regardless of how awkward it would be. Kiwano would yell at him for withholding the information as long as he had already, but that was no matter.

The throne room was a desolate wasteland, overrun by pests and dust. This was the first time the two of them had come back since the planet clearing more than a year and a half ago. Wilting tapestries, spun in the likeness of the old king’s sigil, had been pulled down, lying in yellowing stacks in the corner of the room. The throne room was no den of royalty any longer. Sharlyk would be glad to get out of there. His body screamed for him to go, his brain holding him steady.

“Oh haven’t gone yet?” Kiwano grunted, turning his head around as he continued to piss against the side of the throne. “What’s keepin’ you, Sharlyk?”

“It’s just, sir, I-I… I don’t know how to say this, but I’ve recently gotten news–”

“I know. You are dismissed.”

“You know?!” The space-badger didn’t believe him. “Know what?”

“It’s a damn shame none of the Ginyu Force were taken out. But everything else went according to plan. They’ll be out of commission for a while, allowing us to focus on Frieza’s other elites first. I want all of them dead, Sharlyk. Make it happen.”

“Y-you… you know about that, sir?!” the space-badger scoffed, unable to hide his surprise.

“That’s right.” The big man was swaying. He looked more and more like Dodoria with every glass of wine.

Commander Sharlyk didn’t know what to say. He stuttered with fear, feeling a cold familiar dread descend his spine. Why am I scared? I’m stronger than him. Those must have been remnant emotions from his time serving under the maggot Frieza. Sharlyk had never distinguished himself much in those few short years, but he knew he was stronger now than he had been back then, and of course, that meant that he was the superior warrior to most of Frieza’s elites–not all (he was a modest rodent with neatly-combed fur). The fear came without logic guiding it. He let it wash over him and fade on its own, evaporating almost instantly, like sweat. Being a space rodent, Sharlyk didn’t know much about sweat, but he thought the comparison was apt nonetheless.

“Our plans have been accelerated, not changed,” Kiwano continued. He didn’t mention Gerrin. Does he know? “A second group of Frieza’s pests are after us too.”

“What do you require of me, Lord Kiwano?” he asked suddenly dropping to a knee. “Anything… I’ll do it, sir.”

His guilt compelled him, only serving to bring about more shame. The drunken slaver chuckled, spitting dark red liquid from his mouth onto the floor. “Aye, you will. You’re going to set a trap. A deadly one–deadly enough to take out Burter.”

“Oh.”

“Draw them to Jeiri. What men I have free will go with you.”

“As you command, my lord.”

“Bait them, destroy them, and show the universe just what a threat we really are.”

“As you command, Lord Kiwano,” Sharlyk replied without emotion. He bowed again, placing his arm over his heart, and swiftly walked out.

I’m a coward, he thought miserably to himself once he’d gotten outside. That ends today. He gathered himself up and marched to the landing pad, where his pod lay comfortable next to his master’s. They were the only two here. Suddenly, Sharlyk was overcome by a deep sense of déjà vu. A wild series of thoughts–laced with kingly grandeur and splendor–passed through his mind like unwary travelers.

His hands were shaking. He knew who was left–the Nyarin Asaio, his sister, Prince Vegeta of the Saiyans, the ever-proficient Nailo, Orlen, and of course both Kuriza and Burter were still active–two people whom he was certain he could not defeat. It’ll have to be a trap then, he resolved. Kiwano was right. I do know exactly what I have to do.

The streets of Old Lipanto echoed with their footsteps. Grey-worn streets spread on forever down narrow, sharp-turning streets. Floating lights, reflecting the rich green skies of this planet, flickered coolly in the semi-darkness brought about by the skyscrapers’ shadows.

They had come to Old Lipanto especially because this was where Gerrin had been spotted last before he had defected almost six months ago. “The intel’s old,” Asaio admitted to them. “But it’s all we’ve got.”

“There can’t be more than a few of them,” Nailo breathed. Their footsteps and voices echoed against one another. “I can’t see how such a large slave-trade operation could pop up out of nowhere.”

“Kiwano has been operating for almost a year,” Asaio said. “The reports Zarbon prepared for me indicate he only ramped up his slave-selling enterprise recently, however.”

“Something changed.”

“Yeah. We just don’t know what.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Vegeta butted in. “All we have to do is find that buffoon. After I kill him, the problem’s dealt with.”

“Were it that simple, Lord Frieza would have done it himself,” Nailo said. “We can’t look conspicuous. Ditch the armor.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

They stopped outside a bar with flickering neon lights reading ‘Saldari’s Puhsa Tnia’ii’. “Remember, inside, we’re not from the Planet Trade Organization. Everyone in there’s likely to be pirates. Blend in. Don’t draw attention to yourselves. We’ll split up.”

The dank, mouldy smell of Nil pervaded the Puhsa Tnia’ii. Nailo and Asaio peeled off into the darkness, leaving the Saiyan Prince on his own. Broad-shouldered horned aliens were playing a weak game of corhu-corghu darts in one nook. A grey-bearded smuggler with two fake eyes, wearing light fur armor, was arm-wrestling another man who was just as muscled as him. Surrounded by a crowd of pirates, the two strained, sweating down their chins, until the big grey man snapped the other’s wrist loudly.

A scream went up, followed by cheers. His heart was beating hard and true; Vegeta’s feet took him to them.

“Better luck next time, Ulghos,” the winner laughed. “Now pay up.”

Coins were slid across the table. He cut through the animated crowd until he was standing next to the defeated alien. Ulghos was moaning, cradling his broken arm, glaring at his opponent.

“Alright, who’s next, eh? Who’s gonna challenge Khun, the Great?!”

“These are the winter games, the winter games, the winter games…” an alien standing behind the fearsome man was singing, ringing a bell and shifting on his feet. “Step right up, step right up, these are the winter games, the winter games…”

“Hmph.” Vegeta’s arrogant smirk was a well-practiced maneuver.

He stood on the chair to get a better look at Khun, whose arms were so thick with muscles that his sleeves had torn. The man’s skin was greyish pink, his scars numerous, his mechanical eyes brimming blue with an obnoxious artificial hue. He’s beyond ugly. I’ve never seen someone who resembles space trash so closely. Browning, sharpened teeth cut through exhaling Nil as he laughed an addict’s cough and stared down at the boy lazily. “You’re going to challenge me, kid? Hahaha, that’s the best joke I’ve heard all day! A little Saiyan brat thinks he can take me on?! Eheheharharhar!”

“Pity about that comet, wasn’t it?” a golden-furred alien with floppy ears who looked a lot like Asaio,but lankier and long-faced, said from the crowd surrounding them. He wore black and red armor save for a helmet. His floppy ears were drooping a tad, and he had a glass of half-empty space whiskey on the space rocks clutched importantly in one gloved hand. “Trust me, kid. You’re no match for Khun. He’s the regional space arm wrestling champion. You don’t stand a chance.”

“Entry fee’s five hundred space woolongs,” Khun’s bell-ringing sidekick said. He was dark-skinned, wrapped in a cloak, with burning golden eyes and a red, ruinous smile. “Pay up or shut up.”

“I don’t have any money,” Vegeta said through gritted teeth.

“Too bad then,” the lackey coughed. “These are the winter games, the winter games, step right up if you’re willing to pay…” he sang slowly.

“Only a coward would hide behind an entry fee,” the Saiyan retorted, not moving from his spot. He stared Khun in the man’s disgusting bloodshot eyes. “Are you scared to fight a kid? Is that it? Huh? You’re a coward, really, aren’t you, Khun?”

The look in the alien’s unreal eyes said everything. Though his minions were jeering at Vegeta, it would have been a lot worse for the big man to turn down a kid’s challenge. His pride clearly meant more to him than the entry fee. Heh, I think I understand these space pirates…

“Fine,” Khun whispered threateningly. “I’ll snap your arm like a twig. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya, monkey.”

“Hmph,” Vegeta exhaled again, this time grinning slightly. “A stupid pirate like you has no chance against the Prince of All Saiyans!”

His lackey set a cup of steaming Veseli Tiqi before Vegeta’s side of the table. “Drink,” he said. “It’s the rules.”

The robed alien set another glass in front of Khun, who downed his in a single unflinching gulp. Vegeta looked around. They were all staring at him, especially that long-eared alien with the red and black armor and a bug-like alien with folded arms wearing black and green light armor carefully crafted from scryihl. It was unusual for such armor to have a green hue to it–the buggy bastard must have added those cosmetics itself. Its eyes were wide and pupiless, plump as piles of rotting meat, and they were looking him over meticulously, as if studying their next meal. Behind the group, he could see Asaio talking with the bartender; Nailo was engaged with a pirate playing the fire fingers dance, a game equally as perilous as what Vegeta was about to partake in. Pale green flames shot up from the table where their fingers deftly moved around the targets in quick, rhythmic thrums.

He had never had alcohol before that moment. Vegeta bit his tongue to stop himself from gagging. His vision popped with blinding stars. His throat burned, his taste buds screamed, his head felt heavy and weightless, and he needed something to wash that taste away, but they gave him nothing. The pirates stared down at the boy with grins of malice and greed. A bell was ringing softly. A few cackled expectantly. Wiping his mouth, the Saiyan Prince took his seat.

“Alright, monkey, no funny business.” Vegeta didn’t so much as look at him. He thought of his father. We are the greatest warrior race in the universe. Even Frieza knows that. But it’s not something that anyone else will believe. We have to go out there everyday and prove it again and again… He shivered. The memories were frayed, fading, full of holes. He closed his eyes, remembered them watching space pods shoot off into the darkness of space. All those Saiyans were dead now. He knew why. There was no comet for them. Only Zarbon. The boy’s fists clenched.

Khun’s arm was on the table. He was too massive for Vegeta to remain seated. The boy had to stand to reach his arm. A bundled-up lackey blew a whistle and rang his bell obnoxiously. Their hands came together, clenching hard. Khun’s grip wasn’t as tight as Vegeta had been expecting.

They were all watching him. They know I’m going to lose, Vegeta thought. Heat was in his cheeks. He gripped Khun’s hand harder and the man pressed his weight suddenly against his arm.

It was a giant versus a bug. The armored insectoid clicked its mandibles, watching eagerly. Vegeta felt Khun’s arm straining against his, lightly at first, then forceful as an avalanche. He wanted to get this over quick. Vegeta grit his teeth, sweat forming on his brow. He waited for the next surge in power, but it never came. Oh, he thought, and then the boy snapped Khun’s arm in half.

Blood painted the table. The sounds of chairs being pushed back overpowered the big man’s ragged breathing. Everyone was on their feet, staring at Vegeta. He swayed in place, feeling like he needed to throw up. “The Saiyans are the greatest warrior race in the universe!” he sneered at all them. “Don’t you ever forget it!”

“Vegeta!” Asaio’s voice was hoarse, thick with fear. What a coward.

His chest was light, his lungs burning with lightness. He wanted to fly. He wanted to burn them all. Vegeta didn’t care one bit about Asaio or Nailo or what they were trying to do here. They meant nothing to him. They were just soldiers standing in the way of his own ascension under Frieza. He was not theirs to command, nor would he ever be. I won’t do what they tell me to–never. One day I’m going to kill everyone anyways. I have no use for friends.

He swayed in place, his mind spinning. “Who’s next?!” Vegeta shouted, his chest puffed up, heat surging through his veins. It felt good to be on top for once.

The bug’s wings were buzzing, its mouth opened wide. Black, flame-like energy surrounded its body. It raised a claw at Vegeta, and he couldn’t move. His scream caught in his throat, and he fell, his scouter shattering between the floor and his ear.

Others were shouting. A purple blast of ki went flying overhead. The crowd scrambled, and the buzzing of wings overcame Vegeta’s ears, and he remembered nothing but the trampling of footsteps and the sound of bodies hitting the floor.

Kuriza perched atop a chair like a Ziller Beetle, his face shining golden in the light of the prisoner’s energy bindings.

“How bad was it?”

“They’ll live,” the boy replied mildly.

“R-right…” He’d never heard Burter sound afraid before. He worries more than I would have expected. “Let’s take him somewhere less crowded,” he hissed low.

Burter flung the lone surviving slaver over his shoulder and the four of them left the Veko-Mano, a crowd of recruits watching in silent awe. The mercenary led them through the skies, unusual for this planet, as flight was generally illegal. But a member of the Ginyu Force and the son of Frieza would never be stopped for such an infraction, so fly they did. Aranya was behind, an arm slung over Orlen, who limped through the air at a much reduced pace.

“I’m going to get him to a rejuvenation tank,” Aranya said over the scouter a moment later. “He’s losing energy fast. Don’t wait up for me.”

“Very well,” Burter hissed. “Return to us later.”

“Aye,” she said, holding Orlen with more authority now, turning in the air, her aura blue and bright, and shooting off in the opposite direction. There were no doubt many rejuvenation tanks across the planet, and she would find one easily.

Kuriza led Burter to Strabbery Creek, a meditative garden located on Twin Arcose Peak, a double-peaked mountaintop overlooking the city. It was here officers in training could go to relax, study, or get some quality quiet time away from the usual hustle and bustle of the Citadel’s horrendously packed streets.

“I used to come here a lot,” Kuriza said delicately. “This is a very beautiful place.”

Burter threw their prisoner onto the ground. The sweet summertime aroma of Isaki flowers, bright orange, pink, and ocean purple, colored the young, straight trees around. The mountainside path was rugged, uneven, but refreshing in its natural asymmetry. They could hear the gushing of Strabbery Creek flowing, but could not see it from where they were. On all sides, bushes, ferns, brambles, and ranks of trees obscured from view anything but wilderness. There was of course, a view of the city from this height, but they were not sightseers, nor cared much to look.

“Can I wake him up?” Burter asked the young lord. Kuriza nodded once. “Hey, you!” Burter slapped the slaver harshly. “Naptime’s over!”

“Wha… who’s there?!”

“Slaver,” the boy said coldly, approaching him. There was an imperial dignity about him as he looked down upon the bleeding, sweating slaver, that had to induce terror in the pathetic man’s heart, he knew. “Tell me who your master is, where he resides, and how many follow him.”

Silence, save for the rushing of the river. A deep-blown wind cascaded down from the mountaintop, rattling the trees. A few flower blossoms were knocked loose and began drifting downwards. The sun shone brightly. The boy’s gaze was unyielding.

“Answer your master,” Burter whispered. “You know what’ll happen to you if you don’t.”

“Just do it,” the man growled, eyeing them passively. “I know I’m dead. Get it over with already.”

“No.” Kuriza raised a finger, slicing the man’s cheek open with a careful crimson finger beam. He bled, screaming into the dirt. “Answer me, slaver.”

The boyishness had left Frieza’s son. Isaki in the air, sweet as tropical fruit, made everything seem warm, happy, inviting, but even as a blossom landed on the boy’s shoulder, he fired another attack, this time, exploding the slaver’s eye with an invisible ki burst. As the slaver’s body jerked and stretched as much as it could, Burter wrapped tendrils of blue-white energy around his body until he could no longer move, bloody wax-like streams of gore streaming down his cheek like tears. Thrashing, moaning, he never answered Kuriza.

Aranya arrived a moment later, touching down softly to observe the scene from behind the others.

She gave them a look, and Burter shrugged in response. “We know who sent you here,” she said suddenly, stepping forward boldly. For a moment, Kuriza felt blind rage overcome him at her forwardness, but he had enough sense to let the emotion pass through him like a cold wind through the trees, and once it was over, he had endured it. That was one thing his father was not so good at, a part of him he had been working towards overcoming. It is perfectly reasonable if she can get him speak, he told himself. My pride matters not. We are only here to protect Father’s Empire.

“Kiwano sent you here.” It was not a question. She paced around the broken man slowly, her tail pointed up in the air. “He sent you to assess our strength, to wound us as much as you could, to learn from us all he could. You were test subjects. He never cared about your lives. Don’t you understand that you were nothing more than cannon fodder, thrown at us to test how hard we can bite–nothing more?”

He spit, trembling, saying nothing.

“You are dying today,” she said simply. “It is up to you how much you want it to hurt. I am giving you a single opportunity to be in control of your fate.” Aranya stopped in front of him, a purple sliver of ki floating before her gloved claw, which she pointed at the man. “Would you suffer for a man who has already thrown away your life? What do you owe him? Why protect him? He’s dead either way. His foolish rebellion will not continue operating much longer. One way or another, we will find him and kill him. Are you going to help us, or are we going to have to make you scream?”

He looked up at them blindly: the son of Frieza, the fastest member of the Ginyu Force, and the ever-tenacious Nyarin. All three of them could easily make his life a living hell. All three of them had enough power to toy with him; Kuriza could see the realization, the fear, the tiredness forming painfully in the deep lines of his face. She is rather clever… and not arrogant about it. I bet she knows a lot of stuff that I’d never know about unless I asked her.

There was a sense of a smirk on Aranya’s face, though the shadows of the trees concealed her emotions well. In that moment, he understood. There was power in her strategy, refined recklessness with more maturity than his father’s usual strategy. It was invigorating to experience; he had never known logic could be paired with power in such a beautiful way. Kuriza took a deep breath, quivering, wanting to flee, to be alone, to experience all of this in the openness of starkest solitude. But the others were around, so he would have to maintain a certain level of dignity. He swallowed his excitement, noticing the man’s breathing quicken.

“I can get you hooked up to stims if you want. I know it’s popular amongst imperial officers… they’re really not even very expensive, I know a guy–”

“Deflect from the subject again, and I’ll take off three of your fingers,” Aranya whispered.

“Uh…”

“Do not waste my time, either. Answer my question or die.”

“Fine,” the prisoner whispered at last. “Yeah, Kiwano’s in charge, but he’s not leading us on the front lines.”

“Oh? Who is?”

“That would be Sharlyk. He’s the real power in our gang.”

“And where’s he at?” Aranya asked casually.

The man bit his lip, taking four or five deep breaths, his eyes closed, the blood glimmering on his cheek like bug tears. “He’ll be at Jeiri if you’re looking for him,” the man said weakly, not looking up.

The three of them exchanged looks. Kuriza nodded meekly, and it was done. The wind blew again through the forest, and the sound of rushing water comforted him. He closed his eyes, imagining Jeiri–a planet he had never been to before. Looming before it was his father’s face: passive, cold-eyed, unblinking. The weight on the boy’s shoulders seemed to simultaneously grow and evaporate, and for once, he felt eager about the future.

“Send a message to Asaio,” Kuriza ordered Burter. “He and the others are to meet us at Jeiri. We’re leaving at once.”