“And you?” Wil asked the occupant in the other cell.
The man stared ahead as if he hadn’t heard; perhaps from a lack of trust.
“He hardly ever says anything,” said a third man among the Moon Ghouls. “We don’t even know his name. The army brought him on board.”
“Well, gentlemen; if I released you, I’m sure you’d only go back to petty crime.”
One of the Moon Ghouls cleared his throat. Although in his mid 20s, he had a spatter of curled hair spreading over the lower part of his face, vaguely resembling a beard. He took a step forward, peering between the bars with semi-almond eyes.
“Actually, it’s incorrect to refer to us as “petty criminals,” as we held a city to ransom.”
The others rolled their eyes as he spoke.
“Who are you?” Wil asked.
“We just call him ‘Politically Correct,'” said tall man.
“You’ll fit in well here,” said Wil. “Because of Political Correctness, this planet has suffered more arguments, break ups of marriages, friendships, and even started wars. Of course, I can’t put an end to stupidity, but I believe we should give this planet better guidance.”
“You mean rule it?” said the man in the other cell.
“Exactly. There are six populated continents here. We’ll work together to crush any military resistance. Then when the planet is subdued, we each get to be king of our own continent.”
“Of a continent?” said tall man.
Will leaned closer to the bars as Tall man met his gaze. The alien had long straight hair, overlapping a headband; his nose and jaw, both broad and square cut.
“Believe me, to be king of a continent will make each one of us so independently rich and powerful we won’t crave for anything more,” said Wil. “You remind me of a race called the “Vikings.” You can have Europe.”
“And who leads?” asked the man in the other cell.
His tone lacked menace, devoid of challenge.
“I will,” Wil assured them.
He fired a shot above tall man’s head, making the occupants jolt.
“Let’s have no illusions that I’m in charge; agreed?”
The gang members hurriedly nodded. Quiet man, nodding solemnly.
“Then stand back,” Wil said.
“Just open open the lock from the console,” said Politically Correct.
“I can’t; the circuits are damaged.”
They pulled back a step.
“I’d recommend all the way to the corner.”
Huddling into the area suggested, Wil aimed both arms. For a split second, his fists were replaced with twin blasts of concentrated fire, doing little more than score the metal lock. He looked within the folds of his coat, realising he had used up more than half of the spinning projectiles within.
“I’m going to need something more powerful. One of the policemen dropped a pistol.”
“That won’t do anything,” said tall man.
“The Sergeant’s rifle might do it,” said quiet man.
Wil grinned and returned to the door, slapping the panel. It slid half opened as two shots fired into him with no effect. He bunched the front of the Sergeant’s uniform and pulled him inside.