Papa Don't 'Low

Начало книги

THE DREADNOUGHT was big, but it was still outgunned by the six Hothri cruisers, especially since they were coming at it from all sides—and above and below, too.

“Out!” the lieutenant bawled. “Those ants need something else to think about!”

But he was talking to their backsides; Papa had kicked his platoon into motion before the lieutenant finished his exclamation point.

They shot into the scout, catching grab-handles and swinging down into their chairs, stretching their shock webbing over themselves, then sitting, hunched over and tense, eyes glittering, watching Papa.

“Any second,” Papa growled, still upright, hanging onto a grab in the ceiling. “They’ll shove off any . . .”

Then a huge boot kicked them all in the seats of their pants and, for a moment, they had weight again—too much weight, as the little vessel shot out of its berth in the dreadnought, spearing straight toward a Hothri cruiser.

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