A MESSAGE FROM DANIEL ROEBUCK, THE VOICE OF GREEZ FROM STAR WARS JEDI: FALLEN ORDER AND SURVIVOR

EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER SEVEN:

There was a noise in the darkness. “What was that?” Betty quickly muttered.

They all heard it. A distinctive metal-upon-metal click in the distance.

“I don’t think I like that sound,” said Betty very quietly.

Jett paused a moment, then whispered, “Me neither.”

Just as Betty withdrew her newfound pistol, a bright spotlight shone down on the rangers from directly above. The three Martians snickered. One of them spat on Eloi’s boot; then all three backed away, leaving the rangers by themselves in the spotlight.

Dim lights around the perimeter of the chamber glowed brighter, revealing silhouetted figures of Martian men standing shoulder to shoulder on a balcony above, making a complete circle around the outer wall of the large chamber. They methodically stomped their feet in unison, creating the effect of a primitive drum-beat, announcing the onset of eminent doom. Each had a laser rifle drawn and ready, giving the rangers no hope of escape. All of them wore masks of painted human pelvic bones.

The rangers holstered their pistols. Try as they might, they could think of no way out, as they stood back-to-back below the encircling ring of executioners. At this point, they knew a gunfight was not advisable; the odds were too stacked against them.

A small, oval-shaped hover-platform eased past the rim of the balcony. A black-gloved hand went up, and the stomping immediately ceased, leaving a rolling echo that trailed around the metallic cavern. A sharply dressed Martian stood proud, left hand gripping the front rail of the hover-platform, the other still in the air, commanding silence. He wore a black pin-striped suit with familiar Earth-style tailoring, but still very Martian in its styling. His head looked like a giant bullfrog with fat lips; atop his head, two antennae stuck out of the top of a derby hat. Various old scars crisscrossed his face, one notably deep scar carving a shadowy, jagged line from under his hat, over his left eye, and up under his jaw. He slowly rolled a short, fat stump of a cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. A bodyguard stood on the hover-platform just behind him with rifle drawn.

“Rog,” Eloi spat.

Betty glanced at Jett.

“How polite of you to send out the welcoming party,” said Eloi. “And who says Martians don’t know hospitality?”

Rog stood silently, staring down at the rangers, studying them. Finally, he snorted and, with much effort, spoke with a small voice that came from the back of his throat and wasn’t much more than a loud whisper. “You. Old one. You look familiar.”

A smile slowly broke across Eloi’s stoic expression. “Come now, dear fellow. I’m not one to ring my own bell, but I thought I left a stronger impression than this.” He paused for a moment to let the Martian think. “I’m the cosmetic surgeon who improved your ugly appearance, long ago.”

Rog raised a black-gloved hand to his scar, caressed it, then put his hand down again. “Yes.” The skin at the corners of his eyes and mouth tightened. “As they say on Earth, revenge is sweet.” He raised his hand once more. “And you brought friends. More entertaining.”

He dropped his hand, and the floor began to slowly sink below the rangers’ feet. They were standing in the center of a large circular section that had been released by what sounded like a gravity-lock brake, which allowed gears to slowly ratchet the trap floor downward with a metallic click click click. As they descended, the clanking began to get louder and grow in rapidity, but the floor was not lowering any faster. The sound was no longer metallic, but rather organic.

A sudden realization hit Jett. “Sting-adders—a whole pit of them.”