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. The seven-hundred-year-old variety. He poured himself a glass. Looking in the mirror, he could see the others exchange questioning glances, with the exception of Raoul, who calmly blew on his nails.
Xris swallowed the brandy, returned to the hologram. "Any questions so far?"
Raoul raised a hand. "What happens if this Rowan is not alone, my friend?"
"Then I'll know for certain there's not a God," Xris returned quietly. 'Tll need one of your special concoctions." The cyborg indicated his weapons hand. "Something I can smear on a needle, inject into the flesh. Slow-acting, no antidote."
Raoul was thoughtful, intrigued. "I have just the thing. It is known as--"
"'Tll leave the details to you." Xris indicated a large digital clock placed in a prominent location on the wall. "We're running short on time and we've got more important details to cover."
"Such as how we get onto the space station," Quong observed. "I take it blasting our way through is not an option."
"We'd never make it within torpedo range. The base is well armed with strong defensive capabilities. It switches on its marker lights only when a ship is near, to aid in docking. And the only ships that ever dock are Royal Navy, plus a select few. A very select few. A fleet of Corasian mother ships would have a tough time taking that space station out."
"But you have a plan," said Harry, grinning
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