Primo was running up ahead, in the direction of the bow. Collin, DiMaggio and Bubba hurried after him, with the three soldiers following close behind. Collin hadn’t noticed before, but the Tyrant was a magnificent vessel. He recognized how the use of rich colors and tasteful textures could be soothing to the senses … not so much right now, with the ship under attack, but his overall impression, nonetheless, was one of elegance: bulkheads painted a deep red and appointments, such as hatchways, that looked to be made of gold or a lightweight counterpart to gold. There simply couldn’t be found a more dramatic counterbalance to the dismal interior on the Turd. Captain Primo no longer tried to hide the pain he felt in his ribs. His right arm was pulled in close—holding on to the left side of his torso. He’d come to a double hatchway of brushed gold metal that opened silently into the side bulkheads as he approached. Once inside, he turned toward the three teenagers. “Hurry up!”
