The slaves were careful not to make any noise that might disturb their masters. To do so was to invite certain pain, if not death, and even the most wretched slaves still clung to life. The air was full of hissing sighs. The squat, blue-furred, four-armed slave carrying the bucket of live baby Nerba, the master species' favorite snack, almost gagged at the thickness of the naphthalene reek.

"Still. One of the Overphyle is dead at the hands of a human. We cannot allow subject races to think that this is even possible-let alone something that will go unpunished. Is there any chance that word could spread back among the Magh' nests or the human hives?"

The Nerba-carrier did not allow the faintest change in his posture or manner to betray his pleasure. The implant in his head said that the death of one of the Overphyle was an awful thing-but the Nerba-carrier's hatred of the Overphyle, and all their works, was almost as intrinsic to him as the programming not to attack a Korozhet was in his implanted soft-cyber chip.

He walked closer to one of the inner-high, and placed the Nerba cub on the floor. The soft-furred little creature creeled weakly and hungrily. A dart hissed out of one of the Korozhet killing spines, and impaled it. The little thing screamed as the neurotoxins were pumped into it. The Purple Seventh-instar heaved itself out of the bath, humped over the prey, and began to evert its stomach into the snack. Nerba died slowly, and this one was still pleading weakly as the digestive enzymes liquefied its flesh.

Controlling his revulsion, the slave walked on to the next inner-high of the Pentarch. This one was speaking, so he waited, respectfully. "They are still putative subjects. I hold, despite their dexterity, that these humans will make poor slaves."

The Purple Seventh-instar that was busy feeding clattered its spines again. "Those we have captured and implanted have proved more than adequate."