by Cheree Alsop
“Liora, no,” Shathryn said, her tone hurt and confused.
“I’m sorry,” Liora replied without looking at any of them.
She made her way to the door. Duncan grabbed for her arm, but Tariq’s voice stopped him.
“Let her go.”
Liora jogged down the hall and out the door to the loading dock. She kept running until she was far out of sight of the SS Kratos’ cameras and anyone who might try to pursue her.
It was another trap, a cage, somewhere she might not have escaped from if Devren hadn’t let her go. She had vowed during her captivity with Malivian that if she ever got the chance, nobody would capture her again. She would get far away from the Kratos, the Kirkos, and anything that resembled the hull of a ship. She would never belong to anybody again, ever.
Liora looked at Gaulded Zero Twenty-one, really looked at it, for the first time.
Her headlong rush had taken her from the loading docks to the inside of the strange supply drop. Hallways of ships had been welded together to make long, pressurized winding walkways around the outside of the mass. Huge pieces of scrap metal had been attached and sealed so that the interior of the Gaulded was air locked. The commotion that met her ears drew her to the edge of the railing.
All around her on various twisted and turning levels, people from all walks of the Macrocosm bartered, talked, laughed, and argued. Humanoid races she had never seen before discussed beads, weapons, cloth, dry goods, and metals. Copper coins, silver bars, and even phosphate rocks were being weighed and traded.
At one stall in which a variety of guns hung from the walls, a Salamandon argued with a horned Gaul. The Gaul gestured to the bars on the scale and shook his head. The Salamandon’s gills worked overtime as he argued in the common tongue. The Gaul shook his head and picked up one of the silver bars. The Salamandon’s eyes widened and he gestured quickly.
The Gaul bit the silver bar. It broke in half. He waved the fake bar angrily. The Salamandon backed away with his hands up. The Gaul grabbed the gun on the counter and shot the Salamandon. The gilled humanoid fell over the railing and plummeted to the ground far below. Everyone scattered. A few looked up for the body’s point of origin, but they left the Salamandon alone. Soon, a pair of Belanites carried the body away.
“Harsh, isn’t it?”
Liora glanced over at the hooded Zamarian who leaned against the railing a few feet away.
He gestured at the Gaul. The horned shopkeeper cleaned the gun and shoved another bullet into the chamber before he hung it back on the wall.
“It’s life,” she said quietly.
The Zamarian lifted his shoulders in a shrug. Blue streaks marked his face and ran down his hands in the marking of his people. Zamaria was a planet of blue and gray. The markings were a hereditary camouflage of the race. It was said they had the same metal running through their veins that they used to make their weapons. “It is? That’s debatable.”
He gave her a closer look. “You could use a place to clean up. No one should walk around the Gaulded like that. It’ll mark you as a target.”
“No, thank you,” Liora declined.
The Zamarian tipped his head to indicate the shop behind them. A variety of weapons and armored clothing hung from the walls. “You don’t have to trust me. My mother’s in there. She’ll see that you’re taken care of.”
Liora watched him closely. “That sounds ominous.”
The Zamarian grinned. “You don’t trust anyone. Someone as beautiful as you is smart to be wary.” His gaze shifted to the tattoos on her neck and his eyes widened. “But you wouldn’t trust people, would you, Damaclan.”
The word was spoken as an accusation. The Zamarian’s eyes narrowed and he lifted his hands as if expecting an attack.
“Leave her alone, Zran,” a woman’s voice said from the shop.
“Mother, she’s a Damaclan.”
“She’s a girl,” the woman replied; her voice carried a hint of steel. “Treat her with respect.”
Zran shook his head and backed away. “I value my life,” he muttered. He pushed through the shop and disappeared out the back.
A woman with the same blue streaks and a weathered face stepped into view.
“Don’t mind my son,” she said. “He most likely thought he was saving you until he realized he should probably save himself from you.”
The woman’s tone brought a small smile to Liora’s face. “I wouldn’t have hurt him.”
She shook her head. “It’s hard when yours is a race judged before you’ve spoken a word.”
Liora turned her gaze back to the hectic marketplace. “Most Damaclans don’t take the time to speak. Their words lie within the bodies that mark their wake.” The mantra of her youth sent a shiver down her spine.
“Yet here we are having a perfectly normal conversation.” The woman paused and gave a soft chuckle that lowered Liora’s walls. “If you can call speaking of Damaclan normal. I can’t recall the last time I saw one of your race.”
“Me, either,” Liora said without looking at her.
“Come inside and wash up,” the woman urged. “Zran was right. You don’t want to be seen as a target. There are few here who wouldn’t balk at the chance to prove themselves against a Damaclan.” She waved a hand. “Bragging rights and all that.” She ducked back into the shop. “I have something that might fit you.”
Liora hesitated in front of the shop. The woman’s kindness was something she hadn’t expected. Zran’s reaction was normal; his mother’s, unexplainable. Yet she was right. Wandering a Gaulded bleeding and bruised wasn’t exactly a show of strength. If she was going to have a chance at survival, she would have to gain her bearings.
When Liora stepped into the shop, the older woman motioned for her to enter their living quarters. She held aside the curtain that separated a small sitting room from the washroom. Liora walked across the small floor of the ship and found herself at a sink with a mirror. She stared at her reflection. It had been years since she had seen herself in anything more than the tin plate upon which Malivian’s servants brought her food.
Liora’s brown hair hung nearly to her waist in a loose braid. Her dark eyes were guarded as she searched her face for any sign that the young girl she once recognized still existed. The Damaclan tattoos that marked her as a member of the clan ran from behind her left ear and down her neck.
Beneath the tattered uniform shirt, the tattoos had been crafted down her chest where the marks curled like the Gaul’s horns below her collarbones; bold lines spiked away from the original tattoo and worked down both of her arms with the signets and rank markings of the Damaclan warrior training. The black triangles at her wrists and the red symbols above them told that she had completed the last ranking at age twelve. On the inside of her forearms, other markings that she wished she could forget proclaimed her clan name with the red seal of her bloodline.
“Here,” the Zamarian woman said. She held out a rag and a bar of soap. “Clean up while I find something that’ll fit you.” She looked Liora up and down critically and a light appeared in her worn blue eyes. “I think I have just the thing.”
She backed away and let the curtain drop before Liora could stop her.
Liora gave in and ran water over the rag. The soap stung when she used it to scrub her face. Scents of lavender, Earth aloe, and Martian sage touched her nose. Her eye was already black, but at least the swelling had stopped enough that she could see. The gash in her eyebrow could probably use a stitch or two, but it had stopped bleeding for the most part. She cleaned the rest of her face and then held the rag to her forehead. Bruises from hitting the bar colored her cheek and jaw. The skin was tender to the touch, but at least nothing was broken.
“Here we are,” the woman said. She stepped through the curtain with several articles of clothing in one hand. She paused at the sight of Liora’s clean face. “Much better,” she said with a satisfied nod. “Now get these things on. We’ll throw that Coalition uniform away before
any Revolutionaries try to jump you. Unless that’s already happened.”
She let the question linger and ducked back out the door.
Liora looked through the clothing the woman had brought. A black shirt with long sleeves and a neck high enough to cover most of her tattoos zipped up the back. Matching black pants and boots made up the rest of the outfit. Liora fingered the material.
“Is this Ventican cloth?” she asked in surprise.
“Yes,” the woman called from somewhere outside the room.
“I can’t accept this,” Liora replied. The cost of the cloth alone was worth far more bars than she had ever owned in her life. Ventican cloth was interlaced with supple metal strands so that the wearer was protected with a semblance of armor.
“Accept it,” the woman replied from closer to the door. “I’ve been hanging onto it for no reason at all. Nobody shops here for Ventican clothing. A trader desperate to resupply his ship before the Coalition landed practically gave it away. It’d be a shame for it to go to waste.”
Still feeling as though she should refuse the generous offer, but knowing the Coalition uniform made her a target, Liora pulled on the Ventican attire. She stared at herself in the mirror. The clothes fit as though they had been made for her. The boots, black serviceable gear, would work on the deck of a starship or the mines of Planet Tanus. The clothes covered most of her tattoos and would allow her to go unnoticed through most of the Gaulded.
Liora gave her hair a critical look. “Do you have a knife?” she asked.
Chapter 7
Liora couldn’t help feeling as though she had been given a new chance at life. Though the woman protested Liora’s many offers to help, she vowed to return and repay the Zamarian for her kindness someday. Liora walked through the Gaulded with the sensation that she was camouflaged. No one gave the girl dressed in black a second look. She wandered the many levels of the market with a confidence she hadn’t felt in a very long time.
Liora’s stomach growled at the scent of fried banarang hanging from the stalls of a smoke shop. Her steps slowed when she drew near. She was in the middle of contemplating whether she could snag a piece while the smoker’s back was turned when a shout caught her attention. Liora leaned against the railing and studied the commotion below.
A pub made up the entire bottom of the Gaulded. Ship crews, welders, scrubbers, dockers, and craftsmen and women crowded the tables and bars. Until that point, everyone had maintained a fairly good-natured atmosphere. But at the shout, silence settled over the pub. The mixed crowd stared between two tables at the far end.
“That’ll teach you to mess with the Kratos crew,” Lieutenant Argyle said. It was obvious by the way he slurred his words that the lieutenant had drunk a few more than he could handle.
The entire table across from them rose to their feet. Horned Gauls and several hooved Calypsans towered above the Kratos crew members.
“What have you done?” Jarston, the Kratos’ cook, demanded. “You don’t throw anything at a Gaul!”
The Gaul he spoke of wiped beer from his soaked shirt. He snorted in anger and locked eyes with the lieutenant.
Even Argyle appeared sober enough to realize the enormity of his mistake.
“Back to the ship!” he yelled.
“Hurry!” Officer Straham shouted.
Everyone ran to the exit only to find it blocked by two Gauls with crossed arms and death stares.
“We’re all going to die,” Officer Hyrin gasped.
Shathryn shrieked as the men closed in.
Liora glanced around quickly. The mismatched ships and space rubble packed together for the body of the Gaulded made quite an obstacle course. She didn’t know if she could reach them in time.
Liora threw herself over the railing. She caught an outstretched I-beam and shimmied down it hand over hand to the end. Swinging back and forth to gain momentum, Liora let go and plummeted toward the Gaulded pub. She grabbed a railing to slow her descent, jumped to another railing, and tore the back off a chair hanging over the final ledge.
Liora crashed on top of the two Gauls by the door, flattening them to the ground.
The crew of the SS Kratos stared at her.
“Liora?” Straham said in surprise.
“Hurry!” Liora commanded. She shoved the door open just as the other Gauls and Calypsans reached them.
Liora stepped aside for the crew to pass. Slamming the chair piece on her knee, she broke it in two. It was easy to fall into her training. Muscle memory didn’t fade even with all the time in cages. The chance to fight sent a thrill of excitement up her spine.
“Come on,” she said.
The two closest Gauls glanced at each other and charged.
Liora clocked the one on the left just below the ear, dropping him to the ground like a sack of rocks. The Gaul on the right swung at her. Liora ducked, brought part of the wooden chair up to connect with his jaw, and finished him with a backhand that spun him nearly around before he fell.
The others stopped. Everyone in the pub was completely silent.
“Who’s next?” Liora asked.
“Come on!”
A pair of hands grabbed Liora by the back and spun her around. Liora stared at Tariq in surprise.
“Run or die,” he said, motioning behind them.
Apparently watching four Gaul get clobbered by one small woman was enough to rile the fight in the drunken pub members. They were climbing over each other as well as the chairs and tables to reach the door.
Liora took off with Tariq at her side. They followed the crew of the Kratos along dark ramps and through passageways to the loading docks. Eventually, the sound of pursuit faded.
“Thank…goodness,” O’Tule gasped. “I think we almost died back there. My life flashed before my eyes and I’ve come to realize something very meaningful about myself.” She paused for dramatic effect and concluded in her clipped tones, “I need to learn to run faster.”
She leaned against Shathryn whose hair stood out in every direction.
“I’m so glad you were there,” Shathryn said to Liora. “They were going to kill us!”
“I told you not to throw things at a Gaul,” Cook Jarston said.
“How was I supposed to know they’d all come runnin’?” Lieutenant Argyle asked.
“Stab a Gaul in the back, prepare to face the pack,” Tariq and Liora recited at the same time.
Liora fought back a smile at Tariq’s raised eyebrows.
“They’re a very close society,” Tariq said.
“How was I supposed to know?” Argyle asked. “I didn’t know the saying. How do you know the saying?” He looked at the other crew members. “Did you know the saying?”
Shathryn and O’Tule shook their heads.
“You shouldn’t go throwing things at other people anyway,” Shathryn scolded. “It’s rude.”
“They shouldn’t talk about Hyrin like that. Of course he has yellow hair. He’s a Talastan. He can’t help it,” Argyle said.
“They know that,” Officer Straham replied. “They just wanted to get a rise out of you.”
“Accomplished. I hope they’re satisfied,” Argyle replied sullenly.
“At least four of them aren’t going to be feeling very well tomorrow,” Hyrin said, his eyes bright. “Did you see Liora take them down?”
“You took all four of them?” Tariq asked.
Liora didn’t reply. She was debating whether it was smart to follow the Kratos crew back to the starship. The way she had left the pub meant she probably wouldn’t be welcome much longer on Gaulded Zero Twenty-one.
Tariq must have read her expression. “Come with us. You don’t have to be part of the crew. You can leave whenever you wish.”
At the sight of their ship, the rest of the Kratos crew hurried ahead. Liora hung back. Tariq walked slower as well.
She tried to hide her surprise. “I thought you didn’t approve of me.”
Tariq glanced back at her. “I don’t appr
ove of Damaclans. They’re dangerous and usually not team players.” He looked her up and down as if noticing her new attire for the first time. “You seem to be pretty good at taking care of yourself. When Devren sent me after the crew, I didn’t expect to find you defending them.”
“I didn’t expect them to need me,” she replied.
Tariq looked at the ship. The hull had been repaired with huge scraps of metal welded over the previous scraps.
“Will it fly?” Liora asked uncertainly.
“It’s an older ship, but she’s strong. The repairs’ll hold until we get back to Titus. Until then, we have a crew of surveyors in the Cetus Dwarf Galaxy to rescue from the Revolutionaries.” Tariq shoved his hands in his pockets. “Devren received the documents regarding the mission. Apparently, the surveyors crash-landed. They’re sitting ducks unless we can get there.” He paused as though debating how much to tell her. He gave her a searching look and continued, “I tend to distrust the easy answer. The Coalition doesn’t generally send ships that far unless there’s something valuable out there they don’t want the Revolutionaries to get their hands on. I have a feeling it’s going to be quite the fight.”
“Are you always so untrusting?” Liora asked.
She saw the answer in Tariq’s gaze before he turned away. “You made quite the mess back there. I wouldn’t hang around to face the consequences if I were you.” He paused, then said, “Plus, they let Malivian out. Apparently he has the ear of a few higher ups, or enough platinum to pad a several pockets. I’d hate to see you in a cage again.”
He walked up the ramp without waiting for her answer.
The thought of Malivian wandering the Gaulded in the hopes of finding her made Liora’s hands clench into fists. She wanted to take him down and make him suffer like he had made her, but fear lingered in the back of her mind. If he had his torture devices, he could incapacitate her before she connected with a single fist. It had happened before. She would awaken in a cage, her chance at freedom gone for good.
Liora let out a slow breath and walked up the ramp to the SS Kratos. Somehow, stepping into the ship felt right and familiar. The sound of her boots on the clean floor almost brought a smile to her face. She passed Cook Jarston on her way to the bridge. He grinned.