“So it’s my fault you got stuck on the mining colony?”
“I certainly got you to leave that rock. And you got to meet him.” Kymberlynn points at Reynard.
“He was on Tartarus for the Lieutenant, not us,” Amye points out.
“He was putting together a team of the best and the brightest. Scott’s mechanical genius made him a prime candidate for Admiral Maxtin’s Black Box missions. He just got a bonus picking up a top-level pilot…and what skill do you bring to the team?”
“If you hadn’t slept with Scott, he’d never have brought you along.”
“If the captain hadn’t seen a rockslide bury you, you’d be dead.” Kymberlynn shifts her tone. “Why were you in an off-limits passage?”
If it wouldn’t bring shame to him, she would rearrange Kymberlynn’s nose. Amye knows she blames her for preventing them from leaving Tartarus years ago. She blames Amye for failing her advanced course training and being delegated to the rank of Technician Second Class. Kymberlynn believes Amye got stuck and no way will she ever get promoted beyond her current rank at the mining colony. Amye was sent off-colony to the advanced training program at fourteen. Something not many Osirians accomplish at such a young age, or even at all. Amye’s career should have propelled her past retooling auto-rock loaders or sludge pool scrubbers. Instead, her unsuccessful coursework reduced job options.
Ignoring Kymberlynn’s guilt trips are their own career path. Off Tartarus, as part of the crew of the Silver Dragon, career means nothing when Kymberlynn now pilots the most advanced piece of technology in the known galaxy. No rank in the IMC would get her on this ship. They were never going to be rich with company dividends, and even if they got to travel to all the sectors of the galaxy, they’d never get to spend any time on any one planet.
“Nice shooting,” her captain, Reynard, compliments.
Amye smiles. “Nothing you couldn’t do without a little practice.”
“Youshon offered the hospitality of the saloon. You and Scott check it out. I don’t want to insult the man by not accepting his offer. Ki-Ton and I will make sure the weapons are delivered.”
“Hospitality extends to only the male warriors of Braeco’n society. I should deliver the weapons, and you should socialize,” Amye offers.
“I still don’t like to indulge in cuisine that has effects on my digestion I’m unfamiliar with. I’ll join you shortly. Keep an eye on Scott.” Reynard leaves her.
“Just the job you wanted,” Kymberlynn smirks. “The best way to keep Scott out of trouble would be to be the girl underneath him.”
“There are days you make me wish Reynard hadn’t dug me out. If I were dead, I wouldn’t have to listen to your taunting.”
“Do you think he knows?”
“Knows what?” Amye’s thoughts are confused by Kymberlynn’s questions.
“About you.”
“Kymberlynn, what the smerth are you jabbering about?”
Amye quickly marches away from her sister, but no matter how fast she moves, Kymberlynn keeps pace with her like a second monkey on her back. She moves as speedily toward her first vice.
Barrels, crates, and piles of rocks create a windbreak around the large patchwork tent covering a pit dug into the rough earth. Light blasts through the unmended holes, but despite the poor quality structure, the blaring music invites patrons.
Amye strolls down the earthen embankment. The tent operates as a ceiling to the hole dug into the ground instead of being actual walls of the saloon. She loses track of Scott, who’s already disappeared in a mass of what Amye figures are prostitutes. She’s unsure whether the Braeco’n women could even be considered prostitutes. It’s a Braeco’n woman’s duty to procreate with any victorious warrior on demand unless she’s been claimed as a spoil of combat. What surprises her is the number of other aliens drinking and wenching.
Mercenaries, most likely, or other conspiring rebels who wish to bring down the Mokarran regime imbibe here. For the first time, Amye’s the only female warrior in the bar.
“So disgusting,” Kymberlynn muses.
Scott holds a Braeco’n woman on his lap. She runs her fingers over the lines of his pectoral muscles.
“I don’t think Osirians and Braeco’ns have similar procreation equipment.” Amye pushes her way to the bar.
“She still has a mouth,” Kymberlynn sneers.
Amye leans against the bar. She rests one of her long legs on the metal foot rail running along the bottom. “I’ll imbibe in the local mind-altering beverage.”
The Braeco’n slides a glass at her. The sludgy pink substance inside reeks with an unknown odor. Amye knows better than to refuse the order now. She holds it, allowing it to waft under her nose in the hope she’ll get used to it enough to swallow.
“Where do I pay?” She displays the back of her left hand.
The bartender waves his hand as if it were saying no. “Youshon buys all newcomers their first drink. After, coin only. We’ve no electronic scanners to read your embedded credit bar. Nothing computerized to be traced back to this location.”
“Smart. To scan the information contained on the implanted DNA card in your hand, the computer reader must connect at some point to the Interplanetary Subspace Netscape. Even prudent hackers won’t prevent all location traces.” Kymberlynn then ponders, “Why didn’t you go in for data penetration training?”
“Not much call for it on a mining colony, and I don’t want to be a jacker like Doug.”
“I doubt your mind could handle the implant anyway.”
“The implant makes Osirians insane.” Amye throws her head back, scarfing down the sludge. She drains half the glass before the rocket fuel taste burns her throat. She slams the drink down and wipes her mouth.
Impressed, the bartender offers her a second drink. “Not many Osirians handle Caeno’n. This one’s on me when you finish.”
“You know the one way not to spend any coin in this place. I bet most of these men would love to fondle an Osirian woman,” Kymberlynn says, not spotting a single Osirian among the prostitutes.
“I don’t do aliens.”
“No, but you’ll act as a party favor for free drinks.”
“You’re just full of all kinds of sisterly love.” Amye downs more of her drink. The mind-numbing substance fails to push Kymberlynn from her thoughts.
“I just don’t want you to screw up this opportunity on the Silver Dragon the way you stanched my piloting career.”
“How long are you going to harp on me?” Amye sniffs her drink.
“I don’t know, Amye. How long do you plan on breathing?”
Amye slugs down the remainder of the first glass. Whatever spirits concocted this beverage certainly didn’t ferment it from vegetables. Amye’s eyes swim in distorted pools. Even the first time she absorbed liquor it didn’t immerse her brain cells this quickly. She sips from the second glass to conceal the effects the first had on her. Female or not, she’ll not be weak in front of all these warriors.
“Eat something,” Kymberlynn advises. She points to breaded nuts in a bowl on the bar.
The wrong kind of food could make it worse since she has no idea what comprises this liquor. “I’ll be fine.” There are pills to quell the effects of food indigestible by Osirians, but unlike her captain, she doesn’t carry them with her.
“Maybe you should get Scott to carry you back to the Dragon.”
“I don’t want his smerth’n ape hands to touch me.”
“He’s not bad. He just enjoys women. It’s no different than all the alcohol you pour into your system.”
Sometimes Amye hates her sister more when she’s right.
THE STIFF WINDS howl around Commander Reynard. Dust flakes pelt his skin, some big enough to sting. He ignores the pain. No warrior would allow pinpricks to affect him, even if the constant burst of pellets hurt. Admitting pain in front of the three Braeco’ns would not only cause him to lose face, but destroy the reputation Admiral Maxtin’s creating
for the crew.
Lieutenant Scott Beers keeps his uniform jacket zipped up and the bibbed overleaf on the front secured, as well as the strap around the neck and the waist secured as tight as possible to keep the bits of dust from infiltrating the jumpsuit underneath. No technology has been invented to prevent the difficulty of washing away sand from all the body crevices it collects in.
“I understand why you brought her with us. Her leg would have been amputated without the Dragon’s medical tech, but you’re putting a lot on the line allowing her to demonstrate a prototype sniper weapon. She misses and a smerth’n world of shit will rain down on these rebels,” Scott says.
“Her aptitudes state she’s qualified, but explain to me why a mining organization qualifies their employees in sniper rifles,” Reynard says.
“They don’t. Not directly.” Scott clarifies, “Their computers analyze certain test results to determine combat skills. The company assesses all those attending company schools in order to hire security from those raised in the company ranks.”
“Loyalty’s a virtue.” More like brainwashing from birth.
“The Interplanetary Mining Corporation’s holdings outreach even the Tri-Star Federation’s territories.”
“Corporations have always secretly ruled the world.”
“Galaxy,” Scott corrects his captain.
“Her record doesn’t say why she’s stuck as an IMC Second Class Technician with all those high scores.”
“When I worked with Kymberlynn on Tartarus, she said something about Amye going mental at some advanced training academy she was accepted into in her teens. She never learned what happened. Amye wouldn’t share with anyone.”
Reynard read the report. Amye failed an advancement assignment. Her brilliance was confused by one missed fact on the test. The IMC rank their students with the results and give no do-overs, just like his middle school math teacher. Reynard keeps his faith in the brunette prone on the ground taking aim into the canyon. He sees her becoming a valuable member of his crew. He saw potential in her, or he would have healed her and left her on Tartarus. Eliminating the Mokarran scouts will prove her potential to the rest of his crew.
And her shot will substantiate the value of the weapons Admiral Maxtin donates to his old ally. Braeco’ns notoriously believe females are not designed for combat, and Amye’s miss will be seen as an insult as well as bring down the wrath of the Mokarran.
Much of Reynard’s knowledge about Amye flows through Scott’s past relationship with her sister, making his bias of her character clear. Scott’s assessment doesn’t concern him. One opinion might belong to the tall humanoid standing opposite of Scott. Even at a distance, it’s clear Ki-Ton’s not quite one-hundred percent Osirian, at least not genetically. Something about his face lets you know he has mixed parentage.
Ki-Ton lacks the desire to share personal opinions. He prefers to perform the actions required to complete a mission and not discuss it.
Reynard recruited only the best operatives in their respective fields for his crew. He found a few people he liked, but most are assigned by Admiral Maxtin based on the requirements of the missions. After Australia Wells was allocated as his navigation officer, Ki-Ton was Maxtin’s top assignment. He spent nine years operating infiltrator missions against the Mokarran for the Admiral. Now he’s Reynard’s best source of information while treading in Tri-Star Federation space.
Ki-Ton speaks without emotion. “It’s not an impossible shot, Commander, but not many full-blooded Osirians are skilled with such rifles.”
“So we should let you make it?” Scott suggests. Other than knowing Ki-Ton worked for Admiral Maxtin, he’s never seen the man in action.
“The Commander wants a crew of those considered top in their field of operations, and he has populated the ship with only three non-Osirians.” Ki-Ton’s inflection displays his own disdain for the inferiority of Osirians.
“I’m best in my field. No one has scored higher on the UCP engineering examining,” Scott boasts.
“I don’t suffer from the same arrogance as Osirians,” Ki-Ton says.
“What species are you again? You look close enough to us to have Osirian genetics.”
“Neither of you have mastered teamwork,” Reynard scolds. “Behave, or I’ll assign some timeouts.” He knows his home-world reference is lost on them.
He steps up to the old warrior. Youshon wears his experience in the multitude of scars on his body. Strings of burnt flesh decorate his neck.
“Do you know Admiral Maxtin well, Commander?”
“Ki-Ton has worked with him more than me, but the Admiral has become quite a mentor.”
“Not a quality usually found in Zayars,” Youshon mentions.
“Braeco’n don’t approve of female warriors, either,” Reynard utters.
Youshon acknowledges, “Maxtin taught me some cultural norms are worthy of ignoring when dealing with the Mokarran. They kill anyone, despite gender. Females should be afforded the same defensive opportunities as males.”
“Your young warriors don’t share your sentiments.”
“It will benefit them to witness such a weak female overcoming powerful Mokarran,” Youshon declares.
I’m glad Amye didn’t hear him call her weak. “You’ve worked with the Admiral a long time against the Mokarran?”
“We were in the same fighter squadron during the Battle of the Twin Suns.”
Reynard probes no further. Youshon’s statement has finality to it. Reynard can’t insult his host, even if he wants to know more about his employer. History vids explain a limited perspective on the pivotal events thirty years ago.
“You’ll learn much from him. Trust notwithstanding.”
Amye carries the rifle to gift to Youshon. The two Braeco’n grumble, barely audible, in Reynard’s universal translator about pure luck for an Osirian female.
Reynard flashes Amye a smile of pride, but despite his delight in his crewmate, he has to respect Youshon and quickly dispatches her away along with Scott. Ki-Ton remains at his captain’s side.
“We’ve dealt with this one before. The Admiral’s intelligence operative.”
Ki-Ton nods.
“Intelligence: term for what has to be done in order to stand up against those who would oppress others,” Ki-Ton states.
“Admiral Maxtin provides all the weapons you need, but he made it clear we could transport your people back to…” He almost says safety and insults the man and his warriors. “United Confederation of Planets.”
“I’m an old warrior. Being old brings about wisdom, as does having traveled so far from my home world. The logical course of action would be to accept the Admiral’s offer, but Braeco’ns are warriors from birth, and those youths who fight would never accept such a wise action, nor would they function well within the confines of UCP military rules.”
Youshon gives several hand gestures to his two soldiers, deploying them to retrieve the Mokarran shuttle and weapons. “We grow stronger each time a Mokarran falls.”
“Wise stratagem; build your arsenal while you deplete theirs.” Reynard recalls reading of such guerrilla tactics.
“What strategies are you employing by attacking a Mokarran patrol so close to your own hidden base?” The question Ki-Ton poses purposely seems insulting to a species of warriors.
“The Mokarran no longer search the area when we ambush them. It took a great many attacks before they gave up, realized we never stayed, and booby-trapped the area. Depleting their numbers further. Still, in their arrogance, they send out regular patrols of only three soldiers.”
“Few species would attack a single Mokarran, let alone three.”
“We are not other species. We are Braeco’n.” He thumps his chest.
“My chief engineer would speculate the Mokarran military teeters on collapse, and the Mokarran’s pursuit of rebel groups like yours only keeps up the pretense of power. They’re engaged in an unwinnable war with the Throgen Empire.”
&nb
sp; “Then victory shall be obtained, but the new Mokarran leader builds a supernatural following, and fanatical soldiers are the most dangerous kind.”
“Showing weakness to an enemy could be a ploy to draw out rebel groups like yours in an attempt to eliminate you.”
“You have experienced military leader thoughts, Commander Reynard, but lack the scars of many battlefields. Where did you study such tactics? Not at the UCP Academy,” Youshon asks.
“I played a lot of chess with my dad. He’d never let me win.”
“Placating children with a false sense of skill teaches them nothing. Braeco’ns would have received a lash upon losing as well.”
Reynard cringes at the thought. “I chose to play him again.”
“Why?” Youshon inquires.
“I knew I could beat him. I got better at it each time.”
“You defeated him.”
“Nope. Never could. Not once in a thousand games could I ever outthink him.”
“You never brought honor to your house by learning more than your teacher.”
“No one else I ever played could ever beat me.”
“So you brought honor to your father’s instruction. Even if you couldn’t surpass his teachings.” Youshon nods. “We learn much from all warriors. Even young ones.”
“Even females?”
“I should be insulted, but I’ve come to a better understanding of the galaxy than the indoctrinated youth of my species. Impossible to accept women as anything but breeders. It may not be acceptable to most species, but we fight for our way of life the same as you. If we survive then perhaps in generations to come we’ll develop more respect for our females.”
“The problem with Osirians is you always feel your method of existence is how everyone should behave, yet you follow your own morals least,” Ki-Ton chimes in.
“I just felt my sniper deserved the respect a skilled warrior is given. She clearly demonstrated her value.” To my crew as well.
“She has earned my respect. As have you, despite your lack of experience.”
Enter the Sandmen Page 2