“I value what you offer me, Youshon, but I value my crew even more.” Amye’s had her respect stripped away from her at some point. “I want her to keep what she earns.”
“HERE HE COMES,” Kymberlynn warns.
Amye whips her swimming head around. She grabs the corner of the bar to keep from falling over, setting back any credibility she’s given future female warriors who join the Braeco’n insurgents.
“He’s going to be mad.” Kymberlynn’s voice never seems to lose its taunting demeanor.
“Shut up.” Amye squeezes the bar until her fingertips glow white from the pressure, but it doesn’t prevent them from slipping.
“Just don’t puke on him. It’s real hard for a man to date a girl who pukes on him.”
“I don’t want to date him,” Amye snaps. She needs to let go and get a better hold on the bar, but if she does she will topple over.
“No? Then why are you staring at him?”
Amye protests, “I’m so drunk I don’t know where I’m looking.”
“Sure, Little Sis. You’ve had a crush ever since he dug you out.”
“Just because he did something nice for me and didn’t expect anything in return doesn’t mean I want to warm his bed.”
“Amye, when was the last time a guy did anything nice for you where he didn’t intend for you to end up on your back?”
“Don’t cast stones. You humped Scott to convince him to take you off Tartarus when he left. You were going to abandon me.” Amye reaches for her mug.
“Not a good plan,” Reynard grips her wrist. As his fingers wrap to secure her, Amye releases her hold on the bar and relaxes, slumping against him.
“I recommend you don’t have any of what they are serving. It’s rough,” Amye admits.
“It must be, if it’s knocking you on your ass. Can you walk out of here?”
“Not without help,” Amye admits in a whisper. She nuzzles herself against him.
Reynard drops his arm around her shoulders from Amye’s left side and loops his hand under her right armpit.
Amye hop-steps forward using her captain’s solid frame to prevent herself from stumbling. Reynard lacks the finely chiseled muscles of pretty-boy Scott. Unable to accept how he keeps her on her feet with only one arm, she admires his strength. She knows how heavy she is; it should take three or four strong men to carry her.
Being comfortable next to him, she has to fight with herself to not keep her head on his shoulder.
They don’t make it to the top step before Amye breaks free of his grasp and bolts for the side of the tent.
Reynard holds her hair behind her head as she retches until she has nothing left but bile in her stomach.
“I’ve never had anything so disgusting in my mouth before.” Amye uses the back of her hand to wipe clean her lips.
“Why didn’t you use those pills? I use them when I eat in strange alien places.”
“You don’t have the natural biology to handle alien food. Normally I’m fine,” she insists.
“I can tell.”
“How long before we beam out of here?” Amye snaps.
“March to the edge of the camp transport now. Ki-Ton has to confirm the weapons count first before we can leave.”
“He’s purchased, stowed the weapons, not to mention he’s been one of Maxtin’s bagmen for some ten years, and I trust he’s capable of doing his job alone.” Amye’s knees wobble.
“Bagman’s more of a term for a person in a criminal organization.”
“Don’t delude yourself, Commander.” Lack of sobriety frees Amye’s thoughts. “What the Admiral does is illegal. He’s subverting the laws of the United Confederation in order to protect it. Why do you think he reassigned UCP personnel already separated from the chain of command? Plaz--able…” she hiccups, “plausible deniably of the entire operation. Maybe even claim the Mokarran are attempting to discredit him with such a group. Look at your crew. Scott’s some AWOL Lieutenant who was already exiled as a disciplinary action. Australia’s the last Nysaean. Why would she want to be a UCP lackey? Hell, Doug’s not UCP strolling out of a prison cell and onto the bridge.”
“How much did you drink?” Reynard interrupts before she circulates through the Dragon’s roster.
“I’d one,” she waves her index finger in his face, “but my drunkenness has no bearing on the truth of the matter. Our boss, one of the original five vice-presidential admirals of the United Confederation of Planets, is a bigger criminal than the kingpins operating The ‘O’.”
Amye pukes again.
MOKARRAN GRAB AN elderly woman in ragged garb. Her bundle scatters on the ground. The passing crowd eyes the useful items from the pack, but no one attempts to steal any.
One of the sharkish monsters grips the woman’s left arm while the other scans the DNA bar grown into the back of her left hand. Once they confirm the readout, they toss her into an overcrowded patty wagon. The next Mokarran tears a child not more than six from the arms of its mother. The father’s protests are met with the barrel of a rifle. The woman drags her bleeding husband away as the child screams for its parents.
The next man the Mokarran examine passes their identification scan. They send him on his way. It takes only a few more humanoids to fill the wagon. The Mokarran send off the full craft and bring in an empty one to fill with random citizen examinations.
Among the crowds of humanoids crammed into the streets, a white-haired lion-mane male pushes through. If the random citizen checks were to scrutinize his DNA card, it would bring about more than just an end to his life. He avoids the seven-foot creatures by moving past them as they grab another unfortunate pedestrian. Everyone around him is more interested in keeping their bundles secure and avoiding the Mokarran inspections than in someone slinking past the opposite flow of people.
He escapes unnoticed—unnoticed by anyone on the street.
On an adjacent rooftop an Osirian female covers her left retina with a binocular eyepiece, following the white-haired man bobbing through the congested street. She considers this Zayar too young to be her contact, but no matter what age, Zayars look ancient, even the teenagers. The checkered gray-green camouflage uniform bears no insignias, sigils, or mission patches. He could be anyone from a military enlisted man to an officer, even a privateer.
She scans the crowd again, zooming in on a figure covered in a hooded robe about fifty feet behind the Zayar. She spots the tips of a white mane under the cowl.
A second Zayar!
She taps the watch on her left arm.
“Spotted the Zayar and a possible second,” she reports.
“Confirm, Eli,” the male voice crackles back. “Did you say two Zayars?”
Everyone on her team knows this rare occurrence should be something these denizens take instant notice of. Alarm bells should be flashing for anyone who spots this. As far as she knows, a negative number of Zayars engage in dealings off their home world. Motivated by isolationism and nothing short of disdain for anyone not born a Zayar, two together should at least bring about curiosity, if not a full-blown security sweep.
“Affirmative, a possible second.”
The Zayar shoves across the crowd to the door of the building she spies from. Eli slips from the roof as the Zayar knocks on the door.
A dirty haze fills the dilapidated warehouse. Six men keep a hand on their side arms. The Zayar enters, visually examining each of the men. They are mercenaries. Specifically, Mecat Lancers, from their attempt at analogous uniforms. Each of them has a different cartoon face of a humanoid sewn onto their combat vests.
“The Monster Squad, I take it?” The Zayar assumes from their visages.
A man with a cartoon image of a male vampire on his left vest chest plate steps toward the Zayar. “I’m Vlad. You’ve got a lot of balls for being outside the UCP territories on a Mokarran-controlled planet. Your presence here could be considered an act of war, Admiral.”
The Zayar feels no concern over these mercenaries
knowing who he is. “You could collect a reward for me—for a one-time payment. My value to you will increase exponentially if you choose to stay within my employ.”
“What’s the consignment?” A burly man, possibly too tall to fit in a standard Mecat, asks. The man has a cartoon image of a green man with bolts in his neck.
“The humanoids on Summersun scatter outside from the growing Mokarran presence. This planet’s rotation and orbit keep it in a constant temperature zone. A nice eighty, or so, even if it does feel warmer today. Allowing for a year-round crop growth.”
“But this planet offers little else.”
“Humanoids must eat. If the Mokarran cut off the food this planet supplies to other worlds, tens of billions will starve.”
“We’re anything but farmers,” a male with muddy dreadlocks chuckles. On his vest is the cartoon face of a hairy-faced wolfman. “And what does a Zayar care for the farms of Summersun?”
“A valid question.” From the murky, dusty corner, a robed figure escorts Eli to the group. He pulls back his hood.
“I told you there was a second Zayar.” Eli jerks away from his hold. On her vest is the raven-haired cartoon figure of a female vampire.
“You have to be Admiral Maxtin.” Confident, Vlad waves to Eli to rejoin his team.
“It amazes me how, after the Iphigenians scattered the Osirian people, you keep your culture alive by naming your mercenary units after mythical figures and icons. Vampires, Frankenstein and The Wolfman filled your planet’s legends. Of course, blood-drinking humanoids developed on several planets.”
“You know our culture…impressive…for a Zayar. Since you only care about Zayars.”
“I care about stopping the Mokarran from destroying much of the known galaxy. My people lock themselves away on their planet and choose to ignore the threat the Mokarran create, but the Mokarran won’t ignore them.”
“What concern should we have?” the man with the muddy dreadlocks asks.
“The Tri-Star Federation has failed to re-establish the expired territorial treaty with the UCP.”
“You being on this planet is an act of war.”
“Without treaties in place, no, but neither am I protected by the law here.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” Vlad admits.
“The Mokarran face a war on two fronts. Something no military leader wants to entangle themselves in if they want absolute victory. The UCP may not be strong enough to win, but certainly powerful enough to gut the resources of the Federation, leaving it vulnerable to utter defeat by the Throgen Empire.”
“Then they should just re-sign the treaty,” Eli suggests.
“Satisfying the Mokarran, but not those who wish to remove this solar systems from their rule.”
“Whatever you want to happen will force a new treaty with the Mokarran. One better serving the UCP.”
“Just the beginning. I want to hire you to be a part of a coup d’état.”
“You want the seven of us to overthrow a Mokarran-controlled government. Crazy talk.” The Wolfman howls as his namesake suggests.
“Not just your Lance alone. Enough mercs to remove all Mokarran from Summersun’s surface.”
Vlad contemplates this. “Why not hire us from the safety of your office?”
“Mercenaries or not, I value the lives of those I command. I’m here as proof of my support and seriousness of my offer, not just a blind figure throwing cash at a problem.”
Curious, Vlad asks, “What’s the offer?”
“Since your Lance has been on the planet for a while, you won’t appear as suspicious to the Mokarran as newly arriving mercenary groups. Scout and report the military strength of the Mokarran forces. I need to know how many mercs it will take to successfully drive all the Mokarran from the surface of the planet. Not just defeat them. Remove all living Mokarran.”
“We’re not into the espionage business,” Frank adds.
“You are now. You’re all skilled warriors and know how to assess a battlefield situation.”
“No pandering, Admiral. We expect to be well-paid. Preventing the UCP from being dragged into war and still gain territory costs. You Zayars are vicious in your tactics,” Vlad compliments.
“And good Lances fail to be cheap.” Maxtin says nothing to dispense myth about his people.
“We understand you’re going to pay us a bonus for all this extra legwork,” Eli negotiates.
“I’ll arrange a substantial bonus once the planet has been liberated.”
“With enough money to hire mercs, but how do you explain your presence on the planet? As far as I’ve seen, you’re the only two Zayars not currently on your home world, and one of the five UCP VP Admirals stands out on any planet.”
“Zayar is not a completely self-sufficient planet. They need to import some foodstuffs, especially the Bannis Root. It will no longer grow on Zayar,” the second Zayar explains.
“Some kind of chemical holocaust?” Eli inquires.
“Internal conflagrations are not shared with off-worlders.”
Merc hands reach for their side arms.
Maxtin defends his kinsman. “Forgive Darian Thierry. He’s not experienced diplomatically with off-worlders.”
“My visit to Summersun officially pertains to the purchase of the Bannis Root,” Darian explains.
“It makes a good cover, and if anyone spots the Admiral they’ll assume it’s Darian. Zayars don’t leave their planet.”
“You put yourself at unnecessary risk, Admiral. But I do respect it,” Eli says.
“I take no more of a risk than what I ask of you in our fight against the Mokarran. My question is, why meet here in the abandoned storehouse? Our conference could have transpired in cleaner quarters and with the same amount of risk.”
“Mercs aren’t always welcome in the luxury hotels, even with handfuls of credit chits.” Vlad points at the only non-Osirian in the Lance. “Mummy there remembered an interesting fact.”
The hairy arboreal speaks, “I was around before the Battle of the Twin Suns and the Mokarran abandonment of the Osirian Coalition, which led to their expulsion and near-extinction from the Tri-Star Federation. I was a pilot in the minimal planetary defense force on Summersun.”
“I never knew Summersun had a military defense force,” Maxtin says
“They didn’t. More like a protection detail, or a highly armed police force. They didn’t trust those blue-skins to do it themselves.” He takes a control box from a table. A heavy cable snakes its way under the floor. Mummy presses the button. The wooden floor pops, creaks, and crackles as the boards snap and break. All the mercs and Maxtin are forced to jump back to avoid the missile rack rising through the floor.
Mummy pats one of the two rockets mounted on the launcher. “Around each of the major cities to help support us in the defense of the planet were placed dozens of these.”
“Surface-to-outer-atmosphere missiles. Dozens you say. Around each major city…” Maxtin silently calculates figures. “Are you sure they are all still functional?”
“Someone had the good sense to cover each installation with a building before the Mokarran assumed full control of the planet. Maintenance tunnels connect each station. They were designed to take the elements and be ready within a minute.”
“They would have to be launched all at once and as the attack began.”
“Accomplishable if we locate the main launch controls. The tunnels traverse for miles.”
A thin man with the cartoony Creature From the Black Lagoon on his combat vest rushes in. “Can we use the tunnels to escape? Ten Mokarran heading this way.”
“They have to be looking for the Admiral.”
“They find these rockets and our plan’s defunct.”
“Target and launch at the Mokarran battle cruiser?”
“No,” Maxtin protests, “you’d send them searching for the source of the missiles and prevent any hiring of mercs. Detonate them here?”
“I can set a lau
nch parameter with a detonation code for five feet. They would take this building and most of the block with them.”
“Will we have time to escape in the tunnels?”
“Yes, but hundreds of innocent civilians will be killed in the blast,” Eli protests.
“Compared to the millions the Mokarran are killing by withholding the food grown here. Hundreds will have to die in order to save thousands.”
“Heartless as he may be, the Admiral’s correct.” If the Mokarran find these rockets, they lose the advantage they brought to the table.
Vlad waves at him to escape.
One by one, each merc drops through the tunnel hatch. Lagoon reprograms the missiles.
The Mokarran burst through the door. They fire. Plasma bolts shear the room. As they fan out to secure the chamber, the rocket on the right releases from its launch tray and drops to the floor, rolling toward the Mokarran. Five feet wasn’t enough distance to even ignite the thrusters. Liquid propellant spills from the damaged casing. A Mokarran stops the rolling tube with his foot as the second rocket releases from its tray. The first rocket explodes incinerating the building, launchpad, the warehouse and most of the surrounding buildings.
Left with nothing to do but watch the flames dance through the screaming crowd, Maxtin’s stomach flips over. It sickens him to witness so many innocent people burn and be able to do nothing to help them. Unable even to order medical transports to assist the dying without risk to the entire UCP population.
UNLIKE MOST BIPEDAL humanoid species Nytalyan’s synapses allow for the direct connection of a microprocessor to the portion of the brain, allowing the understanding of spoken languages. Most species must carry some form of external universal translator, which produces a short lag in the conversation. Since problematic in high-stress battlefield conditions, this unique quality has prevented Nytalyan’s people from being placed high on the Mokarran’s termination orders.
The Mokarran have been systematically training their own personnel to assume the duties of the aliens within the Tri-Star Federation. The Federation, once the most diversified congregation of species, was established on the cusp of the Iphigenians Civil War. Osirians, Mokarrans, and Tibbars recognized this new alliance. With peace consuming the alliances for a few hundred years, the Mokarran were able to return to a deeply spiritual practice, allowing the resurgence of an isolationist policy and the belief Mokarran were the one true species of the universe generated in the image of the Originator. This philosophy caused the bulk of the human Osirian military forces to be ousted from the Federation first, giving the war-mongering Tibbar an opportunity to break away from the alliance and re-form their empire and claim a new home world—Nysa. Now, with no major opposition, the Mokarran could begin to restructure their control over the planets and subjugate the humanoid species within its borders.
Enter the Sandmen Page 3