“You read what Maxtin wanted you to, and not a page more. How did you get it? The IMC wouldn’t just hand it over. They’ll barely admit I’m AWOL.”
“Doug found it.”
“He’s read it!” She storms off.
“You want to explain?” Reynard scowls at JC.
“You invaded her privacy more so than telepaths.”
“I did my job as captain. I have to know my crew.”
“Then maybe something else set her off. I get no reading on anything. It’s a strange sensation.”
“I forgot they took away your mind.”
“It’s like having every noise you ever heard screaming at you and a door slams and nothing.”
“It’s only temporary.”
JC’s breathing steadies. “Knowing as much keeps me from losing it. The Order has punishment where they remove or suppress a telepath’s talents. I understand why those who accept it have high suicide success.”
“Why do women have to make everything so confusing?”
“Amye was confused long before she joined the crew. She’s just mad you might have read something in her file she doesn’t want you to know. More than likely it is something idiotic, but it’s a major embarrassment to her. She’s done nothing but try exuberantly prove herself a worthy member of this crew since you brought her on board.”
“So this is one of those ‘I should totally understand about women’ things and don’t because she won’t share her feelings and yet it’s my fault I don’t understand?”
“For her, it’s more complicated.”
“I’ll never understand women.”
“Don’t look at me. I like my men older and with a higher rank.”
“I’m walking away from this.”
HAVEN’T I PROVEN myself? Amye scarfs a drink she swipes from a tray of one of the enslaved tailed aliens. Why don’t they want to listen to me? Joe says to see without your eyes; well, they don’t see. She witnesses Scott win at a dice game and leave the table with a stack of winnings and two females. Australia doesn’t see. She climbs into bed with him every night, and he climbs into bed with everything else during the day. Not my place to tell her.
Don’t they know what’s going on? This place isn’t just a haven for smugglers and those wishing to indulge in indictable behavior, they traffic in slaves.
“We’re not here to deal with the indentured,” Kymberlynn reminds her. “We’re here to collect bounty. You should have another drink, maybe gamble.”
“Seriously, you want me to drink?”
“I want you to blend. Say what you will, Scott’s attracting the correct attention—relaxation. Doug’s buying an expensive toy. Why are the rest of the crew here?”
“To have a good time. We have to find this guy.”
“Let Reynard and his brain rapist search. You help him out by blending.”
Amye snaps her finger, and one of the tailed slaves brings a tray with a selection of drinks. “I’ll get blended. Don’t you worry.”
Cheers beyond those of game winners draws Amye’s attention. She migrates toward the exciting howls and death calls.
The corridor opens up into a stadium. Amye fails to push past all the patrons gathered around the top edge shrieking, chanting, and howling for blood.
“Pay for a booth.”
“What?” Amye glances at the level above them with overhanging windows allowing a view straight down into the arena.
“Pay for the booth area. Where else will you get to witness a functioning Dracon Arena?”
“Like, never. I saw footage of one once,” Amye beams, “but never in person.”
“Then splurge on yourself, Little Sis.”
Amye finds the stairs and stumbles on the first step. Her drink sloshes. She ends any chance of spilling more by quaffing the rest.
Viewing room seventeen flashes “vacancy” on the sign over the entrance. Amye slides her left hand into a slit in the wall. The computer reads the DNA implant card on the back of her hand.
“Two tickets.”
The computer accepts her payment with a chirp, spitting out two tickets.
“Rather primitive.”
“If you had used credit chits instead of a traceable DNA card transaction, no one would ever know you were here. This place is about anonymity.”
“For criminals.” Amye hands the two tickets to the burly gray-skinned alien at the door.
He tears one ticket in half pocketing the piece before handing the stub and full ticket back to Amye who jams them into her jacket pocket upon entering the booth.
Not as lavish as she would have thought, but certainly a better view.
“It looks like a pit in the floor. Not much to get excited about,” Kymberlynn rolls her doe eyes and plops into an overstuffed cushioned chair.
Around the glass windows are control boxes with buttons to push under coin slots for credit chits or a place for a person to slide their left hand in order to access their DNA implant card and their money.
A few other aliens drink before the glass. None of them seem interested in gambling with the control boxes.
“Don’t you remember those Kypterian traders talking about one of these arenas? I’ve always wanted to visit one.”
“They’re not legal, and you’re participating in murder.”
“You’re not an accessory if the participants willingly enter the game.”
“Wow. You believe that.” Kymberlynn hops from the chair. “A minimum of two rivals enter the checkered floor down there and only one may get to the end.”
One of the enslaved tailed aliens brings a tray of drinks. Amye snatches one and gulps down half. She won’t let Kymberlynn ruin her fun.
“Did I hear you say you’ve never been to a Dracon Arena before?” The Osirian pirate sports a skin-tight shirt revealing well-defined muscles. Admiring eyes drift from his pecs to the part of him Amye doesn’t care for—his overpuffed mustachio and the two thick braids of hair that hang past his elbow. Woven throughout the braids are leather straps of varying texture.
“They are the skin of those lives I’ve taken,” he informs her.
“What?” Amye knows she must have been staring at the leather. Skin trophies. He must throw in with the…Amye’s memory fails her. She knows his two braids define his stature and his cut of the spoils. Why can’t she remember?
“You simply pick a man to win and be like those fools over there and wait for him to get to the opposite end of the arena, or you make the event more sporting.”
Amye knows the control box has options. You pay—or, rather, bet on trying to move the odds in your contestant’s favor by selecting weapons, traps, or obstacles. She leans against the window and takes a sip of her drink. In the arena are two males: the one who just knifed the other patron on the gaming floor, now wearing a blue striped leotard, and a humanoid lizard draped in a yellow leotard. Amye’s not sure what species he is, but he’s no Tibbar.
She drops credit chits into the control box, betting the lizard will be the only escapee.
The pirate bets on the other man. “Going to bet on the reptile and just watch like those fools?”
The enslaved waitress replaces Amye’s drink with a full one. “I’ve only heard about the Dracon Arena, never played.”
“Don’t hustle me, girl.” He drops credits into the control box, depresses a button. “But in case you haven’t…”
One of the checkered tiles in the floor breaks open. A pillar shoots out with a blue sword in its center. “If my blue man kills your yellow lizard with this sword, I get double the bet and the winnings for supplying the sword.”
Amye swills down some of her fresh drink and swings around to the control booth. She has half a second to aid her bet. She drops in credit chits and presses a button.
Half the checkered tiles drop away and flames shoot like fountains.
“You don’t win if your bet kills your man,” he scolds.
She hadn’t thought or didn’t know. She doe
sn’t know. Still the crowd cheers the flames.
A yellow battle axe shoots from a tile. The yellow lizard leaps a pillar of flames to grab it.
Others bet as well, Amye realizes. “What happens if he kills the blue man with the axe?”
“You get some winnings, but not as much as if you bet on the axe.” He taps the panel above a flashing axe not there a moment ago. “As long as this flashes it is an open bet.”
Amye drops in more credit chits and depresses the button.
He throws back his entire drink and places another bet. A blue shield pops from the floor. The blue man snatches it. The yellow lizard keeps a pillar of flames between them. The escape door won’t open until one is dead. The blue man swings the shield through the flames and they transform into a pillar of ice. The yellow lizard smashes through the ice sending frozen shrapnel everywhere. The shards of ice gore the blue man. Other ice fragments seem to lessen the fires of the surrounding flames.
Amye, not wishing to be outdone by her challenger, swills down another drink and drops credits into the console. She selects a shield. Nothing happens.
“You have to pick something not selected. It keeps the crowd from getting bored with a repeat fight.”
Amye jabs a button. Floor tiles not on fire all raise to varying height levels.
He drops in credits and selects the floor button. Half the raised tiles now move to a forty-five-degree angle.
“You said they don’t repeat,” Amye protests.
“A new obstacle.”
“What happens if they are both killed?”
“Whoever selected the obstacle causing death will get a percentage of the winnings, but not the jackpot. You get it only if your man survives.”
All the drinks leave Amye euphoric. She leans against the glass. He touches her shoulder. When she doesn’t protest, he works his fingers, releasing the tension in her muscles. Amye flicks her shoulders allowing the jacket to slide halfway down her biceps. She relaxes as the tautness discharges. She forgets her bets as he slides his other hand over the opposite shoulder.
As her upper body unwinds, he snags her drink before it drops to the floor.
“Try this.” He hands her a fresh glass from the serving tray.
She guzzles down flowery-smelling grog.
“Amye, we’re here on a mission. Amye, you don’t want to let this strange man manhandle you. I thought you were going to stop sharing yourself. You never let others watch. I thought you wanted to hold off until Reynard wanted…” Kymberlynn’s voice fades from her mind.
The pirate eases down the stretchy material top. He halts his downward pull halfway down her bicep, almost trapping her arms, as he eases his left hand to cup her breast.
The fire between her legs burns hotter as her panties soak with arousal. She’s taken no man to bed upon meeting Reynard when he pulled her from the rockslide meant to be her death on Tartarus.
He’s strong. The muscular arms around her pull taut as if he plans to pick her up. Amye’s too heavy. It might turn him off knowing she’s so dense. Males don’t like heavy girls, even if she has fine curves. She twists enough in his grasp to bite his shoulder—hard.
He jerks from the instant pain. “You like it rough, little girl?” He digs his fingers into her arms, holding her taut.
She pushes him away playfully, letting her Silver Dragon jacket drop to the floor. Her heart pumps so rapid it quickens her breath. “As rough as you give.”
He shoves her into the over cushioned chair, nuzzling his face against her breasts. He grips both hands around one of them and guides the erect nipple into his mouth. She quivers and releases a low moan. Amye’s eyes roll back into her head as he brings her to climax. She collapses sinking into the chair.
He pops the nipple from his mouth. “You alive?”
“That’s never happened before. I’ve never cum…”
Pride lights up his face. “Ever?”
“Not, from just—my nipples,” Amye huffs in quick breaths.
“I guess it’s my turn.”
She hears the clink of his belt unlashing and his pants buttons snapping. She opens her eyes to find Kymberlynn staring at her from a chair in the corner.
Kymberlynn chirps in a mocking tone that sounds just like Amye, “I’m not going to be like this anymore.” She shakes her head in disgust at her sister.
“You need to get out,” Amye screams at her.
“But I haven’t…” he protests.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” she snaps at him.
He follows Amye’s gaze to the darkened corner.
“There’s no way I’m able to do this with her watching,” Amye says.
“Right.” He clasps his pants so they don’t fall as he takes a step backward toward the door, never taking his eyes off the motionless shadows in the dark corner.
“You’ll let any Osirian on Tartarus poke you, but not in front of an audience. Does that make sense?”
“You’ve no business being here.”
“I’m gone.” He slips out the door.
“Why are you ruining this?”
“Besides your little crush on the Commander, which by the way he’d be one of the most decent of men you could ever spread yourself for, you drink a lot more after you screw.”
“I do not.”
“Yes you do. You drown yourself after sex. Why?” Kymberlynn asks.
“Smerth off.” Amye spins around and grabs the pirate. “You’re not who I want gone.” She uses both her hands to grip her jumpsuit in order to expose herself to her midriff.
He reaches for her despite her tantrum.
“They’re bigger.” He grips the underside of each breast lifting them up.
“They do that sometimes when properly stimulated. You made me soak my pants with just my nipples. I’ll bet they’ll be swollen for a while.”
“Someone has been here before me?” He holds up her left breast.
“No, that’s a birthmark.”
“It looks like a bird.”
“You admire it as long as you want or you…” She pulls his face between her tits.
“You’re one crazy girl.”
Bite.
Electricity surges through her before she faints from the pain.
REYNARD’S ELBOW CATCHES the cloaked figure under the chin. The powdering of a bottom tooth grinding into the upper jaw makes him wince.
Teeth pain.
No matter how tough he is, the thought of the drill to fix teeth bothers Reynard above measure—and it wasn’t even his tooth.
Before the attacker impacts the ground, Reynard has him by the throat, his knee against the attacker’s chest.
Five minutes ago they were shopping—pretending to shop—when a simple pickpocket sent them into the brawl.
The long corridor of glass windows allowing onlookers to peek into operating rooms are not only so people can witness the surgical procedures, satisfying any medical voyeurs, but also to display the ease at which body modifications are made. Most are illegal on most planets, or the procedures prevent certain employment or sports participation. The kinds of people seeking this place are on criminal watch lists already.
As long as a person has credits, the establishment offers a form of protection in that the casino offers a neutrality. It’s short-lived—as soon as the patron leaves the building to return to his ship, at point they have been rearmed. One thing Reynard has yet to discover is anyone offering energy weapons.
He and JC watch a woman get knife blades installed in the tips of her fingers. Once fitted the small knives pop on command, and she has an instant weapon. Each razor extends about an inch to an inch and half—enough to hurt and damage an attacker and long enough to cut throat arteries of a victim.
“She’s one step away from getting Wolverine claws.”
“Who?” JC asks.
He keeps forgetting his cultural references are lost on his crew. “Osirian super-human. Claws would grow from his hands on command.” He n
otes the confused look on JC’s face. “Doug would understand.”
The next observation bay has a multiarmed computer moving the eyeball of an alien. Medical personnel clip tethers to the exposed nerves.
“Looks painful.”
“Optical implant. If it’s successful, vision reaches into ranges of the light spectrum they couldn’t naturally. Many species want ‘night vision.’”
“Seeing in the dark’s useful.”
“This person has no telepathic tendencies. Eye nerves can strongly affect the reading. No telepath could be optically enhanced.”
“What do eyes have to do with reading thoughts?”
“It’s the nerves and how they are directly wired into the brain. They attach computer chips to the brain. No matter how good a surgeon is, synapsis will experience damage and destroy an empathic connection.”
The subsequent window displays an Osirian on the operating table. A laser cuts open his calf, and the multiarmed robot peels back the flesh, exposing the muscle. Other arms attach what at first looks like a metal rod, which grows into the muscle, becoming a part of the body.
“We can rebuild him. We have the technology. We can make him better than he was. Better, stronger, faster.”
“What are you mumbling?”
“Osirian television show. About a man damaged in a spaceship crash and the robotic parts used to rebuild his body. They turned him into a secret agent,” Reynard recalls.
“You people should have focused less on this bizarre entertainment and more on preparing for the Iphigenians, or another invading force.”
“Faster reflexes?”
“My guess is he’s a merc. Mecat pilots who live long enough opt for the procedures to enhance aging reflexes.”
“But not many.”
“You buy a Mecat cheaper than this procedure.” She snaps at him, “I don’t need my telepathic abilities to know what you’re thinking. I wouldn’t do it. There’s no mandated medical trifurcate to report to if they mess up your body.”
Reynard moves to the next window. He notes two hooded figures following them.
The woman inside the next observation lab has a hole in the side of her neck.
Enter the Sandmen Page 17