“Among my people, my age would place me in the Osirian equivalent of adolescence. I was never taught why we were a power not to reckon with.”
“I doubt you lack an understanding of your people. You’re too meticulous to lack knowledge.”
“Ki-Ton’s betrayal removed many who founded the UCP with us. My own agent sent to discover who was providing fake weapons to those fighting the Mokarran was part of the conspiracy to distribute those inferior weapons.”
“You’ll find who provided Ki-Ton with those weapons. You have to provide those rebels with assistance to disrupt the Mokarran war machine as much as possible.”
“Kantian will work against me.”
“Our entire government will not function as part of your conspiracy,” Easter says.
“And for your silence you need me to confirm your promotion of Kantian to Admiral in order for him to function as your assistant.”
“You know how the game works.”
“You play it better than I do,” Maxtin assures her.
She uncurls her bone-swiveled fingers, holding out a crystal. “State-approved funds to pay those mercenaries the Summersun government couldn’t. I note mercenaries calling themselves the Monster Squad have been paid in triplicate. They earned no more outstanding number of CKNs than any other surviving squad.”
“Is there a question, Admiral Easter?”
“No, my old friend. I think we know where each other stands.”
AMYE STAGGERS SHIRTLESS into the bathroom. She fumbles for a switch. She squints. The flickering light slaps her already bloodshot eyes. Closing them helps her to steady the lightheaded feelings swimming over her. Her brain ferments in strange alcohol even after hours of sleep. Or at least she thinks it’s been hours. Sunlight penetrates scratches in the black painted window behind her, giving a clue to the time. All roach trap motels are the same on every planet. Only the names of the bug species change. She remembers learning William was stolen by a Sandman.
According to the cat, Samantha, now trusted adviser to the crew—and all-knowing expert on things Sandmen—they suck the brains from their victims. He may have escaped those monsters once, but they followed him to Summersun and ended his existence. They took away the one man who gained her respect. Someone who saw her as more than flesh to be penetrated and thanked for the spread. He brought value to her life she’d lost since the training academy for gifted youth.
She notes the snoring mass behind her in the bed. Ignoring him seems prudent. She still has her pants on. Closing her eyes did little to cure the redness. But now they focus better in the light. She rubs over the tops of her breasts. She hasn’t felt rough sex tenderness since before joining the crew, nor has she had teeth mark bruises. Amye cups her left breast; the mound overflows in her fingers as she raises it to inspect the trail of bite marks running to the crease where it joins back to her pectoral muscle and the bird-shaped birthmark. From the purpling dermis he must have thought it was attractive.
Water collects along her bottom eyelids. Now she’ll never get to show it to William. Self-loathing forces the tears down her cheeks. All the chances she had to give herself to him.
To thank him for saving me.
To thank him for giving my life purpose.
To thank him for being my friend.
She didn’t deserve him. He dies, and within hours she’s drunk and in bed with a strange man. Within hours, just like every day of her adult life on Tartarus.
The dark paint over the cheap hotel window melts down the wall, dripping into a sludge black puddle on the stained carpet. It pools then flows like a river toward the bathroom door. As it crosses the tiles, the stream crawls. A hand clasps Amye’s ankle from the sludge.
Over her shoulder, reflected in the mirror, the horrific twisted faces of souls entrapped in the Sandman’s mask squeal in her ear. The creature slips inside Amye’s mind, leaving no sign of the black oil or the Sandman.
“He’s not dead.”
Amye spins on her heels. In the bathroom doorway stands Kymberlynn.
“You’re dead.”
“Do I look dead, Little Sis?” Kymberlynn asks.
“William said you died on Tartarus.”
“Would I be here now, telling you our captain’s alive if I were dead? The Sandmen have him. I’ll help you, but you’re the only one who can save him.”
William Schlichter has a Bachelor of Science in Education emphasizing English from Southeast Missouri State and a Masters of Arts in Theater from Missouri State University. With fifteen years of teaching English/Speech/Theater, he has returned to making writing his priority. Recent successes with scriptwriting earned him third place in the 2013 Broadcast Education Association National Festival of Media Arts for writing a TV Spec Script episode of The Walking Dead.
His full-length feature script, Incinta, was an officially selected finalist in the 2014 New Orleans Horror Film Festival. Incinta received recognition again by being selected as a finalist at the 2015 Beverly Hills Film Festival for a full-length feature. Incinta has advanced in several other script contests, including most recently being an Official Selected finalist in The 2016 Irvine Film Festival. His next life goal would be to see his film transferred from the pages to the screen.
Writing has always been his passion even through traveling, raising twin children, and educating teenagers. While he specializes in the phantasmagorical world of the undead and science fiction fantasy stories, William continues to teach acting, composition, and creative writing.
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