Ignoring the snoring mass seems prudent.
She rubs water over the top of her breasts. She hasn’t felt rough sex tenderness since before joining the Silver Dragon 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 with her pectoral muscle. From the purpling dermis he must have thought the bird-shaped birthmark hidden there was attractive.
She remembers—challenging the snoring alien to a drinking contest. She remembers—her captain being stolen by a Sandman.
I’ve got…I want William back. If the Sandmen have hurt him—Amye struggles to yank the top half of her jumpsuit over her torso. She blames all the drinking on the tight fit of her uniform. She loses balance. Amye slumps against the dresser to keep from falling. The racket should have awakened the sleeping male, but he continues to snore.
She lets her body drop to the floor. “Smerth’n hell.” She closes her eyes, soaking in a breath. She detests her memory returning. It sheds light on her choice to drink.
According to the cat-creature advising the crew, Sandmen suck the brains from their victims. William may have escaped those monsters once, but they followed him to Summersun and ended his existence. They removed the one man who gained my respect, someone who saw me as more than flesh to penetrate and thank for the spread. He brought value to my life. Something I lost since the training Academy for gifted youth.
Water collects along the bottom of her eyelids. Now I’ll never get to show it to him. Self-loathing forces the tears down her cheeks. All the chances I had to give myself 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 just like every day of her adult life on Tartarus.
“I swear by the gods…” Amye shakes loose her pain. “You wanted me to be a valued member of your crew. If Australia will still have me, I’ll achieve what you saw in me.” Amye slips her arms through the jumpsuit top, adjusting herself in the mirror.
The dark paint over the cheap hotel window melts down the wall, dripping into a black sludge puddle on the stained carpet. It pools before flowing like a river toward the bathroom door. As it crosses the tiles, the stream expands and a hand emerges, clasping Amye’s ankle from the slurry.
Reflected in the mirror, the horrific twisted faces of souls trapped by the Sandman’s mask squeal. Before she has time to think or scream, the creature slips inside her 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 her sister Kymberlynn.
“You’re dead.”
“Do I look dead, Little Sis?” Kymberlynn asks.
“William said you died on Tartarus.”
“I wouldn’t be here now telling you our captain’s alive if I were dead. The Sandmen have him. I’ll help you find him, but you’re the only one who’s capable of saving him.”
FOLLOWING THE UCP VICTORY ON SUMMERSUN…
“HAUSER, STATUS.”
Hauser ignores the squawking comm in his ear.
The second Mokarran raises its weapon, indicating he won’t capitulate with the surrender order either.
Hauser obliges—firing center mass.
Chunks of Mokarran spray over the refuge-shredding equipment.
“Divinity’s teat!” Hauser curses.
Fresh DNA covers the composting machines, forbidding him the truth of what the Mokarran were grinding up with the equipment. Hauser kicks the first Mokarran he shot to ensure it’s dead. During his last visit to Summersun, he witnessed humanoids being loaded into this craft. None existed. Logically, the Mokarran ground them into organic fertilizer to spread across the food crops.
He pops the cylinder containing the ammunition. He pinches at the empty shell until it’s cool enough to remove. Next he needs to design an ejection system to replenish his custom weapon faster. Fully loaded, he sweeps farther into the craft. Hauser’s remaining eye forces him to turn his head unnaturally, compensating for his loss in peripheral vision.
The politicians will need months to iron out finite details of the armistice, but any Mokarran present on the surface negates UCP ownership of the planet. One problem with Mokarran is they haven’t a concept of “surrender to fight another day.”
Once secure, Hauser needs off this ship. He smells nothing but the dead. Not the Mokarran blood-stink, but the stench of innocent dead. Preventing more deaths doesn’t make up for those humanoids he knowingly allowed to die in the interim while dealing with his missing patron.
The native population, blue-hued humanoid, were slaves to the Mokarran regime, but they learned from their masters to not waste resources. With the battle over, the Asym utilize the thousands of mercs to clean up the Mokarran stragglers instead of engaging them with their own military. No one cares about mercenary lives. Especially under-contract mercs—death negates payment. Despite the stomach-curdling smell of rotten flesh, Hauser sweeps through the front compartment a second time.
Asym soldiers hand each nude humanoid a blanket. The Mokarran selected undesirable people, stripped them of all possessions and marched them into the next room for execution.
One Asym waves a handheld computer over the DNA bar encoded into the back of each person’s left hand. The female Asym’s face saddens after each scan. “Move these people to a refugee center.”
“None of them are skilled. Most have little employment talents or education.”
Hauser overhears her whisper to a fellow soldier.
“They don’t deserve death just because they don’t work,” Hauser snaps.
“Under UCP law they must mandatorily vote now as well.” Disgusted, the soldier continues her rant, “Most never exercised such privilege on their home planet. Nor did they pay taxes. Now they get a say in my government?”
“They’re still living
