“I won’t debate with a merc.” Condescendingly, she offers, “We appreciate your assistance in eliminating the Mokarran.” She holds out two credit chit-sized cards. “Draw your reward.”
Hauser snatches them and grinds them in his fist.
The soldier completes her tirade, “At least you earned it.” To her, Hauser is one rung above the vermin he just abolished and nearly as bad as the impoverished people just rescued.
He activates the commlink, marching away from the organic fertilizing transport. “What, Australia?”
“Are you a part of the Silver Dragon crew, or are you returning to your independent contracting?” the female voice inquires.
Hauser ignores the question. “I removed two more living Mokarran from the surface. A task the Asym find me well suited for, but bounty payment’s not enough to replace the ship your captain owes me.”
“Commander Reynard failed to apprise me of payment arrangements for your services to the crew since your assignments originate from the same source as ours.”
Smerth’n Nysaean double speak! “It’s difficult to discuss payment with a dead man,” Hauser says.
Her gulp echoes over the commlink.
He gives Australia a moment to compose herself before continuing. “I’ve heard a few vague and misinterpreted campfire stories about Sandmen, and none of them speak about them abducting individuals.” Hauser keeps to himself the stories he’s heard about Nysaeans.
“The Silver Dragon remains en route to Summersun,” Australia confirms. “Repairs will be attempted without dry-dock until clear evidence of Commander Reynard’s location is determined.”
Whether intended or not, her demeanor leaves Hauser cold. “I didn’t sign on to chase wraiths. I’m here to kill Mokarran.”
“There are plenty of consignments available if you wish to sell your sword.”
“I’m no Lancer. If you desire my assistance, I need credits.”
Her flustered breathing draws a smile across Hauser’s face.
“A merc body has raised questions. I need you to investigate.”
“Easy credits. A dead merc rarely amounts to much,” Hauser says.
“On the battlefield no one notices, but in a hotel bed it turns a head or two.”
“Is it one of your crew?” Hauser asks.
“No, but Amye Jones paid for the room.”
CONSTRUCTION SCAFFOLDING SURROUNDS the incomplete Independence. Robotic forklift-like crafts maneuver panels of durasteel into place over the skeletal frame of the unfinished sections. Humanoids in spacesuits weld the new pieces in place. These sections of the craft add to its grandiose nature. Once complete, Admiral Maxtin’s command carrier will protect the worlds of the United Confederation of Planets inside the Riftgate. The behemoth ship orbits the blue-green spear, Parliament, central capital of the UCP.
Concealed next to his private office in a hidden chamber, Admiral Maxtin files away paper documents. His ancient hard-lined features are reminiscent of an angry father with a high forehead and white lion mane hair, some of it braided to disclose his caste among his people. Ribbons decorate his chest, displaying his rank as one of the five elected rulers of the UCP.
Lt. Commander Helena Gibson activates a blast shield, protecting a window between the firing range and the hidden chamber. “You know there are more effective methods of data storage than paper?”
“Effective, yes, but all computer security has a hacker working on ways to penetrate it. Only you and I know of this sensitive information and its location.”
“If they do hack your computer, won’t the lack of information rouse suspicion?”
“There’s plenty of information on my computer, and if someone acts upon the false evidence laced within it, we will know who our enemies are within the UCP.”
“I know who they are,” Gibson muses.
“Poor choice of words. Simply knowing isn’t enough. We must prove it if we are to sway the Senate to stay out of the Mokarran/Throgen war.”
A UCP soldier marches into the firing range. He inspects a rifle before loading it with an energy clip. It hums with power.
Maxtin and Gibson remain stoic behind the protective, clear durasteel glass. Maxtin nods, giving permission to proceed.
The soldier takes aim down range, locks his sights on the target and squeezes the trigger. A plasma beam discharges, cooking through the target disk. He squeezes again. The second shot incinerates the remainder of the target.
A third squeeze.
Gray gelatinous goop paints the observation glass. Exploding chunks of the rifle rain onto the floor along with what’s left of the soldier.
Gibson picks herself up from behind the control console.
Maxtin remains resigned—unmoved—showing no concern.
“You knew that was going to happen?” Gibson asks, straightening her uniform.
“I knew the durasteel would withstand a blast from the weapon exploding.” His red eyes flare with anger but his voice never shifts from his calm fatherly tone.
“You’re damaging your command carrier before it’s completed.”
Maxtin storms through the door to the firing range. “Once again, we’ve confiscated another shipment of imitation weapons.”
Gibson examines the blast pattern in the wall. “It blows out like a grenade. The soldiers on either side of him would be killed as well and others wounded.”
Maxtin pecks at a piece of metal until it’s cool enough to extract from the slime. “Substandard minerals comprised this alloy.”
Gibson uses tongs to remove a piece of embedded shrapnel from the wall. “You scanned it already?”
“I don’t have to. I’ve seen it enough before.” Maxtin holds the metal chunk up to the light. “Too many rebel soldiers are dying from these fakes.”
“I’ll run the test anyway. We might turn up something new.”
Maxtin drops the metal fragment into a plastic tube. “Gibson, I may have to delay your promotion. An officer like you will be impossible to replace.”
She takes the tubes containing the metal fragments. “I’ll take a compliment from a Zayar.”
“Not every Zayar’s like me. My people’s belief system keeps them isolationists. Unfortunately, it also prevents them from understanding no one remains a xenophobe where the Mokarran are involved. They bring the war with them.”
“I’ll get these fragments to the lab.”
“Our focus now has to be on discovering who’s manufacturing these replica weapons. Too many soldiers are dying. It’s cutting into resources for those fighting the Mokarran.”
“Your hidden resources.” Gibson
