“What I don’t get is why you hate him,” Kymberlynn observes.
“Do I have to have a reason? He just annoys me.” Amye sinks into her chair.
The spiky-haired strawberry-blond communications officer rocks back and forth in his chair, performing an air guitar solo to the music in his head. He sports the Silver Dragon uniform, only he’s decorated the leather with zinc studs and extra zippers. Under the jacket, but over the jumpsuit, hangs a ratty black Metallica concert T-shirt, Doug’s most prized possession from the Osirian home world. Even with the hole in the side, it is priceless. Besides his funny bottom lip, the cybernetic computer jack embedded in his neck below his left ear creeps Amye out. The device allows him to plug into any computer and speak with it. Osirians’ neural pathways fail to handle the implant. Even non-Osirians who have had it have gone insane. Amye knows Doug’s on the fast track to crazy town, and she doesn’t want to be on board when he snaps.
“You should be friends,” Kymberlynn points out. “Like you, he’s not in the UCP. Gives him more of a choice in following orders.”
“He gets no choice besides a clear lack of cognitive skills. He’s a felon and won’t risk pissing in Reynard’s pool since he paid Doug’s parole fees.”
“Still, no reason not to be nice to him.”
Amye could count the reasons, but that would lead to a scolding by Australia Wells, the Silver Dragon’s first officer and compulsive rule follower. Not one speck of her uniform doesn’t shine or appear perfectly trimmed. She has the front zipped up and the bibbed flap buttoned with the waist belt secure. Her blonde hair, when loose, reaches the top of her boots, but now it heaps in a regulation bun on the back of her head. The wrinkle-free outfit and flawless features are trumped by her eyes. Flaming sapphire blue in color, with no retina or pupil, just a haunting blue ball, the most common visible characteristic separating Nysaeans from Osirians.
The main view screen shifts from the field of stars to Admiral Maxtin.
“Were you able to deliver the weapons to Youshon?”
“Without incident, Admiral,” Australia answers.
“I hope my old friend was well.” Before Reynard answers, he continues, “I require your crew to undertake another mission, Commander.”
“You do pay the bills, Admiral,” Reynard jumps in to answer, demonstrating he’s in control of his ship.
“Lock in your coordinates for the Aurora solar system, third planet.”
SMOLDERING LUMBER AND melted steel slag stand like skeletal remains in what was once the warehouse district of the city. The non-wounded are herded away from the area, protesting their leaving without missing loved ones. Loved ones are buried under the splinters of sheetrock and foam insulation fragments of former buildings. Wails of anguish for the dead and dying fill the streets as Mokarran order the area cleared.
Heavily worn military-grade boots kick over a splintered wall fragment. Underneath, a Mokarran roasted from the incinerating blast rests. Before the owner of the boots investigates further, the Mokarran hisses for him to evacuate the area.
Not wanting any unnecessary attention, he tromps back through the smoldering rubble, melting into the shuffling refugees forced out of the warehouse district. Despite the distinctness of his Tibbar hide leathers, once mingling among the herd, he becomes another of their faceless numbers.
The warehouse explosions mushroom above the skyline. As most humanoids escape the fires with little possessions, two figures keep vigil on a rooftop a few blocks from the glowing balls of heat.
Disguised in tattered rags, but lacking the smell of being soiled and unclean for weeks with tightly trimmed hairline, is a poorly disguised soldier. Once the heat blast from the explosion full of dust and ash subsides, the male soldier uses the eye lens connected to the headset as binoculars to zoom at the center of the explosion.
“The Admiral went in that building.” Inexperience prevents him from completely keeping concern from his voice.
“What do we do?” The equally manicured female, also hidden by rags, flips her eyepiece over her right eye in order to activate the magnifying ocular lens.
She witnesses a charcoaled, ember-stained Mokarran stagger from the building. Refugees flee as flames consume the nearest structures.
“Not much to do until the fire subsides, and the Mokarran clear out.”
“They could find him. Inspect the bodies,” she protests.
Morosely, he explains, “There will be dozens of bodies. It will take time to get to the center and the Admiral’s location. The Mokarran don’t care for extinguishing their own warriors. I doubt they will take much time inspecting overcooked bodies.”
Within minutes hovering tanker vehicles arrive and spray chemical foam onto the flames. Local blue-skinned authorities evacuate the refugees.
Mokarran soldiers move their transport back from the spreading fires, but continue to inspect and commandeer the street denizens even as they flee.
She says, “Dealing with the fires should be more important than collecting people?”
“The Admiral’s MIA, and you are worried about those pantaztines?”
“The poor and hungry aren’t…” She barely blurts the slur. “…pantaztines. The Mokarran economic structure has reduced these people to…”
“Here we go again.” He rolls his eyes. “I don’t need a sermon. If they won’t take up arms to protect themselves, then they are willing participants in what the Mokarran are doing.”
“You’re an Academy cadet, about to graduate and be a UCP officer. Your mandate will be to protect those weaker…”
“I know the oath. And I will. With my life, if I must. It still doesn’t detract from the fact those oppressed should wait for others to save them. Now what about our Admiral?”
“The Mokarran are scanning DNA cards. We’ll both register as UCP soldiers here illegally. An act of war, but I doubt it matters to you. You’ll just be upset you won’t graduate.”
“Inspecting the burning wreckage is out.”
“You two don’t seem good for much.”
They both spin at the voice behind them.
