“You certainly had plenty of practice at it,” Kymberlynn scoffs.
Amye adjusts the telescopic sight until the silhouette of a biped humanoid moves from a blurry gray mass to the sharpened red-heat image of a Mokarran. Even from miles away, the bulky frame of such a powerful creature causes fear, but Amye suppresses any anxiety from her sister.
The seven-foot creature has the upper torso of a hammerhead shark with four yellow eyes and seven tentacles dangling before its twin rows of razor-sharp teeth. A bony dorsal fin on the top of the head juts like a spear, adding to the creature’s fearful height. Gill slits involuntarily move on its neck. The metallic gray skin ripples with muscles designed to propel it through dense water. The meat-eating species dominates most of the Tri-Star Federation through the oppressive fear they instill in lesser humanoids. She’s thankful she doesn’t have to face it up close.
Amye scans a second alien. Both are shirtless due to the swim fins dotting their skin. They carry heavy rifles most species would build for use on transport vehicles due to their intense recoil.
“He’s watching you.”
Amye spits, refusing to hide her distaste for Kymberlynn’s playground taunts. She scowls at her sister. You have to prove yourself useful echoes in Amye’s head. “It’s not a test.”
“Sure it is. Everyone on the Dragon is the best in their respective fields. You bring nothing to the crew but a sister with famous piloting skills.”
Amye wants to send Kymberlynn back to the ship. She is wishing she could send her back to whatever hell spawned her when a third Mokarran fills the scope completing the shuttle crew. Her brain estimates the trajectory angle.
“You’ll never make the shot,” Kymberlynn whispers in her ear.
“Shut up, Kymberlynn,” Amye says, snapping the hunk of beef in her mouth in two. She swallows the juice in a huff, losing all the calming effects the protein was to provide her.
“I’m just saying you’re still not calculating for the massive wind trajectory gusts across this canyon. It’s over two and a half miles to your target.”
“I know how to adjust for wind.” Amye presses the toe of her boot hard against a rock to steady herself. She pulls the rifle butt tight into her shoulder. “And it’s only two point two miles. Shouldn’t someone who has to land aircraft be a better judge of distance?”
“You miss this shot and he won’t keep you around.”
“You’re disrupting my concentration, Sis. Now shut the smerth up.” Amye follows the alien with the scope. She sucks in all the breath her lungs hold.
Her sister’s correct. She must make this shot.
The image inside the scope zooms closer to the monster’s face. Amye loads the cartridge of rocket shells into the gun and racks a round into the chamber.
“Don’t miss,” Kymberlynn whispers in her ear.
Amye swats at her sister like a fly, but she jumps back out of reach. She doesn’t need the constant reminder of the necessity of proving herself to her boss, but expecting her to deal with the toughest alien species next to the Tibbar and her sister’s taunting could be the most difficult task in the known galaxy. Of course, he had no idea her sister would bug her while she attempts this shot.
“You should have stayed on the ship,” Amye snaps, making one final mental calculation before placing her finger on the trigger.
“Being the world-class pilot I am, I should be at the helm, but I’d rather watch you miss.”
Amye pushes Kymberlynn from her thoughts. She centers the crosshairs on the target’s center mass then drops it down to the alien’s belt line. Amye slows her heart rate. She reaches a level of calm, blocking out even her sister. Amye exhales at the same moment, depressing the trigger with a soft squeeze.
The Mokarran steps forward.
The bullet, propelled by an injection of rocket fuel to span the distance of the rocky canyon, splatters the chest of the Mokarran over the wall behind it. It collapses to its knees. A milky liquid dribbles from the tentacles as an inky paste drains from its left hand. Without the major internal organs in its chest, the Mokarran slumps dead.
Within a quarter of a second, she jerks the slide and reloads the weapon. A second Mokarran explodes. The milky liquid coats the third alien. Amye loads the rifle again and blows off half its hammerhead-shaped face.
“Great job, Sis. You made the shot,” Kymberlynn congratulates her.
“I had no doubt.” Amye blows the dust and dirt from the smoking chamber.
“Now he has to keep you as part of the crew. He’s put together a team of the best, and there are only, like, four or five Osirians who could have made such a shot, and my sister just happens to be number six.”
Amye pushes herself to her knees, then jumps to her feet. Her black uniform’s covered in the chalky dust of the ground. Amye sneers at Kymberlynn, who of course remains completely impeccable as always with her tiny petite body, not one blonde hair out of place or speck of dust covering her. With the way the wind howls, she should be covered in dirt, but the gods must be protecting her from even the grime.
Amye locks the rifle’s kickstand into place under the barrel before she shoulders the weapon. She marches back to her audience of seven males for the evaluation of her shooting.
She already knows Lieutenant Scott Beers’ opinion won’t count. He believes there’s only one kind of Mokarran—a dead one. Eliminating three will excite him, no matter how impressive her shots were. She knows little of the humanoid Ki-Ton. He once worked for Admiral Maxtin and placed in the crew to assist Reynard with smuggling missions. Her captain would have a stoic stature, but he’s too young to be ominous.
“And too young to have a rank of Commander,” Kymberlynn adds.
“How did you know what I was thinking?”
“I always know what you’re thinking, Little Sis.”
Hard as it is, Amye attempts to ignore her sibling. Three Braeco’n
