“There’s no lesson in not helping me to the bathroom,” she hisses.
Powerful hands dig into Amye’s armpits and half drag her toward the bathroom. Kymberlynn fades from her water-scarred vision.
The owner of the powerful hands guides her head over the toilet and pulls her hair back behind her head. A volcano of food particles, hydrochloric acid, and bile erupts into the bowl.
“By the gods!” she heaves in agony as the stream of half-digested chunks retches from her body in quick convulsions. Every inch of her abdomen hurts from the bottom of her lungs to the outline of her esophagus. She tumbles to the side of the durasteel.
“A thousand years and there has been little improvement on Osirian shit collectors.” Reynard crouches down on one knee, holding a pill between his thumb and forefinger. “This will stop your puking. If you’re able to swallow it.”
As if on cue, Amye twists her head, vomiting one final burst of bile into the bowl. “Did you derive some sick and twisted pleasure in that?”
Reynard slumps next to her, handing over the pill. “No.”
She swallows it dry.
“I didn’t know Donkor was your first kill. For being military operatives, you and I weren’t trained as soldiers.” He gives her a bag of ice. “Old Earth remedy. Place it against your neck.”
The cool bundle relaxes her. “I killed those Mokarran through a scope. Never thought twice about it, but the humanoid, tonight...” She shuts her eyes. “I’ll never forget his face.”
He pats her calf muscle. “I wish I had something consoling to say.”
“How many have you killed, Commander?”
“I’m kind of like you. A few before, but not in such a personal manner. My first kill was an Iphigenian on my home world when they invaded. I fired and hit one as they captured me. I never give him any thought. I was put into hibernation and didn’t have time to even realize I’d shot someone. The two Calthos warriors I eliminated to earn the clan sigil. Technically they…actually killed each other. I’ve blown up fighters from the helm of the Dragon, but you’re correct, it’s more like firing at targets in video games. It’s nothing like facing down a live opponent.”
“I don’t disgust you with my reaction?” Amye opens her eyes to soak in his face.
He reaches up and flushes the toilet. “The smell disgusts me, but never your reaction. We’re not coldly trained warriors. How you feel right now is normal. I’d be more worried if you weren’t sick.”
Amye hiccups, “My sister’s never been too loving in these situations. It’s nice to have someone who cares.” She uses the edge of the bowl as a crutch to stand.
Reynard jumps to his feet and catches Amye by the waist, holding her at arm’s length before she hugs him.
Amye glances into his eyes. “Sorry, didn’t know you’d find a thank-you hug inappropriate.”
“I don’t. If you want to hug me you need to wash your lunch off your face.” Reynard leans her against the sink, flipping on the water. “I’ll wait for you outside.”
If she could, Amye would put her blaster to her temple and fire. She leans over the sink and cleans the dried vomit from her face, wishing she could scrub off her blushing cheeks.
Kymberlynn clops her boot on the shower floor. “That man has a sensitive side, and so far you’re the only one on the crew to have seen it.”
Amye splashes water over her face. “If I had one, would you listen?”
“Probably not.”
“The Dragon crew functions for argument’s sake as a paramilitary operation, and you’re not enlisted personnel.”
“Your point, Kymberlynn?”
“There’re no rules against dating your captain.”
“I’m not going to hop into bed with him.”
“I said ‘date.’ Something you should try. Not your usual ‘buy me a drink and I’ll take you home’ strategy.”
“Go to hell.”
“He genuinely cares about your welfare and not because he wants to bed you.” She recants, “Not totally. I’m pretty sure he didn’t want a hug because he had a little blood flow problem downstairs.”
“Disturbing—vomit turned him on?”
“Not the vomit, Little Sis. The whole rescuing the damsel in distress perspective.”
“I don’t need rescuing.” Amye storms from the bathroom.
••••••
AMYE TWISTS ON the swivel stool at the breakfast counter as if she were five. “Where do I begin?”
“What do you mean?” Reynard takes a tub of ice cream from the small refrigerator/freezer in the kitchenette at the end of his quarters.
“First, your quarters are three times the size of mine.”
“I am. The. Captain,” Reynard bellows in his best Shatner impression.
“Granted, but do you need couches and this kitchen?”
“I thought I did at the time. I was missing home.” He drops two scoops into a bowl.
“So you did this to remind you of your home, but I doubt there were such other spacious accommodations on Osiris.”
“We called it Earth. Osiris was a mythical god to those who knew ancient history.” He puts a brown jar into the microwave.
“He was a military leader who was driven into exile during the Great Purge. A lot of spotty history. But it’s commonly accepted he took a group of his people with him in order to save the species,” Amye recalls.
“I read some history. It sounds like Osiris colonized Earth and was forgotten about until the Iphigenians invaded.” He covers the ice cream in warm hot fudge. Reynard slides a bowl across the counter to Amye, handing her a spoon. “The replicator doesn’t do this justice.”
She takes a bite. Warm fudge dribbles on her chin. He contemplates using his spoon to catch the falling chocolate and then brushing it on Amye’s bottom lip like some cheesy romantic comedy, but stops himself. Being her captain he should proceed with caution—girl with issues.
Amye catches the dribble on the side of her finger. She licks it off, not wanting to waste any as Reynard offers her a napkin.
“In a thousand years, some things haven’t changed.”
“What do you mean?”
“Many people on…Osiris,” he’s not sure how he’ll
