Ignoring Kymberlynn’s guilt trips are their own career path. Off Tartarus, as part of the crew of the Silver Dragon, career means nothing when Kymberlynn now pilots the most advanced piece of technology in the known galaxy. No rank in the IMC would get her on this ship. They were never going to be rich with company dividends, and even if they got to travel to all the sectors of the galaxy, they’d never get to spend any time on any one planet.
“Nice shooting,” her captain, Reynard, compliments.
Amye smiles. “Nothing you couldn’t do without a little practice.”
“Youshon offered the hospitality of the saloon. You and Scott check it out. I don’t want to insult the man by not accepting his offer. Ki-Ton and I will make sure the weapons are delivered.”
“Hospitality extends to only the male warriors of Braeco’n society. I should deliver the weapons, and you should socialize,” Amye offers.
“I still don’t like to indulge in cuisine that has effects on my digestion I’m unfamiliar with. I’ll join you shortly. Keep an eye on Scott.” Reynard leaves her.
“Just the job you wanted,” Kymberlynn smirks. “The best way to keep Scott out of trouble would be to be the girl underneath him.”
“There are days you make me wish Reynard hadn’t dug me out. If I were dead, I wouldn’t have to listen to your taunting.”
“Do you think he knows?”
“Knows what?” Amye’s thoughts are confused by Kymberlynn’s questions.
“About you.”
“Kymberlynn, what the smerth are you jabbering about?”
Amye quickly marches away from her sister, but no matter how fast she moves, Kymberlynn keeps pace with her like a second monkey on her back. She moves as speedily toward her first vice.
Barrels, crates, and piles of rocks create a windbreak around the large patchwork tent covering a pit dug into the rough earth. Light blasts through the unmended holes, but despite the poor quality structure, the blaring music invites patrons.
Amye strolls down the earthen embankment. The tent operates as a ceiling to the hole dug into the ground instead of being actual walls of the saloon. She loses track of Scott, who’s already disappeared in a mass of what Amye figures are prostitutes. She’s unsure whether the Braeco’n women could even be considered prostitutes. It’s a Braeco’n woman’s duty to procreate with any victorious warrior on demand unless she’s been claimed as a spoil of combat. What surprises her is the number of other aliens drinking and wenching.
Mercenaries, most likely, or other conspiring rebels who wish to bring down the Mokarran regime imbibe here. For the first time, Amye’s the only female warrior in the bar.
“So disgusting,” Kymberlynn muses.
Scott holds a Braeco’n woman on his lap. She runs her fingers over the lines of his pectoral muscles.
“I don’t think Osirians and Braeco’ns have similar procreation equipment.” Amye pushes her way to the bar.
“She still has a mouth,” Kymberlynn sneers.
Amye leans against the bar. She rests one of her long legs on the metal foot rail running along the bottom. “I’ll imbibe in the local mind-altering beverage.”
The Braeco’n slides a glass at her. The sludgy pink substance inside reeks with an unknown odor. Amye knows better than to refuse the order now. She holds it, allowing it to waft under her nose in the hope she’ll get used to it enough to swallow.
“Where do I pay?” She displays the back of her left hand.
The bartender waves his hand as if it were saying no. “Youshon buys all newcomers their first drink. After, coin only. We’ve no electronic scanners to read your embedded credit bar. Nothing computerized to be traced back to this location.”
“Smart. To scan the information contained on the implanted DNA card in your hand, the computer reader must connect at some point to the Interplanetary Subspace Netscape. Even prudent hackers won’t prevent all location traces.” Kymberlynn then ponders, “Why didn’t you go in for data penetration training?”
“Not much call for it on a mining colony, and I don’t want to be a jacker like Doug.”
“I doubt your mind could handle the implant anyway.”
“The implant makes Osirians insane.” Amye throws her head back, scarfing down the sludge. She drains half the glass before the rocket fuel taste burns her throat. She slams the drink down and wipes her mouth.
Impressed, the bartender offers her a second drink. “Not many Osirians handle Caeno’n. This one’s on me when you finish.”
“You know the one way not to spend any coin in this place. I bet most of these men would love to fondle an Osirian woman,” Kymberlynn says, not spotting a single Osirian among the prostitutes.
“I don’t do aliens.”
“No, but you’ll act as a party favor for free drinks.”
“You’re just full of all kinds of sisterly love.” Amye downs more of her drink. The mind-numbing substance fails to push Kymberlynn from her thoughts.
“I just don’t want you to screw up this opportunity on the Silver Dragon the way you stanched my piloting career.”
“How long are you going to harp on me?” Amye sniffs her drink.
“I don’t know, Amye. How long do you plan on breathing?”
Amye slugs down the remainder of the first glass. Whatever spirits concocted this beverage certainly didn’t ferment it from vegetables. Amye’s eyes swim in distorted pools. Even the first time she absorbed liquor it didn’t immerse her brain cells this quickly. She sips from the second glass to conceal the effects the first had on her. Female or not, she’ll not be weak in front of all these warriors.
“Eat something,” Kymberlynn advises. She points to breaded nuts in a bowl on the
