“Not without help,” Amye admits in a whisper. She nuzzles herself against him.
Reynard drops his arm around her shoulders from Amye’s left side and loops his hand under her right armpit.
Amye hop-steps forward using her captain’s solid frame to prevent herself from stumbling. Reynard lacks the finely chiseled muscles of pretty-boy Scott. Unable to accept how he keeps her on her feet with only one arm, she admires his strength. She knows how heavy she is; it should take three or four strong men to carry her.
Being comfortable next to him, she has to fight with herself to not keep her head on his shoulder.
They don’t make it to the top step before Amye breaks free of his grasp and bolts for the side of the tent.
Reynard holds her hair behind her head as she retches until she has nothing left but bile in her stomach.
“I’ve never had anything so disgusting in my mouth before.” Amye uses the back of her hand to wipe clean her lips.
“Why didn’t you use those pills? I use them when I eat in strange alien places.”
“You don’t have the natural biology to handle alien food. Normally I’m fine,” she insists.
“I can tell.”
“How long before we beam out of here?” Amye snaps.
“March to the edge of the camp transport now. Ki-Ton has to confirm the weapons count first before we can leave.”
“He’s purchased, stowed the weapons, not to mention he’s been one of Maxtin’s bagmen for some ten years, and I trust he’s capable of doing his job alone.” Amye’s knees wobble.
“Bagman’s more of a term for a person in a criminal organization.”
“Don’t delude yourself, Commander.” Lack of sobriety frees Amye’s thoughts. “What the Admiral does is illegal. He’s subverting the laws of the United Confederation in order to protect it. Why do you think he reassigned UCP personnel already separated from the chain of command? Plaz--able…” she hiccups, “plausible deniably of the entire operation. Maybe even claim the Mokarran are attempting to discredit him with such a group. Look at your crew. Scott’s some AWOL Lieutenant who was already exiled as a disciplinary action. Australia’s the last Nysaean. Why would she want to be a UCP lackey? Hell, Doug’s not UCP strolling out of a prison cell and onto the bridge.”
“How much did you drink?” Reynard interrupts before she circulates through the Dragon’s roster.
“I’d one,” she waves her index finger in his face, “but my drunkenness has no bearing on the truth of the matter. Our boss, one of the original five vice-presidential admirals of the United Confederation of Planets, is a bigger criminal than the kingpins operating The ‘O’.”
Amye pukes again.
MOKARRAN GRAB AN elderly woman in ragged garb. Her bundle scatters on the ground. The passing crowd eyes the useful items from the pack, but no one attempts to steal any.
One of the sharkish monsters grips the woman’s left arm while the other scans the DNA bar grown into the back of her left hand. Once they confirm the readout, they toss her into an overcrowded patty wagon. The next Mokarran tears a child not more than six from the arms of its mother. The father’s protests are met with the barrel of a rifle. The woman drags her bleeding husband away as the child screams for its parents.
The next man the Mokarran examine passes their identification scan. They send him on his way. It takes only a few more humanoids to fill the wagon. The Mokarran send off the full craft and bring in an empty one to fill with random citizen examinations.
Among the crowds of humanoids crammed into the streets, a white-haired lion-mane male pushes through. If the random citizen checks were to scrutinize his DNA card, it would bring about more than just an end to his life. He avoids the seven-foot creatures by moving past them as they grab another unfortunate pedestrian. Everyone around him is more interested in keeping their bundles secure and avoiding the Mokarran inspections than in someone slinking past the opposite flow of people.
He escapes unnoticed—unnoticed by anyone on the street.
On an adjacent rooftop an Osirian female covers her left retina with a binocular eyepiece, following the white-haired man bobbing through the congested street. She considers this Zayar too young to be her contact, but no matter what age, Zayars look ancient, even the teenagers. The checkered gray-green camouflage uniform bears no insignias, sigils, or mission patches. He could be anyone from a military enlisted man to an officer, even a privateer.
She scans the crowd again, zooming in on a figure covered in a hooded robe about fifty feet behind the Zayar. She spots the tips of a white mane under the cowl.
A second Zayar!
She taps the watch on her left arm.
“Spotted the Zayar and a possible second,” she reports.
“Confirm, Eli,” the male voice crackles back. “Did you say two Zayars?”
Everyone on her team knows this rare occurrence should be something these denizens take instant notice of. Alarm bells should be flashing for anyone who spots this. As far as she knows, a negative number of Zayars engage in dealings off their home world. Motivated by isolationism and nothing short of disdain for anyone not born a Zayar, two together should at least bring about curiosity, if not a full-blown security sweep.
“Affirmative, a possible second.”
The Zayar shoves across the crowd to the door of the building she spies from. Eli slips from the roof as the Zayar knocks on the door.
A dirty haze fills the dilapidated warehouse. Six men keep a hand on their side arms. The Zayar enters, visually examining each of the men. They are mercenaries. Specifically, Mecat Lancers, from their attempt at analogous uniforms. Each of them has a different cartoon face of a humanoid sewn onto their combat vests.
“The Monster Squad, I take it?” The Zayar assumes from their visages.
A man with a cartoon image of a male
