Joenerbrawl pulls the cloth face mask from his quilted jacket over his nose.
Red-hot plasma.
The beam smashes into the concrete foundation of a building, splintering white-hot shards of rock. He ignores the piercing pain shredding his traditional clan attire. His punishment for failing to be faster.
Joe recalls the teachings of his Old Maestro: the wise and cunning hunter wolf waits patiently as the spirited eagle and the poisonous viper dual to their deaths. The wolf shall feast on his enemies without having to hunt them.
Joe smells the wind.
He ducks.
A second blast burns past his body.
Waiting patiently to ambush.
Mokarran carry rifles with a large enough caliber to be used by most humanoid races as armaments for tanks. Joe’s height matches the seven-foot-tall monsters with the head of a hammerhead shark.
The four blades of a master warrior cleave the air in lightning flashes, the first Mokarran dead before his body strikes the ground.
Joe lets loose a handful of shuriken.
The hidden Mokarran howls as the soft tissue around the front pair of yellow eyes are pierced.
A third badly burned Mokarran slides forward. Joe senses its pain. Part of the plastic seat covering from its Mecat has melted to its backside. Most of its seven tentacles hanging over its razor teeth have burnt away. It raises its weapon but fails to depress the trigger in order to receive a swift end to its agony. Joenerbrawl withdraws his blade from the dead husk.
A fourth Mokarran steps from the shadows. He nods in approval at the death of his comrade before vowing in Mokarran to give Joe the same. His three fin-like fingers smash into Joe’s throat. He staggers back, twirling his swords in a fan-like motion. All four swords skewer the monster, piercing four vital organs simultaneously.
Fresh crimson blood drips from the handcrafted blades. He cleans the steel with a soft cloth and sheaths them. The pain in his side burns.
Joe activates the comm. “Four more dead Mokarran, all downed Mecat pilots from their uniform markings, and three dead Mercs. I avenged them. They had no chance in this ambush.”
“How did you find them?” A voice crackles in his ear.
“One of the Mokarran survived a cockpit fire. There’s nothing in the air but the smell of half-cooked meat. The Mercs were wearing armor with air filters.” A master warrior lets his senses work for him no matter how bad the smell. “Send in your cleanup crew.”
“How do you want your bounty paid?”
“Hard credits,” Joe says.
“Location locked. Upon confirmation of kills transfer of payment will conclude.”
Joe inquires, “Which refugee camp has the most children?”
LITTLE HIDES THE lumbering of a thirty-foot Mecat. The distinct swivel and activating hum of energy weapons brings all the Silver Dragon crew members to attention.
Two military uniformed Asyms sporting chest armor step out of a hovering ground car with blasters drawn.
“Great, we save these people from the Mokarran, and they want to arrest us.” Amye eyes the targeting system on the Mecat cannon tracking them.
Scott places his blaster rifle on the ground before raising his arms in the air. “I’m Lieutenant Scott Beers, UCP Special Services. This Tibbar was illegally trying to collect bounty. You call a cleanup crew to dispose of this body and the two inside the structure. Scan my DNA card implant for credential confirmation.”
One Asym nods to the other. He aims at the trio while the other approaches Scott with a scanner pad.
Amye whispers, “I thought your UCP status was revoked once you illegally left Tartarus?”
“It was.”
Amye prepares for the backlash of Scott’s bluff.
The soldier holds the scanner over the back of Scott’s left hand. His rank and credentials flash on a tiny screen, confirming his identify and his participation in yesterday’s battle.
“Sorry, Sir. Procedural precautions, as you know.” The first guard nods to the second, who holsters his blaster. “We’re all here to keep this planet safe.”
“Yeah, I understand,” he says as he picks his rifle up. “I’ll be taking these women into protective custody. I want no recording of who they are. I don’t want any other Tibbar tracing them. My credential rating should be enough to clarify their missing identity in your report.”
“What women, Sir?” He salutes Lieutenant Beers.
Scott brushes his forehead with fanning fingers in a weak attempt to return the salute. He waves Amye and JC to follow. They disappear in the gathering crowd.
“I can’t believe that worked.” Amye secures the holster strap over her blaster. “You want to explain it to me?”
“No one has bothered to wipe my certification from my DNA card,” Scott says.
“So if they don’t access the UCP computer system for clarification of your ID—”
“No one will question it. It’s one flaw with the cards, and low level lackeys are reluctant to question anyone of rank, even a Lieutenant from UCP Special Services. Too many questions and they may find themselves on the front lines of some forgotten planet.”
“We hope,” JC says.
“You could just blank their minds,” Amye whispers.
“I’d be out of your hair if I got caught doing unauthorized scans,” JC notes.
“You out of my hair. The Tibbar off my back. Reynard on the Dragon. It would be a great day.”
“If Reynard killed his enemies instead of sparing their lives in some faithless act of nobility, we wouldn’t be on the Tibbar top ten list of possible food items,” Scott says.
“The Osirian from Terra develops his own warrior code,” Amye says.
“It’s called chivalry, and besides the nobility of sparing an enemy’s life in battle, it involves treating women with respect,” JC says.
“I respect women. I never put it in until she’s ready. It takes a lot to get a woman ready to take this.” Scott grabs his crotch.
“It’s impressive,” JC placates him.
Amye rolls her eyes. “Size doesn’t impress me.”
“I guess not with as many men as you’ve bounced on.”
“Even after
