MICHELLE DIGS THE bristles of the scrub brush into the grooves of the silver floor plating. She drops the brush into a bucket filled with suds. Her reddening palms tingle. She grabs the brush and returns to polishing.
Amye squirts a foamy chemical onto the plating before scrubbing the metal grooves.
“What’s the purpose of this?”
“Consider it preparation. Reynard told me when he was training under Joe’s clan that he had to carry buckets of water up a mountainside in order to cleanse the training site.”
“Other than my blisters,” Michelle concentrates to ensure her voice doesn’t whine, “and the pain in my arms, what is the purpose of scrubbing the floor?”
“This deck comes from the bottom of the shuttle and now is welded into place. Scott’s going to transfer the power cells into this space in order to gut a back section of the ship for Mecats.”
“I understand, but why are we cleaning the welds?” Michelle asks.
“This chemical will expose any faults in the bead which would allow a pressure leak. It requires humanoid eyes to notice any shift in the foam.”
“If it turns orange, we report it and the welders correct the seam. The living skin swimming over the surface doesn’t keep in our atmosphere, at least not long term.”
“How do you know so much?”
Amye holds back her insult about how she was never pampered, accepting that Michelle was born with no choice but to train as regal heir. Now the princess wants to expand her knowledge.
Shove her head into the bucket—the spoiled brat.
Amye shakes off the noise in the back of her mind. “The IMC educates all its citizens from toddler age until they are able to join the workforce. They spend resources to enrich our natural abilities so they have a more efficient company.”
“What if I wanted to be a doctor instead of a miner?”
“Did you always want to be a princess, Princess?”
“I don’t remember ever wanting to be anything but a bride and consort to my king.”
“They never gave you a chance to become anything else. Neither did the IMC. Testing placed you in certain training programs. The only way out was to fail. Failure left you stuck in a menial job.”
“We have a commonality despite our different upbringings.”
Shove her head into the bucket—the spoiled bitch.
Pain twitches at Amye’s right eye.
“Not many will accept your comparison. Trapped in a life of splendor won’t compare to those forced to clean silt and oil from tractor treads.”
Michelle pokes her thumbnail against her heart line. “Are we going to locate Commander Reynard?”
“Australia believes she has a research lead. We should be repairing more of the bridge than moving around power systems to construct a Mecat storage bay,” Amye explains.
“Why aren’t you on the bridge making those repairs if they are more important?”
Shut the smerth’n bitch up.
Amye’s left eye blinks rapidly—uncontrollably. “I…” Amye twitches. “Scott’s supervising the reconstruction of a control station with all the disassembled shuttle parts. Once complete, I’ll—”
“Amye, you’ve got a twitch.”
Stop fighting.
Something in the chemical bothers your eye.
“Something in the chemical bothers my eye.”
“My mother placed me in Reynard’s protection—”
“She’s raising the bounty on us to have you returned.”
“The Mokarran never left the planet after the failed wedding. I believe they are forcing her,” Michelle says.
“She has to understand that as bounties grow and consignment word spreads it becomes increasingly harder to protect you.”
“If it protects my planet, let her raise the reward,” Michelle says.
“Easy for you—they don’t shoot at you.”
“More reason for you to instruct me in another form.”
“You haven’t mastered the second one,” Amye says.
Slam her face into the bucket. Snide, spoiled, sapling. End her.
Amye jumps from her knees to her feet to quickly leap to a upward stance. “Finish your seam. Shower and read something other than Osirian novels. Study military tactics.”
Amye marches from the shuttle chamber to discover the cargo hold being stacked with crates.
Synthetic workers pass through the greenish beams of spider webbing over the open cargo ramp unharmed.
The voice directs her attention elsewhere. Stab him. Stab him for how he treated your sister…
Amye snakes her arm into a vent shaft hidden among the storage pods running along the edge of the cargo bay. She produces a fluted bottle of brown liquid and swills down half the bottle. The voices quell.
Her stride shifts to a stagger and she reaches the lift.
No more.
The telepath will know.
You don’t want her to know.
You don’t want anyone to know.
What will they think if they know what you did?
You like it.
You desire…
Amye swigs until dribbles spill from her puffed cheeks.
She gulps so fast her throat stings. Choking, she lowers the bottle.
MALQUAZ JERKS AT the wrist restraints. His skin, pallid from lack of UV exposure, reddens where his arms rub. Shaded covering over the viewing port prevents nourishing light from reaching him.
Admiral Maxtin, with sleeves rolled to his elbows, scrubs goopy blood from hands and wrists. “More of my troops have died due to the faulty IMC weapons being passed off as legitimate high-quality weapons. Where did the shipment you transported originate?”
“I was just loading the cargo. I followed orders.”
“Then who gave you the orders to load the crates?” Maxtin demands.
“If I tell you he’ll kill me.”
“You think I won’t?” Maxtin flings water from his hands into the sink. “No record of you arriving here or even being brought into UCP territory exists.” He flips off the water. “I’ll just space you and bring in another of your loading crew until I discover where those weapons originated.”
Sweat beads line Malquaz’s scalp. “I need protection.”
“I’ve got plenty of guns you can utilize.”
Malquaz smacks his dry lips. “One of your agents. He ordered the substandard IMC weapons.”
“I’m aware Ki-Ton replaced the shipment of IMC weapons with fakes.” Maxtin presses a button and the dental-style security chair slides backward into a durasteel containment chamber. He removes a rifle
