The vest informs Hauser what Lance this dead man belongs to. Even if the authorities scan his implanted DNA card in his left hand, it won’t reveal necessary information.
Where is the rest of your Lance? He picks up the vest.
Tapping the commlink, he reaches Australia. “Where’s the rest of your crew?”
She reports, “None of their comms are active. I deduced you were a viable choice for this inquiry due to your experience and not being a part of Commander Reynard’s crew.”
“Your captain’s dead. Even the ghost stories about the Sandmen I know say as much. From this merc’s remains, all the stories are true. His brain is gone.”
“Do the authorities think Amye did it?” Australia inquires with no emotion.
“They don’t care about a dead merc, especially an off-worlder.” He runs his fingers over an embroidered emblem—twin Colt 45 revolvers. “But I know some people who will.”
••••••
VICTORIOUS ASYM WARRIORS crucify the metallic gray bodies of dead Mokarran to building facades, to remind everyone tyranny failed. Native azure-pigmented children scoop bottles and rocks, targeting the dead behemoths. Street revelers celebrate the Mokarran expulsion from their agrarian planet.
Peppered among the Asyms are mercenaries spending their hard-earned victory credits. Warriors-turned-graphic-artists tag the wall behind the crucified Mokarran. After Mecat repairs, the remaining coin will provide a brief party life until the next call for battle.
Amye struggles with her reason for returning to the celebration. The Sandman who stole Reynard from the battlefield would never abscond here. Creatures phasing from one reality to another have no need for a bar district.
Kymberlynn…there’s something important about her sister she’s unable to remember—but her missing captain knows. He told her after the Silver Dragon crash. It could just be in her head. Even if the crash was days ago, her thoughts are jumbled. Head trauma doesn’t always surface the instant the brainpan impacts the control console. She digs the heel of her palm into her forehead, grinding toward her hairline until she grips a clump of short hair.
Remember.
Pain squints her eyes.
I need a drink.
Amye shoves past the orgy of celebrators.
All ignore the passing refugees in the next street. Despite expert battle tacticians on both sides organize a skirmish zone outside the city, stray missiles bombarded populated sections, leaving survivors destitute. Now those seeking shelter from the Mokarran oppression have no housing and are left to be discarded off-world.
Every business along this block has converted into a bar. Asyms will make a profit off the Mercs siphoning back every credit they paid out to achieve liberation. Damage caused by the celebration will translate into damage caused by the attack and will be restored with funds from the UCP admittance grants.
Amye desires an actual bar after her last night spent drinking in the beauty salon. Some alien language translating into Traveler’s Paradise decorates the shingle above the door. She doubts this place was paradise before the invasion, but a tavern is what she seeks. Even with the nonstop flowing of celebration, this location has yet to run dry.
Marching through dozens of species, Amye spots the short, spiky strawberry blond hair of her trolling crewmate. With no ship in orbit the crew has little choice but to hang out on the planet instead of searching for their captain. Many other patrons appear fresh. Not only are they in clean uniforms, but they lack the luster of hours of imbibing. Amye contemplates that these humanoids have been freshly released from duty and have yet to celebrate yesterday’s victory.
Doug squirrels for a female to celebrate with.
Jacker and prison time aside, something about Douglas bothers Amye. His funny bottom lip. No. The circular computer port on the back of his neck. Doug’s a jacker—a cybernetically enhanced humanoid augmented to directly load into the digital world. Being an Osirian jacker means his brain teeters on insanity. No Osirian handles augmentation with a computer port. Something in the brain refuses to accept electronic hookup and remain stable. Doug’s a bomb whose timer can’t be read.
Witnessing his labored attempt to win women only adds to Amye’s disdain of him. She passes the back of her left hand over a clear glass ball embedded into the wooden countertop. The automated apparatus transfixes on the DNA barcode grown into her hand. Upon scanning her currency limit, the ball flashes red before turning green with approval. A tiny computer activates, revealing a list of beverages projected into the air before her. She touches the holographic screen.
The multi-armed robotic bartender sets a shot glass full of a strange green liquid before her. She raises the glass to her lips and quickly throws her head back to swallow the liquor. Hard and dry, the shot bites. She shakes off the momentary painful thrill the alcohol brings her.
Her face flushes. Heat from her second shot sends her out of the ebony jacket. She yanks off the leather and folds the coat, placing it carefully on the stool next to her. With it gone the sleeveless V-neck top allows the heat generating within her from the drink to release in small beads of sweat. Her modified blaster pistol now dominates her right hip without the jacket overshadowing it.
Amye runs her fingers through her freshly cut hair. Disgusted, she tugs, attempting to make it grow. She turns away from the mirror behind the bar and selects a new drink. The Asym palate produces a weak liquor. Amye must have had imbibed in greater quantities last night in order to blackout, or as the celebration lingers, stronger spirits remain in short supply, and the bartenders load patrons with strong liquors at first to mask the weaker ones served second.
She orders another shot as Doug approaches. Amye contemplates vomiting on him to prevent his chasing of more women. She enjoys the twisted fact that he must raise his head to meet her eyes.
Doug’s hair reeks of gel. He has altered his uniform with zinc studs and chains. Clipped to the
