Amye drinks her shot.
Doug runs his left hand over the glass ball and orders a drink. She gulps another shot. Her mind projects back to the real reason she came to the bar. Celebratory congratulation was never her reason to drink. Amye needs to forget.
No.
She desires to forget about being a Second Class Technician in the Interplanetary Mining Corporation. She remembers the fateful day when a mine explosion buried her under a rockslide. How she was rescued by her future captain.
Amye remembers—she has to locate him.
Reynard dug her out from under the rubble, splinted her broken leg and then carried her back up to the main mining colony. She’s not a light woman, either. Originating on a gravity-heavy Tartarus makes her overly muscular and tall.
If it were not for him, she would have died in the mine—miserable and alone. He offered her a place on his ship and in his crew, and she grasped the opportunity. She was no longer IMC Second Tech CRM-114. She was Amye Jones, member of the crew of the Silver Dragon, captained by Commander William Reynard.
Amye drinks two more shots of the green liquid. The power of the drink bounces her mind around. She supports herself by resting her hip on a stool. The jacket crumples under her hip.
Alien humanoids crowd the bar. They are a mismatched group of species, including Osirian mercenaries. On top of them the bar fills with celebrating blue-pigmented Asym soldiers.
Doug gulps down his drink as a female Asym soldier catches his eye. He buys himself another drink plus an extra before strutting over to the table where the female straddles a chair and offering the second drink to her.
Amye orders again. She glances at the strong chiseled jaw and broad, muscular shoulders of the male soldier now beside her.
He orders a beer.
In her teenager educational travels with the IMC, she never encountered this agrarian species. She knows little of their cultural and less of their biology. If she didn’t bag the merc last night in a drunken fit of arousal, being half sober today she doubts a handsome male lacking any signal of stature could stimulate her into excitement.
She scoops up her jacket and slides into the well-worn leather. She inhales. It still smells new. She runs her hand up the left sleeve over her ship’s emblem, a stylized dragon. Hackneyed marks from a plasma beam have soiled the emblem. She takes another shot of the green liquid. Her sad, sunset-brown eyes grow bloodshot.
Liquor encourages stupid choices, and this man would not be her first drunken liaison. After a second glance, Amye decides he’s not worthy of her time. Before she joined the crew of the Silver Dragon she might have considered it. No, I’m not that person anymore.
Amye glances him over one final time—just to be sure—but realizes he’s not much of a man. She runs the back of her hand over the glass ball and orders. The Asym male she was eyeing approaches her.
“Mercenary? Your jacket has the same emblem as the man approaching my squadron captain.”
I’ve never heard a worse opener to a pick-up line. No chance he’d enliven my sexual desires. If I was interested. The soldier might want more—he might be a bounty hunter. The Mokarran bounties have risen on us since we rampaged across the galaxy under Ki-Ton’s direction and undermined a planetary government. This Asym could think he’s capable of collecting. Amye drops her fingers to tickle the top of her blaster.
“I believe there’s something your friend should know about the native inhabitants of Summersun.”
Despite her involvement in a card game, a crimson-clad Osirian female merc notes Amye’s caress of her weapon. Aware a blaster discharge would interrupt her gamming, she keeps one eye on the girl clad in sable. Newbie mercs in a barroom brawl provide entertainment.
“What do you want?” Amye demands.
“Your friend’s about to hit on my squadron leader.”
Amye relaxes her right hand. “If you’ve got some kind of thing for your commander, you deal with it. I’m not interested enough to get involved.” She glances at the indigo woman with a military haircut. Doug slides into the seat next to her, offering a drink.
“Asyms are different from other Osirian-like humanoids.”
Amye places her drink on the bar. This should be good, she thinks.
“Asyms’ lower genitalia are reversed compared to an Osirian.”
“You mean…” Amye’s eyes grow wide. “Doug’s…” A smile crosses her face. “…about to hit on a male?” She sips from her drink.
“You should warn him.”
Kymberlynn giggles in her ear, “Why warn him? If he didn’t read the species bio reports, then—”
Amye gulps her shot as Doug finds his drink thrown back in his face. She’d feel sorry for Doug—if she liked him.
The squadron leader grabs Doug by the lapels of his jacket and drags him across the table, slinging him to the floor and punching him repeatedly in the mouth.
“What kind of merc doesn’t help his Lance mate?”
“One who’s spent a few hours with Doug,” Amye says, leaving out the part about belonging to a Mecat Lance.
The Asym man yanks Doug to his feet before sailing him across the room with a shot to the stomach. Landing in a crumpled heap at Amye’s feet, Doug spits out a tooth.
“Smerth! Remind me never to try Osirian pickup lines again.” He glances up at Amye pocketing his tooth. “What, no cheap shot comment?”
“You might as well help him up,” Kymberlynn suggests.
“Doug, it’s a shame I’m unable to go back and tell the crew you were embarrassingly beaten up by a woman.” Amye slips her arm under his pits.
“Took you long enough to help. Were you debating it with your dead sister again like you did after the crash?”
It takes little of her strength to lift Doug above
