She’s been training for months under the tutelage of Joenerbrawl, unable to fully test the skills she gained.
Before the female Asym who warned her adds to the ensuing fray, Amye sends her to the floor with a knee to the abdomen.
Cracking her knuckles as she draws her hands into a fist, Amye slides away from the bar.
The crimson-clad mercenary taps her playing cards to signal a pause.
“Why stop? She’s not of your Lance.” The Alenennion bellows. He points to the right breastplate of her armored vest. Prominently stitched in red is an Osirian Albatros D.V fighter plane symbolizing her Mecat Lance designation—Red Baron. She shifts her fingers over the cards to resume play.
“She’s no Lancer,” she says.
“Deal or go fight!” Demands the Alenennion.
Kymberlynn hops on the bar, swinging her legs as if she’s a kid on the bleachers at a ball game.
The Mokarran kept the Asym soldiers as window dressing to appease the masses. Many haven’t experienced combat before yesterday’s battle, and mercs who love fighting don’t have the stomach to brawl with inexperienced warriors for no credits.
Amye uses her fists. Too many potential opponents to let loose a roundhouse kick. Once her leg’s committed in the air she’s vulnerable. None of these Asyms and few mercs joining the fray match her speed or skill. After sending five warriors to the ground smothering in their own blood and drool, she wonders why a sixth man even attempts to defeat her. After conquering five, how does number six even consider he stands a chance against her over the others? The galactic stigma that Osirians are worthless doesn’t stand here as she renders the sixth attacker unconscious.
Amye finds herself slammed against the table. Tired of the card game or aroused by her fighting skill, the Alenennion pins her with his rocky bulk. His groin digs into her left hind cheek. Her struggle prevents him from unhitching his belt. He secures one of her arms. His engorged pressure increases against her. He yanks at her belt but only succeeds in jerking her off-balance.
His intent to molest her fuels rage. Amye forgoes the cleansing breathing Joe instilled in her to perform before an attack. She channels her rage into a high kick, impacting her bootheel into the back of his skull. Caught off guard, his grip weakens. Amye forgoes advanced combat movements for what Reynard refers to as a John Wayne haymaker.
Her force and speed cracks the Alenennion’s jaw. His anger surges his vise grip, cutting off Amye’s air supply. Left with no recourse, Amye scoops her blaster from its holster. The Alenennion swats it away. The weapon tumbles across the floor, skidding toward the crimson-clad card player. She lifts her toes, catching the blaster under her boot.
Recognizing the Calthos katas, the Red Baron wonders about the stylized silver dragon wrapping itself around a sword on Amye’s left sleeve.
The Alenennion left the card game not to fight but to pillage, and the Red Baron won’t accept such treatment of anyone.
The Alenennion interlaces its thumby fingers into the cloth of Amye’s jumpsuit but fails to tear through the leather in order to continue the assault.
Fascinated by the dragon emblem placement, the crimson-clad card player scoops up the discarded blaster. Such placement indicates partisans, not Lancers. Osirians have strict codes when it comes to Lance sigils. It could be the only tradition they all follow.
A plasma bolt sears past the Alenennion’s nose.
“Release her.”
“You want to be next?” He smirks. “Stay out of this, Baron.”
The woman in crimson maintains her stance. “Red Baron, you smerth’n draznot.” She earned her handle and will be addressed by it with respect.
Mercenaries sporting Osirian projectile weapons as sigils storm the bar.
“We demand a word with this woman,” says the burgundy-skinned male.
“She’s mine!” the Alenennion bellows.
“You do what you want with her after I ask her a question,” demands a fresh voice.
“You’ve no claim to her,” the Alenennion snarls at the Darren entering the bar with his assemblage of Lance mercs.
“She paid for the room where our Lance brother was found dead.” the Darren pats his sigil.
The Alenennion stretches back his stubby fingers. Not even he will interfere with another Lancer’s right to vengeance.
Amye collapses in a disheveled heap, gasping for air.
The Red Baron lowers the blaster. She lives by the merc Lance code. If this woman killed a merc off the battlefield, then she must dispense compensation.
Amye’s face meets with the burgundy palm. Capillaries break in her nose. Drawing into her defensive stance, she spots a merc vest containing a tommy gun sigil. Her mind remembers meeting another alien with similar markings.
“You killed Colt 45,” he screams at her.
“He was alive when I left.” she allows blood to pool in her mouth.
“Tell me what happened, or I’ll let this Alenennion have you. Deal with me, and I’ll accept monetary compensation.”
Mercenaries accept the buying of death. Currency will cleanse the palate, but Amye lacks access to funds without Reynard, and without access to some of the princess’s dowry, she won’t be able to satisfy this Darren even if she offered her Mecat.
She could offer to secure payment, but she didn’t kill anyone—today. Accepting responsibility would allow a murderer to roam free. Amye doesn’t care. She must find her captain.
The warm blood coats the Darren’s eyes. He backs away covered in bloody spit. Amye crashes her boot between his legs. Having a full understanding of how a Darren’s anatomy works, she knows her impact leaves him irreparably damaged.
SHE SLUMPS AGAINST an overflowing Dumpster of empties. The revelers’ dreck of celebration. They have made up for years of yearning for freedom from the Mokarran.
Amye must have been celebrating. She uncaps the fresh bottle of liquor in her hand. Parties nears an apex, the booze quality lessens, but this dusty bottle came from the bottom shelf. It has a bite. She’d
