“I have memorized all the pertinent information. Facts and figures are safe in my brain. I’ll keep no physical recording of to invite my death.”
“Why bother if you keep no proof to pass on to others?”
“Who do I pass it along to? Who will help us?” He hopes she catches the us. He needs to get her to the medical bay.
“I don’t know yet. With enough proof, we incite people to rebel.”
“Don’t ask a lot. You find the right group to free us from the Mokarran, and I’ll recover the proof. So what were you doing?” he asks.
“This Mokarran religious leader has introduced new dogma to purge all those not Mokarran.”
“Fitting with the most recent acceptance list into the military—all Mokarran.”
“If I learn enough of the language I’ll decipher the teachings. I’ll figure out what they propose to do with us.”
“There are days I don’t think I want to know.”
“If we turn a blind eye, then who will stand up to them?” Nytalyan demands.
“Those braver than us.”
“It has to be us, or no one will care.” Her legs give way.
He prevents Nytalyan from spilling to the floor. “Someone will notice if I carry you. You need medical.”
“What did they do to that conduit?”
Saltāl heaves her arm over his shoulder. He’s not a muscular male, but he’ll act as a crutch. “If we hear anyone you’ll have to stand on your own. It’s a long way to the landing bay medic station.”
“Central Medical is one floor down,” Nytalyan protests.
“You’ll have to explain exactly what you were doing to the Mokarran staff at Central Medical.”
••••••
NYTALYAN SNUGGLES WITH herself in a fetal position on the examination table.
The humanoid doctor with six elongated webbed fingers and a blowfish head pokes her egg sac.
Saltāl hovers in a corner.
Nytalyan needs to trust him.
“The Mokarran have limited access to the medical records of your species. They track what medical procedures we perform. Too severe an illness, and staff workers disappear. Others, in your case, are made ill to check loyalty.”
“I’m confused,” she admits.
“Trust him. Dr. Oligolepis has no love for the Mokarran,” Saltāl assures her.
“I witnessed Mokarran religious mass and had to hide in one of the conduits.”
“Directly around the temple?” Dr. Oligolepis speaks with insight.
“Yes.”
“They pump that full of a radioactive gas. Any treatment for exposure will reveal you were there.”
“Is it fatal?” Saltāl jumps to her side.
“I’m unable to run a diagnostic to check. The computer will record the scan and automatically send a report,” Dr. Oligolepis adds.
“Help me out of here, and I’ll die in a corridor. No reason to let them know you both are willing to help me.” She attempts to sit up, but her head swims, preventing it.
“I’m a doctor and sworn to protect life. I’ll help you, if I’m able, before we dump your body.”
“I won’t leave her someplace to die,” Saltāl protests.
“If I’m unsuccessful in helping her, I certainly will. I am sworn to protect life, and above all, mine first. I’m unable to help anyone if I am dead.”
“I never knew you were so pretentious, Doc.”
“Watch the Mokarran slaughter your patients because they set off one of these radiation booby traps and self-preservation will overcome you.”
“Please just help,” she pleads.
“I’ll give you injections to flush the poison from your system.”
“I am nearing my time to lay eggs.”
“I was afraid of such.” Dr. Oligolepis frowns.
Nytalyan grabs the cloth lab coat and uses it to pull herself up. She unzips her jumpsuit and tears off her undershirt. Her fish scale skin supports no mammary glands. She palpates on her side. The copper skin was discolored by a fading gold strip growing up her side.
“They’re dead! My babies are dead.”
Confused, Saltāl is left with questions he dare not ask.
Dr. Oligolepis shifts into a medic mode with little bedside manner. “Does your species have miscarriages?”
“Doc, she needs to grieve.”
“I must treat her. I know it’s callous, but if you ever want to have children again, I need answers. If I diagnose it, the Mokarran will know.”
“It’s not common. I’ve heard of eggs being discharged before the stripe grows to full length.”
“I’ll give you contra treatment for the radiation, flushing out your womb.”
“Will that cure her?” Saltāl demands.
“Without scanning the radiation, I don’t know. But chances are good since with this flushing treatment I’ll prescribe a larger dose than I could if I tried to hide the treatments.” He pulls a portable computer to the table. “The Mokarran will know you miscarried, and this will be painful.”
“Do what you have to, Doc.” Nytalyan falls back onto the table.
BLACK MILITARY BOOTS drive the pea-sized gravel from the footprint created when they land on the rooftop. Amye squirrels her way across the surface, unable to quiet the crunch, crunch, crunch of each step. She slides to a halt at the gable edge, unable to leap the distance to the next building.
She scrunches behind a smoke-scarred chimney flipping the binocular eyepiece from her ear clip to her left eye. She strains her eye. The device telescopes in on the building four blocks away. She spots her target.
A tall alien male—mostly Osirian in appearance, except the reptilian bone ridges lining his cheeks and neck—slips a forked tongue from his mouth to taste the air. His security stands some twenty to thirty feet from him, giving Amye the perfect opportunity. She should unsling the rifle, then target and eliminate him.
She can’t.
Surrounding him are dozens of children begging for the food bars he passes out.
Amye slips a sealed package from her jacket pocket. She unwraps a beef stick. The juices gather in the corner of her mouth. She slows her breathing.
The rifle stays slung on her shoulder.
No matter what. No matter how bad of a man he is or what he’s done to assist the Mokarran. I won’t shoot him while he feeds starving children.
“Unviable target,” she touches her commlink.
No response.
“Amye to Dragon.” She doesn’t take her eye off of him.
“Define?” crackles in her ear.
“I don’t have a shot.”
“Sensors show him in the open in public space.”
“Do they smerth’n show him surrounded by a few dozen hungry children?” she growls into the comm. “I don’t have a shot.”
“Move to your secondary location and wait for instructions.”
Her anger clouds her thoughts. She fails to notice Kymberlynn sneak up on her.
“Anyone could have tagged the princess for transport. Your impressive shot in the canyon will only take you so far. You turn down this mission, and he won’t want you to remain a part of the crew.”
“I won’t kill a child. A shell will tear through his chest like melting cream on a heater, and the round will kill children.”
“Calm down. Deep breath. Move to the secondary location and work on a better angle. Don’t lose the captain’s faith in you.”
“William would never want an innocent child to die.”
“Not respectful to call your captain and superior by his first name,” Kymberlynn scolds.
“I’m not in the military. And I like the way his name rolls off my tongue.”
“I’m sure that’s not the only thing of his you want to roll your tongue on.”
Amye scrambles down a ladder to a lower rooftop before snapping at her sister.
“I don’t need backup on this mission. Why are you here?”
“W
ell, Little Sis, you must, or the politician would already be dead. The child’s dead. Once you kill Micah Donkor, no one will be alive who cares to feed it. You should’ve taken the shot. It was merciful.”
Amye wishes Kymberlynn hadn’t put that thought in her head. Now she’s not sure about killing Micah Donkor. She won’t knowingly be a party to murdering children, especially through the slow pains of starvation.
“Could you pull the trigger?”
“I don’t have to. I’m a pilot. You’re the assassin in training—your job, now.”
Amye halts. Never the whole time she was learning the kind of rock miners dig through did she ever once envision her future behind an assassin’s trigger.
JOE SPINS ON his toes, continuing his kata form. His four arms twist as if defending against an invisible enemy. Reaching the end of his form, he continues in a seamless motion to perform it again. He never stops the flawless repeating of his defensive maneuver as he speaks. “You seem troubled, my sword brother.”
“Amye won’t pull the trigger on the politician.”
“Perplexing, since you have orders to assassinate him.”
“Admiral Maxtin recognizes his death will prevent the murder of millions by the Mokarran,” Reynard clarifies.
“You’re not convinced. You asked Australia to investigate this politician.”
“Standard. You have to know your target.”
“Know your enemy as you know yourself.” Joe’s kata never wavers from the perfect movement. His arms seem to maneuver into the exact same position with the origin of each new form. “You trust the Admiral; so why do you have doubts?”
“Just a feeling.”
“You should trust instinct.”
“You’re trained in—”
“The Old Maestro of my clan forbade us to join with off-worlders for this reason.” Joe discontinues his form as he interrupts his sword brother. “My people were desired for their ability to kill. We cultivated our skill to reach perfection with the universe, not lend ourselves to massacres. I will kill in battle, or to protect the weak, not murder. Not on the prediction someone says might cause the death of millions. Judge them on what they do, not what they might do.”
“Orders are expected to be followed.”
“You do not serve in his military. You’re a free warrior who does utilize Admiral Maxtin’s resources, but you are not bound by his code of service.”
“You’re wise, Joenerbrawl, my clan brother.”
“Wisdom comes from our experience, and you are asking Amye to do what you have yet to do.”
••••••
REYNARD KEEPS HIS magnum pointed at Micah Donkor. His two bodyguards lay supine on the floor. The politician raises his hands and holds them at a T inviting the shot.
“I won’t bow to you, Osirian.”
“You’re conspiring with the Mokarran,” Reynard accuses.
“Who told you?”
“Admiral Maxtin.”
Micah Donkor laughs. “A Zayar’s too young to understand the ramifications of my dealing with the Mokarran. What I do keeps their fish-ink off my planet.”
“He sent me to stop you from supplying the Mokarran with the raw materials to build new battle cruisers.”
Donkor lowers his arms. “Put your gun away, boy, you’re no assassin.”
“I’m the one with the gun.”
“You should have murdered me the moment you stepped into the room. You’re green. Or you have doubts about your assignment. Maybe you’ve never taken a life before?”
Reynard locks eyes with Donkor, unable to hide the truth. He fired on the invaders pursuing him on Earth. He knows one fell by his bullets but did they penetrate the armor and die? He was flash frozen so fast he never had a chance to consider the death. He fired on those preventing his escape with the Silver Dragon. Troops fell, but he again lacked confirmation of their fate. Earning his honor from the Calthos warriors was at the expense of two warriors’ deaths in which his actions were the direct result, but his hand was not on the death blade. Micah Donkor’s correct. He’s not stared into the eyes of the life he’s about to extinguish.
“Maxtin never asked me to execute someone before, not like this.” Reynard realizes too late he should have never admitted to uncertainty, but he must understand why he was requested to murder this man.
“Zayars murder just as easy as any species, Osirian. The Admiral and I go back all the way to the Battle of the Twin Suns. I doubt my friend would send you to kill me.”
“Unless the evidence was overwhelming you were betraying your people to the Mokarran.”
Donkor laughs. “Do you not understand this war, Osirian?”
“Understanding’s not required of a soldier.”
“Again, if you were sure, you’d have fired already. You’re not sure. So what in your limited Osirian brain makes you not pull the trigger?”
Reynard contemplates, Maxtin’s done nothing but help me survive. He’s never led me astray. If it’s a test, then the results could be devastating. No. Maxtin wouldn’t send me to kill someone who didn’t need to be eliminated.
“You’re correct. I don’t assassinate people. I’m a soldier. I’ve a duty.”
“Then do it, Osirian.”
Reynard knows aliens use “Osirian” with the same tone his own people of Earth use for “spick,” “chink” or “nigger.” Since was not born in this time it fails to have relevance to him as a personal insult.
“I’ve got to know why you turned away from what you fought so hard for thirty years ago.”
Donkor grabs his left sleeve and tears at the silken fabric. A red tattoo fades. “Ask your commandant about the trust we put in each other and why he now betrays me.”
The strange group of lines means nothing to Reynard. It has the look of the Chinese I Ching, but it’s not. It could be an alien version of that philosophy; many such life lessons are universal on dozens of worlds. He has no idea why Donkor shows it to him now. It means something important, and it must signify the trust Maxtin and the others had in each other when they survived the Twin Suns battle and founded the UCP.
I will finish it.
I need more information first.
I have to know why.
I can’t just kill in cold blood.
Maxtin should never ask this of me.
Reynard lowers his magnum.
“Finish it, Osirian, or you’ll never sleep again. I’ll send squads of assassins after you and my old friend for this betrayal.”
Amye holds her smoking blaster. The red plasma bolt sears open Micah Donkor’s chest, and he slumps bloodless to the carpet. The intense heat beam cauterizes the vessels, which mist only flakes of blood into the room.
Amye lowers her weapon. Her eyes affix to the smoldering hole that was once the chest of the politician.
Reynard holsters his gun and grabs Amye in one swift movement to prevent her from collapsing once her knees give out.
“I just killed an unarmed man.” She glares into Reynard’s hazel eyes with her own, now more doe-eyed than her sister’s. “It’s not the same as when I fired on the Mokarran.”
“Maxtin ordered this because it would save millions of lives,” Reynard assures her.
She shifts her eyes to the charred remains of Donkor’s organs. The sight twists the bottom of her stomach as if it were a wet washcloth being wrung out. The contents reach the top of her esophagus, and no amount of control she has allows her to push it back down.
Reynard grabs her hair and keeps it from her face as she loses the rest of her lunch.
••••••
“UPLOAD IT.” REYNARD shoves his headgear into Doug’s hand.
With two keystrokes Doug puts the image on the main view screen.
“What’s that?” he snaps at Australia, pointing at the picture he took.
What reminds Reynard of the Chinese I Ching appears. “It was on Donkor’s arm. He showed it to me before he died.”
Australia
props her elbows on her control station and bounces her front teeth on her two index fingers in contemplation.
“The queen had the same tattoo on her backside,” Reynard adds.
Doug opens a link to the ISN.
Reynard lowers his voice, “Australia, tell me what you know.”
“I am unfamiliar with this symbol.” She seems flustered with herself with the lack of knowledge, having always been able to answer any question posed to her by her captain. “But I have seen it before.”
“Where?”
“When I was tasked to assign myself to this crew, it was faded on a small book in Admiral Maxtin’s office.”
“The Admiral, the queen and the political leader of Shalenotun are all connected to this mark, and all three were at the founding of the UCP. I smell conspiracy,” Doug adds.
“If Amye were on the bridge, she would tell you it was a half-baked notion.”
“Where is Miss Jones?”
“She’s not dealing so well with the trigger pull and Donkor being an unarmed kill.”
“Smuggling, abduction, and assassination—the trinity of intelligence operatives.”
“You suggest a conspiracy at the UCP founding. What an Oliver Stone movie this would make.” Reynard pats Doug’s shoulder, “Find any reference to that mark.”
“‘Not all of life is a result of conspiracy by any means! Accident occurs alongside conspiracy,’” Doug spouts.
“That’s not from a movie,” Reynard accuses.
“No, but something Oliver Stone once said.”
“Then it doesn’t count.” Reynard contemplates the Earth quote game he plays with his communications officer.
“It has relevance.”
“It’s no accident three of those involved in the founding of the UCP are linked to the mark.”
“You would have to learn who among the other founding members also retain said mark to determine the significance.”
“None of them are Osirians.”
“The queen is.”
“Not from the Osirians scattered across the known galaxy by the Iphigenians. I would not consider her species true Osirians but a close cousin species,” Australia clarifies.
“So far, all missions involve UCP founders, none of which are Osirian. Not much of a plot point so far.”
Enter the Sandmen Page 11
