Enter the Sandmen by William Schlichter (The Silver Dragon Chronicles #1)

Silver Dragon emblem design by Alli Kappen

ENTER THE SANDMEN Copyright Š 2016, 2017 William Schlichter All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

T his book is a work of fiction. T he characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by Indigo an imprint of BHC Press Library of Congress Control Number: 2016908321 ISBN-13: 978-1-946006-52-3 ISBN-10: 1-946006-52-1 also available in hardcover and eBook

Visit the publisher at: www.bhcpress.com

ALSO BY WILLIAM SCHLICHTER

No Room In Hell The Good, The Bad, and The Undead Book 1 400 Miles to Graceland Book 2

The Silver Dragon Chronicles The Dark Side Book 2 The Fifth Planet Book 3

AMYE Thirty years after the Battle of the Twin Suns…

DARK BROWN STRANDS of hair fall into Amye’s sight line. Her attempt to blow the strings from her eye fails, and she must take her hands off the rifle to pull the tendrils back into the makeshift ponytail.

The wind blows her hair back across her face.

“Should’ve brought a hair tie.”

The voice echoes in her head until she glances at her doe-eyed sister crouching next to her. Kymberlynn should have never been allowed to accompany her as a backup spotter. The weapon has been designed for a single sniper to operate it, making Kymberlynn’s presence unnecessary.

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No amount of training prepares a person to deal with annoying siblings on a military mission. Amye wipes her palms on her pants to dry the sweat beads before she grips the weapon.

“Shorter hair would thin your pudgy face.” Kymberlynn munches down on a sugar-coated food bar.

Amye would just as soon swing the rifle around and shoot her sister in the stomach, but she considers her choice and reminds Kymberlynn, “He likes long hair on his women.”

“So you think. You’ve never seen him with a woman since you met him.

He does nothing but train and learn how to function in our world. The one time—the one moment—when he might have actually made a pass at you, you stormed from the room so fast he had no chance to check out your ass.”

Amye peers through the telescopic sight, enhancing her vision across the canyon.

The dry riverbed was once home to water powerful enough to cut a trench over two miles wide and three miles deep. Now plants clump together in the arid region, clinging to what life they hoard from leeching miniscule moisture from the air. The image in the scope tracks across the riverbed. When it crosses flora it chirps, surrounding the image in blue light and prints out a technical readout of the life form. Amye slides the scope before the information registers. She cares nothing for plants. A lizard, so thin and smashed flat it could be mistaken for a rock, scampers toward a plant. The scope registers the red heat-filled image of the creature burrowing into the chloroplast tissue and drinking water. Above the lizard, the cold metal of a shuttle craft draws her attention. The Tri-Star Federation logo shines on the side of the vehicle.

Amye searches the area for the owners.

“There are two north of the craft!” Kymberlynn exclaims.

Amye doesn’t need this. She has to concentrate. No matter how advanced the calculating computer built into the rifle is, she must still operate the weapon manually. It takes all of her mental prowess to keep focused on the task, despite Kymberlynn’s attempts to intercede. Not an unattainable shot for her to make, but its level of difficulty ranks just under impossible.

Amye checks the temperature. She adjusts the scope, allowing for the heavier gravity on this planet. She does the math in her head, but this rifle’s

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design removes the necessity for turning any green grunt into an expert marksman. The Commander—her captain—wants an impressive demonstration, and she performs distance shots with precise proficiency.

Kymberlynn’s at best a distraction, at worst the bane of any sister’s existence. Perfect in every way, and no matter what she tries, she completes it flawlessly on the first attempt. Amye wishes she would have stayed on Tartarus instead of joining the same crew as her blood. Her uneventful life would be uncomplicated, and Kymberlynn would have the dream piloting job she’s always felt Amye prevented her from getting.

“Are you sure you’ll hit them from here? It’s almost a three-mile distance across, with heavy cross-current winds. You can’t even keep the hair from your eyes with this wind.”

“Your encouragement’s always welcome, Sis.” Amye says Sis as a substitute for bloated sea hag.

“Unlike me, you have little value to the crew. I’m an expert-rated pilot, and you’ve nothing to offer the team our captain’s building. He wants a crew of the best, and you turned him away from what you’re best at.”

“Enjoying coupling with males isn’t a skill.” Amye adjusts the scope to find the shuttle’s owners. “Pretending to enjoy it when a man flounders at it takes talent.” Amye sticks a beef stick in her mouth, lodging the meat between her cheek and gum, letting the saliva create juice.

“You certainly had plenty of practice at it,” Kymberlynn scoffs.

Amye adjusts the telescopic sight until the silhouette of a biped humanoid moves from a blurry gray mass to the sharpened red-heat image of a Mokarran. Even from miles away, the bulky frame of such a powerful creature causes fear, but Amye suppresses any anxiety from her sister.

The seven-foot creature has the upper torso of a hammerhead shark with four yellow eyes and seven tentacles dangling before its twin rows of razorsharp teeth. A bony dorsal fin on the top of the head juts like a spear, adding to the creature’s fearful height. Gill slits involuntarily move on its neck.

The metallic gray skin ripples with muscles designed to propel it through dense water. The meat-eating species dominates most of the Tri-Star Federation through the oppressive fear they instill in lesser humanoids. She’s thankful she doesn’t have to face it up close.

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Amye scans a second alien. Both are shirtless due to the swim fins dotting their skin. They carry heavy rifles most species would build for use on transport vehicles due to their intense recoil.

“He’s watching you.”

Amye spits, refusing to hide her distaste for Kymberlynn’s playground taunts. She scowls at her sister. You have to prove yourself useful echoes in Amye’s head. “It’s not a test.”

“Sure it is. Everyone on the Dragon is the best in their respective fields.

You bring nothing to the crew but a sister with famous piloting skills.”

Amye wants to send Kymberlynn back to the ship. She is wishing she could send her back to whatever hell spawned her when a third Mokarran fills the scope completing the shuttle crew. Her brain estimates the trajectory angle.

“You’ll never make the shot,” Kymberlynn whispers in her ear.

“Shut up, Kymberlynn,” Amye says, snapping the hunk of beef in her mouth in two. She swallows the juice in a huff, losing all the calming effects the protein was to provide her.

“I’m just saying you’re still not calculating for the massive wind trajectory gusts across this canyon. It’s over two and a half miles to your target.”

“I know how to adjust for wind.” Amye presses the toe of her boot hard against a rock to steady herself. She pulls the rifle butt tight into her shoulder.

“And it’s only two point two miles. Shouldn’t someone who has to land aircraft be a better judge of distance?”

“You miss this shot and he won’t keep you around.”

“You’re disrupting my concentration, Sis. Now shut the smerth up.” Amye follows the alien with the scope. She sucks in all the breath her lungs hold.

Her sister’s correct. She must make this shot.

The image inside the scope zooms closer to the monster’s face. Amye loads the cartridge of rocket shells into the gun and racks a round into the chamber.

“Don’t miss,” Kymberlynn whispers in her ear.

Amye swats at her sister like a fly, but she jumps back out of reach. She doesn’t need the constant reminder of the necessity of proving herself to her boss, but expecting her to deal with the toughest alien species next to the Tibbar and her sister’s taunting could be the most difficult task in the known gal-

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axy. Of course, he had no idea her sister would bug her while she attempts this shot.

“You should have stayed on the ship,” Amye snaps, making one final mental calculation before placing her finger on the trigger.

“Being the world-class pilot I am, I should be at the helm, but I’d rather watch you miss.”

Amye pushes Kymberlynn from her thoughts. She centers the crosshairs on the target’s center mass then drops it down to the alien’s belt line. Amye slows her heart rate. She reaches a level of calm, blocking out even her sister. Amye exhales at the same moment, depressing the trigger with a soft squeeze.

The Mokarran steps forward.

The bullet, propelled by an injection of rocket fuel to span the distance of the rocky canyon, splatters the chest of the Mokarran over the wall behind it. It collapses to its knees. A milky liquid dribbles from the tentacles as an inky paste drains from its left hand. Without the major internal organs in its chest, the Mokarran slumps dead.

Within a quarter of a second, she jerks the slide and reloads the weapon.

A second Mokarran explodes. The milky liquid coats the third alien. Amye loads the rifle again and blows off half its hammerhead-shaped face.

“Great job, Sis. You made the shot,” Kymberlynn congratulates her.

“I had no doubt.” Amye blows the dust and dirt from the smoking chamber.

“Now he has to keep you as part of the crew. He’s put together a team of the best, and there are only, like, four or five Osirians who could have made such a shot, and my sister just happens to be number six.”

Amye pushes herself to her knees, then jumps to her feet. Her black uniform’s covered in the chalky dust of the ground. Amye sneers at Kymberlynn, who of course remains completely impeccable as always with her tiny petite body, not one blonde hair out of place or speck of dust covering her. With the way the wind howls, she should be covered in dirt, but the gods must be protecting her from even the grime.

Amye locks the rifle’s kickstand into place under the barrel before she shoulders the weapon. She marches back to her audience of seven males for the evaluation of her shooting.

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She already knows Lieutenant Scott Beers’ opinion won’t count. He believes there’s only one kind of Mokarran—a dead one. Eliminating three will excite him, no matter how impressive her shots were. She knows little of the humanoid Ki-Ton. He once worked for Admiral Maxtin and placed in the crew to assist Reynard with smuggling missions. Her captain would have a stoic stature, but he’s too young to be ominous.

“And too young to have a rank of Commander,” Kymberlynn adds.

“How did you know what I was thinking?”

“I always know what you’re thinking, Little Sis.” Hard as it is, Amye attempts to ignore her sibling. Three Braeco’n warriors accompany her crewmates. Amye’s never met anyone from this species before. Two of them are young but clearly battle-hardened soldiers. The leader, despite his advanced age, maintains the strength of a warrior. The shorter, weaker alien looks like a G’Kenrts. They are not known for having any fighting ability, so she figures he must serve as some kind of accountant.

The whistling winds prevent her from hearing the transpiring conversation of the males until she gets closer to her captain. She drops her eyes in disappointment. The most remarkable shots she’s ever made and they aren’t speaking of her.

“Commander Reynard, you must compliment Admiral Maxtin on his selection of weapons,” Youshon, the older Braeco’n, says as he peers through binoculars at the dead Mokarran. “With distance weapons we can attack Mokarran installations and remain safe.”

“You do have to have fine marksmen. The rifle won’t shoot itself.” Reynard keeps one hand with a thumb hooked on his gun belt just behind his weapon, ready for a quick draw.

“At least he acknowledged it takes a good shooter,” Kymberlynn taunts.

“He’s expert with a pistol, but he’ll never hit a target like you with a rifle. Not to mention, my piloting rating’s twice his.”

Amye holds off on punching her sister before the Braeco’ns. They value barbaric strength, but not displayed in such a useless fashion. She wonders, if she did, whether the gods would even let her bloody her sister’s nose and mess up the perfect hair. Amye turns her head so the wind blows her own hair behind her head.

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Kymberlynn’s locks stay perfectly in place and bouncy even in these galeforce winds. It could be because she stands in the windbreak of the petrified coral trees. Some millions of years ago this planet was nothing but ocean, and life teemed on this ridge. When the planet dried up, the thousand-year-old coral reefs dried and became a forest of brittle rock.

The wind seems to have little effect on Lieutenant Scott Beers. Handsome, strong with chiseled features, he destroys the typical image of a knuckle-dragging grease monkey.

Hidden in the coral near the Braeco’n vantage point, Amye finds the rifle crate.

“Don’t you just find him mesmeric?” Kymberlynn’s doe-like eyes widen with desire.

“Actually, no.” Amye opens a metallic rifle case. Two rifles rest inside with a blank spot for the weapon she carries.

“Genetics couldn’t produce a more perfect Osirian with the kind of stamina he brings.” Kymberlynn flushes with her thoughts.

“I don’t want to hear about it. It was bad enough I walked in on the two of you.” Amye removes an aerosol spray oiling the chamber. She wipes out the chemical, making the weapon look unfired.

“Then you know for an Osirian he’s huge.”

“Something so massive isn’t desirable. I want girth. Enough to be comfortable. Not shred me.” Amye secures the case.

“You’ve tried enough men to know what makes you comfortable,” Kymberlynn quips.

“What’s next, we try to yank out each other’s hair? Enjoying sex doesn’t make me a whore.” Amye changes the topic before her sister drives her to pound her. “Why are the Mokarran on this rock? This planet has no strategic value.”

“People who resist the Tri-Star Federation hide here. Enough reason for the Mokarran.” She closes the case and secures the hasps. She prepares herself to play the dutiful subservient female.

Amye presents the rifle in a bow to Youshon. Kymberlynn curtseys in respect behind her. Amye gives her the stink eye. She twists her face down away from Youshon’s scrutiny, glancing for her captain’s approval.

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He’s such a young man. She’s not old. There’s only a year’s difference in their biological age. His birth age shouldn’t count since he spent a thousand years in cytogenetic sleep. Kymberlynn’s correct. He’s too young and inexperienced to be the commander of a special operations unit.

Youshon fondles the rifle, inspecting mechanical parts. Amye takes her place at her captain’s side, but slightly behind him. Braeco’n warriors resign females in their own culture to household duties and believe women have no place on the battlefield. Women aren’t confined to mere domestic chores, but fighting brings status to the men. Amye takes another step back so her captain doesn’t lose face. If anything, she and Kymberlynn should represent his ability as a warrior. To the Braeco’n, the greater the warrior, the more mates he’s allowed to procure. This way the next generation will be one of even greater warriors. In the Braeco’n convention, for someone so young to have two females and command a ship must mean he has achieved greatness among his fellow warriors.

“He’ll not understand the respect you offer.” Kymberlynn speaks low enough for only Amye to hear. “Without Australia to brief him, he has no idea about the customs of any of these non-Osirian species we encounter.”

Amye defends him. “Not everyone’s had the IMC courses in cross-cultural species customs. Some much-needed training did you a universe of good. Even with extra preparation, we were going to be stuck on Tartarus—forever.”

“Being stuck on a frozen ice ball was your prerogative, Little Sis. You’re the one who flunked. I was on the fast track to advanced piloting school,” Kymberlynn reminds her. “IMC fleet captain. One of the youngest.”

“So it’s my fault you got stuck on the mining colony?”

“I certainly got you to leave that rock. And you got to meet him.” Kymberlynn points at Reynard.

“He was on Tartarus for the Lieutenant, not us,” Amye points out.

“He was putting together a team of the best and the brightest. Scott’s mechanical genius made him a prime candidate for Admiral Maxtin’s Black Box missions. He just got a bonus picking up a top-level pilot…and what skill do you bring to the team?”

“If you hadn’t slept with Scott, he’d never have brought you along.”

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“If the captain hadn’t seen a rockslide bury you, you’d be dead.” Kymberlynn shifts her tone. “Why were you in an off-limits passage?”

If it wouldn’t bring shame to him, she would rearrange Kymberlynn’s nose. Amye knows she blames her for preventing them from leaving Tartarus years ago. She blames Amye for failing her advanced course training and being delegated to the rank of Technician Second Class. Kymberlynn believes Amye got stuck and no way will she ever get promoted beyond her current rank at the mining colony. Amye was sent off-colony to the advanced training program at fourteen. Something not many Osirians accomplish at such a young age, or even at all. Amye’s career should have propelled her past retooling auto-rock loaders or sludge pool scrubbers. Instead, her unsuccessful coursework reduced job options.

Ignoring Kymberlynn’s guilt trips are their own career path. Off Tartarus, as part of the crew of the Silver Dragon, career means nothing when Kymberlynn now pilots the most advanced piece of technology in the known galaxy. No rank in the IMC would get her on this ship. They were never going to be rich with company dividends, and even if they got to travel to all the sectors of the galaxy, they’d never get to spend any time on any one planet.

“Nice shooting,” her captain, Reynard, compliments.

Amye smiles. “Nothing you couldn’t do without a little practice.”

“Youshon offered the hospitality of the saloon. You and Scott check it out. I don’t want to insult the man by not accepting his offer. Ki-Ton and I will make sure the weapons are delivered.”

“Hospitality extends to only the male warriors of Braeco’n society. I should deliver the weapons, and you should socialize,” Amye offers.

“I still don’t like to indulge in cuisine that has effects on my digestion I’m unfamiliar with. I’ll join you shortly. Keep an eye on Scott.” Reynard leaves her.

“Just the job you wanted,” Kymberlynn smirks. “The best way to keep Scott out of trouble would be to be the girl underneath him.”

“There are days you make me wish Reynard hadn’t dug me out. If I were dead, I wouldn’t have to listen to your taunting.”

“Do you think he knows?”

“Knows what?” Amye’s thoughts are confused by Kymberlynn’s questions.

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“About you.”

“Kymberlynn, what the smerth are you jabbering about?”

Amye quickly marches away from her sister, but no matter how fast she moves, Kymberlynn keeps pace with her like a second monkey on her back.

She moves as speedily toward her first vice.

Barrels, crates, and piles of rocks create a windbreak around the large patchwork tent covering a pit dug into the rough earth. Light blasts through the unmended holes, but despite the poor quality structure, the blaring music invites patrons.

Amye strolls down the earthen embankment. The tent operates as a ceiling to the hole dug into the ground instead of being actual walls of the saloon.

She loses track of Scott, who’s already disappeared in a mass of what Amye figures are prostitutes. She’s unsure whether the Braeco’n women could even be considered prostitutes. It’s a Braeco’n woman’s duty to procreate with any victorious warrior on demand unless she’s been claimed as a spoil of combat.

What surprises her is the number of other aliens drinking and wenching.

Mercenaries, most likely, or other conspiring rebels who wish to bring down the Mokarran regime imbibe here. For the first time, Amye’s the only female warrior in the bar.

“So disgusting,” Kymberlynn muses.

Scott holds a Braeco’n woman on his lap. She runs her fingers over the lines of his pectoral muscles.

“I don’t think Osirians and Braeco’ns have similar procreation equipment.” Amye pushes her way to the bar.

“She still has a mouth,” Kymberlynn sneers.

Amye leans against the bar. She rests one of her long legs on the metal foot rail running along the bottom. “I’ll imbibe in the local mind-altering beverage.”

The Braeco’n slides a glass at her. The sludgy pink substance inside reeks with an unknown odor. Amye knows better than to refuse the order now. She holds it, allowing it to waft under her nose in the hope she’ll get used to it enough to swallow.

“Where do I pay?” She displays the back of her left hand.

The bartender waves his hand as if it were saying no. “Youshon buys all newcomers their first drink. After, coin only. We’ve no electronic scanners to

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read your embedded credit bar. Nothing computerized to be traced back to this location.”

“Smart. To scan the information contained on the implanted DNA card in your hand, the computer reader must connect at some point to the Interplanetary Subspace Netscape. Even prudent hackers won’t prevent all location traces.” Kymberlynn then ponders, “Why didn’t you go in for data penetration training?”

“Not much call for it on a mining colony, and I don’t want to be a jacker like Doug.”

“I doubt your mind could handle the implant anyway.”

“The implant makes Osirians insane.” Amye throws her head back, scarfing down the sludge. She drains half the glass before the rocket fuel taste burns her throat. She slams the drink down and wipes her mouth.

Impressed, the bartender offers her a second drink. “Not many Osirians handle Caeno’n. This one’s on me when you finish.”

“You know the one way not to spend any coin in this place. I bet most of these men would love to fondle an Osirian woman,” Kymberlynn says, not spotting a single Osirian among the prostitutes.

“I don’t do aliens.”

“No, but you’ll act as a party favor for free drinks.”

“You’re just full of all kinds of sisterly love.” Amye downs more of her drink.

The mind-numbing substance fails to push Kymberlynn from her thoughts.

“I just don’t want you to screw up this opportunity on the Silver Dragon the way you stanched my piloting career.”

“How long are you going to harp on me?” Amye sniffs her drink.

“I don’t know, Amye. How long do you plan on breathing?”

Amye slugs down the remainder of the first glass. Whatever spirits concocted this beverage certainly didn’t ferment it from vegetables. Amye’s eyes swim in distorted pools. Even the first time she absorbed liquor it didn’t immerse her brain cells this quickly. She sips from the second glass to conceal the effects the first had on her. Female or not, she’ll not be weak in front of all these warriors.

“Eat something,” Kymberlynn advises. She points to breaded nuts in a bowl on the bar.

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The wrong kind of food could make it worse since she has no idea what comprises this liquor. “I’ll be fine.” There are pills to quell the effects of food indigestible by Osirians, but unlike her captain, she doesn’t carry them with her.

“Maybe you should get Scott to carry you back to the Dragon.”

“I don’t want his smerth’n ape hands to touch me.”

“He’s not bad. He just enjoys women. It’s no different than all the alcohol you pour into your system.”

Sometimes Amye hates her sister more when she’s right.

REYNARD THE STIFF WINDS howl around Commander Reynard. Dust flakes pelt his skin, some big enough to sting. He ignores the pain. No warrior would allow pinpricks to affect him, even if the constant burst of pellets hurt. Admitting pain in front of the three Braeco’ns would not only cause him to lose face, but destroy the reputation Admiral Maxtin’s creating for the crew.

Lieutenant Scott Beers keeps his uniform jacket zipped up and the bibbed overleaf on the front secured, as well as the strap around the neck and the waist secured as tight as possible to keep the bits of dust from infiltrating the jumpsuit underneath. No technology has been invented to prevent the difficulty of washing away sand from all the body crevices it collects in.

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“I understand why you brought her with us. Her leg would have been amputated without the Dragon’s medical tech, but you’re putting a lot on the line allowing her to demonstrate a prototype sniper weapon. She misses and a smerth’n world of shit will rain down on these rebels,” Scott says.

“Her aptitudes state she’s qualified, but explain to me why a mining organization qualifies their employees in sniper rifles,” Reynard says.

“They don’t. Not directly.” Scott clarifies, “Their computers analyze certain test results to determine combat skills. The company assesses all those attending company schools in order to hire security from those raised in the company ranks.”

“Loyalty’s a virtue.” More like brainwashing from birth.

“The Interplanetary Mining Corporation’s holdings outreach even the Tri-Star Federation’s territories.”

“Corporations have always secretly ruled the world.”

“Galaxy,” Scott corrects his captain.

“Her record doesn’t say why she’s stuck as an IMC Second Class Technician with all those high scores.”

“When I worked with Kymberlynn on Tartarus, she said something about Amye going mental at some advanced training academy she was accepted into in her teens. She never learned what happened. Amye wouldn’t share with anyone.”

Reynard read the report. Amye failed an advancement assignment. Her brilliance was confused by one missed fact on the test. The IMC rank their students with the results and give no do-overs, just like his middle school math teacher.

Reynard keeps his faith in the brunette prone on the ground taking aim into the canyon. He sees her becoming a valuable member of his crew. He saw potential in her, or he would have healed her and left her on Tartarus. Eliminating the Mokarran scouts will prove her potential to the rest of his crew.

And her shot will substantiate the value of the weapons Admiral Maxtin donates to his old ally. Braeco’ns notoriously believe females are not designed for combat, and Amye’s miss will be seen as an insult as well as bring down the wrath of the Mokarran.

Much of Reynard’s knowledge about Amye flows through Scott’s past relationship with her sister, making his bias of her character clear. Scott’s assess-

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ment doesn’t concern him. One opinion might belong to the tall humanoid standing opposite of Scott. Even at a distance, it’s clear Ki-Ton’s not quite one-hundred percent Osirian, at least not genetically. Something about his face lets you know he has mixed parentage.

Ki-Ton lacks the desire to share personal opinions. He prefers to perform the actions required to complete a mission and not discuss it.

Reynard recruited only the best operatives in their respective fields for his crew. He found a few people he liked, but most are assigned by Admiral Maxtin based on the requirements of the missions. After Australia Wells was allocated as his navigation officer, Ki-Ton was Maxtin’s top assignment. He spent nine years operating infiltrator missions against the Mokarran for the Admiral. Now he’s Reynard’s best source of information while treading in TriStar Federation space.

Ki-Ton speaks without emotion. “It’s not an impossible shot, Commander, but not many full-blooded Osirians are skilled with such rifles.”

“So we should let you make it?” Scott suggests. Other than knowing Ki-Ton worked for Admiral Maxtin, he’s never seen the man in action.

“The Commander wants a crew of those considered top in their field of operations, and he has populated the ship with only three non-Osirians.”

Ki-Ton’s inflection displays his own disdain for the inferiority of Osirians.

“I’m best in my field. No one has scored higher on the UCP engineering examining,” Scott boasts.

“I don’t suffer from the same arrogance as Osirians,” Ki-Ton says.

“What species are you again? You look close enough to us to have Osirian genetics.”

“Neither of you have mastered teamwork,” Reynard scolds. “Behave, or I’ll assign some timeouts.” He knows his home-world reference is lost on them.

He steps up to the old warrior. Youshon wears his experience in the multitude of scars on his body. Strings of burnt flesh decorate his neck.

“Do you know Admiral Maxtin well, Commander?”

“Ki-Ton has worked with him more than me, but the Admiral has become quite a mentor.”

“Not a quality usually found in Zayars,” Youshon mentions.

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“Braeco’n don’t approve of female warriors, either,” Reynard utters.

Youshon acknowledges, “Maxtin taught me some cultural norms are worthy of ignoring when dealing with the Mokarran. They kill anyone, despite gender. Females should be afforded the same defensive opportunities as males.”

“Your young warriors don’t share your sentiments.”

“It will benefit them to witness such a weak female overcoming powerful Mokarran,” Youshon declares.

I’m glad Amye didn’t hear him call her weak. “You’ve worked with the Admiral a long time against the Mokarran?”

“We were in the same fighter squadron during the Battle of the Twin Suns.”

Reynard probes no further. Youshon’s statement has finality to it. Reynard can’t insult his host, even if he wants to know more about his employer. History vids explain a limited perspective on the pivotal events thirty years ago.

“You’ll learn much from him. Trust notwithstanding.”

Amye carries the rifle to gift to Youshon. The two Braeco’n grumble, barely audible, in Reynard’s universal translator about pure luck for an Osirian female.

Reynard flashes Amye a smile of pride, but despite his delight in his crewmate, he has to respect Youshon and quickly dispatches her away along with Scott. Ki-Ton remains at his captain’s side.

“We’ve dealt with this one before. The Admiral’s intelligence operative.”

Ki-Ton nods.

“Intelligence: term for what has to be done in order to stand up against those who would oppress others,” Ki-Ton states.

“Admiral Maxtin provides all the weapons you need, but he made it clear we could transport your people back to…” He almost says safety and insults the man and his warriors. “United Confederation of Planets.”

“I’m an old warrior. Being old brings about wisdom, as does having traveled so far from my home world. The logical course of action would be to accept the Admiral’s offer, but Braeco’ns are warriors from birth, and those youths who fight would never accept such a wise action, nor would they function well within the confines of UCP military rules.”

Youshon gives several hand gestures to his two soldiers, deploying them to retrieve the Mokarran shuttle and weapons. “We grow stronger each time a Mokarran falls.”

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“Wise stratagem; build your arsenal while you deplete theirs.” Reynard recalls reading of such guerrilla tactics.

“What strategies are you employing by attacking a Mokarran patrol so close to your own hidden base?” The question Ki-Ton poses purposely seems insulting to a species of warriors.

“The Mokarran no longer search the area when we ambush them. It took a great many attacks before they gave up, realized we never stayed, and booby-trapped the area. Depleting their numbers further. Still, in their arrogance, they send out regular patrols of only three soldiers.”

“Few species would attack a single Mokarran, let alone three.”

“We are not other species. We are Braeco’n.” He thumps his chest.

“My chief engineer would speculate the Mokarran military teeters on collapse, and the Mokarran’s pursuit of rebel groups like yours only keeps up the pretense of power. They’re engaged in an unwinnable war with the Throgen Empire.”

“Then victory shall be obtained, but the new Mokarran leader builds a supernatural following, and fanatical soldiers are the most dangerous kind.”

“Showing weakness to an enemy could be a ploy to draw out rebel groups like yours in an attempt to eliminate you.”

“You have experienced military leader thoughts, Commander Reynard, but lack the scars of many battlefields. Where did you study such tactics? Not at the UCP Academy,” Youshon asks.

“I played a lot of chess with my dad. He’d never let me win.”

“Placating children with a false sense of skill teaches them nothing. Braeco’ns would have received a lash upon losing as well.”

Reynard cringes at the thought. “I chose to play him again.”

“Why?” Youshon inquires.

“I knew I could beat him. I got better at it each time.”

“You defeated him.”

“Nope. Never could. Not once in a thousand games could I ever outthink him.”

“You never brought honor to your house by learning more than your teacher.”

“No one else I ever played could ever beat me.”

william schlichter

26

“So you brought honor to your father’s instruction. Even if you couldn’t surpass his teachings.” Youshon nods. “We learn much from all warriors. Even young ones.”

“Even females?”

“I should be insulted, but I’ve come to a better understanding of the galaxy than the indoctrinated youth of my species. Impossible to accept women as anything but breeders. It may not be acceptable to most species, but we fight for our way of life the same as you. If we survive then perhaps in generations to come we’ll develop more respect for our females.”

“The problem with Osirians is you always feel your method of existence is how everyone should behave, yet you follow your own morals least,” Ki-Ton chimes in.

“I just felt my sniper deserved the respect a skilled warrior is given. She clearly demonstrated her value.” To my crew as well.

“She has earned my respect. As have you, despite your lack of experience.”

“I value what you offer me, Youshon, but I value my crew even more.”

Amye’s had her respect stripped away from her at some point. “I want her to keep what she earns.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR William Schlichter has a Bachelor of Science in Education emphasizing English from Southeast Missouri State and a Masters of Arts in Theater from Missouri State University. With fifteen years of teaching English/Speech/Theater, he has returned to making writing his priority. Recent successes with scriptwriting earned him third place in the 2013 Broadcast Education Association National Festival of Media Arts for writing a TV Spec Script episode of The Walking Dead.

His full-length feature script, Incinta, was an officially selected finalist in the 2014 New Orleans Horror Film Festival. Incinta received recognition again by being selected as a finalist at the 2015 Beverly Hills Film Festival for a full-length feature. Incinta has advanced in several other script contests, including most recently being an Official Selected finalist in The 2016 Irvine Film Festival. His next life goal would be to see his film transferred from the pages to the screen.

Writing has always been his passion even through traveling, raising twin children, and educating teenagers. While he specializes in the phantasmagorical world of the undead and science fiction fantasy stories, William continues to teach acting, composition, and creative writing.