Syrane tapped an above floor and as the disk rose, she leaped off, colliding with the nearest guard, freeing his weapon from his hand. She twisted her body, coiling both legs while firing her pistol twice. The armed guard stood motionless as she landed. He collapsed as the other fell forward down the shaft.
The remaining guard struggled to move. As his fingertips contacted his weapon, Syrane stepped on it, wrenched the pistol from his grasp, and omnetically attached it to her tasset. She glanced at the security door. “Is that the Praetor’s apartment?” The guard was stubborn and didn’t answer. Assuming it was the Praetor’s apartment, “What is the code?” He remained silent. Syrane grabbed him by the nape of the neck, dragged him to the door, and slammed his face into it. “Put in the code.” He was losing blood rapidly. His eye strained to look at the keypad. She assisted him in raising his hand to the pad. He pressed the first character, followed by several others. The servo inside clicked. The Eunukan pulled him back while pushing the door open and dropped him against it. A projectile narrowly missed her visor as she glanced into the space. She switched to the guard’s weapon, extended it, and chose the image of a fan. The main barrel split as though it underwent mitosis. Two other barrels flipped forward. She angled the rifle into the doorway and pressed the actuator. Nothing happened. She retracted to determine the fault. The wounded guard chuckled, but it turned to pain. “That mode has never worked, off-worlder.” The Eunukan closed the rifle and attached it to her tasset, grabbed the wounded Arctosiak by the leg, and used him as a shield. She lunged into the corridor and slammed into the guards stationed there. Her speed caught them unprepared. The inner door gave way as the guard fell, rolled, and slid lifelessly into an atrium. Near the back wall, sitting on the bed, was a sickly Arctosiak. He looked up from his fallen guard to find the Eunukan standing in the doorway, blood dripping from her sword. “Impressive, Captain,” he said as he sat down his drink and patted his lips with a napkin. “You know me?” “I’ve been watching your career here. It is a shame, you had potential.” He looked beyond the being before him. “They were my best.” She tilted her head toward the guard and back to the aged Arctosiak. “Where’s Mnaya?” A coughing fit began. He covered his mouth with the napkin. When the fit settled, he wiped his mouth. “That is a name I haven’t heard in some time.” “Where is she?” “You desire information. You’ll have to negotiate for it.” “What do you want?” “I haven’t left this apartment ever since I fell ill. The people will think me weak and revolt if they knew of my condition.” “What is your condition?” She asked. “My physician doesn’t know. Neither did the last one. I grow tired of the endless agony and fatigue.” He took a labored breath. “I feel it is terminal, but it is taking too damn long. I will give you the information you seek if you will expedite my death.” “I thought compassion was an insult and a crime among your people.” “To allow a Yajen to needlessly suffer carries with it a greater penalty.” “Take your weapon in hand.” The Praetor lifted the edge of his mattress and unsheathed his sword. It gleamed in the artificial light. A wry smile crossed his face. “I see you have been imbued with a sense of honor. A terrible thing to burden someone with.” He lunged from his bed with an upward cut. Syrane sidestepped the attack and parried. Their blades beat in sequence and fell into lock. She felt his feebleness, yet his strength endured. Her claws dug into his wrist. He retreated to recover.” Yajen glanced at the dripping wrist. “Perhaps I was wrong about honor. The taste is sweet.” He re-engaged. Syrane parried another attack and kicked him. He slid onto the floor and hit the bed. She stepped forward with the tip aimed at her opponent. “Mnaya?” “Do you promise to give me a death worthy of a warrior?” “I do.” “I searched for her throughout my empire. When interrogated, her acquaintances disclosed she booked passage off-world on a Suvavarion cargo hopper before succumbing to their injuries. I have given you what you want. Do it now.” Jad Yajen threw his sword aside, climbed to his knees, and rested on his heels. With his head down, he waited. He felt the tip against his nape. He smiled. A sharp sting traveled through his spine. His vision tunneled. The Magister’s sword clanged as she dropped it and retrieved the Praetor’s sword. Syrane left the sphere through the sally ports. Several of the guards were taken out. Shots worthy of merit. Snow had built up on the quiet street. ‘Nai Korundi, do you read?’ She thought. The Uru’ye’s grating voice didn’t echo through her mind. After climbing through the abandoned building, Syrane found the lance cat gutted. Close to him, nai Korundi. Her body had been stripped, and the same was done. After climbing the wall, Syrane rested. As she stood, Tika stepped out from behind the dropship accompanied by three armed Arctosiak. “I recognize the hilt of my father’s sword. I trust he died well?” “Yes. He requested a warrior’s death. I gave him one,” Syrane replied. “Your compassion stained his death.” “Your lack of it prolonged his suffering.” “How dare you?” “Come get your grand prize.”
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Sage and Rose
By J. L. Young On a frigid October night, the driver of a semi-truck, forced to take a late load without rest, fell asleep at the wheel. The truck hit a patch of black ice, startling the driver awake, and he reacted. He was going too fast to correct it. The trailer overtook the cab, causing it to slide sideways. It penetrated a railing and fell from the road. A woman in a compact car was pinned in a ditch beneath the trailer. That woman died moments after jaws-of-life was used to excise her from the crushed car. Quick thinking from the paramedics and the child she carried was born. The family of the child could not be found. Staff at the Angel’s Feather Orphanage settled on a name for the infant, Morella Doe. When she was five, Morella was adopted by a young Conservative Christian couple and renamed her Morella Morris. After five years, the couple relinquished custody of her to the state, citing the child would not accept their strict religious and political values. After her high school graduation, Morella would age out of the state home. She became instantly homeless. Panhandling became her profession. After working the big intersections and dodging the police, she spent most of her time studying at the local library. She used the local gym to attend to her hygiene and the laundromat to take care of what little clothing she possessed. The young woman was adept in advanced math, Science, and is a polyglot. Morella used her homeless status to get into college, tuition-free. During her studies, she began creating connections. She began selling marijuana, knowing it was harmless and on the verge of being unscheduled. She saved enough money to purchase a condominium close to school. Morella now had enough money to buy clothes that better suited her personality rather than for functionality. She had her hair dyed the color of the night. It offset her naturally pale skin. She chose what will become her signature scent, sage and rose. She was now twenty, the age her mother was when she died, and now stands at the door of the truck driver’s home. She held forgiveness in her heart. |
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May 2024
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