Phoenix: Paying the Devil Part 1

Sometimes the Devil rides a hoverbike and has cat eyes.

Planet Nodiea, Outer Ring

The Great Empire of Estella

StarDate: 345, W.S.

 

A simple life, never going to have it, huh?

                Nesma’s heavy black boots dropped off the hoverbike as she lowered the wide black brim of her hat over her eyes, blocking out the burdensome sun of the desert. She let the black duster fall over her spike pistol while at the same time letting the plasma pistol hang freely on her hip. The sun blinked off the dull steel of her gun, making a few of the rubes scatter at the sight of her. The sharp teeth running along the edge of her hat didn’t help settle their fears of the stranger walking into town.

                She moved the piece of wheat to the other side of her mouth. She had driven her bike sixteen hours through the farmland of this backwater world and couldn’t resist chewing on something.

                Nesma glanced around at the weary eyes falling on her, but none of them made a move. A few of the owners of those eyes carried the firearms of their hips, their hands away from the hilts, but their finger itching to start shooting.

                But she wasn’t here for any of them; she had a different target in mind.

                She started for the Saloon in the small town, hoping this time they would find their quarry. She didn’t want to be riding the bike for another few days. She wanted to get off this planet, back to her ship, her home, and moving on to the next job.

                The doors to the Saloon shrieked open, pooling her in a burning light to everyone hissing at the door. She walked in, keeping the hat low and trying her best not to let her hand go to the many charms she had hanging around her neck. At least five necklaces hung there covered in all kinds of luck charms, keeping her alive.

                She wasn’t sure she believed in luck, but the charms hadn’t failed her yet.

                “What can I get for you, ma’am?” The old Kmoik bartender asked. He had been an older man with sun brunt skin, almost turning a bit leathery from the world he had been forced to live on. Kmoik came in a couple of different hues, and this one was a peach looking man as if he would do better in a colder climate, something Nesma would like to be in at the moment.

                She hated the heat, the endless desert, and sand. She hated sand more than being shot at, which happen a lot in her life.

                “An ale,” Nesma ordered, and the man nodded, not asking any more questions. He didn’t seem to care why a snowy blue Kuthall with light purple eyes, pointed ears, and midnight hair, a golden ring sung in the black sky of her hair like a star, was standing at his bar. All he cared about was not getting shot and making some credits to put food on his table. He quickly glanced at the black scar around her neck, the mark of a slave, but didn’t say a word.

                Not his business at all.

                She sighed, waiting for her ale to reach her, trying her best not to let the wondering eyes wash over the body. Too many of the men - pigs - were studying her like a toy they could pick off the shelf for a good time. She would never be another men’s toy again. She would kill them all before letting any of them touch her.

                She knew how her body looked even in the duster, and it was a desire by almost all men. A life as a mercenary came you shape, mostly because she kept getting shot at on her jobs. Never the plan, but then again, living a hard life on the edge wasn’t the plan either.

A simple life.

                The tall glass of cold ale landed in front of her, and she almost down half of it before taking a gasp of air. She didn’t realize how good drinking something cold would be after being in the heat. And they said it was winter here.

                She had water on the bike, only a fool wouldn’t have come, but the water wasn’t fresh, not like the ale with ice in it. She wipes away some drops of the brew before smiling at the bartender.

                “Good stuff, sir,” she said.

                “Yes, ma’am, it is,” he said, weakly smiling at her. It had been a practiced smile at best. “We don’t take credit here.”

                “Ah, I get ya,” Nesma said, slipping out five gold and red coins. She pushed over to the older man.

                “It’s only one coin.”

                “Yes, but I’m looking for a man named Kay Talle,” Nesma said softly. “He is a Solarten with two different color eyes. You’ve seen him?”

                The bartender took the coins but gulped when the shadow grew behind her. He didn’t have to say a word, and she kicked herself for not noticing Kay in the Salon. He must have been hiding in the shadows, or the harsh light blinded her a bit more than plan. Her lynx-like eyes did great in the dark, but sometimes, the brightest of the hard suns could be a bit much.

                “Why’s a young little thing like you looking for me?” Kay’s deep voice asked.

                Nesma spun on her heels to stare up at the man. She had been a bit tall for a female Kuthall standing somewhere around 5’9, but the Solarten tower over her. She grinned at his angelic face. All the raced in the stars knew Solarten were ungodly marvelous in their physical attraction, and Kay did not disappoint at all, even with the face full of scars. His blue eye and green eye had caused him to be counted among the lower class of his race. The Solarten did have a racial superiority complex about themselves, but then again, they were the ruling body of the Empire.

                He grinned wide at her. “I don’t normally go for a Kuthall gal, but I’ll make an exception for a doll as lovely as you.”

                “I’ll give you one chance, Kay,” Nesma said, tipping her hat up. “One chance, ya hear?”

Author's Note

If you had made it this far, then I appreciate it, and before you start to tear my work apart (which doesn’t bother me too much), let me explain something. The most common critique I see is about my spelling and grammar. It is an understandable critique, and I do not blame you for pointing it out. After all, spelling and grammar are the tools in which we use to craft our work, like a paintbrush or a chisel. The artist must know how to use these tools well, but like an artist who has a tremble in their hand's somethings will never be perfect.
My tremble in my hand is caused by my dyslexia. It is something, no matter how much I learn, study, or works on, it will never go away. It is the reason you will find a good bit of spelling and grammar mistakes in my work. I ask you to keep this fact when you are about to write your critique.
Also, I feel the need to point this out, this website is like a journal for me. A messy journal I used to work out problems in my stories or to simply warm up before digging into my novels. I do not hire an editor for the work here. I do not spend hours and days pouring over these stories to make them perfect, that energy is saved for the project I plan on taking to market. Everything on this website is my world-building exercise or sketches for other projects.
I do hope you enjoy my work, but this website is not a publishing house for me, and it shouldn’t be for you either. Something to keep in mind as you write your critique.