Phoenix: Kronos’s Blood Part 1

Walking in the floating tomb of the dead.

The Imperial Warship Exodus, Outer Ring

The Great Empire of Estella

StarDate: 345, W.S

 

Nesma of the House Zuh checked the air supplies of her spacesuit in the eerie dark of the Warship. Bodies floated in the airless space before her, and the only glow of lights were the ones coming from her suit. Those bright white lights were like lanterns of the Reaper trying to carry the souls of the dead over to the other side. Down the long hallway were more people of Solarten races before they met their breathless end.

                The Solartens were the only race allowed to several of the Key Warship of the Great Empire of Estella. Their beauty set them apart from all the other races, along with their superiority. The word vain wasn’t a good enough word to describe what the Solartens thought of themselves. Not like Nesma cared; they were all dead on this floating tome spinning in the blackness of space.

                She didn’t care what any of these foolish people thought of her race, the Kuthall, as she walked the corridors. They would have looked down at her on the ship; if not, kill her for being here; after all, she was a Kuthall with snowy blue skin and her cat-like eyes alight purple. But the real reason they would have a spike in the back of her head was the black scar around her neck, telling everyone she was once a slave. Not just any working slave but one used for the pleasure houses. She made all the masters of the house pay, slowly, and one cut at a time.

                It was a lifetime ago. She was a different person back then, but no one care; the scar was still wrapping around her neck. She was still a slave in their eyes, still nothing, until she blew them away with her pistol.

                Nesma tapped the map on her forearm built in the suit, trying to find the A-Labs, but the ship was massive, almost the size of a mid-size city. A dead female body floated upon her, knocking against her causing her to curse and push it away. She went to grab the necklaces with charms around her neck to say a prayer to the Dead Haunt, but the suit stopped her. She sighed, still saying the prayer, knowing it was bad luck to touch the dead within a tomb there those in were killed by the Great Abyss.

                Many races had turned the blackness of space into a deity along with many of the stars. There were numerous faiths between the planets and Empires, and she tried her best to count something from all of them.

                “What is the matter?” Zisbuz Clawhope asked over the commlink.

                “Nothing that matters,” Nesma said, going back to her map. “Any luck?”

                “Not at all,” He said with his deep voice. “I hate this place, Nesma.”

                “Me too,” Nesma agreed, “but the job is almost over.”

                “Sure,” Zisbuz said. He was on the other side of the ship, trying his best to find the B-Labs. There was no point in saying anything to comfort the Lyrian. His people had even more beliefs on the dead floating in a spaceship than anyone else, and at the moment, Zisbuz was breaking all of them. He wasn’t a believer in any of those faiths of his people, but all habits died very hard.

                Nesma kept moving down the corridor, keeping an eye on her map, not looking ahead until the blue plasma from a rifle punched in her shoulder, throwing her back. Her boots magnetize to her grounded fought to find metal while Nesma grunted from the heat burning through her armor. She pressed a button on the inside of her gloves, freezing the plasma and tossing it from her armor. She landed on the ceiling, kneeling, as more blots started to hiss by her. She rolled from them, jumping down and heading into an open door.

                She pulled her on plasma pistol free, hugging the wall and hissing over the commlink, “Zisbuz, we are not the only one here.”

                “Some of the crew survived?” He asked.

                “I don’t think, one second,” She said and then turned on her speakers. “Who is shooting at me?”

                “The crew of Uncultured Death,” someone yelled back. “If you leave, you live.”

                “You get all of that?” Nesma asked, switching off her lights. Her Kuthall eyes would do better in the dark than those lights.

                “Pirates,” Zisbuz said.

                “Have you heard of them?” She asked, opening a box on her belt.

                “Nope,” he said. “You need backup?”

                “Nah, I think I can handle this,” Nesma said.

                “Well?” Another voice asked as Nesma dashed to the other side of the room but still on the wall against the walkway. She planted four fists size dots on the walls stepping back as red lights linked them all.

                “Sorry, mates,” she blasted from her speakers, “I’m afraid I can’t. I got paid for this job.”

                “As you wish,” the voice from before said. Nesma moved back to the doorway, putting a tiny camera to see down the hall. She stepped back, seeing a group of four moves down the way, keeping their guns trained on the door. She moved to the other side of the room but faced the red square before her.

                Once they enter the square, she pressed the detonator, and the red light shot through the wall, cutting a hole in the metal but also cutting the men in half. One of them screamed, losing his arm and falling backward from the agony. Nesma cut the lights off, strolling out of the room with her pistol in hand. She walked up to the man watching his arm float by him. His suit had sealed the wound, stopping him from losing all air. He looked up at her as she stepped in front of him and put the pistol to his head. 

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.