Phoenix: Kronos's Blood Part 2

Some people are too trusting.

“Any more pirates?” Nesma asked over the commlink. She floated through the dark of the ship deeper into the belly of the beast. She kept a weapon in her hand and her suit’s lights off. She didn’t need the lights anyway; her Kuthall eyes were better in the dark. She could see the pirates long before they saw her if none of them were Kuthalls, and she hoped none of her people were among her foes.

                “Not after the ones I took out,” Zisbuz said.

                “I’m sure there are more here,” Nesma said.

                “Ah, me too,” Zisbuz agreed. The city size ship could be hiding a lot more than pirates in its depth, but there was no point in bringing up what Zisbuz already knew about the darkness.

“I’ll get the line open,” she said, pushing some dead out of her way. She no longer cared about the corpses before her; now, they were simply in her way, something to be moved. She thanks all the gods; they were easy to move.

                Nesma had never been on one of the Empire’s Great Warships, but she knew there was a pleasure Houses on them. Some of her sisters and brother slaves were sent to the ships. A life most of the pleasure slaves wanted for themselves. The house on the Warships was the best in any part of the Realm because they ensured the slaves were treated better than the soldiers. The only downside to the whole thing was that they didn’t save the slaves when the ship went down.

                I don’t want to think about how many slaves are dead in this place, Nesma thought, shaking her head.

                She stopped at a doorway, glancing down the long hallway, seeing endless bodies floating in the darkness. Someone, more than likely the Captain, had vend all the air from the ship to keep anyone infected with the Kronos’s blood from escaping. Thousands of people died in a hush of air rushing from the ship, fearful of the poison.

                The only deaths which sadden her were the idea of the slaves. She knew it came from the fact she had been one in her life, but never again, never. She would never be used as a sex toy again. She didn’t let anyone touch, except for one man in her life, but he left her. He jumped on a ship and flew away. I’m all the better for it.

                She started to float down the long hallway hoping this mission would be over soon. She would get the cure to the biological weapon from the lab, get it to the buyer, and take a break from the other jobs. The payment would be enough to set her and Zisbuz for half a year.

                Nesma smiled at the thought of being on a beach bathing in the heat of the sun while the salt winds hugged her for being there. It beat this dark hell hole for sure.

                “Hello?” A tiny voice broke in over the commlink, making her stop. She spun around, looking for the source of the voice, but she couldn’t see anything. “Hello?”

                “Did you say that, Nesma?” Zisbuz rich voice came into her helmet.

                “No, I did not,” she said back.

                “There are people here,” the female voice grew in her helmet.

                “Yes, we are here,” Nesma said back, seeing a line of text flash in her helmet from Zisbuz. We were told there were no survives here.

                Nesma holsters her pistol for a second, typing back to Zisbuz on her forearm screen. We were lied to.

                “Did you come to save us?” the voice asked.

                “Us?” Nesma asked. “How many of you are there?”

                “Me and my sister,” the voice said. “Did you come to help us?”

                Lie to her.

                I know, I know.

                Be careful, Zisbuz said. Do you want me to come to you?

                No.

                “We did, sweetie,” Nesma said softly, “but I need to know where you are.”

                “Oh, sure thing,” The voice said back. “I will ping my location.”

                “No, wait,” Zisbuz snapped, but it was too late. The girl has blasted her location out on all channels within the ship. A little red bot blinked on the small map in the upper right corner of Nesma’s helmet. Now, they knew where she was, but so did anyone else on the ship. Nesma dropped her head, shaking it and pulling free her plasma pistol.

                “What? What did I do wrong?” the voice cried.

                “Sweetie,” Nesma said calmly,” you did nothing wrong, nothing at all. I’m going to come to you, okay?”

                “Okay,” the voice said, growing small.

                “My name is Nesma,” she said. “Don’t open the door for anyone else, you understand?”

                “Nesma,” she repeated, “okay, I get it.”

                I’m switching to channel four, Zisbuz wrote, and I’m coming to you.

                I think I’m going to need the help.

                The blinking dot on the map wasn’t too far from Nesma, which gave her some relief as she hoped she got to the girls before anyone else. She didn’t want to rush, rushing is how you end up dead in my life, but there was hast to her movements. She had to be careful, but she had to beat everyone else there. Zisbuz would be close behind her, but he was still no place to help her if she needed it.

                The real question running alongside her was, why were we lie too? But were we? Did anyone know these girls were alive on this massive ship? And they sounded young, at least, the one Nesma was speaking to.

                Another more cynical thought flashed in her mind. It could be a trap. She had fought foes who used children to do their deeds. She had been in cities where children were the greatest thieves. She had even planted a few spikes into the chest of children knowing they had bombs warped around their bodies as they ran for her. The spikes hit them, and their little bodies flowered into fireballs. It had been a horrible sight behold, but it had been a nasty job anyways on a planet fighting against the Empire. They would end up losing anyway, which is why they were there trying to get someone out. The Empire was too great, but Nesma got paid well for the job.

                She floated up to the airlock tapping on the pad and saying,” Sweetie, it is Nesma.”

                “Okay, okay, I’ll let you,” the voice said back, smiling. The door hissed, and before Nesma could float in, a spike nailed in the wall beside her, almost hitting her in the 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.