Phoenix: Kronos's Blood Part 3

A one-eyed teddy bear.

Nesma jumped backward as a few more spikes came landing into the steel of the ship. She spun in the zero-g, pulling her plasma pistol free, trying to find the target in the darkness of the dead ship. “Open the door,” Nesma hissed, firing off a few shots at the only people standing upright. The plasma bolt didn’t make the sizzling sound it normally would in the air; instead, the lightning blue of the bolt hissed against her Kuthall’s eyes flying through the space. Her boots were on the wall, and before she could take a second to stand, she launched herself back off the wall right for the now opening door.

                “Close it, close it,” Nesma ordered with hast in her tone. She flew towards the other side of the room as the airlock door came smashing shut behind her. She landed against the fall wall with air being rushed into the room along with gravity. She dropped to the floor hard, along with everything else floating around her.

                Thank the star goddess; I’m wearing armor. All the objects hit her head, not doing anything against her and a pink teddy bear landed in her lap. She picked up the bear with one missing eye and a bit of blood on it and smiled. “Hello,” she said to it.

                The door behind her hissed out with a thin Kmoik rushing out into the room. She was the tone of a moonflower, pale and dull looking. The Kmoik were among the middle races in the Empire. Their skin tones were peachy to pale and even a dark brown almost black, but most of all, their DNA could be shared between any of the other races. There were far more hybrids with the Kmoik than any other race. It was rare to find a pure-blooded one on an Imperial ship.

                She smiled big at Nesma with tears boiling to the edge of the honey eyes. She jumped for joy in her spacesuit, and as Nesma rose into the hug. “You came, you came, thank the Truth, you came,” she cried.

                “Woah, Woah,” Nesma said, pushing her back. “You are far too trusting little girl.”

                “What do you mean?” She asked, backing up. “Didn't the Empire send you?”

                “I’m not sure,” Nesma said. “Someone paid me to get the cure; not sure who it is.”

                “But, but it has been the Empire,” She said, moving farther back. “Dad said they would come for us. He promised they would send someone.”

                Nesma smiled, seeing her hand fall to her back. “They did,” Nesma quickly lied, not wanting to have a gun pointed at her. “What is your name, honey?”

                “Kou Nightid,” she said, removing her hand, “and my sister’s name is Aguri. My father is -“But the loud banging on the door cut her off. They both looked at the neo-steel door, knowing who had been shooting at Nesma was now on the other side. Kou took a step closer to Nesma, sacred of the sound.

                “Who is it?”

                “Pirates,” Nesma said, pushing her into the other room and shutting the door behind them. “Z,” she said into her commlink.

                “Go?” He said.

                “I have company on the other side of this door,” Nesma said, looking around at the living space of Kou was staying in. The whole living room area was a mess, just like it would be if their parents were gone for a few weeks, but she had lived here for a few months now. There were toys and food everywhere in the space.

                “I vented the air,” Kou said.

                “No, don’t,” Nesma said. “They might not know there is air on the other side of the door, and if they blow into the room, the suction will be a nice surprise for them.”

                “Uh, okay,” Kou said, strolling around the room, and Nesma saw the plasma pistol on her back. She didn’t say anything to her other than a little grin. Good girl.  

                “How are we going to get out of here?” Kou asked, spinning to Nesma.

                “My friend is on the way to us,” Nesma said slowly, taking a few steps into the room. “He will get us out of here.”

                “Kou,” a strong male voice boomed from another room. The only room with an open door to it, but the door held the shadows of the dark well. “Who are you talking to?”

                Kou looked between the door and Nesma, not sure what to say.

                “Kou?”

                Nesma narrowed her eyes, unsure who the male could be; she said to her and her sister, who is this? Nesma's hand dropped to the hilt of her pistol without thinking about it and stared hard at the sixteen-year-old girl shaking in her boots.

                “Kou?!” the voice roared again but never moved.

                Nesma moved quickly for the open door wanting to know who this man was yelling at Kou. She dashed to block her from going inside, but Nesma batted her away with ease. Nesma stepped into the darkness, not asking for the light to be turned on, and saw a long man, sickly pale, lying on a bed. He had tubes running from his arm into the wall, and his eyes were deep golden hue set far back in his skull. If he had been healthy, it would have looked quite lovely, even for a Kmoik.

                But it wasn’t his looks that stopped Nesma in her tracks. It was the black oily clay caked on his chest, slowly moving up his body. The clay rose and fell with his breath, and it boiled with each breath like water in a pot. This man, dripping with sweat and dying, carried the very thing which took out the ship, the biology weapon known as Kronos Blood. The Emperor had outlawed the weapon more than three decades ago, but someone in the Empire was trying to bring it back.

                Nesma frowned; this is why they sent us and not their people. I should have known.

                “Who are you?” the man roared with a painful cough.

                “You are going to take my sister and me out of here,” Kou ordered, making Nesma glance at her sideways, seeing the barrel of the gun in her face. “You are not going to leave us behind.” Nesma moved her eyes away from the barrel to the other bed seeing the same sight, but instead of a man, it was a little six-year-old girl sleeping there.

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.
The 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.