behind me because I feel the barrel of his laser rifle graze the back of my neck.
“Move,” is all he needs to grunt for me to scurry ahead.
Outside the shelter of the dilapidated hanger, the winds are ten times harsher than they were a moment ago. I can barely see five feet in front of me, but I keep moving forward to escape the cold kiss of the laser.
We’re led past what must be the opening to one of the mines. This stuff has got to be worth a fortune if the entire planet is being mined for it, but they haven’t invested a lot in infrastructure. It looks like something I saw in a black and white movie about the old west.
The opening is a slanted soil ramp leading deep into the planet. There are guards at the open mouth of the mine. They’re armed and looking in. I don’t think they’re guarding from predators. They’re guarding to prevent escape.
I see a few scraggly looking males, all of different races, milling about. They have slave collars and wear nothing else except loincloths and beards. They’re filthy. Looking at them I imagine they haven’t had a bath since they were dumped on this godforsaken rock.
I’ve never been much of a believer in the power of prayer, but I start praying up a storm.
We pass a few more outbuildings, then approach a mansion. The juxtaposition of incongruity hits me like a brick. All the poverty and hardship of the miners is just steps away from this house that was created to be a work of art.
It looks hewn out of the planet’s red rock. Built in a similar style to the castles of old, this structure has tiny vertical windows maybe six inches wide. There are hundreds of them. They must be designed to let in light while protecting the house from the sandstorms.
Both Wrage and I are nudged up the steps at the point of gunbarrels. Not long after the guard knocks, a naked young woman opens the door, her head bowed as she steps back to allow us all in.
I glance at her, noticing her sky-blue skin and four arms. It’s something males from all over the galaxy whisper about when they’re drunk. They often brag that they’ve been with a four-armed Mordite. Of course they never use a decent euphemism like ‘been with’. They usually brag that they’ve dracked one—or more.
It’s believed that all Mordites are trained in the Moruvian Butterfly technique. I’ve heard that males would pay their life savings to experience it.
I catch her looking at me and see it. I call it the Dead Eye. I often saw it in my own mirror when I dredged up the courage to look at myself over the last four years. This female is gone. Far gone. I can only imagine what she’s been through.
After I’m thumped between my shoulder blades, I scurry ahead.
The entryway is sumptuously furnished with thick woven rugs and paneled in rich honeyed wood. Because of the horrendous winds, we pass through another doorway that forms an airlock to protect the house from stray grains of sand—and riffraff like marauding miners.
When we’re through the second entrance, we enter the main mansion. Sooma Ryone certainly likes his creature comforts.
Pricey knickknacks dot every stick of furniture that has a flat surface. The living area itself is big enough to play full-court basketball. It empties onto a winding staircase, or rather the winding staircase empties onto it.
A male stalks down the stairs, walking slow enough to make certain every eye is on him. His form is humanoid, but his face is one-hundred percent cobra. Every part of his body that I can see is covered in black scales.
His eyes are well camouflaged by the black scales that surround them. If I didn’t see the light bounce off his irises, I’d think he was blind. He probably has excellent hearing, because there is a cowling of extra skin surrounding his ear holes, forming a small shell that probably amplifies sound.
But it’s the teeth, fangs really, that capture my attention. Two long ones, where human canines are. But these are maybe an inch and a quarter long and hang well beyond his bottom lip. His other sharp, spindly teeth show when he says, “Welcome,” sounding a bit like Bela Lagosi in Dracula. A shiver jolts up my spine.
He’s wearing fashionable trousers and an open robe.
“I came to meet my new guests,” he says as if he has an audience