AMYE GRABS MICHELLE by the throat, smashing her against the wall. “Bailing you out leaves a record of you being on this planet. They scanned your DNA implant. Foolish. Why’d you leave the Dragon?” Her grip tightens.

Finish her! Amye fights with the Sandman in her head attempting to control her actions. Every time it rules, she is trapped in her own brain while it destroys the crew. When she gains control the crew thinks she’s crazy because of her constant disjointed actions. Now she’s pursued Michelle after her daring escape from the Silver Dragon and the Sandman wants her to punish the princess.

“If you weren’t so important to Reynard, I’d end this little tryst. We’re protecting you.”

Gurgling, Michelle responds, “You stole me from my wedding.”

“At least you never claim the love of your life. No fallacy there—you were married off into servitude, and you know it. Your gold-plated feet and purple bed finery didn’t make you less chattel.”

“Put me down. I won’t be manhandled by a Second Class Technician unable to pass her advancement exams.”

Amye’s backhand chips Michelle’s tooth. Landing on the ground, she’s unable to control the whimpers. Michelle summons all her energy to push up to all fours—a mistake, as she exposes her midsection to a kick. Amye’s military-grade boots would shred Michelle’s intestines, but instead Amye interlaces her fingers into Michelle’s dark hair, yanking her to her feet.

“Skivvy draznot.”

Wobbly legs and wonky vision prevent a counterstrike. Copper flavor coats her tongue. Blood trickles from the corner of her mouth.

Kill her.

She doubts her calf does more than tickle Amye with each strike, but she kicks and kicks. Little of her kata training progressed to attack postures, and none were defensives against the finger cutting off her air—again.

Do not plead. Your body may snivel in response to the beating, but the mind won’t beg. It’s what she wants. Michelle grabs Amye’s wrists, digging her manicured nails into the soft flesh and tearing at the skin. Amye’s grip tightens as Michelle punctures each new layer of epidermis.

Michelle collapses, bedraggled, at Amye’s feet.

Amye hunches down and brushes Michelle’s wet hair from her face. “I’m not in control.”

“You said you’d never allow anyone to hurt me,” Michelle mewls.

“I said I’d teach you so no one would be able to hurt you.”

The outline of Amye’s finger purples Michelle’s alabaster skin.

“You need some sun exposure. You’ll burn on this planet.”

Amye jerks Michelle to her feet. Michelle refuses to stand on her own power. Amye supports her.

Michelle uses Amye’s arm as a balance beam, flipping her legs around Amye’s head and squeezing her throat between her inner thighs.

Hurt her.

Amye drops, bouncing Michelle off the ground. The princess flattens, air deflating from her lungs—all fight leaves her.

Amye kneads the bit of loose skin before her throat. “Not a bad move. A little more muscle on those legs and you’ll hurt someone.” She flips Michelle over her left shoulder into a fireman’s carry. “If I get you back to the Dragon, no one has to know you attempted to escape.”

“You tried to kill me. I’m not going back.” Michelle doesn’t want to blubber, but she has no idea how to control her snivels.

Reynard will hate you. You damaged his charge.

“Then he’ll know of your escape and that I had to restrain you in order to return you. He won’t question your marks. Hope you enjoy being locked in your cabin.”

Mutilate her.

Amye’s hand touches the hilt of her dagger. She drops the princess, marching into the Slimy Stallion. A stuffed lizard dangles as a shingle for the bar. Marching inside, she bypasses all patrons without a glance. She swills her first drink, forgetting entirely about Michelle.

Michelle slips through the door. Why aren’t you running? She’d never find you if you left. She attempted to kill you. You need to run. The planet’s covered in millions of refugees escaping the Mokarran. Hide among them. Every second you remain lessens your escape.

Amye orders a third drink before setting down the empty second mug.

Michelle wipes the dried blood from her mouth, doubting any of the aliens in the bar care about a lone Osirian female—not a bleeding one either.

Amye drops a credit chit on the bar and tugs at the bottom of her jacket before marching to a booth. A scaled Cordylus humanoid sitting there hisses at her. She drops a blaster rifle onto the table.

The Cordylus snatches the weapon as if it were gold. It fingers the trigger.

Michelle races to the table in an attempt to prevent the blast.

The weapon dry fires.

Amye waves the drained energy clip.

“If I paint your Cordylus DNA over this booth, how will they tell you apart from your genetically identical brothers?”

“Brazen you are, Osirian.”

“Cordylus don’t normally have the stones to pull the trigger.” Amye leans across the table in order to whisper, “Information, or I’ll blast your implant, leaving you unable to access your precious stash of information.”

“What do you want to know, path~oth~?” it curses her.

Michelle steps to Amye’s peripheral vision so she knows who approaches her.

Amye switches off her translator and speaks in the Cordylus language. “Where can I buy more weapons, like this one?”

Michelle’s unable to understand the scaled alien’s language without a translator.

The Cordylus shifts its gaze at Michelle and sniffs. “Why did you turn off your translator?”

Amye taps the weapon the Cordylus abandoned on the table. “The weapon?”

“Why don’t you sell her to me?” The Cordylus eagerly stares at Michelle.

The hairs on Amye’s neck stand.

Michelle recognizes the raging temper growing in her mentor.

“This little one’s mine! If you don’t have the information I need, Cordylus, I’ll find another lizard to pay.”

A Tibbar slams onto the table, collapsing the wood underneath its massive weight.