Fire & Whiskey
Captain Khalon Riyath held a hand to his gut’s ripped flesh, hankering for a shot of whiskey. Blood leaked against his palm. He ignored the pain and stumbled across a wasteland of rock and broken machinery. Shit, he might die today.
His fault, of course. He’d picked a fight with the wrong bastard, one of his award-winning traits. “I just had to insult his mother.”
If he couldn’t finish this mission, his ship would hit the scrapheap. Khalon and his crew would be grounded on this desolate hunk of rock with only a small scout craft that couldn’t make it to the next station.
The pursuing guard’s red skin pulsed and spluttered as he limped faster, Khalon’s gun clutched in his clawed hands. Stupid bastard tried to fire it with fingers too fat to squeeze inside the trigger guard.
Hopefully the safety was still on.
Ignoring the frustrated guard, Khalon gripped the Adaran, a silver dagger encoded with the prison planet’s atmospheric shield code. The dragons bound to this world could never leave, and he needed their technology to fix his ship.
Hopefully without them noticing. He had no idea what their views might be on thieving scrap metal. Maybe freedom would persuade them to look the other way.
But their tech wouldn’t work until he shoved the encoded dagger into the Tahira, a large orb of decayed bone with the taint of rotten flesh clouding the air.
“Captain,” the strained voice blared through his wrist comm. “We’ve got vultures on our ass. Hang tight.”
“Damn salvagers.” Mercenary drift crews who’d slice apart a starship with its occupants still on-board. No wonder his team was late.
A hundred more yards would see his part of the job done, but cold already settled into his skin. This walk might well be the last time he ever stood.
The guard’s claws scraped the ground behind him as he closed the gap between them.
Khalon clenched his jaw and shuffled faster. Nothing stood between him and the Tahira but harsh brown rock. Behind him, was another story. “Gotta earn that bottle of whiskey.”
Crack!
Pain sliced through his leg. Fuck, the bastard’s fat fingers must have nicked the trigger. Khalon sank to his knees, blood pouring from his thigh.
He’d never make it now.
The guard squealed like a pig.
Khalon cursed under his breath, certain the bastard celebrated his demise. “I ain’t dead yet.”
The cries cut to silence, only the sterile wind blowing dust across the landscape. Khalon glanced over his shoulder.
A giant shadow clutched the guard in its jaws and tossed the red-skinned bastard against a rocky column. Leathery scales glistened from onyx to indigo to deep wine along the length of its neck. It stretched its wings, stirring up a cloud of sand.
Khalon choked on the grit. He wanted his damn gun back, but it lay somewhere beneath the dead guard.
“Thank you,” he muttered, the pain fogging his thoughts. Khalon held out the Adaran to show the giant creature what he aimed to do. If he could muster enough strength for the last few steps.
The dragon’s mouth opened to rows of long, razored fangs.
“Ah fuck.” He was toast.
The thing couldn’t wait five minutes to make him dinner. Khalon gripped the Adaran and stood once more, the creature’s vivid blue eyes reflecting the same glow as the jewel in the Adaran’s hilt. “At least I’ll die on my feet.”
With the speed of a viper, the dragon bit Khalon and yanked him into his mouth.
Pain ripped through his body as Khalon roared into the slimy gullet. He slammed the Adaran’s sharpest edge into the dragon’s gravelly tongue, but it slid onto the ground without a single puncture.
Muscular flesh pulsated, pulling him deeper into the creature’s throat.
He dropped into the stomach. Only trying to help, asshole.
Not that it mattered now. Cold rippled through the pain faster than he could form a coherent thought. Pinpricks of indigo bioluminescence sparked along a fleshy fold, creating swirled fissures with each soft hiss.
Khalon pressed his hands against the thick flesh, searching for an escape. Indigo flames licked along his arm toward his wound, shifting to a deep whiskey color.
Fuck, could he use a drink right about now.
Heat seared into his gut, stitching flesh with stinging pain. He curled into a ball and clawed at the creature’s stomach, gasping for breath.
“On our way, captain.” His pilot’s voice sharpened through the comm. “Those trash buckets won’t bother us again.”
“Too late,” he muttered. Not like anyone heard him. Khalon couldn’t reach his wrist comm to respond around the fleshy fold. Half-gutted, shot, and eaten, the pain fled his body as his clothing burned to ash.
In his mind’s deepest shadow, something alien stirred. A whisper against his thoughts as the dragon’s mind shared fear and heartfelt resignation. Either it felt bad about killing him or was trying to communicate.
Muscles contracted tight against his body. He squirmed against the crushing pressure, his feet rising higher. Khalon dropped to the ground. Gritty sand covered his cheek as he gasped for air.
The dragon spread its wings as if to strike. A breeze stirred, cold air chilling his naked skin.
Khalon had never wanted to shoot anything so bad, but he spied the Adaran a few feet away. Its jewel pulsed with blue light.
The creature stepped back, a spark of hope filtering through an invisible thread into Khalon’s thoughts. It wanted him to finish the job.
He grasped the device and pushed to his feet, a thousand questions about why renewed strength flowed through his veins.
Khalon glanced at his gut, healed as if he’d never been injured. Brand new black tattoo-like symbols trailed down his chest.
Time to find answers later. He still had a mission: return the Adaran to the Tahira. Free these winged bastards and scour the planet’s surface for the parts he needed.
His leg healed from the gunshot wound, Khalon brushed away the last of the whiskey-colored flames and strode across the sand.
The bone-carved orb lay derelict on a craggy rock. He traced his fingers over a small slot on its flat surface.
Light tracked across gaseous orange clouds near the horizon. His ship.
About fucking time.
He slammed the Adaran into the slot. Blue light zipped from the dagger in a dozen directions, illuminating symbols around the bony orb. Fissures opened along the ground.
The dragon roared and launched into the air, a whisper of alien deference prickling Khalon’s thoughts.
Crashed starships and broken machines began to glow in the distance, a sure sign the atmospheric shield locks were off. Khalon pressed the button on his comm, flames sparking where his fingers touched metal. “Twenty minutes ago would have been a great time to land.”
“Sorry, captain. Almost there.”
Now for repairs and a bottle of whiskey so they could get off this rock. Once he slipped into a fresh pair of pants.
