Jeanne G'Fellers - No Sister of Mine

knelt, motioning the others to do the same. From a hidden pocket she produced a small tube and popped its end, removing a scroll and two light sticks.
“This”—Cance unrolled the scroll, securing its curling ends with the sticks—“this is the key to it all.” The lights sputtered to life, their dim, odd green glow spilling across the soil. The men, still squatted, gazed inquiringly at the scroll then their informant. “I presume everyone here has worked a boundary sentry station?”
All four nodded.
“So getting onto the base won’t pose a problem. The difficulty will be here.” Cance indicated the Main Center’s Assembly in the middle of the map.
“Hold on,” lamented the man wearing an eye shroud. “That’s the most heavily guarded area on the base.”
“On this entire blasted moon,” agreed the darkly tanned individual to his left. “Langus’s central weather, water, and power controls are there.”
“Exactly.” Cance made a popping sound with her tongue, a habit obtained during lonely days spent in the prison colony’s isolation chambers. “So are the main controls to the security matrix. That’s what we’re after.”
“Ah’ see,” said the longhaired Autlach. “If the main matrix goes down,” he said, rolling his R’s with the thick accent of the southern Langus farmland, “it goes down moonwide. Plus, we’ll have power over the other control centers.”
“A drink to the winner!” Cance passed the flask. “When it goes down the Cause can make its move all across Langus.”
“I sentried at the Center’s Assembly.” The fourth member of the group finally spoke, his black eyes squinting to focus in the fading light. “The Assembly is Taelach tech. The entryways are sealed and rigged to detonate if tampered with. You can’t get in there.”
“They have to be opened for servicing don’t they?” Cance had little patience for such stupidity. “If it can be opened for that, then I can get you in there.”
“How?” demanded the longhair, his questions clearly establishing him as the group’s leader.
Cance pulled up a sleeve and moved into the light, revealing the plasma bow spanning her arm. “With scan decoders and a few of these.”
“Whoa! Where did you get that?” The man with the eye shroud stumbled back a pace. “I lost my eye to one of those hair-triggered little bitches.”
“And Autlach illegal outside military installations.” The tanned man spat, raising a suspicious brow. “How’d you get one?”
“The Cause has their resources.” Cance rose to full height and cast the men a significant frown. “I have no problem using Taelach tech when needed. Do any of you?”
Four heads shook adamantly. No one wished to challenge this odd Autlach, especially when he had a bow lashing his arm.
“Very well.” Cance grunted. “Back to the bows.”
“They’re effective but difficult to master,” admitted the quiet one. “The Sarian military rarely uses them because they take too long to train on.”
“Not this one.” Cance waved the device under their noses. “It’s been modified to track and fire on a verbal command.” She flipped up the palm lever to reveal the blank underbelly. “There’s no trigger.”
“And no manual aiming makes for a sure shot.” Longhair grinned. “Got one for each of us?”
“The Cause has provided funding for four fully charged bows and two scan decoders.” Cance mentioned the Cause to remind all of the reasoning behind their actions. She disposed of the lighting sticks by cracking them in half, rolled the map scroll, and slid it into its tube. “Meet me at the Waterlead bar tomorrow evening. I expect to see each of you there, no excuses. You are sworn to this and to me. Failure to carry out your promise will be regarded as betrayal and dealt with accordingly by the Cause.” Cance gulped from the flask. “To Langus and her salvation!” The men shouted their concordance and took their own turns at the drink. Supportive or not, believing or otherwise, they knew there was no backing out.
“Return to your homes,” Cance told them, adding this harsh warning: “Tell no one. One slip of the tongue could be the demise of us all.” With that, the four scattered and faded into the countryside.
“Excellent work, my enterprising Taelach.” A voice buzzed from just inside the tree line.
“It’s clear, Talmshone.” Cance’s mouth contorted in a wicked, loathsome smile. “Come have a drink to our success.”
The field grasses rustled with footsteps and a heavily webbed, three-fingered hand wrapped around the wine flask. “The Commitment will be thrilled to hear their plans are developing so nicely.” Talmshone wiped the flask opening on his cuff then drained its contents in a single gulp. “Ahh, Sarian wine. ’Tis the only decent thing the Autlach produces, besides a few choice Taelachs such as yourself.” He gave Cance a vicious double-lidded wink.
“Flattery, Talmshone, can get you everywhere.” But Cance stepped back, so as not to encourage an advance from the scaly Iralian.
“Do not concern yourself with your personal safety.” Talmshone flung the empty flask to the wayside. “I fail to find Sarians enticing, Autlach or Taelach. You are both too delicately made and oddly arranged for my satisfaction. Even you guardians.”
“Delicate?” Cance took four shots from her inhaler. “Iralians are not exactly my ideal date either. Where’s my pay?”
Talmshone placed a band of rolled Autlach bills in Cance’s outstretched palm. He was well aware of her addiction and considered it the unstable link in their alliance. Prock, a native plant of Trimar, was liquefied to produce an inhalable spray. It was widely used among the inhabitants of the penal colony, more so by those escaped or slaved into the icy Junglelands surrounding the prison. Few served their sentence without becoming lifelong addicts.
“This makes us up to date plus expenses.” Talmshone waited for Cance to regain composure before he continued. “I would refrain from spending it all in one place, or on one thing.”
Cance sniffed, more at the remark than to clear her satiated nasal passages. “Like I’d go anywhere without a generous supply. Remember, I’m due four billion in Iralian funds when the job is done.”
“Four billion plus control of