'Firefly meets Battlestar Galactica'.
A merchant's daughter is captured and sold into slavery.
A genetically modified survivor of an alien attack scours the galaxy for her taken brother before he is 'disassembled'.
An alien scientist u...
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Temperature 28 ° C, humidity 30% , atmospheric saturation 25%, solar wind speeds 45 terranotts.
"Mmm windy for traveling. Thank you, Reflector." Macbeth fiddled with her ties, smoothing the knots at her neck. Looking professional for the trade market was vital. As a representative of Pembrook Farm, her attire would draw merchants from surrounding territories looking for a respectable trader. Her gender would catch the eye of free merchants from nearby planets.
"Mac! By Vostros' Rings, are you finished?" Horatio stood at the door, splotches of grease from fingertips to elbows. Macbeth stared at her brother in the mirror, appalled by his coating of grime.
"You were supposed to come with me today!" She snapped, running her fingers through dark blond hair. "Reflection off." The mirror reverted to the window, overlooking the western vegetable crops.
Horatio shrugged. "One of the engines blew. I had to fix it to carry your pristine self to market."
She pinched her nose, a migraine born of irritation rooting in the back of her skull. "Paris was supposed to fix that days ago."
"Aw, Mac, ease off, he did. The bloody thing is just old." Her brother rolled a shoulder, gesturing to her outfit. "You look good today. Sell enough crops, maybe we can convince the old man to squeeze out enough trics for a new one."
"And chickens bark." Macbeth slipped on her long coat.
Horatio grinned at her. "I hear they can do that in New Tokyo."
She snorted, giving him a shove on her way out the door and immediately wheeled back, narrowly dodging the herd of Horatio's brats as they flew by.
"Slow down before you knock someone over!" Their father shouted after their retreating giggles.
Macbeth ignored them, emerging into the general chaos of Pembrook Farm. Her father's voice carried over the hum of machinery, arguing with one of the many farm hands. Heading in that direction, she spotted her brother, Paris, leaning against a fence to watch the spectacle. Like Horatio, he was covered in grease. Noticing her, he nodded.
"Portia went to pry Ariel off whichever lady stable hand he's 'fallen' on now." Paris winked. Macbeth sighed. Ariel was the second eldest, and a complete womanizer, working his way through female staff with the voracity of a Pathosian in his prime.
Despite his unsavory reputation, Ariel did have a salesmen's charm and a knack for making deals that were a necessary advantage, provided Macbeth could keep him from chasing down female company long enough to do so. Fresh shouting silenced her father. The group turned, bursting into laughter at the sight of Portia dragging a half dressed Ariel by the ear from the stables.
Her father laid a hand on the farmhand's shoulder. She narrowed her eyes at the gesture, one he used whenever he postponed an argument he didn't want his children to hear. Usually it concerned the dire financial situation of their farm. As if his grown children didn't notice how much the farm struggled. She huffed a breath through her nostrils, marching over to the flailing Ariel.
