Free The Lost Era: Well of Souls: Star Trek by Ilsa J. Bick

But the nickname came from what happens after you use the stuff for a long time.”
    Batra wasn’t sure she wanted to know, but she asked anyway. “What happens?”
    Halak bobbed his head toward a slumped figure just ahead. The figure—and it looked like a Caldorian to Batra, because of the facial hair and claws—sagged against a metal railing along stone steps of an apartment complex. As they came alongside the still figure, Batra saw that the Caldorian—Batra could never be sure what sex a Caldorian was because of all that fur—didn’t seem to register that they were even there. Its facial fur was copper-colored with tiny black spots, and she saw thick tufts of orange hair covering its knuckles and arms. But the fur over its chest was matted and black. Shiny. As they passed, she caught that metallic odor again, the one she’d smelled earlier but couldn’t identify: like crushed, wet aluminum, or slicked rust. And then it came to her. “Blood,” she said.
    “That’s right. It’s called red ice because, eventually, it reacts with blood. Or rather, iron: any humanoid with hemoglobin based on iron is affected. I don’t know the precise pathway ... this way,” he gestured left, and Batra saw a corroded plaque affixed to a wall that said meni Stre. Gemini Street was like the alleys they’d passed: narrow and close. Batra heard the sound of water dribbling into sewers and pattering on stone.
    “But the result is the same, regardless,” said Halak. “Use red ice long enough, and your tissues begin to break down, you start to hemorrhage. Ironic, isn’t it? An addict spends his life giving away what little money he can beg, borrow, or steal to get this stuff, and then it ends up eating him alive. You don’t know how sad ...”
    His voice died and then, in the next instant, Batra heard it, too: the rapid patter of footsteps, just behind. Coming fast.
    Batra whirled right. There was a blur of motion, and then Halak was jerking her to his left, fast, his right hand whipping round to the small of his back for his phaser.
    Then she saw another one coming in from the left, too late. More than one! “Samir!”
    Halak turned but not fast enough. Three men hit him at once: one from each side, and the last barreling into Halak’s midsection dead-on. The force of the impact sent his body careening into Batra. Off-balance, she slammed against a brick wall. She crumpled, the wind knocked out of her. As she sagged into a pool of filth, she was aware of hands on her, grappling with her choli, at her waist, running up and down her body.
    Searching. She struggled to remain conscious. Her lungs felt like they were on fire, and she couldn’t get her breath. They’re searching for credits, whatever they can find . ...
    Dimly, she heard Halak’s harsh grunts as he wrestled with their attackers. There was a thud, the sound of fists hitting flesh, and then a gasp of shock, though she didn’t think it was Halak. Someone backpedaled into the wall to her left, and she twisted, saw that one of their assailants was tangled in his own robes, his hands flailing.
    Clawing hands scrabbled over her waist, tugged at her pouch. The cloth bit into her side, and then there was a ripping sound, and she felt her pouch give.
    Anger replaced shock. “No!” she cried. Surging up, she grabbed at the wrist before it could snatch itself away. She was focused only on that, on getting that hand. Snagging it, she hauled herself around until she saw an expanse of grimy, filthy skin. She opened her mouth and then clamped down hard. Whatever was attached to the hand—man, alien, she didn’t care—screamed. Batra’s mouth filled with the acrid taste of sweat, dirt, and a warm spurt of fluid that tasted like scummy pond water. Then there was a rush of air, and her attacker brought his fist crashing into the side of her head. The right side of her face exploded with pain, and she screamed and lost her grip. The force of the blow sent her spinning, and