“Then don’t make me leave her.”
••••••
JC STRUGGLES TO draw back her memory. She fights against the skin contact which allows for easier thought transfer of Amye’s anger and the pain the remembrance induces.
Never. Not for you to know!
JC pushes back into Amye’s brain. Flashes of Kymberlynn’s death.
Amye releases her. “Stay out of my head!”
JC slumps against the wall. With her first breath, “Reynard’s still alive.”
“Like we’re going to find him on Jenobis making repairs.”
“Those repairs would be expedited if you didn’t spend all your time in the training room.” JC massages her neck.
“Why don’t you use your talents to read the cat’s mind? Or better yet, talk to the orb directly,” Amye demands.
“The orb seems to be in a low-power mode since we returned to the Dragon. I’m unable to reach it.”
Amye leaves her in the lift.
JC adjusts her choker so her pendant dangles in the center of her throat. She slides down the wall, landing in a pile where she hugs her knees. Tears race down her checks. She had hidden her pain deep. Deep in her brain to forget her dead child. Amye’s loss of her dead sister constantly remains in her surface thoughts. Similar memories clump together when people connect, attracted by the emotions they evoke.
No one on the crew knows of her motherhood. The Sisterhood must never learn of the child or even the child’s death. JC would be punished for having an unsolicited mate. Selective breeding means more powerful telepaths.
The lift doors open to the cargo bay.
“Amye’s lost control.” JC jerks back to her feet, scooping the headband up from the floor.
Australia closes the holographic notepad she was typing into. The beams of light disappear into her watch.
“She touched my flesh. It was painful to not read her thoughts. She’s so full of rage.” Not a total lie.
“You are our medic. Do you need my assistance in the sick bay?”
“I don’t need medical treatment. Maybe a shower.”
“Is she dangerous?” Australia asks.
“Only to the living.”
“Commander Reynard would answer in such a manner,” Australia observes.
“We need leads on his location. They won’t be found in an ancient tome,” JC snaps.
“I agree. I will speak further with Samantha.”
“She claims to be a guide—make her guide,” JC demands.
“A helpful recommendation. What is your endorsement on dealing with Amye? She is not part of the UCP, so I am limited in official disciplinary action. Commander Reynard would not approve of me leaving her on some asteroid. He believes in her potential.”
“Scott needs her assistance to repair the Dragon. I don’t know what to do with her. She needs to release her pain in order to recover.”
“Regulations are indifferent when dealing with non-commissioned vessel personnel and crew such as our organization is concerned. If we were a sanctioned member of the fleet, a review board would be convened,” Australia says.
“We’re smugglers, and Ki-Ton labeled us as kidnappers and assassins.”
“A pirate’s punishment for her? Keelhauling perhaps.”
“Humor’s not a Nysaean’s strong suit,” JC says.
“I have yet to discover. It has been twenty-six years since I have encountered another of my people. The Amye question has a solution if you are amenable to it.”
“Hold her down so I’m able to draw out her thoughts in order for her to repair the damage in her life.”
“We are not subject to the laws of the UCP. If she assaults anyone on the Silver Dragon again without provocation I will order you to do so,” Australia says.
THE BLOOD SCRAMBLES from Reynard’s stomach. Nausea dispatches the remaining stomach contents over the forest floor. Eymaxin, riding pillion, releases her arms from around his abdomen, allowing him to freely heave.
“Why do I keep doing this?” Reynard places the back of hand on his forehead. No fever. He presses his right thumb and forefinger across his throat and into his jaw. Nothing swollen. Even with limited medical training he recognizes he has nothing like the flu. An alien flu might yield different side effects than the kind mom cured with warm chicken soup. The only time she ever waited on me—I was sick.
Eymaxin draws a container from the saddlebag. She shoves it at Reynard. “Eat!”
Reynard pops the lid from the Tupperware container. He laughs to himself. It’s old Tupperware—the kind Mom warped in the dishwasher before they made them dishwasher safe. He shovels the mush into his mouth. The bacon flavor mixes with the aftertaste of vomit. He forces himself to swallow. The first bites drop to the pit of his stomach. He scoops in a second mouthful.
“Why do I feel better?” Reynard demands.
“You’re not ill,” Haldon Sy volunteers.
“You and I’ve different definitions.” Reynard swallows another bite.
“You’re dying.” Eymaxin’s reluctant in her admission.
Reynard catches the saddle horn to prevent toppling from his horse. “How am I dying?” It takes all his control not to draw his magnum and jam the barrel into Eymaxin’s mouth.
“My knowledge of the Sandmen is limited—”
“The witch lies,” Haldon Sy taunts. “She has enough tats to know the story.”
“No one understands them, but in the past they have brought others here. Strangers, not belonging to our world. Eating our food helps to starve off death.”
“Don’t you think, you could have brought this to my attention, earlier!” Reynard snaps.
She yells back, “The Sandmen play with your thoughts! They played with your mind on the river. It accelerates your doom.”
“They destroy the mind, but why?” Reynard slides off the horse. “I’ve no way to engage them. Whatever they’re doing to me on the river without my knowing proves—” He stumbles to a tree. “Either give me some useful information, or get the hell out!”
Reynard jerks as if kicked in the gut. The tall grass breaks his slump to the ground. His hands fumble through the stiff grass. He yanks the blades to discover a suit of battle armor encased around a body. Reynard unclasps the Kevlar chest plate. The armor helmet shrinks back inside, revealing the dried head of something once humanoid.
“This
