Click. Click. Click.
“What you hold has been destroying since its inception.” Reynard loads the gun with six shiny Azure rounds.
“The device, will it work?” Haldon Sy asks.
“A good gun, if properly cared for, will last for hundreds of years.”
“What does it do?” Eymaxin asks.
“Find me a Sandman—I’ll show you.” His stomach gurgles. “If the powder in these bullets still fire, you’ll never have to fear the Sandmen again.” Reynard flips the revolver cylinder closed and then twirls the weapon on his finger. He slides the gun into the front of his pants. He draws it swiftly as if he were Billy the Kid, cocking the hammer back into firing position as he takes aim at an invisible enemy. He uncocks the hammer and replaces the gun in the front of his pants. He repeats his quick draw.
After holstering the revolver, Reynard ejects the clip from an M16. Exposed to the elements, he questions if it will still fire. He drops the clip into a saddlebag. He collects the rounds from each rifle.
Boom!
Eymaxin leaps to her feet.
Dark figures materialize around them. Reynard fires again. Empty Sandmen robes flutter to the ground. Haldon Sy twirls his poleax with one hand while drawing his sword with the other.
Eymaxin raises her arm and lets loose a flaming ball of azure.
The Sandmen howl and rush the trio.
Reynard fires. The shells tear through the cloth robes of a Sandman. The ivory mask shatters in a heap of yellow mist.
Haldon Sy stabs at the nearest Sandman.
A boney hand slips from under its robes. A sword grows in its fingers. Haldon Sy squares off to parry. The clang of metal on bone echoes as the sun slips beyond the horizon.
Blue beams of magic stream from Eymaxin’s fingers. The four laser-like blasts impale a Sandman, sending more empty black robes to the ground.
The final monster reaches out for Reynard. Its twisted horror-filled ivory mask melts away into a void of darkness. It reaches to drink Reynard’s mind, and as it makes contact with his thoughts it disappears.
Haldon kills the Sandman he was fighting.
Reynard collapses.
JC UNZIPS HER thigh-high boots and drops them to the floor before curling her black stockinged feet under her in the chair. The replacement captain’s chair lacks the comfort of the last one. She slips off the headband in order to rub circulation back into the skin. Being used to discomfort from her tight uniform, she didn’t expect the custom-fitted headpiece to still bother her. The azure gem enhances her mental prowess but not enough to keep in communication with the Hex Darmight.
“Athena, why is the bridge warmer than usual?”
“I read optimum temperature,” the computer voice reports.
“For a sauna.” JC finds her access denied to adjust the temperature controls.
She slips the band back on her forehead. Eyes closed, she drifts her mind throughout the ship. She closes off Australia’s presence, unable to touch a Nysaean’s mind. Amye supervises synthetic workers as they unbolt power cells.
Her thoughts reach for Amye.
Darkness.
The three sapphire tattooed teardrops under JC’s left eye itch.
Amye tugs at her hair, upset she cut it short after the battle. She detests the length—wants it long again. She desires Reynard to run his fingers through her long brown hair. She hates it short.
JC considers pushing through the barrage of surface-thought grooming images. Amye’s too focused on her hair. If Amye were trained, JC would consider it a shielding technique to disguise her real thoughts, but Amye has no reason to deflect a telepath while working on power cell storage.
The darkness she glimpsed when they touched requires exploration to determine. JC Speculates that it’s the trauma Amye experienced at age fourteen that caused her alcohol problem. Ethically, JC should ignore it and let Amye request help in her healing process.
Reynard’s location—her current priority. If Samantha won’t lead them, then she must speak to the orb directly. She unfolds a black felt material protecting the orb. Scott’s focus shifted from building a chamber for the relic to completion of a Mecat repair and launch platform.
She runs her fingers over the outline of an invisible spherical object larger than a basketball. Her constant moving hands never increase or decrease the size of the object. The Hex Darmight fragments created Samantha when the two chunks were placed together—bonding. The quartz chunk levitates from her lap into the spear of mental energy JC’s created.
Her thoughts drift into the sphere. She touches the orb. Images of Samantha—block.
No—point toward any answers to questions she must ask.
She pushes against the feline image. The mind—no other explanation. The orb exudes mental thoughts as if a conscience being who lacks the strength to resist. It dies. More of its brother pieces must be located before it ceases to have any knowledge left. It weakens by the second and has no energy to spare to revisit her, communicate with her or to warn—
The warm touch of an Osirian hand clamps her bare shoulder. JC instantly loses contact with the orb while, simultaneously, her thoughts flood out, sucking in a new riptide of overwhelming emotions.
The orb chunk plunges back into her lap.
She loses control.
••••••
JC’S EYES ARE blinded by artificial light illuminating through a circular ceiling tile. It slips open as a hydraulic lift raises a clear durasteel cylinder. The substance reveals the reflection of a black humanoid battle armor suit. On the left arm the shiny, thin white letters read Tri-vects, and on the chest plate a Silver Dragon emblem gleams.
I’ve never been in a Tri-vects suit before. My thoughts have interwoven with the person who touched me uninvited. She pushes her thoughts out, but the powerful emotional surge created by the memory traps her until it plays out. For the moment she and the occupant’s mind are one, and she finds herself someplace else—someone else.
The memory is powerful enough to keep her ensnared within it. She will have to relive it to its full course before she regains control enough to escape from
