“Write it down in a book. Teach it to everyone.”
“You shall not interfere further, stranger,” warns the Thaumaturge.
“You have the power to help me escape? Use it. Return me to my world,” Reynard demands.
“No Thaumaturge has such power. Even the Nologies lacked other worldly understanding. Ancient beings brought the Sandmen here.”
“The pyramid in the forbidden zone?” Reynard grasps a hair of understanding.
“It once held the potentiality to travel between lands.”
Lands or planets? “Guess I’m going back to the pyramid.”
“You need to eat more.”
“Food’s not helping.”
“I assure you, food sustains you. It grounds you to this reality.” The Thaumaturge nods.
Reynard kicks over the bowl of shells and flings himself onto the wizard. He slams him against the tiled floor, the full force of his weight on the Thaumaturge’s chest.
In the confusion, Reynard’s nursemaid palms a few of the blue shells.
“I tire of this double speak. Explain what’s happening.” Reynard presses his magnum against the Thaumaturge’s temple while tearing at the tunic covering his chest.
Reynard’s eyes narrow, examining the images of Sandmen cracking skulls of humanoids which decorate the man’s pectoral muscles.
The Thaumaturge’s hand sparks with flame sapphire.
“Do it. I’ll pull the trigger. Even being flung halfway across this chamber, I won’t miss.”
“I’ll incinerate you. Unlike the Sandmen, or these women, you serve me no purpose.”
The burning heat of the magical blast swells around Reynard. Propelled backward across the chamber, he fires his magnum. Not wrong in his assessment, he did squeeze the trigger, but the pain cost him his aim. The durasteel bullet skips across the Thaumaturge’s clavicle.
The wound achieves Reynard’s goal, at least temporarily. The burning flames abnegate, discharging him to the floor near the saddlebag. Before his eyes clear their growing water, he levels his weapon.
Eymaxin’s backside consumes his field of vision. Imprinted into her skin is his sigil—the silver dragon emblem—a snaking dragon encompassing a longsword. A ring of azure flames surrounds the image. The detailed tattoo rivals any artist rendering.
“Foolish pet, it’s death to help the strangers. The Sandmen will consume him.” The Thaumaturge places his flaming hand on his bleeding wound, cooking the skin.
“I’m no longer your pet, and I reject the path of the Conjuror. We hide in your tower while the Sandmen hunt our people. We may kill a few Sandmen, but we never hurt them. Sending him back will provide a blow in our war.”
“You don’t know what anger entering the pyramid will do.”
“I don’t need your assistance to enter the pyramid. If it’s a way back to my reality—” Reynard levels his magnum at the Thaumaturge before drawing the revolver. “I don’t need a witch to guide me.”
“I’ll accompany you.” Eymaxin draws one layer of her robes over her shoulders, leaving bare tattoo exposed. “Conjurors of the Blue Flame are meant to protect the people. We were inadequate in number with limited amounts of power, but now with those bul-lets, we have the capacity to defeat the Sandmen.”
“Converting ink isn’t enough. You need to combine your resources with the Sand Killers. Together you eliminate the threat. Both of you want to protect people.” Reynard flings the saddlebag over his shoulder. “Not my planet—not my problem.”
“Take as much food as you’re able to carry and eat it.” The Thaumaturge lowers his eyes.
“Everyone wants me to eat?”
“It grounds you,” Eymaxin says.
The Thaumaturge warns her with a dagger glance. “Leave with him, and you destroy your coven with the Blue Flame.”
Reynard backs for the entrance. “I tire of your lack of assistance. I’m guessing all these women and the marks on their asses explain what kind of harem you keep.” He raises the magnum.
Sapphire flames snatch Reynard before he squeezes the trigger.
“CONUNDRUM.”
“Conundrum doesn’t describe this ship. Primitive tubes, advance microchips and no—” She runs her hand over the door. “You ever touch the carapace of a turtle?”
Hauser slips the glove from his hand. It’s wrinkled from the same burn surrounding his missing left eye. He thumps the metal, receiving the echo of a porous surface. “Boney.”
“Comprised of keratinous scutes,” Doug scans.
“Then it is organic,” Amye says. “No species able to develop organic tech would still use vacuum tubes.”
“Pointless to scan for life since organic tech’s corporeal,” Hauser says.
“It doesn’t mean you lose salvage rights, just that you have to manually inspect the entire ship before you file a claim,” Amye says. She palpates with her fingers over the convex shell. She jabs her knife into the center spinal ridge. She splinters sections of bone to expose dermal plates. “The IMC experimented with organic tech to create oxygen for deep-surface miners.”
“For an IMC Second Class Technician, you know a great deal of IMC procedures,” Hauser says.
Amye whips around, blaster in hand, only to be met by Joe’s grasp. “Calm. Once Scott enables the transporter, leaving won’t be feasible if confirmation of life is undetermined.”
“If we don’t break the door seal, the craft keeps right on drifting and we have Maxtin send a recovery team to investigate. We move on and find William.”
“Recovering my sword brother does not negate our obligation to any survivors this ship maintains.”
“They were fine before we came along and will be fine after we leave,” Amye says.
“We don’t even know if we will be able to locate Reynard,” Doug says. “We help whoever is here. Maybe make up somewhat for the lives we screwed when we followed Ki-Ton’s secret plan to discredit us.”
“I followed orders. None of us knew the politician was secretly working against the Mokarran,” Amye snaps
Shoot him.
“Ki-Ton created patsies. Those choices are unchangeable, but Doug’s correct. We should help when possible.”
Amye jabs the clawed end of the Halligan tool into the silky substance encasing the door edge. “This isn’t healthy.”
Greenish-black mist hisses from the puncture. She uses the chiseled end to drive the door into the grooved wall.
Doug shines his headlamp into the chamber as Joe assists in pushing open the
