Silky goop encases the inside corridor. The invasion of air curdles much of the substance nearest to the entrance.
Doug holds his handheld scanner near the congealing floor substance. “Organic.”
Amye doesn’t need a scanner to determine that the bubbling substance lives. “Will it damage our boots?”
“I’m a communications expert. Not a biologist.”
“Explain,” Hauser says.
“It’s a substance similar to the silken cocoons a caterpillar would secrete to protect itself as a chrysalis,” Doug says. “Why ask about your boots?”
“An organic status chamber designed after a butterfly. As much as I want to remind you how insane you are, Douglas, it’s sensible,” Amye says. “It would explain the discrepancy in technology, especially if those in the chrysalis—”
“Came later, devouring the first inhabits of this ship, and are using it now to hibernate in.” Doug finishes her statement even if his version drips with paranoia.
“He needs medication as soon as we hire a real doctor.” Amye draws her index finger along the foam seal of the inner doorframe. “Certain butterflies spit an acid.”
“The species builders averaged about five feet in height.”
Amye doesn’t need Doug’s verbal confirmation. Her own nearly six-foot height has caused her to slouch to avoid bumping her head on the ceiling. Joe’s bending of his seven-foot stature must be uncomfortable, but the never-complaining warrior remains stoic.
“Doug.” She hates herself for asking, but she needs confirmation from another engineer type, and the Calthos warrior—master of combat—lacks training in technology construction. “Feel this.”
Doug runs his fingers along the seal. “It can’t be!”
“Explain, you git-minded draznot,” Amye demands.
“For an abandoned craft drifting in space for centuries, the organic seal compound would dry out. This has spongy texture, still moist.”
“A rubber sealant would be cracked and dried if your age estimates were correct. But a species with organic technology wouldn’t build a spacecraft with vacuum tube technology.”
“As they built this generation ship, they may have discovered it.”
“Following technology progression, it’s a major jump from vacuum tubes to living machines,” Amye says.
“Such technology discrepancy is not uncommon,” Joe notes.
“You only build a generation ship for two reasons: your species can’t master FTL travel because your planet lacks the menials to construct hyperspace engines, or your planet faces destruction and you want to save as many people as possible. I vote that, as primitive as this ship is, they had to escape a disaster.”
Fuzz lands on Doug’s shoulder. “There’s your smerth’n answer. If they were in the first stages of organic tech, they may not have had time to grow more than door seals.”
“To protect what? A generation ship was meant to be lived on like a floating city in space.”
“You expect to be stepping over bodies?” Hauser asks.
“Or interacting with the living,” Amye adds.
“A conundrum, Amye.”
One preventing us from finding William. With a dead civilization, this exploration would be over. Instead, these discrepancies demand further investigation. Australia will insist.
I owe Reynard my life.
I have to find him.
Amye ducks through the hatch.
CONFUSION GRIPS REYNARD as rough hands interlaced with his shirt manhandle him to his feet.
“Attention, soldier!” bits of spittle splash on Reynard’s cheek. The screaming marine slams him against the dirt embankment of the trench wall. After his eyes focus, Reynard notes the uniform straight from Full Metal Jacket.
A sergeant sporting the brain bucket and tommy gun of a World War II warrior tugs at his shirt. “Where’s your uniform?”
“I’m in it.” A truth—the Silver Dragon jacket is a uniform or close enough if he followed Osirian mercenary codes. “I’m here to fight. What I need is a weapon.”
“If I was an officer I’d have you court–martialed—” screams the marine.
“If we live through today, do so, but you need everyone to face the enemy, and I need a weapon,” Reynard demands.
The Vietnam-Era soldier slams an M16 against Reynard, who checks the breech for live rounds. The azure tips sparkle at him. “Stay with him, Sergeant. If he decides he doesn’t want to fight, skip his court-martial.”
Reynard needs no clarification on the order. The shoot-if-he-deserts implication was unnecessary.
Maybe not.
Shoulder to shoulder, Reynard is pressed between two men in the olive-drab-green of the American army. He scrambles forward and scales the unshaven log beam up the trench wall.
Black tsunamic waves crash over the first trench. Puffs of sulfur smoke dot the waves as they overflow into the second trench.
Men scatter from the second trench, retreating to the third row. The Roman-armored soldier is consumed by the rippling wave. Millions of sable robes push forward, reaching the trench row of the Redcoat British soldiers. Reynard understands that the single muzzle flashes end a Sandman. They beat back the tidal forces spilling from the pyramid. Without repeating weapons, the time it takes to reload a breech-loading rifle allows the Sandmen to consume them.
“On me!” A Vietnam-Era Sergeant picks up a second M16.
The few remaining soldiers work their way to the Sergeant, following his lead in procuring extra weapons.
“You, soldier, move!”
Reynard shakes off the hypnotic effect of the wave of Sandmen. Red-coated British soldiers burst from the trench in retreat.
“The M1’s a good weapon,” the Sergeant shoves an M16 into Reynard’s hand, “but this will give you more fire power.”
“What are your orders? Sir?!”
“Don’t Sir me. I work for a living. Now let’s move to that bunker complex and man those M60s.”
A battle-suited soldier bursts from a trench. He charges the rear flank of Sandmen now engaged with Roman Legions. The monsters’ numbers have thinned enough that the azure swordsmen are able to stand their ground. Sandmen turn and engulf the warrior. He slumps into a trench.
An American Union soldier, Springfield Rifle Musket complete with azure bayonet tight in his hands, rushes to the group of mismatched warrior gathering around the Sergeant. “Who’s in charge here?”
“Sergeant Elias, and until an officer arrives I am. Now let’s move to that bunker.”
Reynard knows better than to question the reality of his current situation. “Sergeant, why aren’t we advancing on the enemy’s position?”
“We have orders to hold them here. I don’t see
