“My unit doesn’t wear rank insignias in combat. Technically, I’d have a captain’s rank since I command a ship, but—”
“But there ain’t no boats here. So move your ass!” He punch-shoves Reynard in the shoulder.
“Sergeant, we can’t wait for them to reach us,” Reynard yells over the crunching of bones.
Repeating weapons fire.
Gunpowder. Vomit. Blood. Sweat. Screams of those a millisecond before death.
Someone should have scattered the riflemen among the sword wielders. Allow them to protect them while reloading.
The wave breaks, thinning in patches. The Sandmen’s numbers weren’t infinite. But even with the rapid repeating of rounds behind him, the hodgepodge of humans doesn’t have troops to compete with the brain-drinking enemy.
Making each shot count, Reynard carpets the trench around him. The Sergeant does the same, conserving his ammo.
Crashing next to him, the body of a Roman soldier splatters chunks of bowels on the Sergeant’s uniform. The planked floor soaks the blood leaking from the walnut-cracked skull. Other bodies shower the trench. They function as a screen—catching bullets—allowing Sandmen to snag defending soldiers.
Reynard expends the final round. Instinct—rifle becomes club. Not with Sandmen. He grabs an azure sword and spears the closest Sandman.
Flat on his back, he drives the sword toward the center mass of the Sandman, pinning him to the ground. The boney arms hold back the blade. Swimming under the surface of the mask are humanoid figures.
The humanoid figures melt back into the ivory mask. More swim across the surface. Souls trapped by the formless monster. Skeletal arms pin Reynard from under the sable robes.
Slipping free one hand—his weapon still out of reach—Reynard snags one forming figure in the mask, squishing as if to pop the head from a doll.
The Sandman howls. The souls trapped as part of the monster’s reality experience pain. At that moment, useless information, but if he survives, every crumb he gathers will bring about defeat for monsters.
Refusing to release the formed figure, Reynard tears it from the ivory. It crumbles into sulfur dust. The mask scars where the soul was removed.
Glittery flakes of sulfur dust burn away harmlessly in his hand. Powder from the expended shell flash fire azure on his palm as they eat at the ivory figure. Logically, the Sandmen must be susceptible to a minuscule amount of the mineral. They should destroy this planet to prevent such knowledge from existence. A deduction to make Sherlock proud. Why bring me from my reality since I had no access to weapons before being here?
He has no time to consider more reason. As he races to keep up with the Sergeant, he drops to the ground, and the other soldiers follow suit. Reynard crawls forward to the edge.
The field drops into a canyon. In the center a pyramid landed as if the entire structure collapsed into a sinkhole. Carved stone surrounds the structure, jetting out into streets.
Sergeant Elias peers through binoculars. “The base of the structure appears unstable.” He hands the binoculars to the World War II soldier.
“If those monsters are coming from inside the structure, we could collapse it. Destroy their beachhead.”
“I think someone already tried. The temple sank into the ground but didn’t fall apart. Look how the roads have split.” Elias turns to Reynard. “You wanted us to go after these monsters. What do you suggest, Captain?”
“I’m for anything to stop them.” Reynard hopes to learn, not lead. He glances through the binoculars.
The outside of the temple is covered in strange alien hieroglyphics.
Reynard wasn’t expecting more of a King Tut burial chamber as opposed to the courtyard designed like a marketplace. What catches his attention more could only be a massive archway supported by pillars surrounding the chamber. The inverted ceiling reaches to the top where sunlight can illuminate the pyramid.
“Sergeant, what is this place?”
“I don’t know. How many explosives do we have?”
“Not enough to bring this place down,” a soldier reports.
“Spread out and examine the pillars. We’ll select the one that seems to bear the most load of the temple,” Reynard says.
A Sandman grabs him.
••••••
“AMYE—” REYNARD WHIMPERS as the memory tears from him.
Seven body armor chest plates displayed in a hexagonal pattern line the end of the Silver Dragon cargo bay. A blue hazy force field hums behind them. Reynard loads his magnum and pulls the slide, loading a live round into the chamber before placing the gun on the table before him. Amye limps forward.
“You seem better.”
“Your medical bay is beyond anything the IMC has. And they spend money for the most current of technology. They don’t have the bone-knitting technology or the orange gel that heals cuts to nothing.”
“You still have a limp.”
“The bone’s healed. The computer said it would be a side effect for a few hours as the new tissue does whatever to finish healing.”
“I barely understand the normal technology of this time, let alone the advanced systems on this ship.”
“You referred to this place before as Time?”
“My planet was invaded by the Iphigenians. They cultivated a few billion able bodies and conscripted them into their military.”
“The Iphigenians haven’t been a military threat for like eight hundred years. I’ve never heard of them invading—”
“It was a thousand years ago, and for some reason I was separated and frozen in cryosleep until a few years ago,” Reynard says.
“History’s not my strong suit, but long-term cryosleep has ill side effects,” Amye notes.
“The Iphigenians at that time needed soldiers for their civil war.”
“Then I can’t imagine why they would freeze anyone,” Amye says.
“Apparently, they shipped much of the population into immediate training for their war machine,” Reynard says.
“You won’t find any records. The Iphigenians destroyed their athenaeums when their government fell.”
“It’s one of many mysteries. The craft was frozen and was lost until a few years ago. I was recovered, and many of the others died.” Reynard drops his head so not to make eye contact with Amye. “Frozen.”
“And now you captain this great ship,” says Amye.
“I’m putting together a crew of highly skilled individuals—”
“Is this a lucrative venture?”
Reynard
