“Counterinsurgents?” Amye asks.
“If you want to place a label on it, I prefer…rōnin.”
“I’m unfamiliar with that term,” she says.
“I’ll have to explain it to you sometime. You’re quite skilled for only a second-level tech.”
“Don’t test well,” Amye stresses to punctuate her not wishing to discuss the topic, even if the last thing she wants to do is alienate her new captain.
“They only promote based on exam scores, not field ability?” Reynard asks.
“The IMC does everything by its strict written policies. Right down to the subsections of the subparagraphs. We spent a whole year in school studying the rules.”
“I don’t care much for rules.” Reynard hands her a blaster. “What I do care about is your ability to shoot.”
Amye jams an energy clip into the blaster. She wraps her left hand over the top of her right hand, securing her stance before lining the sights. Five plasma beams burn across the cargo bay. Each beam strikes the center of a chest plate. The superheated energy dissipates around the armor. All the chest plates remain shiny new.
“Your leg wound hasn’t affected your aim.”
“You’ve seen my record and now you know I can shoot. Anything else?”
“You’re rated—Technician, Second Class. So you are good with computers and mechanical repairs.” Reynard picks up his magnum. “You’ve got a deadly aim. Can you fly a Mecat?”
“Ripley Class load lifters—Controls are similar.”
“I need a crew I can trust.”
“What are you planning to do with this crew you’re gathering?”
Reynard flashes a cocky smile. “Save the universe.”
“Not with that weapon you’re not.”
“This’s a modified forty-four caliber magnum. The most powerful hand gun Osirians made.”
“It’s ancient—no match for a good blaster,” Amye says.
“Shoot the chest plates again.”
Amye balks at the request.
Reynard nods at her.
She fires. The plasma beams leave the armor unscathed.
“Why didn’t it damage the armor?” Reynard asks.
“I’m not a tutor if you are still having trouble adjusting to this eon.”
“Humor me.”
“Poloyfibers created to deflect energy beams. It gets woven into cloth for added protection from plasma bursts, but it’s not as effective as plate armor,” Amye explains.
“Watch.” Reynard snatches the magnum.
BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM.
The first three chest plates are pierced clean through. The fourth explodes in a shower of ceramic shards. The final plate splinters but remains intact.
“Futuristic ray gun—zero dead bad guys. Primitive weapon—five dead bad guys. Surviving a gun fight in outer space—priceless.” Reynard smirks.
“Your visual’s a convincing argument. But when you speak, my translator—you’re a strange Osirian.”
“You’ll get used to it.” Reynard takes a box from under the table. “Amye, I want you—” Reynard takes the lid off the box. “To join my crew as the weapons officer.” Reynard hands Amye her Silver Dragon jacket.
“You’re asking me…to stay—”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
••••••
THE SANDMAN EXTRACTS the memory and floats away.
Reynard raises his head then slumps back to the ground. “I can’t deal with this.”
“How do you feel?” Eymaxin’s soothing tone has a twinge of pain to it.
“Like I’ve jet lag with a hangover and the Novocain just wore off.” He glances at the confused pair. “None of which means a damn thing to you two.” Reynard shoves her back. “How did you get here?”
“The Thaumaturge transported you here. I found Haldon Sy protecting travelers to Harrowing, and he and I raced to the forbidden lands in order to restore you.”
Reynard slips a bullet from his pocket. He scratches Eymaxin’s arm. She slaps him.
“Had to be sure.” He rubs his jaw. “They won’t stay out of my head.”
“It’s why they brought you here. They must destroy your mind before they feast.”
“You said you didn’t—”
“I don’t. It seems reasonable. Thatched huts don’t mean we lack understanding of the greater mysteries of the universe,” Haldon Sy says.
“It wasn’t the villages. It was the slavery.”
Eymaxin drops her eyes to the ground. “It’s self-servitude in order to become a sorceress.”
“Even if you willingly sold yourself into slavery, I don’t condone the practice.”
“When I defeat the Thaumaturge I’ll have access to rare tomes. They speak of much before magic dominated our world,” Eymaxin says.
“You’re going to need a lot more ink to match his power.”
“You don’t have time to wait. No other reality stranger lasted more than two days on this world.”
“ORGANIC,” DOUG READS the analysis from the handheld scanner, “Comparable to a chrysalis formation found among molting.”
The green haze passing for illumination forces Amye to squint. The puke smell mixed with ozone doesn’t bother Joe. What does bother the giant?
Your knife between his shoulder blades.
Amye pushes brutual thoughts from her head. She craves a drink. The voices aren’t as loud when she drinks.
“So much for my salvage.” Hauser keeps his gun drawn. His eye flutters as he fights the squint.
The football-shaped cocoon pulsates in random intervals over the surface of the mucus-soaked skin.
“I’m not sure why the outer walls are so heavily shielded. This membrane protects from radiation. It might even convert it to nutrients.”
“What’s inside it?” Amye demands.
If you just slit his throat, no more Doug.
Amye closes her eyes. She drives out the thought. Disliking Doug doesn’t mean I want him dead.
You do—you do want him dead.
Hauser flicks his wrist and the durasteel truncheon telescopes to its full three-foot length. He slips the blunted pronged end under the chrysalis matter on the wall, peeling it back. “Computer terminal,” He announces, slipping the bulk of the metal rod under the goopy scab. Craning the bar, he pops a section of fiber loose, revealing computer controls. Fishing off mounds of goop, he says, “No jacking ports.”
Doug tugs at the crusty fibers, snapping free strings of sinewy green. The controls and monitors lack power but for one button. He presses it.
“Smerth’n hell, Douglas!”
“It’s not a computer, it’s a medical monitor. I think I activated the dethaw process.”
“Cryogenic?”
“Not as we understand it. I’d evaluate these readings as a hibernation state. Since the pod’s connected to a medical monitoring system, they wanted whoever activated it
