How does this telepath know so much? Fourteen-year-old Amye ponders who would train a telepath in so many varied skills.
They match kicks.
Amye finds herself off-balance and tumbling over the couch. Samantha scampers from under the seat.
JC ignores both Australia’s and Scott’s commands to cease. She leaps the couch. Amye’s boot sends her headband bouncing across the carpet.
Drazz! I needed her to use the power to drive out the Sandman.
“Amye, I order you to stop!” Australia orders.
“I don’t think so.” She springboards off the table centered before the horseshoe-shaped couch.
JC raises her arm. The azure teardrop tattoos below her left eye glow. She interlaces her fingers in Amye’s short hair, driving her face toward the floor. Amye flails her arm, finding her way up the front of JC’s jacket. Forgoing an underlayer of clothes, Amye touches skin. Before allowing JC to reach her thoughts, she turns the last knuckle so her nails rake flesh. Amye dances around, catching JC in a chokehold.
Fourteen-year-old Amye broadcasts the desperate need for a mental blast.
The sting of a paralyzing blast leaves her limp.
As Amye releases JC, fourteen-year-old Amye spots the smoking deactivator in Australia’s hand. The Nysaean pacifistic philosophies never forbad her a stun gun.
Even physically unconscious, fourteen-year-old Amye hears Scott remark on her heft as he heaves her over his shoulder. She presses every button, desperate to awaken.
The Sandman grabs her, shoving her back in her cage.
“I ACCEPT THE appointment.” Wentworth stands before Maxtin’s desk.
“Your vengeance will be satisfied, but on my timetable.”
“I understand, Admiral, as long as we bring to justice those providing the weapons which killed my brother.”
“My collection of evidence will be available for your inspection. It stays in the private office, but a fresh pair of eyes may yield new results,” Maxtin says.
“Admiral, may I be bold?”
“In this office I expect nothing but your honest evaluations.”
“Did you single me out because of my brother’s death?” Kelli asks.
“Your track record and voiced opinions of current UCP policies. My assistants must be devoted to the UCP and her policies, but not be afraid to disregard those policies in order to protect what we’ve built.”
“You break the law in order to protect our fellow citizens.”
“Accepting the position means you are willing to do the same,” he says.
“Captain Gibson?”
“She will transfer all security clearances from her indication to you and return to the proper command structure, no longer a part of my surreptitious operations.”
“If I request not to be a part of this?” she asks.
“I had you scanned. I trust you will return to your duties in confidence.”
“What we do actually helps the UCP. You oversee actions leading to Mokarran defeats. Things the UCP must stay out of?” she asks.
“Yes. Essential transgressions to keep us free and safe.”
“Were you behind Kantian and Summersun?”
“I had a different plan to liberate Summersun. Kantian took his actions upon himself to protect those on the surface.”
“You don’t approve.” Wentworth finds she is unable to read Maxtin’s facial expressions.
LUNGS BEG FOR air.
Reynard contorts into a twisted mass. His brain demands to breathe. He sucks in air, expanding his lungs to capacity, but his mind remembers swallowing water with crushing pressure cutting off his circulation. Brine coats the inside of his mouth.
Not a dream. The sea covered me. I drowned.
He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. The bitter salt remains. He presses on his chest, palpitating the tender areas that he thought were flattened by crushing pressure.
His eyes open so swiftly they nearly pop from his skull. Death close around me in the water. Now he is dry and in a sealed room.
Reynard rolls his right shoulder, working out the stiffness. Joints pop. His chest aches. His lungs still breathe alkali, reminding him of the time he was five and ran his tongue over the salt block his father bought for the cattle.
The chill in the sterile room makes the warm of his cushioned bed inviting to sleep. Being nearly dead after his molecules lost cohesiveness in the other realities leaves him exhausted. Lying back, he contemplates how he did not drown. The tender spots on his chest could be from CPR.
But not by one of my crew.
I’m not on the Dragon.
Joe would want me to meditate. Clear the mind and focus on restoring breathing. Even more important now that he had been cut off from an air supply. Even if it lasted minutes, I need to revitalize my body to balance.
He closes his eyes in order to replay the crash in his memory. Logically, if I’m not on the Dragon and the planet lacked a humanoid civilization, then the Throgen spider-fighters captured me. I’m locked away on a Throgen battle cruiser awaiting the same fate as those Tri-Star Federation troops I witnessed being captured.
I can’t be dead. There was no bright light at the end of the dark tunnel.
His back wrenches, inducing raking knives of pain.
Death should never mean having to be this sore. He swings his bare legs out from under the blanket. The cold radiates through him, becoming detrimental to his nakedness.
Nothing—no phone, no lights, no motorcar, not a single luxury. I’m stuck in a doorless room without my boots, jacket or gun.
His palms press against the icy walls. His fingers, desperate to locate a tiny crevice, find nothing but smooth, seamless surface. No way out.
He raps on the wall, listening for each knuckle strike to reverberate the echo of a hollow spot. No change in sound vibration. Time to test the sword’s ability to slice whatever material comprises the hidden door.
Salt grains flake from his scalp as he plops onto the bed. He taps his bare feet on the ground. The floor…No, could be bedrock. Slashing
