“Time to hyperspace jump?”
“Four minutes to lock calculations,” Australia reports.
The Dragon shimmies from a blast.
“Scott?”
“Power loss in the starboard thruster.”
“Rerouting power.”
“They have a target lock,” Amye announces.
“What’s the survivability rate of a space walk in hyperspace?”
“Commander?”
Reynard leaves his station. His piloting skills do no good as long as he’s not at the helm. “We have a suit for Chelsie?”
“In the Mecat storage bay.”
“Try not to get us dead. There’s something on the wing.”
REYNARD BRUSHES PAST the dream catcher suspended at the door of his quarters. In his race to reach the space suits, he neglects to notice the struggling Sandman entangled in the webbing.
“COMMANDER, DO THESE suits allow for my cloven feet?” Chelsie asks.
“Doubt it, but the leg unit is signally housed. They might rattle, but you’ll stay nice and airtight. Just keep your balance.” Reynard pulls open a wall unit to expose a battle armor suit.
“Why me, Commander?” She strips from her uniform.
“They rest of the crew must get us into hyperspace.” Reynard steps into battle armor legs. The unit locks into place.
“Not your telepath.” Chelsie pulls open a closet with her suit.
“She detects the Sandmen. I want her on the bridge.” And I have a sword to kill them. Reynard slips the top unit over his shoulders. “The unit’s touch and lock.”
“How do you know she detects Sandmen?”
He pauses. “She speaks to the Hex Darmight. It shut down with the Sandman onboard—she just didn’t know why.” He locks his helmet into place, reaching into a weapons locker. “As for you. I need to know what you are capable of if you’re going to be a part of my crew.”
Chelsie secures her helmet.
“Turn.” Reynard locks the cannon into a locking grooved slot in the right shoulder section. He hands her a second cannon, spinning around.
Marching deeper into the storage bay, he activates the commlink. “Scott, does this hatch open?”
“Wide enough for a Remoras-class Mecat,” his voice crackles back.
“How about just enough for me to fit through.”
The hazy blue magnetic field glows around the hatch.
Reynard steps onto the central lift to raise a Mecat through the roof.
The roof opening cracks.
••••••
A METAL SPIDER arm slams crab pincers into the silver metal of the thruster casing. The swimming outer skin splashes away but crashes back in waves. The organic substance absorbs radiation, energy partials, even gravimetric pressures, but lacks a defense against projectiles. The craft rises up. In the underbelly a cockpit housing allows for a cybernetically augmented humanoid to function as a pilot.
The Throgen battle cruiser looms behind the Dragon, growing larger as it closes the distance.
“Target the underside,” Reynard orders.
Chelsie races down the spine of the ship until the targeting system flashes optimum range. The cannon clicks to lock over her shoulder. The heated plasma blast strikes the underside cockpit, followed instantly by a second blast from Reynard’s cannon.
A charging meter appears on the HUD display on Reynard’s helmet visor.
With no atmosphere to create smoke, the blasts’ damage reveals quickly. The robotic pilot continues to work.
Reynard’s stomach churns.
“Blast the back legs!”
The last pair of eight capturer legs is cemented into the thruster housing.
Plasma beams sear past the Dragon from the battle cruiser. Chelsie fires. The leg splinters. The swimming skin covers the leg fragments imbedded in the thruster engine, sealing the hole. The Dragon lurches forward, regaining speed. Reynard’s blast burns wildly past the fighter.
“Back inside!” he orders the cadet, his own stomach turning over as the hyperspace engines envelop the ship in the field created to move interdimensionally.
The charging meter fills. Reynard fires. The second back leg shatters. The craft floats away as the Dragon slips into the hyperspace envelope. Reynard bolts for the hatch.
He falls through the hole, tumbling the thirty feet to the deck plating.
The impact radiates through his body. The battle suit absorbs the brunt of the force.
Reynard rolls to his stomach, releasing the seals on the helmet. It falls from his head. “That’s going to leave a mark.”
THE OVERLORD TWISTS the Calthos headband awarded to Commander Reynard around his palm—a prize he stole. Those in Throgen Command care for nothing but the tribute he reports, but he received his place as a General through his warrior pride. To defeat a warrior worthy of Calthos training brings him cultural status even if only he knows of it.
A cyber drone jams a medical tool into the spot where Reynard’s magnum left a hole, unable to find evidence of a wound. The Overlord wonders how to keep this miracle from his Throgen masters.
None of the cybernetic drones consider anything other than their programmed duties.
“Bring us to the surface—full speed.”
Water splashes against the three-story elliptical window rising before the end of his bridge. Below the window, three drones with computerized brain units resting in their hollowed craniums operate the ship’s functions. These three navigate the Crimson Nova with their cybernetic arm units augmented with computer input pins instead of weapons.
“Take us into orbit. Locate the enemy ship.”
“No ships detected,” says the cold synthetic robotic voice. Cybernetic drones only do what they are programmed. He knows the fighter had no hyperspace capabilities, which means it launches from a mother ship—a cloaked ship.
Even the vast technologies nearer the central core of the Empire have yet to produce cloaking tech.
“Overlord. An unscheduled cargo pod launched from the cathedral complex.”
“Track it.”
“Two humanoid life signs—Osirian and Mermaiden,” the drone reports.
“The Commander brought along the woman. She served her purpose in my experiment.” He orders, “Prepare to tractor the pod.”
“No practical value to convert two humanoids at the expense of the necessary energy to operate the tractor shield system,” the drone bleats.
“Do as ordered. Keep the pod at the farthest possible distance from the cruiser while still captured in the beam.”
“Illogical
