He grips his sword. A chain link splinters under the blow, with the broken link whisking away into a puff of black smoke.
With the chain never catching on her ankle, the woman straggles along until she disappears off the edge of the platform.
It takes three full strides before Reynard huffs for air. The edge of the platform protects those wandering aimlessly on the surface from the intense blasts of heat from the boiling pool below.
Dozens of suspended platforms hover over the flames. Each held by ropes of woven humanoids. Dangling from each rope are people suspended in midair by their own intestine, forced to bear the agonizing heat.
Even as the air burns in his lungs, Reynard’s breaths become less labored. Below his platform, another platform houses a hatchery incubating eggs larger than any Osirian. A Sandman circles one of the ovum. The egg cracks from the inside. Steam pours from the breakage. The egg shatters to reveal a dark-gray demon. It stretches its cloven feet as it opens crimson eyes. The Sandman pounces, but the demon spreads its leathery wings and bolts for Reynard. Snagging a chained person, it bites. It chomps on stale flesh, eating the muscle to the bones. Once satisfied it flies away. Screams of pain come from the poor half-eaten soul as the flesh re-forms on cleaned bones.
The Sandman hovers to Reynard’s platform. The gravity seems to slow the monster.
Reynard brandishes his sword.
It waves its boney hand as if to signal it wants a parley. He has no trust left for the monsters who keep dabbling in his head.
Before he swings the blade, a demon lands between them.
“I make no quarrel with you. Stand aside.” Did I just tell a hellish demon to move? Never thought I’d ever be living such a life.
The demon points its clawed fingers toward one of the human-comprised ropes. “Exit?”
I have no trust for anything supernatural. Keeping his sword gripped, he side steps in the offered direction.
As his labored movement costs deep breaths, Reynard’s stomach churns. No time to lose my lunch. I need answers. I need a behavioral study on Sandmen.
Reaching the designated ligatures of humans twisted to form the suspension braiding, he eases a boot onto the mass of tangled people. Each balanced step gives him no confidence he won’t plummet to the fires below. The heat cooks his exposed hands and face. The leather jacket holds back some of the heat. Wish I’d have worked harder on the balance beam in gym class. He keeps his arm outstretched, using the sword to compensate for counterbalance.
No. No. No. Reynard fights the burble in his gut.
Each step brings a new cramp. It rolls over. Not sure if the expulsion of my stomach contents will destroy my equilibrium. Reynard cranes his neck up. Demons soar above, like buzzards waiting for their victim to die. A downward glance throws off his balance.
The worst is avoiding the faces.
Each careful step must be taken between each gastric contraction. Each mushing boot-plant only exacerbates his pain. No longer able to hold in his last meal, Reynard expels the undigested bits with acid. The resulting heave costs him his footing, and he falls, driving the sword through the twisted cable of flesh. It should snag in the rope—for a second. As Reynard dangles off the edge, the sword punctures a contorted humanoid. The blade slides into the flesh. The person dissolves into a tuft of black smoke.
The loss of a person acts like a taut, fraying rope, shifting the platform. The Sandman races past the demon straight for Reynard. A second person extinguishes, shifting the cable and rocking the platform. Unable to extract the blade, it sinks into a third gnarled person.
Gravity tugs at Reynard as he dangles over the crimson sky. His struggle only damages more of the suspension system. The intense pull of gravity prevents him from swinging his legs back onto the rope.
He grinds his teeth. Fuck it.
He draws the blade as the Sandman reaches him. The central rope separates from a dozen disappearing people.
Reynard tumbles toward the burning lake. His stomach shifts. Great, my last moment will be filled with the taste of vomit.
Vises close tight enough around his ankles to cut off circulation. If not for his thickly walled boots, he might have lost both feet as razor claws capture his limbs. The demon drives his wings to create a hurricane-force updraft.
The platform now teeters some thirty degrees, leaving the infected lost in their wanderings.
The misshapen cable of humanoids attaches to the wall of the cylindrical vertical reality. The demon releases its grip.
Reynard struggles to pulls himself to the top of the damage line. The twisted flesh has no seams between the wrenched flesh. He scratches at the wall above the rope. The surface moves more like a Jell-O membrane.
Any port in the storm. Pushing through, the membrane sucks him in.
“THESE ARE ALL the readings?”
“I requested every scan from every ship during the event. Even two independent cargo freighters.” Dar’Jeryd hands over a data crystal.
“And the analyst?” Kantian asks.
“It’s an unknown ship configuration. Even the hyperspace envelope was manifested by an advanced engine system. We have nothing to match it.”
“And there is no record of this ship in any UCP system?” Kantian asks.
“Summersun. After the battle it was registered in orbit,” Dar’Jeryd reports.
“Trace it. I want any and all locations,” Kantian demands.
“Admiral?”
“Yes, Dar’Jeryd?”
“You have developed a new level of conviction since achieving command.”
“And you want to know what boosted my motivation?”
“I’ll follow you anywhere, Sir.”
“I’ve no doubt Admiral Maxtin employs mercenaries to retrieve valuable information needed to defend against the Mokarran. Any high-placed government official will employ a spy network. The UCP officially would never sanction an
