“What are chakras? I don’t do any of those things! I—” I stop speaking when he pulls me up from the floor to my knees again. He kneels down behind me and places one hand on my throat while the other holds a harbinger to my temple. Near my ear he whispers, “Countdown to death commences in three-two-one—”
I breathe the words, “I wish I knew—” As I exhale, my breath curls into the air in a cold, smoky plume from the chill in my lungs. My eyes roll up to the ceiling. The poseur soldier’s hand slides from my neck to my ribs, holding me against him so that I don’t slip to the floor.
I’m violently ripped out of my body to hover above all of them, near the sparkling, teardrop crystals of the chandelier. The man beneath me claiming to be a Comantre soldier is the same one from the gallery balustrade at the rail station. He raises his shamrock-colored eyes to my spirit floating above him, as if he can see me. I realize then that he’s the one who slapped me in my waking dream—or he will slap me in the future, depending on how you look at it. “Hurry, Kricket,” he orders, “before I decide to kill you.” His hand shifts back to my throat, gripping it like he’ll strangle me.
I hope he can see my spirit finger as I flip him off.
The next moment compares to a solar flare or the heat of a thousand stars as I blast out of the chamber, thrown back up the elevatorlike shaft. The galvanized steel beams that construct the maze of overup channels fall away. I eject from the top of the skyscape and into the sea of clouds. And then . . . the real fun begins. I flash-forward; the trap of ordinary things that one gets used to slips away too, by an explosion of time. The fabric of matter is different here: soothing as it is disturbing, with the sense of being whole and complete but not content—cleverly striving for the suggestion of perfection. Somehow, I know that if I twist, if I move in another infinite direction, the fabric will fold in around me and I’ll arrive somewhere else.
Before I realize it, I’m in the stratosphere, climbing higher and higher. The blue sky fades in the absence of air and is replaced by the darkness of space. A gleaming white mass grows larger as I approach it, becoming discernible as a space station. Shaped like a capital I, the station tumbles end over end in its orbit of Inium, the smallest of Ethar’s moons. This moon is a favorite of mine; it glows blue and it’s so near to Ethar that I imagine it has heard all the wishes I’ve made on it.
I pass through the side of the space station either because it doesn’t exist in this space yet or I don’t or both. Thinking about it is likely to fry my brain. Instead, I concentrate on a silver transport trift landing in the open bay of the capital-I station. When the enormous bay doors close with a heavy thump, sealing the area like a tomb, the doors of the elegant falconlike trift open just below the wing. Free-floating steps emerge from the craft to form a convenient walkway to the causeway.
I’m surprised when three females alight from the trift, pausing on the gangway. They’re each taller than me by just a few inches, with longer white-blond hair than mine and varying shades of blue eyes, but otherwise, in form and in feature, their likeness to me is undeniable.
A very masculine-looking blond male appears behind them. He’s a golden god of a man—heaven-faced, cut from stone, and maybe just as lovable. He leans near to one of them, saying something to her in a low tone before he nuzzles her cheek. She doesn’t turn her lips to his or respond to his affection. She’s cold and distant. Her demeanor bothers him; he frowns at her, but takes her arm solicitously and leads her ahead, helping her navigate the steps.
She reminds me of a queen bee. Her pale blond hair is piled high on her head with a mass of intricate braids down her back. Her elaborate dress has to weigh a ton. It’s not the least bit practical, with a flowing train of rich brocade silk and a corsetlike rib breaker. The neckline plunges in a deep vee, lined with sharp points that could be the stingers of drones she’s killed. The dress has to hurt like hell, but she carries it as if it were her skin.
As I watch the pair together, I wonder, Is that her Brotherhood consort? Her cult-master who simultaneously owns and worships her? She seems so very important to him: owned by the drones and unable to fly away without them following her—forever. I can’t imagine a worse fate than to be a queen-slave.
The other two priestesses follow closely behind her arm in arm. They each have similar style dresses as the Bee, but only one has an exaggerated collar of stiff, swanlike feathers: the Bird. The other has a high, round orchid-colored collar: the Flower. Two more handsome, chisel-cut blond males trail them, engaging in sedate conversation like old friends.
I have no choice but to follow them. I thrust forward, joining their party as they converge in a solemn chamber filled with several embryonic vessels. It’s not hard to ascertain that this is a medical room and these steely pods are the equivalent of Manus’s shark tank back on Ethar. Uniformed personnel stand far back from them, almost in reverence at their presence.
A small discussion commences about which one he’s in. A stuttering worker shows them to a particular unit. The six figures gather around this unit. The Flower breaks away from her friend, the Bird, and lays her hand on the lid. The coffinlike capsule opens, emitting a pressurized hiss. I ghost-move around the open lid so that I can see who is in it, but a part of me already knows.
It’s Kyon. Unconscious. Naked. Damn my eyes!
The beautiful flowerlike woman with the full, petal-pink lips places her hand on Kyon’s broad chest. She covers the angry red stab wound I gave him. His masculine, steam-shovel jaw tenses. Blood raises the color in his cheeks. Readouts on the lid of his pod go ballistic. His eyes open wide, the irises of which shine pure silver. When his mouth falls open, that same silver light emits from deep within him, gray embers from a blast furnace.
When she removes her hand, there is a thin silver scar in place of the angry wound. The Flower glances behind her with a radiant smile to one of the granite-cut men she arrived with, but that stone won’t notice her. She loses some of her smile.
The Bee flutters forward, helping Kyon to sit up. He does so awkwardly, which is very uncharacteristic of him. He rubs his blue eyes, trying to clear his head. His blond hair is pulled back from his face and tied so that it doesn’t fall into his eyes when he slumps forward. He’s weak, I think, but I don’t have a moment of guilt about it.
“How do you feel?” the Bee asks. Her fingers rest on his shoulder, covering the dark military tattoo that interconnects to form circles there. The tattoo spans his neck, chest, and abdomen, stopping where his hip forms one angle of a dramatic vee.
Kyon ignores her, choosing instead to gaze over her shoulder at the Bee’s consort. “Chandrum, was Kricket brought to Alameeda? Is she here?”
Chandrum shakes his head. “She’s still with them. The extraction was a failure.”
Kyon growls. “What’s being done?”
“There is a new plan,” Chandrum offers as he watches the Bee wring her hands.