It’s like a jagged-edged hole into nowhere,” Chenel said.
They gathered in the ready room because one of the other Watcher teams was out now. A team would be constantly observing from this point on, stationed by the kiosk that had become their blind. Sean sat with Elenya and Dillon and Carey, his back against the outer wall. Night had fallen and he could feel the cold through the window above his head. Blasts of wind drove tiny ice pellets against the glass. Sean decided he liked the season. Somehow it fit.
He let Chenel do the talking. She was one of them, but she was also a recognized senior Watcher. As far as all the authorities gathered in this room were concerned, Sean’s own position remained in question. The leader of Cyrius was with them, along with a bevy of senior staffers, Ambassador Anyon, Tatyana, Carver, Josef, and a clutch of Praetorian officers. They shot Sean tight looks now and then. Taking his measure. Waiting for him to open his mouth. But Sean had no interest in becoming anyone’s target. He sat and drifted. Whatever satisfaction he might have felt over getting it right was lost to the tension and the fatigue and the dread.
Chenel went on, “The first thing you notice is that the flavor of the station has shifted.”
The Cyrian leader was an aristocratic woman with a grave bearing that matched the Ambassador’s. “Define flavor.”
“That is the accepted description for a Watcher,” Carver said.
“There are records from the last several invasions,” Tatyana added. “Ever since Watchers came into being. They all speak of a shift in the atmosphere, one they call flavor. Or scent.”
The Cyrian leader accepted this with a terse nod and said to Chenel, “Continue.”
“They have come and gone. I counted four recent forays.”
“I saw six,” Dillon said. “Each leaves a trail. Green. Like slime.”
“I saw no colors,” Chenel said.
“I did,” Elenya replied.
“There will be time for comparisons later,” Ambassador Anyon said, but without heat. “Go on.”
Chenel motioned at Dillon with a jerk of her chin. “You tell.”
“It looks like a flower that’s opening. Green fire around the edges.”
One of the Cyrian elders complained, “I have just walked through the station and noted nothing amiss.”
“It’s there,” Chenel said.
“You don’t need to see it,” Dillon said. “That’s why you have us. To see for you.”
The Cyrians squinted angrily at Dillon. Dillon glanced at Sean and gave him another of those patented Carver-type smiles. Gone so fast it might not even have existed.
Dillon went on, “The flower or whatever you want to call it is an opening to the dark side.”
Chenel said, “These new forays we detected were probably them checking up, making sure the station remains unprotected.”
The Cyrian leader asked, “Is this standard practice prior to an invasion?”
“We have no idea.” Tatyana had the decency to look at Sean as she spoke. “Never before have we known this level of advance notice.”
All eyes tracked to Sean and stayed there. Finally Ambassador Anyon asked, “What do you suggest as our next step?”
Sean felt uncomfortable with the attention, but he knew what had to be said. “Ready the troops. Be sure to set up a secondary perimeter around the outside of the station, in case they break through.”
The leader said, “Should we evacuate?”
Sean was about to urge them to do just that when a shriek arose from the duty room. The scream wrenched them all, a great cry of mortal distress. On and on it went, long enough for them to unfreeze and rush in and see the Watcher flail against the hold of her anchor.
Her limbs were not her own, that was how it seemed to Sean. Like she was a human form wrapped around something else. And that something was flooding into her, gripping every shred of her physical form with a convulsive force.
She flung her spotter across the room. The man weighed close to twice what she did, and he flew eighteen feet before crashing into the far corner. She did not rise from the bed. She catapulted to the side wall. And clung there. Snarling.
Sean looked into the face of death. The alien growled at him, taking in the scope of their planning and their intentions. And screamed again, this time in utter fury at the attack being exposed.
Tirian’s blow was the first to slam into her. Then Josef, and Carver, and finally Dillon. Gripping the alien with invisible fists, squeezing out the alien life-form, and then striking the enemy with blasts of ice and fury.
Within the space of a dozen heartbeats, it was over. The woman fell to the floor. Inert.
Tirian leapt over the demolished comm link and touched her neck. “We have a pulse.”
Carver fumbled through the wreckage, found the button, and slammed his fist onto the alarm.