CONFUSION GRIPS REYNARD as rough hands interlaced with his shirt manhandle him to his feet.

“Attention, soldier!” bits of spittle splash on Reynard’s cheek. The screaming marine slams him against the dirt embankment of the trench wall. After his eyes focus, Reynard notes the uniform straight from Full Metal Jacket.

A sergeant sporting the brain bucket and tommy gun of a World War II warrior tugs at his shirt. “Where’s your uniform?”

“I’m in it.” A truth—the Silver Dragon jacket is a uniform or close enough if he followed Osirian mercenary codes. “I’m here to fight. What I need is a weapon.”

“If I was an officer I’d have you court–martialed—” screams the marine.

“If we live through today, do so, but you need everyone to face the enemy, and I need a weapon,” Reynard demands.

The Vietnam-Era soldier slams an M16 against Reynard, who checks the breech for live rounds. The azure tips sparkle at him. “Stay with him, Sergeant. If he decides he doesn’t want to fight, skip his court-martial.”

Reynard needs no clarification on the order. The shoot-if-he-deserts implication was unnecessary.

Maybe not.

Shoulder to shoulder, Reynard is pressed between two men in the olive-drab-green of the American army. He scrambles forward and scales the unshaven log beam up the trench wall.

Black tsunamic waves crash over the first trench. Puffs of sulfur smoke dot the waves as they overflow into the second trench.

Men scatter from the second trench, retreating to the third row. The Roman-armored soldier is consumed by the rippling wave. Millions of sable robes push forward, reaching the trench row of the Redcoat British soldiers. Reynard understands that the single muzzle flashes end a Sandman. They beat back the tidal forces spilling from the pyramid. Without repeating weapons, the time it takes to reload a breech-loading rifle allows the Sandmen to consume them.

“On me!” A Vietnam-Era Sergeant picks up a second M16.

The few remaining soldiers work their way to the Sergeant, following his lead in procuring extra weapons.

“You, soldier, move!”

Reynard shakes off the hypnotic effect of the wave of Sandmen. Red-coated British soldiers burst from the trench in retreat.

“The M1’s a good weapon,” the Sergeant shoves an M16 into Reynard’s hand, “but this will give you more fire power.”

“What are your orders? Sir?!”

“Don’t Sir me. I work for a living. Now let’s move to that bunker complex and man those M60s.”

A battle-suited soldier bursts from a trench. He charges the rear flank of Sandmen now engaged with Roman Legions. The monsters’ numbers have thinned enough that the azure swordsmen are able to stand their ground. Sandmen turn and engulf the warrior. He slumps into a trench.

An American Union soldier, Springfield Rifle Musket complete with azure bayonet tight in his hands, rushes to the group of mismatched warrior gathering around the Sergeant. “Who’s in charge here?”

“Sergeant Elias, and until an officer arrives I am. Now let’s move to that bunker.”

Reynard knows better than to question the reality of his current situation. “Sergeant, why aren’t we advancing on the enemy’s position?”

“We have orders to hold them here. I don’t see a rank on your uniform, solider. So move to the bunker!”

“My unit doesn’t wear rank insignias in combat. Technically, I’d have a captain’s rank since I command a ship, but—”

“But there ain’t no boats here. So move your ass!” He punch-shoves Reynard in the shoulder.

“Sergeant, we can’t wait for them to reach us,” Reynard yells over the crunching of bones.

Repeating weapons fire.

Gunpowder. Vomit. Blood. Sweat. Screams of those a millisecond before death.

Someone should have scattered the riflemen among the sword wielders. Allow them to protect them while reloading.

The wave breaks, thinning in patches. The Sandmen’s numbers weren’t infinite. But even with the rapid repeating of rounds behind him, the hodgepodge of humans doesn’t have troops to compete with the brain-drinking enemy.

Making each shot count, Reynard carpets the trench around him. The Sergeant does the same, conserving his ammo.

Crashing next to him, the body of a Roman soldier splatters chunks of bowels on the Sergeant’s uniform. The planked floor soaks the blood leaking from the walnut-cracked skull. Other bodies shower the trench. They function as a screen—catching bullets—allowing Sandmen to snag defending soldiers.

Reynard expends the final round. Instinct—rifle becomes club. Not with Sandmen. He grabs an azure sword and spears the closest Sandman.

Flat on his back, he drives the sword toward the center mass of the Sandman, pinning him to the ground. The boney arms hold back the blade. Swimming under the surface of the mask are humanoid figures.

The humanoid figures melt back into the ivory mask. More swim across the surface. Souls trapped by the formless monster. Skeletal arms pin Reynard from under the sable robes.

Slipping free one hand—his weapon still out of reach—Reynard snags one forming figure in the mask, squishing as if to pop the head from a doll.

The Sandman howls. The souls trapped as part of the monster’s reality experience pain. At that moment, useless information, but if he survives, every crumb he gathers will bring about defeat for monsters.

Refusing to release the formed figure, Reynard tears it from the ivory. It crumbles into sulfur dust. The mask scars where the soul was removed.

Glittery flakes of sulfur dust burn away harmlessly in his hand. Powder from the expended shell flash fire azure on his palm as they eat at the ivory figure. Logically, the Sandmen must be susceptible to a minuscule amount of the mineral. They should destroy this planet to prevent such knowledge from existence. A deduction to make Sherlock proud. Why bring me from my reality since I had no access to weapons before being here?

He has no time to consider more reason. As he races to keep up with the Sergeant, he drops to the ground, and the other soldiers follow suit. Reynard crawls forward to the edge.

The field drops into a canyon. In the center a pyramid landed as if the entire structure collapsed into a sinkhole. Carved stone surrounds the structure, jetting out into streets.

Sergeant Elias peers through binoculars. “The base of the structure appears unstable.” He hands the binoculars to the World War II soldier.

“If those monsters are coming from inside the structure, we could collapse it. Destroy their beachhead.”

“I think someone already tried. The temple sank into the ground but didn’t fall apart. Look how the roads have split.” Elias turns to Reynard. “You wanted us to go after these monsters. What do you suggest, Captain?”

“I’m for anything to stop them.” Reynard hopes to learn, not lead. He glances through the binoculars.

The outside of the temple is covered in strange alien hieroglyphics.

Reynard wasn’t expecting more of a King Tut burial chamber as opposed to the courtyard designed like a marketplace. What catches his attention more could only be a massive archway supported by pillars surrounding the chamber. The inverted ceiling reaches to the top where sunlight can illuminate the pyramid.

“Sergeant, what is this place?”

“I don’t know. How many explosives do we have?”

“Not enough to bring this place down,” a soldier reports.

“Spread out and examine the pillars. We’ll select the one that seems to bear the most load of the temple,” Reynard says.

A Sandman grabs him.

••••••

“AMYE—” REYNARD WHIMPERS as the memory tears from him.

Seven body armor chest plates displayed in a hexagonal pattern line the end of the Silver Dragon cargo bay. A blue hazy force field hums behind them. Reynard loads his magnum and pulls the slide, loading a live round into the chamber before placing the gun on the table before him. Amye limps forward.

“You seem better.”

“Your medical bay is beyond anything the IMC has. And they spend money for the most current of technology. They don’t have the bone-knitting technology or the orange gel that heals cuts to nothing.”

“You still have a limp.”

“The bone’s healed. The computer said it would be a side effect for a few hours as the new tissue does whatever to finish healing.”

“I barely understand the normal technology of this time, let alone the advanced systems on this ship.”

“You referred to this place before as Time?”

“My planet was invaded by the Iphigenians. They cultivated a few billion able bodies and conscripted them into their military.”

“The Iphigenians haven’t been a military threat for like eight hundred years. I’ve never heard of them invading—”

“It was a thousand years ago, and for some reason I was separated and frozen in cryosleep until a few years ago,” Reynard says.

“History’s not my strong suit, but long-term cryosleep has ill side effects,” Amye notes.

“The Iphigenians at that time needed soldiers for their civil war.”

“Then I can’t imagine why they would freeze anyone,” Amye says.

“Apparently, they shipped much of the population into immediate training for their war machine,” Reynard says.

“You won’t find any records. The Iphigenians destroyed their athenaeums when their government fell.”

“It’s one of many mysteries. The craft was frozen and was lost until a few years ago. I was recovered, and many of the others died.” Reynard drops his head so not to make eye contact with Amye. “Frozen.”

“And now you captain this great ship,” says Amye.

“I’m putting together a crew of highly skilled individuals—”

“Is this a lucrative venture?”

Reynard hesitates. “This crew will make its goal to become thorns in the side of the Mokarran.”

“Counterinsurgents?” Amye asks.

“If you want to place a label on it, I prefer…rōnin.”

“I’m unfamiliar with that term,” she says.

“I’ll have to explain it to you sometime. You’re quite skilled for only a second-level tech.”

“Don’t test well,” Amye stresses to punctuate her not wishing to discuss the topic, even if the last thing she wants to do is alienate her new captain.

“They only promote based on exam scores, not field ability?” Reynard asks.

“The IMC does everything by its strict written policies. Right down to the subsections of the subparagraphs. We spent a whole year in school studying the rules.”

“I don’t care much for rules.” Reynard hands her a blaster. “What I do care about is your ability to shoot.”

Amye jams an energy clip into the blaster. She wraps her left hand over the top of her right hand, securing her stance before lining the sights. Five plasma beams burn across the cargo bay. Each beam strikes the center of a chest plate. The superheated energy dissipates around the armor. All the chest plates remain shiny new.

“Your leg wound hasn’t affected your aim.”

“You’ve seen my record and now you know I can shoot. Anything else?”

“You’re rated—Technician, Second Class. So you are good with computers and mechanical repairs.” Reynard picks up his magnum. “You’ve got a deadly aim. Can you fly a Mecat?”

“Ripley Class load lifters—Controls are similar.”

“I need a crew I can trust.”

“What are you planning to do with this crew you’re gathering?”

Reynard flashes a cocky smile. “Save the universe.”

“Not with that weapon you’re not.”

“This’s a modified forty-four caliber magnum. The most powerful hand gun Osirians made.”

“It’s ancient—no match for a good blaster,” Amye says.

“Shoot the chest plates again.”

Amye balks at the request.

Reynard nods at her.

She fires. The plasma beams leave the armor unscathed.

“Why didn’t it damage the armor?” Reynard asks.

“I’m not a tutor if you are still having trouble adjusting to this eon.”

“Humor me.”

“Poloyfibers created to deflect energy beams. It gets woven into cloth for added protection from plasma bursts, but it’s not as effective as plate armor,” Amye explains.

“Watch.” Reynard snatches the magnum.

BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM.

The first three chest plates are pierced clean through. The fourth explodes in a shower of ceramic shards. The final plate splinters but remains intact.

“Futuristic ray gun—zero dead bad guys. Primitive weapon—five dead bad guys. Surviving a gun fight in outer space—priceless.” Reynard smirks.

“Your visual’s a convincing argument. But when you speak, my translator—you’re a strange Osirian.”

“You’ll get used to it.” Reynard takes a box from under the table. “Amye, I want you—” Reynard takes the lid off the box. “To join my crew as the weapons officer.” Reynard hands Amye her Silver Dragon jacket.

“You’re asking me…to stay—”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

••••••

THE SANDMAN EXTRACTS the memory and floats away.

Reynard raises his head then slumps back to the ground. “I can’t deal with this.”

“How do you feel?” Eymaxin’s soothing tone has a twinge of pain to it.

“Like I’ve jet lag with a hangover and the Novocain just wore off.” He glances at the confused pair. “None of which means a damn thing to you two.” Reynard shoves her back. “How did you get here?”

“The Thaumaturge transported you here. I found Haldon Sy protecting travelers to Harrowing, and he and I raced to the forbidden lands in order to restore you.”

Reynard slips a bullet from his pocket. He scratches Eymaxin’s arm. She slaps him.

“Had to be sure.” He rubs his jaw. “They won’t stay out of my head.”

“It’s why they brought you here. They must destroy your mind before they feast.”

“You said you didn’t—”

“I don’t. It seems reasonable. Thatched huts don’t mean we lack understanding of the greater mysteries of the universe,” Haldon Sy says.

“It wasn’t the villages. It was the slavery.”

Eymaxin drops her eyes to the ground. “It’s self-servitude in order to become a sorceress.”

“Even if you willingly sold yourself into slavery, I don’t condone the practice.”

“When I defeat the Thaumaturge I’ll have access to rare tomes. They speak of much before magic dominated our world,” Eymaxin says.

“You’re going to need a lot more ink to match his power.”

“You don’t have time to wait. No other reality stranger lasted more than two days on this world.”