REYNARD MATCHES THE four-pronged bit in line with the screw head.

“You want me to vandalize the corridor?” Scott asks.

“I’m capable of putting a hole into the wall.” Reynard drives the screw in, leaving a quarter inch exposed. He hands back the drill gun to Scott and trades it for the hooped object.

“What did you make?”

“A dream catcher.” Reynard hangs the hoop from a leather thong. It dangles at eye level before the door.

“Did you weave all this intricate webbing?” Scott asks.

“It took a bit to get the design so there was the open hole in the center.” Reynard brushes his fingers through the feathers dangling from the willow hoop. “I thought I’d fight one myth with another.”

“The Sandmen aren’t a myth.”

“Nor is this. Traditional belief among Native American cultures was that this handmade object filtered out bad dreams.”

“Dreams?” Scott asks.

“The Sandmen dipped into my mind. They manipulated thoughts, memories—dreams. The hoop protects dreams. Nightmares are spiked, and they get caught in the web to die in the morning light. Good dreams are smooth and float through. I’m betting the Sandmen are anything but good.”

“Why the open center?”

“I don’t know what shape the soul takes when not in corporeal form, but if you die and there is no center opening, it becomes a soul catcher. And you don’t want to die under one of those.”

“Osirians hold strange beliefs.”

“You’re just as much an Osirian as me,” Reynard points out, hooking his right thumb on his gun belt before the magnum. “You’ve converted this section of the Dragon awfully fast.”

“Maxtin churned out around-the-clock synthoids for our use. The space was here. We’ve moved all power cells to the shuttle compartment. I’ll hook those up next. Not a job for artificial life-forms.”

“I saw Cadet Chelsie’s shuttle in the cargo bay,” Reynard says.

“Maxtin wants us to test it.”

Scott steps past the work stations into the open cargo area. A Mecat towers over them in the first stall. What reminds Reynard of a car lift in an oil change shop surrounds the monstrosity. The two-legged walking tank with the jet fighter style cockpit supports a long-barreled howitzer cannon and rack of missiles. Two machine gun forearms rest on the fore section below the cockpit.

“This one’s mine. I’m going to refit her.” Scott pats the leg. “I’m installing fully auto maintenance, individual bays. Saves the eight to twelve extra crewmembers needed for each Mecat.”

“How do Lances support such teams?”

“They don’t. A merc crew might have one team to service their Lance. Many mercenaries utilize on-planet mechanical shops. It helps planets recoup credits they pay. If they wait until onboard Jump ships, then the merc unit can usually afford only one repair team, which does repairs on one Cat at a time. They might have just one auto repair bay.”

“I don’t want to know how much this set us back.”

“You still have to purchase five more Mecats,” Scott says.

“A six-barbed Lance?”

“Not everyone is necessary to fly a Lance mission, but no sharing. Mecats are as individual as each pilot. You modify them to fit your style.”

“What do we have in a get-blown-up-and-get-everyone-killed model?” Reynard asks.

“Those cadets made their choice.”

“The Sandmen mess with the memory. They keep wanting me to remember their deaths and my part in them.” Reynard leaves out the constant recaps of home and his first love.

“Why not kill you outright? I know only the bedtime story version. They never take prisoners in them,” Scott says.

“It was a wilder ride. It was like they wanted something from me—or a few did.”

Both their commlinks chirp.

Reynard touches his watch. “What?”

Australia’s voice crackles, “Taygete III reports a…disturbance.”

“What does the refugee planet have to do with us?” Scott asks.

Doug’s voice replaces Australia’s. “Jacking in, but Michelle’s DNA implant card was tagged at a security station, and Amye retrieved her.”

“On our way.” Reynard flicks closed the comm. “I guess she finished her medical examination early.”

“Openly involving us in a brawl may prevent our returning to complete the refit.” Scott remains behind Reynard as they pass clear cylinders displaying suits of battle armor.

“Make sure everything’s loaded. We’ll take all the synthoids with us and that Chelsie cadet.”

“You’re taking her along?” Scott asks.

“Maxtin paid for most of this refit, and her test fighter’s onboard.”

••••••

REYNARD ASSUMES HIS station on the bridge. The chair automatically adjusts to his frame and weight. He wiggles his buttocks. The comfort level was not as it was before the crash.

“How did the princess get off the Dragon?”

“Least of our problems, Commander.”

I hate when JC addresses me formally—means she’s going to report something to send me over the edge. “Everyone onboard?” He activates all preflight checks.

“Hauser has chosen to remain on the Independence. Admiral Maxtin has another mission for him,” Australia reports.

“I still owe him a ship,” Reynard says.

Doug locks his seat belt harness into place. “A Blackweb Hypershuttle just blasted out of the spaceport.”

“This isn’t going to be healthy.”

Australia reports, “Joe is not on the Dragon.”