SOMEHOW SHE MUST maintain some semblance of control. The Sandman needs me, or it would consume my brain. It trapped me to control me. Reynard said something about his physical instability while in the alternate reality. What keeps a person stable? Amye tugs at the bars of her cage. Near the horizontal crossbar, she spots a rusting vertical pole.

JC’s blast hurt the monster. It released its grip. I felt it let go. She picks with her painted fingernail, flicking at the rust.

The Sandmen were always stronger when they ate. If it eats any of the crew, they will search it out. It has to eat to recover. If it stays weak…if I can get out of the cage—

Amye snaps the bar. Giving her the wiggle room to escape. Her fourteen-year-old self lacks the physique her twenty-five-year-old frame amassed.

She forgets attempting to cancel out the marionette controls and digs under her bed. She had yet to imbibe in a rare Suleran ale she was saving because of its addictive nature and induction of powerful hallucination.

The first taste spikes her taste buds with a bitter flavor most humanoids would spit out. As she swirls the liquid in her mouth, it shifts from tart to a sweet berry. She swallows, taking a larger swig.

Her fourteen-year-old self finds euphoria in her partaking of the alcohol. I must drink enough and remain conscious and escape.

With half the bottle devoured, she replaces the cork. Much more and she won’t be able to walk. Food.

No.

It would absorb the alcohol. I need the drunk.

It disrupts—

It disrupts…whatever it disrupts.

She clamps her teeth as she burps.

Amye swallows the volcanic surge in her esophagus. She must keep it down.

Staggering to the door, the control panel lights blink. The liquor disrupts her synaptic pathways. If Amye is unable to control herself when drunk, then most of the Sandman’s control has been stripped away as well.

Now for part two of my plan. She better cooperate.

The corridor to the bridge from her quarters has lengthened by one hundred feet. She reels forward with each step, never closing the gap between her quarters and the bridge.

Amye leans herself against the wall.

“If you don’t get to the bridge, Reynard’s never going to love you,” Kymberlynn scolds her.

Fourteen-year-old Amye pushes the controls. She works herself to reach the bridge.

She nearly falls through the doors as they open.

Across the main view screen, Reynard’s fighter wing fragments from a discharging lightning bolt.

“Transport him out of there,” she demands.

“Amye, take your station or return to your quarters,” Scott orders.

“The Commander is too far out of range,” Australia informs her.

Fourteen-year-old Amye’s controls flash off as she sits.

Her real self collapses into her chair.

“Smerth’n hell, Amye. You drunk?” Doug asks.

At least I meant to do it this time.

“Drowning your problems won’t bring you closer to Reynard,” JC adds.

“How does she know?” Kymberlynn taunts.

“What do you know about my feelings for William?”

Fourteen-year-old Amye has her entrance. To know my feelings JC has read my thoughts.

Amye sticks her nose in JC’s face. “How dare you read my thoughts.”

JC shakes her head. “Alcohol loosens the brain.”

I know. I used that fact to escape the Sandman.

“When you drink, your thoughts flow as freely as the liquor you consume.”

“I don’t drink that much.” Amye tugs at JC’s Silver Dragon jacket. “There are rules for telepaths.”

Sleep.

Amye snags JC’s hand before she taps her forehead with the command.

Fourteen-year-old Amye uses the moment to activate her escape plan. Her palm smashes the controls.

Amye’s right hand laces around JC’s throat. The Eir Basilica medallion imprints on her palm from the forces exerted to close JC’s windpipe.

The obvious Calthos palm punch should have easily been deflected, but Amye’s reflexes are dulled by drink. Blood forms in the corner of her mouth.

Fourteen-year-old Amye draws the back of her hand over her lips. Crimson stains the epidermis.

If I bleed here, then my theory might just free me.

Amye balls her fist. The wild swing forces JC to move in close to prevent contact, allowing Amye to throttle her kidney. The leather jacket prevents hard contact, but it hurts the telepath, preventing any mind tricks.

To elevate the pummeling, JC tackles Amye in the gut, flinging them both over the control panel. Still woozy from the drink, it takes Amye a second longer to return to her feet, allowing JC to land a kick to her thigh. Pain screams through her nervous system. Amye draws into a kata stance. JC matches her.

How does this telepath know so much? Fourteen-year-old Amye ponders who would train a telepath in so many varied skills.

They match kicks.

Amye finds herself off-balance and tumbling over the couch. Samantha scampers from under the seat.

JC ignores both Australia’s and Scott’s commands to cease. She leaps the couch. Amye’s boot sends her headband bouncing across the carpet.

Drazz! I needed her to use the power to drive out the Sandman.

“Amye, I order you to stop!” Australia orders.

“I don’t think so.” She springboards off the table centered before the horseshoe-shaped couch.

JC raises her arm. The azure teardrop tattoos below her left eye glow. She interlaces her fingers in Amye’s short hair, driving her face toward the floor. Amye flails her arm, finding her way up the front of JC’s jacket. Forgoing an underlayer of clothes, Amye touches skin. Before allowing JC to reach her thoughts, she turns the last knuckle so her nails rake flesh. Amye dances around, catching JC in a chokehold.

Fourteen-year-old Amye broadcasts the desperate need for a mental blast.

The sting of a paralyzing blast leaves her limp.

As Amye releases JC, fourteen-year-old Amye spots the smoking deactivator in Australia’s hand. The Nysaean pacifistic philosophies never forbad her a stun gun.

Even physically unconscious, fourteen-year-old Amye hears Scott remark on her heft as he heaves her over his shoulder. She presses every button, desperate to awaken.

The Sandman grabs her, shoving her back in her cage.