REYNARD’S BRIDGE ENTRANCE attracts the crew’s full attention not because of their shirtless captain but the petite brunette girl covered in his jacket.

Scott’s sight line follows the teardrop round of each porcelain cheek dipping out of the leather.

“Status report,” Reynard orders.

“The Throgen cruiser’s collecting fighters while on a pursuit course.”

“Yeah, I might have pissed in the Overlord’s Cheerios. Get us into hyperspace.”

Amye pushes past Leeka, finally joining the entire crew on the bridge. A Silver Dragon jacket should only be given to the worthy.

“Destination, Commander?” Australia inquires.

“Guil III.” Amye’s suggestion draws the crew’s attention. She opens her fist. Rolling across her open palm are three magnum bullets, all with azure tips.

Reynard confiscates them. Scott must have only made three as a prototype. Time for a trial test. He ejects the clip, flipping out three rounds with his thumb. “Michelle.”

Samantha jumps from the princess’s lap to the coffee table in the center of the horseshoe-shaped couch. Michelle stands facing her captor.

Reynard pushes a blue-headed round into the clip. “Michelle.” He pushes a second round down into the clip, inching the round tight against the spring.

“Commander?” Before Australia questions his actions, JC takes her by the elbow along with Chelsie, maneuvering them away from Reynard’s sight line to the cat.

The third bullet tops off the clip.

“It’s not enough. The Sandmen drink our memories and eat our brains.” The clip locks into place. “But they force us to lose trust in one another. Force fear upon us.”

“They breed distrust, Commander,” Scott adds.

“Commander, rashness in this situation—”

“Shut it. All of you.” Reynard points the barrel at the princess.

“I’m not a Sandman!” Michelle protests, desperate to save her life. “Commander, you swore on your life to protect me!”

“I did promise.” He cocks back the hammer for effect. “Samantha should be warning us when Sandmen are near.” He takes aim at the feline.

Michelle drops the cat. Her years of courtly training makes her jump away appear planned and natural instead of panic induced.

“I’m not a Sandman.” Samantha adds, “I’m the one guiding you to the rest of the Hex Darmight.”

“I’ll just have to take that chance.” Reynard adjusts his aims.

Amye steps in his line of fire.

“Out of the way.”

“Let me do it. The annoying thing has damaged my calm for the last time,” Amye pleads.

“Amye!” he orders.

“Please, William, let me shoot that creature.”

Reynard quickly gives in, twirling the gun on his trigger finger, flipping it so the grip faces Amye. “Here.”

Amye’s careful aim allows the blue bullet to rip through the protesting Samantha’s skull, exploding her chest, sending meaty chunks all over the bridge carpet.

Sulfur mist fizzles from the dead cat, transforming into the sable robes of a Sandman.

Reynard grips his blade. As it materializes in his hand, the Sandman absconds toward the doors.

“Shoot it, Amye.” I fucking forgot to rack the slide and eject the last round. Now she has a chambered azure round.

The blue opal in JC’s headband and the three teardrop tattoos under her left eye glow.

The Sandman speeds through them toward the bridge doors. Twisted, mangled faces of previous victims howl as they pass.

The Dragon rocks from a plasma blast.

“Throgen battle cruiser in targeting range,” Athena reports.

“Battle stations.”

The crew’s mad scramble to the closest controls leaves Scott at the helm and Leeka fixed near the bridge doors.

“Give me some kind of course,” Scott demands.

“Aus, prep the coordinates for a jump to Guil III,” Reynard orders.

Amye tossed his magnum to him. “Chelsie, strap Leeka in, then report to the environmental station.”

“Launching…fighters.”

“There’re some kind of capture ships.” Reynard skips the explanation for later.

Chelsie pulls the seat belt strap over Leeka’s lap. The coat falls open, exposing naked flesh. The confused girl says nothing. Having spent years in a refugee camp, the cadet recognizes exposure to a traumatic event.

The main screen fills with black. Flashes of failed plasma blasts pop around the end of the viewing camera.

“It’s matching our speed. I’m barely keeping just out of weapons lock.” Scott keeps a steady tilt on the forward joystick.

“Time to hyperspace jump?”

“Four minutes to lock calculations,” Australia reports.

The Dragon shimmies from a blast.

“Scott?”

“Power loss in the starboard thruster.”

“Rerouting power.”

“They have a target lock,” Amye announces.

“What’s the survivability rate of a space walk in hyperspace?”

“Commander?”

Reynard leaves his station. His piloting skills do no good as long as he’s not at the helm. “We have a suit for Chelsie?”

“In the Mecat storage bay.”

“Try not to get us dead. There’s something on the wing.”