In the Ch’olan language, the word is satay. When speaking in Latinum, my native tongue, one would say, pereo. I am lost. Lost to time, marooned in a barbaric and benighted world. Even before I could gather my wits, I was cast into the hell these beasts reserve for their mentally broken flotsam.
They do not know. They cannot conceive.
How, then, did the Ennoia find me? And who was that man who accompanied her? They have shown me his picture. I do not know him. All they have from their security camera is a three-quarter image of the Ennoia as she appears. They have enhanced the image. I can read the hatred in her green eyes.
For the moment, I can only hope they will keep me safe.
As long as they do, time remains my ally.
I cradle time, draw it to my breast, and caress it like a lover.
They have taken the navigator. And while it brought me to this vile place, eventually—assuming the stupid clods don’t destroy it in an attempt to learn its secrets—it will become the vehicle of my escape. Ignorant brutes cannot deny a sparkling seductress like the navigator as long as it remains in their hands.
As the Kaplan woman’s recent visit indicates, they have realized its value. They need my help, and I shall repay them manyfold for this horror and humiliation.
On that day they will weep.