Page 27 of Silent Lucidity

Tenthil’s eyes widened in sudden realization. He forced his bioelectric field back up, slung the bag of supplies over his shoulders, and darted out of the equipment room.

The Master chuckled. “I have whispered your name into the Well of Secrets, Tenthil. The time has come to admit my mistake, to correct it, and continue forward. Make it easier on all of us—do not resist.”

Abella stood with her back flattened against the wall beside the equipment room entrance. Fear gleamed in her eyes. “Tenthil, who the hell—”

He dipped his shoulder, pressing it against her middle as he lifted her off her feet and dove toward the far side of the bed. Though the sound was muted, he heard an undulating buzz from the garage. He buried the claws of his free hand in the bed as he bounced off it and rolled onto the floor, landing with his body over Abella’s and hauling the mattress over them.

Abella screamed as an explosion shook the room and debris pattered atop the mattress. She grasped his combat suit and buried her face against his neck.

The sound—and stench—of burning fabric suggested the mattress was on fire. Tenthil tugged his blaster free and aimed it under the bed. The smoke in the air reduced the feet of the acolytes who stepped through the breach to shadowy apparitions, but that was all Tenthil needed.

He fired at their feet. Grunts of pain accompanied the thumping of falling bodies.

Tenthil broke Abella’s hold and pushed himself to his feet, shoving the mattress aside. He swung the blaster toward the gaping, smoldering hole where the entry door had stood a moment before. The overhead lights flickered off; small fires burning on the floor, mattress, and bed cast the room in a dull orange glow.

Angling the blaster down, he squeezed off five more bolts into the writhing acolytes on the floor, ceasing their movements. The slowly dissipating dust revealed only two bodies. Tenthil knew there were more assassins outside; the Master wasn’t foolish enough to believe two would be adequate for this contract.

A small device flew through the opening. Tenthil perceived only a small cylinder, no bigger than his thumb, before instinct kicked in. Turning his face away, he squeezed his eyes shut.

The device hit the floor with a delicateclink, followed immediately by a deafening bang. The flash of light it emitted was powerful enough for Tenthil to see through his eyelids even while facing the opposite direction.

His ears rang in the total absence of sound, but when he opened his eyes, his vision was unaffected. He turned back toward the hole and charged forward just as another acolyte came through the breach.

Tenthil leapt over the bed and slammed his knee into the side of the acolyte’s head, his momentum driving them both to the ground in the kitchen. Tenthil rolled aside, landing a half a meter away with his back against the wall. The acolyte scrambled unsteadily to his knees and swung his arm around to aim his blaster.

Shoving himself away from the wall, Tenthil kicked the acolyte’s hand. The blaster flew out of the acolyte’s grip and clattered across the room.

Two more black-clad assassins rushed in. Tenthil leveled his blaster, but the acolyte on the floor lunged at him before he could fire. He drove his elbow down on the acolyte’s spine twice, denting the backplate of his foe’s armor.

The newcomers raised their blasters and aimed them at Tenthil.

The Master had made the stakes of this contract clear—they were to complete it no matter the cost, even if it meant throwing away the lives of their fellows. But what did these acolytes care about that, so long as they protected their own lives? They enjoyed no camaraderie with one another.

Growling, Tenthil hammered the butt of his blaster into the back of the still-struggling acolyte’s head, grabbed hold of his armor, and hauled the acolyte’s body up to shield himself just as the other two opened fire.

The acolyte shook as plasma bolts struck his armor and released a pained groan—the sound was still distant to Tenthil’s recovering ears—when the protection finally gave way; even the best armor couldn’t withstand sustained fire in the same place without time to cool. The acolyte’s mouth opened in an agonized, silent scream. It would only be a matter of seconds before the bolts burst through the breastplate. Tenthil already felt the heat, smelled the burning flesh.

Someone screamed—Abella, her voice muted by the temporary damage to his hearing.

More blaster shots sounded, but they originated from another part of the room.

Abella.

Tenthil risked a glance around his meat-shield to see the remaining pair of assassins taking fire from behind; they were turning toward the source.

Abella!

He roared, leapt to his feet—lifting the dead acolyte with him—and charged the assassins.

Caught between two enemies, the assassins froze for an instant. Tenthil threw the body at the one to the left and tackled the other, forcing the vorgal—the same one whose leg he’d broken earlier that week—back-first into the growing fire on the floor.

Tenthil slashed his claws across the vorgal’s face, shredding flesh and rending muscle, over and over in rapid succession, dark blood splattering his hands and arms and hissing as it fell into the flames.

From his peripheral vision, Tenthil saw the other assassin shove the corpse aside and struggle to his feet. Tenthil turned, prepared to leap at his final foe, but a bolt of glowing plasma struck the assassin just beneath his left ear and blasted out the right side of his head, leaving a mess of charred flesh behind.

The assassin stumbled aside and fell to the floor.

Tenthil snapped his gaze to Abella; she stood on the far side of the bed, a blaster clutched in both hands, her eyes so wide and terrified that he feared they were about to pop out of her head. Arms trembling, she met his gaze.

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