audio293874931.cyfile [saved on 9/3, 1:05]
This is Day 1 of the Heymon Project. The traps are set. My colleagues laugh at me for entertaining the notion that any heymons have managed to sneak into our woods, but we’ll see. According to my research, they are curious and adventurous creatures. I have little doubt they’re
In four minutes, I’ll be dead.
I didn’t plan to go down like this, but you know what they say: Make plans or don’t make plans, God hocks a loogie in your face regardless. So here I am, dripping with holy spit in Jackson Square. Here I am with a splitting headache
The ornate front door of The Inventor’s house had a glass knob and engravings of vines crawling over the edges. I didn’t knock—there was no need. The Inventor wouldn’t answer, anyways. Mother had tried to convince him he needed an assistant to run the house, but The Inventor wouldn’t have it.
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Halfway down 22nd Avenue, a linebacker wannabe nearly knocked me over. I twisted around him, threaded between a mother and daughter, and sidestepped a yapping fur ball. All the while, my focus never left the woman.
She stood with her back against a storefront wall, staring at me with purple eyes. Yep. Purple.
Boom!
Christopher jumped up, knocking their board game off the kitchen table. He turned toward his sister, Paisley. “What was that?”
She shrugged. “Sounded like it came from outside.”
Rushing to the window, Christopher tore back the curtain of their third-story apartment and stepped onto the balcony. The view made him gasp.
“Psi Team Leader, this is Command. Perimeter is secure. Go.”
Seeker Soren Pentam activated his helmet camera and radio. “Copy, Command.” He pounded the door with a gloved fist. “Tomaz Blue, this is the Protectorate! We have a writ for arrest and search!” He paused, counting seconds. His teammates, Enforcers Fennik and Jacosett,
Tank had a sixth sense about space junk. He could intuit the difference between a salvageable satellite and orbital debris, a useful skill ever since the collapse of the Sagan-Hawking interstellar gateway had induced collisions and made debris removal a prime concern for space travel. If only his spacey superpower could differentiate
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Six months into the sleep-zombie catastrophe, the survivors knew one thing: they were grateful for the winged, magic sloths.
One such survivor, Leesia, leaped over a crumbling stone wall marking an old boundary between fields. Gasping for breath, she dropped to her knees. Her brother-in-law Rayth joined her a moment later.
Forin would do it this time. Master the All-Gate. And prove his father’s doubts wrong. All the other Gates were limited, only allowing travel between two specific worlds. Heck, sometimes you had to travel thousands of miles just to get to that world’s Gate. The All-Gate would change that. Forin could think of a place,
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Kae shifted in her seat as the dean of the Academy squinted at her over his spectacles. “Miss Ruve, it is highly irregular for you to request an audience instead of submitting an application form.”
Kae hesitated. “My ability is… unusual.”
“What exactly is your ability?”
“I …” Kae cleared her throat, which felt strangely tight.
“You knew this day would come. Why did you insist we stay?”
Wilson pretended to load his gun. He had far more potent weapons at his disposal, but he needed the excuse to avoid Maria’s accusing gaze.
Outside, hideous shadows danced on the window, the first visible evidence of the approaching mob. Glass shattered. Screams.
Next up was the Aleuthian. It stood at the front, fidgeting with its hair and clothes with three of its rubbery appendages.
From the seat next to mine, Nimthron yelled, “Hurry it up already. Some of us don’t have three hundred years.”
Nimthron turned to me. “That’s only if it’s female, of course. Males have significantly shorter lives. But it’s nearly impossible to tell.”
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