Two kill-bullets came for him with unnatural slowness, like they were passing through gelatin. He could have saved himself by casually stepping aside, if his body wasn’t also anomalously slow.
His near-paralysis frightened him more than the bullets. Their Damoclean threat sparked less terror than his nightmarish loss of control. The futility felt worse than fear.
The bullets arced like miniature missiles, trailing plumes of fire. He tracked their sluggish spirals with morbid awareness. The Flagrantians, on the aperture’s other side, looked small and defocused, frozen in shooting postures. They couldn’t pass through the aperture’s shrinking circle, but their bullets had. Their gleaming rounds stood out with devastating clarity.
His throat muscles contracted, making screams that were unable to start.
A calm contralto broke in, from someplace in the labyrinth of his own ears.
“One moment,” said the nano-computer (mercifully, at its usual conversational speed).
A multitude of moments passed.
Bullets nosed toward him while the aperture shrank further. The shooters were dark and distant, at the end of a long tunnel.
“One moment,” it repeated, its tone inhumanly placid.
A tense eternity passed. The aperture sealed completely. He was now fully immersed in nothing and nowhere: non-space between worlds, both claustrophobic and infinite.
He felt bounded by a presence: immense, malevolent and uncaring. He wondered if that was the Worm.
“Stand by, please. Connecting.”
Next, a female voice—inside his skull’s architecture like the nano-computer, but hectically human.
She seemed partway through an argument.
“This was reckless from the start. I don’t care what I said. Wait, it says I’m connected. Hello? If you can hear me, we know what’s happening and we’re doing what we can. The bullets have been temporally arrested, which means—no, never mind. You’re caught up in the time effects, which you aren’t supposed to be.” Her voice was edged with blame. “If the kill-bullets hit they’ll still rip you apart. You have to dodge them.”
He listened, flabbergasted. How was he supposed to do anything?
“Do what I say. First, stop cringing from the bullets. It’s wasted movement. Now lean into one shoulder. What? Fine. So shut up and let me tell him. Your right shoulder—lean into that, and back. Let your body follow. Relax into it. Relax!”
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She sounded two heartbeats from hysterics.
His body worked with grating slowness as he fought to comply. The bullets seemed to speed up.
“Is he doing it? Is he—okay, good. Now twist. Hurry! No, I guess you can’t. Well, do your best. We’re losing the time-lock.”
He felt ashamed of his slowness. Her words felt judgmental and he was frustrated he couldn’t retort. Mostly he was furious he was about to die.
“Good. Yes, that way. Concentrate. Keep calm. Calm!”
He wished she’d stop talking. But when she went quiet, he felt panicked.
The bullets were so close he could swat them away, if his limbs weren’t so leaden. He thought of metal boring through his body.
He felt critically off-balance. If things sped up, he’d topple.
From this untenable vantage, he saw two bullets overfly his torso.
They cruised past his eyes. He examined their silvery sleekness and pin-sharp points, unable to not see them.
His hair parted in their wake, as they missed him once and for all.
Their deadly flight continued. A patch of nothingness dimpled, then irised open just ahead. They flew straight at it, like a bullseye they were destined for.
The aperture’s circle framed a woman’s face. She seemed lost in calculations, frowning with concern.
She snapped to alertness when she saw the bullets.
(Previous: Fire Folk of Flagrantia)
