“Minimal activity,” the chief doctor said. “I would say he’s dreaming. Nothing more.”

  Gloria pulled Jon aside. “Cronus said Lugo had run to the Kames for help. That suggests several things. One, Cronus was in mental contact with Lugo, perhaps reading his mind. Two, Cronus can obviously engage in mental connections through the void. Three, the mental contact resulted in Lugo’s present state. Four, Cronus knows that Lugo is a Kames representative and mistook us for the Kames.”

  “How did Cronus find Lugo?”

  “That’s an interesting question. Clearly, as Zeno said, we don’t know everything about the void. It would seem there are exceptions to some of the hard-and-fast rules Zeta gave us.”

  “The void is supposed to be nothing, right,” Jon said. “A null region?”

  Gloria nodded.

  “Wouldn’t that suggest Cronus is an outside agent who moved into the void just like the Sisters of Enoy and us?”

  Gloria nodded again, “A logical conclusion. How does that help us?”

  Jon shrugged, “It’s something to keep in mind when dealing with this Cronus. He’s not a native to this non-realm.” Jon’s com unit beeped from his belt. He unhooked it. “Yes?”

  “Captain,” Doc Cullen, the helmsman, said in a slow, steady manner. “A force has taken hold of the ship. If this were regular space, I’d call it a tractor beam. I’m not sure what is doing the pulling here.”

  “We’re on our way,” Jon said. “Come on,” he told Gloria. “It looks like Cronus has begun to make good on his threat.”

  ***

  The Nathan Graham neared a planet-shaped object. That was a seeming contradiction in terms, considering the howling or void did not have up or down or distance. It was impossible for the void ship’s crew to understand the process in anything other than space-time terms, however. It was like two-dimensional paper creatures attempting to explain a three-dimensional cube. Something was happening to the ship. For their sanity, the crew called it moving, called the outside tug tractor-beam pulling and used other distance-related expressions to help them conceive what was occurring.

  “I’m showing an object on the main screen,” Gloria said from her station. “It’s a simulation of a real thing, a computer reproduction of what’s out there.”

  For the unheard-of event, Jon had ordered some of the computers turned on. Techs monitored the computers, constantly searching for void-seepage malfunctions.

  A spheroid object appeared on the main screen. It had several humps in various places and mold or green-glowing fungus patches on the majority of the surface.

  “It’s difficult to determine size,” Gloria said. “The object is surrounded by a type of reality field. It’s different from ours, but I’m assuming the field keeps discontinuity at bay. The field also distorts our void sensors. I submit the planetary-sized creature is roughly the diameter of Earth. That would make the glowing fungus patches the size of continents.”

  “Is the planet itself intelligent, or is the fungus—for want of a better term—what is actually living?” asked Jon.

  “Ah,” Gloria said. “Good question. I don’t know.”

  “Either way,” Doc said, “something is dragging our ship to the planet.”

  “We could launch Vestal missiles at it,” Jon said.

  “Vestal missiles have limited reality-generators,” Gloria said. “That allows them to build up velocity as they rush through a reality rip into regular time and space. Will the missile generators hold up long enough for them to reach the planet?”

  “We’ll launch and find out,” Jon said.

  “The warheads would presumably have little effect on a planet, or on continent-sized fungus patches,” Gloria said.

  “The five-percent light-speed…” Jon trailed off. “The missiles won’t reach that velocity until they’re actually in normal time and space.”

  “We’re defenseless,” Doc muttered.

  Jon shook his head. “We can always self-destruct.”

  Doc slowly turned around from the helm to stare at Jon.

  “If we self-destruct,” Jon said grimly, “we don’t have to fear being interred on the planet for five thousand years.”

  Doc did a slow blink of incomprehension before turning back to the helm, studying it. “The pull is stronger than before,” he announced.

  “Reverse thrust,” Jon said.

  Doc manipulated his board. There was a lurch, vibration on the deck and then it smoothed out. “It’s working, sir. Our advance toward the planet is slowing.”

  Several seconds passed.

  “Commander,” Fiona Boru, a warrant officer, shouted from her station. She had short red hair, fiery green eyes and a small golden pendant hanging from her throat. “I’m monitoring the reality generator. It has started overheating again.”

  Jon scowled. “Doc, give us more reverse thrust.”

  Doc tapped his board, complying.

  The deck vibration started again, and this time, it didn’t quit, but continued.

  “Sir,” Fiona said in a panicked rush. “The overheating is getting worse.”

  “Reduce thrust, Doc,” Jon said.

  The helmsman manipulated his board.

  The deck vibration lessened until it was no longer detectable.

  “That worked,” Fiona said, nodding while watching her monitor. “The reality generator is still overheating, but not to the same degree.”

  “Got it,” Jon said, standing, wanting to pace, but knowing that a captain needed to maintain calm in front of his crew.

  “At this rate,” Fiona said, “the generator will begin to go critical in three minutes.”

  “If we don’t resist, sir,” Doc said, “the alien will drag us through his field almost immediately.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Jon said. “But the overheating…” He snapped his fingers. “We’re not going to resist as hard, but use a little misdirection instead. Doc, use even less thrust, but do it laterally, in such a way that we’re dragged toward the planet in a spiral rather than a straight line. We’ll let Cronus drag us for now, but make it a longer process.”

  “I understand,” Doc said, nodding, manipulating his board.

  “Fiona?” Jon asked.

  Warrant officer Fiona Boru studied her monitor. “There’s less overheating, sir, but it’s still happening. The newly emplaced cooling units are helping, too.”

  Jon sat down in his chair. “If this strains our reality generator, we have to hope the process strains Cronus as well.”

  “Possibly true…” Gloria said.

  Jon bent his head in thought, looking up a moment later. “Cronus would pull harder if it was easy for him.”

  Gloria frowned. “We know so little. It is unfortunate Lugo didn’t come around. I’m sure we would have learned something important about Cronus if he had.”

  “Maybe,” Jon said. “But if Lugo is out of the equation for now, let’s figure out what to do next.”

  -7-

  Jon wasn’t one hundred percent correct about Lugo—that he was out of the equation for now. The man was comatose, but his unconscious mind still functioned and so did his weak empathic ability.

  The medical team had unhooked Lugo from the brain scanner, so they missed the increased brain activity. Nor did Lugo moan as before or twist in his sleep to indicate anything was happening.

  His unconscious mind sensed Cronus, as it was similar in many ways to the Kames connection. The similarity of the linkage brought comfort, but the differences began to tell. Cronus was selfish, and he was only one, alone. There was no unity from billions of Kames connections. There wasn’t a feeling of caring or love, but of domination and self-gratification.

  Lugo Malagate, you are nosing around where you do not belong.

  “What are you?” Lugo mentally asked. It was as if he was dreaming all this.

  I am Cronus, which means best, superlative, absolute and highest.

  “Is that it?” Lugo asked sarcastically.

  What else could possibly matter?

  “Well…how can you live in the void?”

  Through power of will and strength of character.

  “You’re arrogant, all right.”

  I am Cronus, and I am dragging your abode to me. Soon, Lugo Malagate, you will be my prisoner.

  “You mean you’re dragging the Nathan Graham to you?”

  The others are sport. I will digest them in short order. You, Lugo Malagate, I will keep around a good long time. I’ve grown weary of taunting the Sisters of Enoy. They’ve become a brood of gloomy witches and no longer respond enjoyably to my stimuli. You, Lugo, will eventually despair, of course, but until then you will fight. Yes. I sense you are a fighter of note. At least, I read that from you. Is that an accurate assessment of your being?

  Lugo deflected the question by asking one of his own. “How are the others sport?”

  They resist bringing their abode to me and do so in a unique manner. They hope to survive, or so I believe. Knowing they are doomed despite their every effort, I enjoy the brief struggle. It is fun to crush the spirit out of a being.

  Lugo had known cage fighters like that. Heck, he’d know loan-shark bruisers that loved listening to a person beg. That was the key to such a one’s character. They loved inflicting pain and dominating others because it gave them a thrill. Several times, Lugo had faced an opponent like that. Two times, he had stomped such a one flat. The last time—

  Even though he was dreaming all this, Lugo twitched in his comatose state.

  An aide in the medical facility aboard the Nathan Graham happened to notice. She watched, seeing if he did it again, turned away, beginning to wonder if she’d really seen anything but finally reported the facial twitch to the doctor on watch. The doctor tapped her chin before going to see Lugo.

  The Kames rep was no longer twitching.

  “He did this,” the nurse said, mimicking the former facial tic.

  “Interesting…” the doctor said. “Roll the brain scanner back to him. Let’s see if there’s any mental activity.”

  As Lugo and Cronus mentally debated ideals, the doctor ran the scanner. It beeped alarmingly, and that shocked the doctor.

  “I’ve never seen or read anything like this concerning a coma patient. What’s going on with him anyway?”

  “Should we try to wake him?” the nurse suggested.

  The doctor almost laughed. That was a stupid idea. The nurse obviously did not know much about coma patients. But this was the void, and the man was a Kames rep. Maybe this had—

  The doctor reached out a thin hand, shook Lugo’s left shoulder, noticed how muscular he was and noticed—

  Lugo roared, sitting up, his eyes flashing open. He brought up his left fist and swung a short, savage uppercut against the doctor’s chin. The surprised doctor lifted up onto her toes as her eyelids fluttered. Then, she collapsed onto the floor, out cold.

  The nurse backed away from the madman.

  Lugo eyed her, beast-like. Then he slid off the medical table, ripped the EKG pads from him and headed for the hatch.

  “What are you doing?” the nurse shouted. “Stop! You’re sick.”

  Lugo did not look back, if that was Lugo Malagate in charge of his own mind. He rushed through the exit and sprinted for the corridor. He laughed evilly as he did, deciding that he was going to destroy the reality generator and make it easier for him to pull the resisting void ship to himself.

  -8-

  Bast cracked his knuckles, closed his tired, gritty eyes and thought about getting some shuteye. He’d been helping monitor the reality generator since the tug-of-war with the alien entity dragging the Nathan Graham to a weird planet.

  Small humans—small compared to Bast—worked the wall controls of the humming, giant-sized, box-like machine. The chief engineer had gone through the hatch inside the generator. It always felt like ants biting his skin when Bast went in there. He did not like it one bit. The engineer was an old sod, seemingly able to take anything. The man was really good at keeping Enoy tech running.

  Just then, a human rushed through the hatch into the main chamber and snarled like a wild animal.

  Bast turned, as did others.

  The crazy man with the wolfish smile charged the nearest human, a tall tech with buckteeth.

  Bast noticed several things. The wild man wore a green medical gown, and it did not have any material in back. The muscular patient moved fast, and he knocked out the bucktoothed tech with one punch.

  Bast realized he knew the madman. It was Lugo Malagate, the Kames rep.

  “Hey!” Bast shouted in his deep voice.

  The madman ignored the shout. He was focused on the inner entrance to the reality generator.

  A tech in the madman’s way turned to run. Lugo reached out, grabbed the back of the guy’s collar and yanked him near, spinning him around. Lugo cocked his right fist and bashed it against the man’s face, crunching cartilage. The man went down and flopped around on the floor, blood gushing from his broken nose.

  Lugo laughed evilly as if he enjoyed the spectacle.

  That enraged Bast. He hated bigger, stronger people picking on those who were weaker. Maybe that’s why he’d always admired Jon Hawkins. The man defended those weaker than him. He fought the biggest bully in the universe—the AI Dominion.

  It dawned on Bast that Lugo wanted to get inside the reality generator for evil reasons, to sabotage the ship and thus the mission. The realization came as Lugo knocked two men’s heads against each other, which produced a loud and ugly thumping noise. Both of the techs dropped to the floor.

  Lugo continued for the inner hatch. The old engineer popped his head out, saw the carnage the madman was wreaking and actually stepped out, lifting a wrench-like tool. He shouted something in a foreign language and charged Lugo, swinging the heavy tool. Lugo dodged with ease, tripped the old engineer and kicked the oldster in the throat, making the engineer gurgle.

  The rage in Bast became something else then. This was a holy mission to revive the Sacerdote race. He could kill to see this through. Bast did not like the idea of killing, but if that’s what it took to rekindle the Sacerdotes, then so be it.

  “Lugo!” Bast roared once more. He’d almost reached the laughing, snarling madman.

  Lugo glanced over his shoulder, and the look in his eyes was otherworldly and sinister beyond anything Bast had faced before. Without hesitation, Lugo picked up the heavy, wrench-like tool and spun around to fight.

  Bast was huge compared to Lugo. He must be a heck of a lot stronger, too, but Bast wasn’t a fist-fighter.

  Lugo swung the tool, bashing one of Bast’s forearms. That might’ve broken a man’s bone, but Bast’s forearm bone was much stronger.

  The shock of the blow caused Bast to swing his other arm even harder, with his huge fingers curled into a fist. Lugo dodged the swing. The man had uncanny reflexes.

  “Gonna kill you, Sacerdote,” the ex-cage fighter sneered.

  Lugo jabbed with the tool, the end punching against Bast’s gut. The Sacerdote went oof and doubled over. He couldn’t breathe. Lugo snaked the tool back, danced around the Sacerdote and saw his chance. Bast’s head was down. Lugo raised the tool—

  Bast roared, sensing his life, maybe the mission and therefore the resurrection of the Sacerdotes in mortal jeopardy. He charged like a bull, using his head like a battering ram.

  Lugo swung, and the heavy tool caught the middle of Bast’s upper back. It hurt like hell, but it was nothing compared to the head butt against Lugo’s face. It felt like butting stone. Fortunately, Lugo wasn’t heavy enough to resist Bast’s greater weight. He went flying off his feet, thumping the back of his head against the floor.

  That should have been the end of the fight, but something in Lugo gave him endless vitality and strength. He thudded against the floor, and instead of slumping unconscious, he tried to shoot back up.

  Bast used a wrestler’s move, falling onto the prone man. Lugo was fast, but not fast enough to dodge again. Bast dropped on the rising man and knocked him onto the floor. Bast pinned the writhing madman, even though Lugo’s knees were like pistons, trying to strike the mountain of flesh off him, but not doing much harm.

  Bast shifted, sitting on Lugo’s stomach, grabbed the wrists and pinned them against the floor. Now, the man’s knees started knocking against Bast’s back harder than seconds ago, but they still didn’t hurt much.

  “Stop it!” roared Bast. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Kill,” Lugo snarled.

  “Because of what happened at Baker?” asked Bast.

  “Kill the Sacerdote. Cronus rules here. Cronus is great.”

  “What’s a Cronus?” asked Bast, confused.

  “Me!” Lugo snarled.

  Bast finally recognized something odd in Lugo’s eyes. He’d heard of demon possession before. It was part of Sacerdote religious lore. Something possessed Lugo. This was the void, the Howling, maybe even some people’s concept of Hell. Why wouldn’t demons live here?

  “No,” Bast said. He released one of the pinned wrists and began to slap Lugo in the face, back and forth, back and forth. It brought blood to the man’s lips, and it might have killed him, as Bast began slapping harder and harder.

  “I’ve marked you, Bast,” Lugo roared. Then, his eyelids fluttered, and a different look came into his eyes.

  Bast almost slapped one more time for good measure, but refrained. “Lugo Malagate?” he asked.

  “Why are you beating me?” Lugo asked quietly, exhausted and bruised.

  “It’s really you, Lugo?”

  “Who else would I—” Horror entered Lugo’s eyes. “You mean I wasn’t dreaming?”

  Bast climbed off the battered man’s stomach and pulled Lugo to his feet. “You’re coming with me.”

  “Where to?” wheezed Lugo, beginning to cough and wincing each time.

  “The bridge,” Bast said. “Call the Centurion,” he told the others watching in horror. “Have Security meet me on the double. I have to get to the bridge.”

  -9-

  Jon was unaware of the incident in the reality-generator chamber until several marines manhandled a limp Lugo Malagate onto the bridge. Bast followed, bruised and bleeding in places, with his garments torn and his left arm in a makeshift sling.