Retribution (Galaxy's Edge Book 9) by Jason Anspach & Nick Cole

Author:Jason Anspach & Nick Cole [Anspach, Jason]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Galaxy's Edge Press
Published: 2018-10-28T22:00:00+00:00

***

Skyla returned with a sandwich made from a seedy bread that smelled like cake. “Here, kiddo.”

“Thanks,” said Prisma. She took a bite before saying, “I finished up. We’re all out of tamir root. But that’s okay.”

“How so?”

“Because when I was helping in the garden yesterday I helped dig up at least three bushels of it. It’s drying now in the smokehouse.”

Skyla nodded. “That’s good. We need it to—”

A sudden clang sounded from a room down the hall. Both Prisma and Skyla jerked their heads toward the noise.

“That’s odd,” said Skyla. He began to move down the hall.

Prisma followed, eating her sandwich along the way. “Someone else here?”

“Not that I know of. I—”

And then Hutch was standing in the doorway of his room, wobbling from weak legs too long confined to a bed. He ground his palms into his eyes, as if attempting to rub away his disorientation. “I…”

“Whoa, easy there,” Skyla said, jogging toward the Nether Ops legionnaire and grabbing his shoulders in an effort to steady him. “You’re going to want to sit back down.”

Skyla was a big man. A legionnaire. But he looked skinny next to the hulking Hutch. Even after months of inactivity. So much for atrophy.

“No, I…”

It was clear that Hutch remained in a cloud. He probably thought he was still aboard the Cybar mothership. Still attempting to escape. Fighting for his life.

But as Prisma approached, she saw something that made her blood run cold. She dropped the sandwich on the floor, a large bite still in her mouth. Hutch’s eyes had flashed a brilliant turquoise, and just beneath the surface of his skin, binary sigils lit up, glowing in undulating patterns of neon yellow and magenta.

He barreled past Skyla, knocking him into the wall, lunged at Prisma, locked thick, powerful hands around her throat, and began to squeeze.

Prisma felt her feet leave the floor as she held on to Hutch’s forearm in a desperate attempt to pull away. Her head felt as though it was going to explode. She tasted blood mixing with the partially chewed sandwich in her mouth. She couldn’t scream. Couldn’t even choke out a gurgle of a cry. And there was no air. She hadn’t even had the chance to suck in a surprised breath before the attack begun.

The monster before her held her in his hands as though she were nothing more than eggshell.

She could choose not to die. But that was a choice of inanity. An impossibility.

She was being killed. Slowly. One second at a time. The hands clamped tighter and tighter, and her eyes threatened to burst from her skull.

Prisma chose. She chose to fight.

With what strength she had left, her legs, already flailing, now attempted to kick Hutch as hard as they could, wherever they could, with the hope of connecting with his groin—anything to force him to let go. She reached out with her hands and clawed at the Nether Ops legionnaire’s face, drawing blood with claw marks that might have impressed Skrizz if he were here.

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