by Sean Danker
Cyril trailed off, looking troubled.
The air behind him shimmered and a man in white armor materialized.
In an instant, chaos.
More men in white appeared. No one in the congregation knew what to do; every figure in white carried a rifle. A woman screamed, and Salmagard’s heart leapt.
It was the GRs, just like in the dramas. They were everywhere, deactivating their camouflage to step out of the air like magic. They were forcing the congregation to their knees, taking control unbelievably fast—and all without firing a shot.
How were they here? How was this possible? No one had called for help. Salmagard didn’t understand. Had they just gotten lucky? Had these men just happened to catch up just in time?
She turned to the Admiral in disbelief, but he was gazing at the stone altar.
It was a longing gaze.
Salmagard opened her mouth, but she couldn’t speak. She moved toward him, and this time no one stopped her—but with her hands tied behind her back, what could she do? She’d entertained certain thoughts as she ran through the night earlier, but now that was all a jumble. The blood pounded in her ears, amplified by her forced silence.
The Admiral looked away from the altar long enough to meet her gaze. His eyes were open, but whatever he was seeing, it wasn’t Salmagard. It was like she wasn’t even there.
The man near the podium with Cyril spotted the Admiral and moved quickly, dragging Cyril along. He forced Cyril to the ground, bound his hands in a flash, and hurried down from the stage, touching his ear.
“I’ve got him,” he said, shoving Salmagard roughly out of the way and leaning in on the Admiral, probably giving whoever was watching his feed a good look at his face. “It’s him. There’s no doubt.”
Now the Admiral noticed Salmagard. He smiled.
She couldn’t take her eyes off him. She tried to move forward, to get between the Admiral and the operative, but a female GR held her back.
“I copy,” said the man in white.
Another man materialized, forcing a black veil over the Admiral’s head. More of them moved forward, grabbing him and hauling him into the aisle.
He didn’t resist.
Salmagard pulled free of the woman, but her hands were still tied. And even if they hadn’t been, what then?
It was one thing to think it. It was something else with the GRs right in front of her—but they weren’t GRs. Now that Salmagard was looking, she could see that. They were imperials, but they weren’t Galactic Rescue. The armor and equipment were all wrong.
They looked more like some kind of strike team.
Salmagard wasn’t kidding herself. She’d been trained to calculate the odds. Even with her hands free, even with the stars aligned in her favor, what could she do?
Nothing.
They were dragging the Admiral away swiftly, one of them keeping the muzzle of a pistol pressed to his neck. More of the armored men moved in to control him. They weren’t taking any chances. They were treating him as if they expected him to be as dangerous as . . . someone like Diana.
But he was cooperating.
Salmagard knew there was no point, but she struggled with the ties around her wrists. She pulled with everything she had, even though the pain in her arm was almost enough to make her pass out. She couldn’t even ask someone to free her; she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t make a sound.
No one was paying attention to her. Not even Sei or Diana. There was a medic with Diana, looking her over, and Sei hovered fearfully beside her.
Salmagard was completely alone in the crowded church. There was plenty of noise now, but she didn’t hear any of it. As if she were standing in her very own dampening field.
The Evagardian agents had the Admiral halfway down the aisle. The others were corralling the congregation. A man made a grab for a rifle, and the armored man holding it just pushed him to the ground and held him down, tying his hands.
Cyril was in front of the altar, looking helpless and disbelieving. He knew he wasn’t going anywhere. There was a man at his side, with one hand on his shoulder, and the other touching his helmet. He was talking to someone over the com.
Reporting that they had the ship and the Admiral under control.
Salmagard pulled harder, and the world went out of focus. The pain intensified, and she ignored it, but she had found her limit. She stumbled and fell to her knees.
The medic noticed her and scrambled over. “You’re all right,” he said, pressing a hypo of painkillers into her neck. “We know what you did here. You did good work. You’re all right. You’re going to be fine. We’re here now. We’ve got you.”
The men and women in white pulled the Admiral out of the sanctuary.
“You’re safe,” the medic said.
And the doors slammed shut.
Sean Danker has been writing novels since he was fifteen. He’s a U.S. Air Force veteran, and he enjoys cooking, painting, and playing the piano.
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