The entity passed through another city. Landriders went berserk and rampaged in its market, demolishing stalls and wrecking booths. Alley vermin scampered up the walls and burrowed into hidey holes. Nobody knew what spooked them, but a few people shuddered for no particular reason. Those were the only signs of the entity’s presence. It was gone in moments, being little more than a passing sigh.

  ***

  The shryken could sense living organisms. Slade did not seem surprised by this revelation. It was constructed using various types of liacyte, and the remains of a surge-beast known as a skaliph. Skaliphs could control reservoirs of liquid metal called “illium” within their diminutive forms, more than their small bodies, which could fit into the palm of somebody’s hand, should have been able to hold. It was a small tidbit she dropped during their first “training session”.

  It could see the grass, the trees, anything that crawled, slithered, or moved. The more Vincent delved into the shryken, the more he saw, and the more overwhelming it became. He described all of this to her, of course.

  “You are trying to glide before you can run,” she said, “and you are trying to run before you can walk. This ‘ethereal form’, as you call it, is what you use to change the conduits, is it not?”

  “Yeah. It’s the interface,” Vincent said.

  “Then you should learn to control it before anything else. Can you move it?”

  “Yeah, sort of.” He held the shryken in his hand, his ethereal form standing in the middle of its script. If he stood still, he could get it to walk around.

  “Walk over to that tree,” Slade demanded, pointing, “but before you reach it, have the ‘other’ you touch its toes. Do not stop to do it.”

  Vincent tried. But as soon as he stood up, the ethereal form stopped. He started walking over to the tree and at the same time,tried to get the ethereal form to bend down and touch its toes. He couldn’t do it. Instead, his physical body tried to bend over, making him feel like an idiot.

  “Do it again,” Slade said.

  The two Vincents wanted to move in tandem with each other and stay in sync. It was far easier to control the ethereal form while staying still. But in a heat-of-the-moment situation, that would be impractical. He knew what Slade was trying to get him to do. It was like learning to control the wings and the tail. His brain had to accept that there was a new “limb” it needed to account for, only the limb happened to be an entirely new body. Was that healthy for the mind though?

  “This is infuriating,” Vincent chuckled, after trying and failing for the fifth time.

  “An imager must learn to project first,” Slade said, “Projection is the act of envisioning yourself as the body you wish to control. Before I could control the spark, I had to envision what it is like to have no limbs, no air, no touch, taste, or smell. Only sight. I could ‘feel’ up, down, left or right. You are not an imager, but the same principle applies. Your innate talent allowed you to bypass the first step.”

  “The second,” she said, “is separation. You must keep your projection separate from your flesh and blood body. You must be the host for both entities.”

  “I think I have a better way of thinking about it,” Vincent said, “This...it feels like I’m dreaming.”

  “Dreaming?” Slade repeated.

  “Yeah. So...” He tried to think it through a bit. “Do you remember your dreams, or do you just forget them when you wake up?”

  “Sometimes, though I do not see the relevance.”

  “I think your bodies operate the same way the body of a human does when it comes to sleep. It slows down, and the brain puts the body into a state of partial paralysis so it can recover its energy. You can’t move. But when you’re in REM sleep, which is what we call the state where you can actually dream, your mind will recreate your body. But it’s…it's not perfect. You can touch stuff, but it’s not really touch. It’s like a facsimile of touch. That’s what this feels like. And I think why it’s so damn difficult is because when you’re dreaming, or at least when I’m dreaming, as soon as I begin to wake up and feel the real world, the dream vanishes in seconds.”

  “In other words,” he continued, “the ethereal form feels like a dream body. The problem is, I’m awake and my senses might be overriding it. If I’m not moving, it’s a lot easier. And if I’m sedated, it’s far easier. I think that’s why I was able to hijack your shryken so fast when you drugged me.”

  “So, you are saying you should be sedated,” Slade said.

  “I already tried it back in Meldohv, so I know it works. But that wouldn’t be useful in a combat scenario. So, no.”

  “Just practice. Carry the shryken or another conduit in your hand wherever you go. Familiarize yourself with the idea of another body acting independent of your own. Project. Separate.”

  “Yeah, I will,” Vincent said as Madeen’s shadow passed over them.

  “That is all for now,” Slade said.

  “All right then. When do you think–”

  Before he could finish speaking, she vanished right before his eyes. He stumbled backward, swearing. But then he remembered she carried something called a sister ring on her person. It was a ring that allowed her to teleport to an identical ring nearby. He briefly wondered why such a thing wasn’t more common among the soldiery.

  When he returned to the camp, there were sparring sessions all around. The shandan did not sit idle while they waited for the rescue. They intended to stay in shape and stay sharp. And so, horns clashed against horns, soldiers tackled their comrades. Imaging conduits flew, weapons clanged. Vincent felt out-of-place as he always did.

  As he walked through the camp, something felt different. He didn't feel empty and aimless. He had a goal, a problem to solve. His hand was clasped around the shryken’s handle. His ethereal form walked in sync with his body. He tried to concentrate, he tried to imagine his consciousness dividing into two vessels.

  "Ok…walk ahead of me," he whispered, willing the ethereal form to increase its pace. Nothing. He only ended up increasing his own pace.

  "Son of a bitch," he muttered. It didn’t help that he still had to focus on controlling the wings and tail. Those were huge distractions.

  He was grateful Sperloc wasn’t around when he got back to the campsite. Tuls was there, however, laying splayed out on the dirt, wings flattened on the ground as if he had been steamrolled.

  “Hey, Tuls, are you all right?” Vincent asked.

  Tuls stirred and opened his eyes.

  “Shoot...sorry, didn’t know you were napping.”

  Tuls grumbled something and tried to go back to sleep. Ever since his tail injury, he napped more. Vincent was told it would grow back. Maybe that’s why the relos was so tired these past few days. His body burning energy so it could heal.

  He paced around the fire pit, trying not to disturb Tuls. He focused on the ethereal form, willing it to do its own thing, to move independently of its host. It would not. So, he took a seat.

  Move my left arm, he thought. His physical arm stayed in place. But his ethereal arm lifted upward, then he moved it around. He was doing well until a fly landed on his ear and broke his concentration. The ethereal form snapped back into place as he smacked it.

  Okay, try again. He was able to lift both of the ethereal form's arms, get it to stand up and walk around. Okay, now I'm going to stand up, he thought, I have to keep you separate from my physical body somehow.

  He failed immediately. As soon as he tried to get to his feet, he lost control of the form.

  So he tried again. Since it took far more concentration to control the ethereal form than his physical body, he let it lead him. Again, it stood up first and he mimicked its actions, acting like an after-image. There, they both stood in one spot. There was a moment of wavering in his concentration, but he made the ethereal form step forward, then it took another step, and a third step. He followed behind.

  Ok, good. We're making progress.

  He had to stay calm and imagine that he was asleep, that the ethereal form was part of a lucid dream. In this way, he could prevent the senses from his physical body from overwhelming his concentration. As a light sleeper and an insomniac, he had experienced this strange form of bilocation plenty of times before, usually when he was beginning to wake up. He was aware that he was asleep, that he was in bed, but he was also present in the dream. This felt similar...very similar.

  I can do this, he thought.

  That’s what he did. He let the ethereal form lead him with varying degrees of success. Then he tried the reverse. He would take the lead and it would follow him. He would take a seat, then it would sit down after he did. He took it slowly of course, making sure not to move too fast, nor did he let the ethereal form stray too far from what he was doing. Otherwise, it would snap back in sync with him. Separation. He had to learn this, he had to master it.

  “What are you doing, Brother?” Tuls grumbled as he stirred out of his nap.

  “Oh...nothing,” Vincent said, slightly embarrassed.

  Tuls tilted his snout. “Nothing?” he repeated.

  His ember eyes seemed to see right through him. Vincent was reminded that the relos could sense raw emotions. He wished Tuls had not shared this secret with him, and he wasn’t quite sure why he did considering that, in his own words, his kind was loathed by the world. He wondered if Tuls could actively sense Vincent’s discomfort. If he did, he didn’t say anything.

  “Just ignore me,” Vincent said, “It’s hard to explain what I’m doing. Go back to sleep.”

  He spent the rest of the day practicing projection and separation. When he walked around the camp, he tried to have the ethereal form lag behind or walk ahead. It took a fair amount of concentration. But he was already beginning to see an incremental amount of progress. He walked not as one, but as two separate entities.

  “Vincent Cordell!” a booming voice bellowed. It was Akhil. Startled, Vincent nearly soiled his pants. When Akhil saw he had his attention, he gestured him to follow.

  “The La’ark wants to see you,” Akhil said, answering his unspoken inquiry.

  “What about?” Vincent asked.

  Akhil didn’t answer. He expected the shandan to head toward The La’ark’s canopy. Instead, he headed toward an isolated cluster of rocks just outside of the camp. There, Vincent saw her waiting, leaning against the rock. The La’ark was the leader of the expedition. He did not know her real name, assuming she even had one. Only that she was well-regarded.

  A lightning of a scar cut through the “V” of coarse, peppered mane that striped the top of her snout. It was trimmed to a fuzz, adding to the severity of her countenance. Nobody else was around, as far as Vincent could tell.

  “Vincent Cordell,” The La’ark said. Exhaustion weighed heavily on her voice.

  “Ma’am,” Vincent said.

  “Ma’am?” Akhil repeated.

  “Sperloc came to me,” The La’ark said, “He expressed a few concerns. He does not think we should allow you exercise your talents.”

  “I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to,” Vincent said.

  “I never prohibited it,” The La’ark said, “and I still do not intend to. However, you will tell Sperloc everything you learn.”

  “What? Why?”

  “If the Puppeteer was telling the truth,” Akhil said, “that your form is Herald-work, then we must assume your talents are too. We will not be left in ignorance.”

  “You will tell him everything you know...and I mean everything,” The La’ark said.

  Vincent didn’t like it, not one bit. Akhil could see this.

  “Is that going to be a problem?” he asked. He did not raise his voice. He did not even sound angry. However, his tone held threats. These people did not trust him.

  “You’re trying to keep this a secret, but you want me to tell Sperloc everything. Don’t you think the others will ask questions?”

  “Sperloc is a historian. You will be giving him lore. There would be nothing unusual about that,” The La’ark said, “There’s no reason to mention the Heralds.”

  Vincent clenched his teeth. He understood The La’ark’s reasoning. He remembered the words Thal’rin said to him before they left Meldohv Syredel.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  “...remember that you are still small and that your power comes from something that most likely seeks to manipulate you.”

  Still, he hated it.

  “Fine...I’ll tell him everything I learn. But...you need to tell him to cut out the attitude. He’s been giving me shit ever since we left Crefield. It’s tiring.”

  “Giving you ‘shit’?” Akhil repeated.

  “He’s being difficult,” Vincent explained.

  “Sperloc is Sperloc,” the shandan said, “Bite your teeth and thicken your scales.”

  Vincent assumed the phrase was the Falian equivalent of “grow a spine”.

  “I will talk to Sperloc,” The La’ark said, “but you will cooperate with him. You have no idea what the Heralds were capable of.”

  One of them kidnapped me from Earth, ripped me apart and turned me into this, Vincent thought, so yeah...I have an idea.

  The memory of his transformation was locked behind fog. He only knew it had been horrific. The Puppeteer said this amnesia was by design.

  “Girashnal knows mortal minds are fragile. You will forget pain. It wants your mind to remain intact.”

  Still, he would occasionally get flashes, imagery from a never-ending nightmare. They were enough to stop him in his tracks.

  "It's been days since Crefield," he said, "You haven't told me what the Black Heralds actually are. Like…why are you so afraid of them? How are they worse than the Puppeteer?"

  "Pestilence. Destruction. Corruption, and blights," Akhil said, "All of these on an unprecedented scale. They caused wars that ravaged the world."

  "All you need to know is that if your captor is one of them," The La'ark said, "Your every action will be scrutinized."

  “Fine. So, is that all?” Vincent asked.

  “It is not,” The La’ark said. She used her wings to push off the boulder, then she cracked her fingers. “You have been told that the Shaydos are coming?”

  “Yeah, he said something about them,” Vincent nodded toward Akhil, “I don’t know who they are, other than some zerok who cut themselves off from other zerok.”

  “They cannot talk to other zerok,” The La’ark clarified, “They cannot even talk to each other. They are silent. They communicate using gestures and ground scratchings. Those who cannot speak are good at keeping secrets. And you...you are a secret that must be kept.”

  “Why am I going to Gullreach, though?”

  “Like the Syredels, it is a lore city,” Akhil said, “We need to know what you are.”

  “So, I’m just going to be studied...” Vincent couldn’t believe it.

  “Ayrlon still weeps,” The La’ark said. “Whatever disaster her tear foretells, it has not been averted. You will be treated well...but we as a people, cannot afford to ignore you.”

  This summarized Vincent’s life. He was the danger. He was the threat. Even in Oz, he was an aberration. He was sick of it. But what could he do? Hostility would not serve him. He already tried that. He needed these people.

  “All right...” he said, “Anything else?”

  “After we have left, your cabras will be told everything we know,” Akhil said, “but until then, you are not to tell them anything. Keep doing as you have and keep it a secret.”

  ***

  “You have already separated both of your forms?” Slade asked the very next day, sounding surprised. They both met up in the exact same spot. Sperloc was there taking notes this time, but he otherwise remained silent. Slade didn’t bother to ask why he was watching. She did not know about the Black Heralds.

  “Yeah. I struggled with it a lot...” His ear twitched when he heard a phantom laugh, which was hardly louder than a whisper. He looked around.

  “What is it?” Slade asked.

  “I think the schizophrenia is returning.” He thought about dosing himself with the Triasat. But since the substance is finite, he intended to save it and weather the symptoms.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “I struggled with it a lot yesterday, but I started making breakthroughs late last night. Right now...” He stood up and held out his right hand. “I can hold out my right hand, but the ethereal form is holding out its left. It's messing with my head. I don’t even know if this is healthy, having my mind occupy two places at once.”

  “There is a danger that the mind gets lost," Slade said, "When this happens, you may lose control of one body or the other. When an imager undergoes training, they learn to establish an anchor. That is, an action they can use to remind them of which body is the real one. I no longer need one, but when I was a child, I slapped my tail against the ground. I did not expect you would need one so early.”

  “Yeah...well, in our stories, whenever somebody’s transported to a fantasy land, somehow he’s inexplicably a genius,” Vincent said, “Maybe that’s what’s happening here.”

  Slade remained indifferent to his sarcasm.

  “Forget it, I was joking. So...an anchor. Something physical to recalibrate the brain. That makes sense, but I don’t think I need one. Having this body is enough.”

  “That may be...but I would consider one,” Slade brought a knapsack with her. Something inside of it had been twitching. She walked over, opened it up, and pulled out two creatures that were tied up. One was an arachnid that had five spindly legs which were bound together by string. The other was a crustacean with three eyes.

  “Your goal,” she said, staging both on the ground, “ensnare one. Then ensnare the other. Do both while walking.”

  “Got it...” Vincent delved into the shryken. He stood in the middle of its script, surrounded by its lore.

  He began to pace in front of the creatures. Between one step and another, he focused. His ghost wanted to match his movements. He willed his two selves to remain separate, a feat that was easier said than done.

  “Dammit,” he muttered. A few phantoms whispered their observations.

  “You guys need to be quiet,” he whispered.

  “Neither of us spoke,” Slade said.

  “Not talking to you,” Vincent said.

  Why is this so freaking difficult now? He thought.

  Maybe it was because he was under pressure, and he was being watched. He had to find a way to relax. The phantoms continued to chatter among themselves, stringing together a chain of incoherent ideas and broken sentences. In many movies, schizophrenic voices were depicted as audio hallucinations. They were that, but such depictions were lacking. The voices were also internal. They were familiar. Their words came from both within and from outside his self. In an odd way, though they were distracting, their words were like ASMR to his ears, working their way into his mind.

  He had been at it for a while now, trying to separate himself from the ghost. But as the phantoms yammered, a flatness came upon him, a psychosis-induced calm, perhaps. All thoughts seemed to have less weight and less meaning. He was flesh and blood, but he was also...vacant. His emotions simply became muted. He felt increasingly disconnected from himself. The ethereal form stepped ahead of its host.

  Using its eyes to look around the shryken’s hierarchy, he found the bit of code that, when translated into something he could understand, equated to “ensnare TARGET”. Delving into TARGET, he saw a bunch of abstract signatures floating around him. They represented all the life forms within his immediate vicinity: Slade, himself, Sperloc, and a plethora of insects and birds. Their life forces surrounded him.

  Vincent, the ethereal form, raised his hand and grabbed the signature belonging to the arachnid. He dragged it into the sequence, replacing TARGET. Then he activated the command. Argent shot forth from the dagger and encapsulated the wriggling critter.

  “Would you look at that?” Vincent mused. The ethereal form snapped back to his body. “I’m awesome.”

  Slade, who had been sitting in the grass, tossing a knife from one claw to another as she usually did, raised a brow.

  “Why are you celebrating?” she asked, “Your goal is to ensnare one, then the other.”

  “Because it’s progress,” Vincent said, “I’m becoming godly.”

  She didn’t react to this. So, he continued. The sun rose and the day grew warm. The schizophrenia continued to manifest its symptoms, but that didn’t stop his progress. There were two Vincents walking among the phantoms, moving independently of the other. He could feel a light breeze tickle his wings…except he did not have wings. He was a being of lore and fire, melding with the shryken’s script.

  It was afternoon when another breakthrough happened. While his physical body walked, the ethereal form dragged the signature for the arachnid into the sequence. Then, after the arachnid was ensnared, the ethereal form dragged the arachnid signature out and replaced it with the crustacean's signature. He did this all without breaking his step. He ensnared one target, and then the other.

  “Oh, fuck yes!” Vincent threw the shryken to the ground, did a victory leap, spun around and fist pumped the air. He caught Sperloc’s eye., which killed the mood.

  “Good,” Slade said, “do it again.”

  “Sure...but first, I’m going to take a break, I’m getting hungry.”

  Vincent made sure to pack a loaf of feln bread that morning. He got it out of the sack he’d grabbed, sat down and forced himself to eat. Slade, in contrast, walked along the brush, stopped, reached down and dug out another crustacean. The critter vibrated in protest, sounding like an overly loud cicada. She pithed it with the knife, broke its legs off one by one and sucked out their meat.

  “That’s disgusting,” Vincent said.

  Slade raised a brow, shrugged, and spit out a piece of shell.

  “So...” Vincent said, “I assume you know about the rescue?”

  “I know Gullreach sends Shaydos,” Slade said. Her words were muffled by crustacean flesh. “I do not know much. Only that they come for you.”

  “Yeah...” Vincent tried to avoid thinking about it too hard. “Me and my ‘cabras’. So, what are you going to do? Stay here with the rest of the army while they figure out what the hell they are going to do? Or are you going to come with us?”

  “The Shaydos come only for you,” Slade said, “and zerok cannot carry landriders. I will not leave Holan behind.”

  “Well then...I guess that’ll be the end of Imaging 101.”

  “Imaging ‘one oh one’?”

  “It’s a joke. Where I come from, introductory classes are often called 101. This is my introduction to imaging...sort of. Hence the name, Imaging 101.”

  Slade stuck a leg in the side of her mouth and bit down on the carapace until it cracked.

  “I gave you direction,” she said, after pulling the leg out. She pried the shell open to get to the rest of the meat. “You demonstrate aptitude.”

  Vincent supposed that was a major compliment.

  “It’s a whole lot easier than diving into the spark, so I don’t think it can be compared. I could never do that. This is like...” he hesitated. He knew Sperloc was writing down everything he said and scrutinizing every detail. “I feel like there’s an intuition guiding me.”

  Slade did not comment. And the silence coming from Sperloc seemed louder than it was before. Vincent lifted the feln bread to take another bite. Phantom bugs erupted from it and skittered across his arms. He flinched a little bit before realizing they were a hallucination.

  “The Bane?” Slade asked. That was their name for schizophrenia.

  He looked up at her, only partially aware that she had spoken. He had to shake himself free of the haze.

  “What?”

  “You see things.”

  “Oh, yeah. It’s weird that it freaks your people out so much. I don’t get it. The looks you people give me...” Vincent watched as the phantom insects fell to the ground and dissipated from existence. “But then again, people like me are considered freaks on Earth too.”

  “You should be dying,” she said.

  He was about to tell her she was being melodramatic, but then he remembered the channeler they encountered in Pearlwood. The Bane had him yammering with hysteria while he bled from every orifice on his face. Even now the image haunted him.

  “Does it scare you?” he asked.

  “Few things do.”

  He could tell that was true. Much of the time, Slade seemed indifferent to the things happening around her. He took a bite of his feln bread, secretly lamenting the taste. If boredom was a dish, he was eating it. He almost asked her for a bite of the crustacean she poached.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” he said.

  Slade broke the claw off the leg she was suckling on and used it to pick her teeth.

  “It confounds me,” she said, “It does not scare me.”

  “Fair enough.”

  A silence followed, an awkward quiet with just him, her, and Sperloc waiting to transcribe their conversation. Slade’s expression remained inscrutable. Why did she want to help him grow? What was she doing there when she saved Menik and him from the stormspawn? Everywhere he went, she somehow kept popping up.

  "So, what's your story?" he asked, attempting to make some sort of small talk.

  Her ear twitched. "I do not understand the question."

  "How did you become a bounty hunter, or Kiolai, or whatever?”

  He did not expect her to answer. She seemed like the kind of person to keep her past to herself.

  “I grew up on the streets of Tahlkin,” she said, “Fended for myself. Learned from the city chaff. Proved myself to the mob leaders. Stole for them. Killed for them.”

  That last one shocked Vincent, but he let her continue instead of asking for more detail.

  “Earned enough money to get out of the streets and leave Tahlkin. Joined a caravan. Learned to read from a noble. Learned advanced mathematics. Left the caravan. Wandered. Learned various skills from people I met. Then I became a bounty hunter. Turned in one of my former mob bosses. Assassinated another. Became a Kiolai at seventeen years of age. Earned a lot of money. That is my story.”

  “I see.”

  “Your people...they can treat the Bane,” Slade said, changing the subject.

  “We can only suppress some of the symptoms. But we can’t cure it,” Vincent said, “Why?”

  “If your healers were to study one of our Bane-afflicted, do you think they could find a way to suppress it?”

  “Maybe.” Vincent wondered what inspired this line of questioning. “It would probably take a long time though. Groundwalker body-chemistry has to be way different than a human being’s body chemistry. Heck... your blood is blue. Human blood is red. Back at Lorix’s Observatory, I took one of the medicines my people use to suppress the symptoms. It made me very sick. So my people would have to study your biology from the ground up.”

  Vincent’s ear twitched as a figure stepped forth from the air itself. It wasn’t real, it was a hallucination projected by his schizophrenia. An indistinct man dressed in military uniform stood there, sunglasses covering his eyes.

  “Speaking of which... if you hear me talking to somebody,” Vincent said, addressing Slade and Sperloc, “it’s the Bane. There’s somebody standing in front of me. Sometimes he shows up when I’m experiencing symptoms. Calls himself Sergeant Dave.”

  He waited for Dave to say something, but the phantom simply stared at him. Odd. Normally the sergeant was quite a talkative personality. The phantoms were not actual entities, of course, they could only emulate sapience. However, this was out of character for Dave, who fancied himself a gruff, military persona. After a minute of the phantom just standing there in silence, Vincent ignored him.

  He finished his lunch and immediately went back to training. Splitting himself into two separate bodies was becoming easier now. He wasn’t sure why. He was reminded of a condition some schizophrenics experienced: depersonalization. Or rather, the out-of-body experience that some went through when depersonalizing.

  Vincent went through this himself maybe one or two times in his life, one of them being right after his mother’s death. He had felt like an unwilling, disconnected observer in his own body. His sense of self was non-existent. He had been lost in a void, unsure of whether or not he was really him.

  This was different, of course. In this, he actually inhabited separate forms. His sense of self remained. However, the sensation was surreal and sometimes, he wondered if he would get lost between his physical body and the ethereal form. But his physical form was the anchor. Its touch kept his mind tethered.

  Three times now, he successfully ensnared the two critters, one after the other. He could do this. Vincent the ethereal form was like the shryken’s operator. Vincent the dragon-form was its carrier. He could move around in the heat of battle while the operator swapped targets. He was nowhere near that skilled yet, but now it seemed to be within reach.

  Occasionally, Sperloc would interrupt him and ask him to explain what he was doing. It would take several minutes to explain everything he saw and the tuhli pushed for every trifling detail, demanding that even the most abstract concepts like life signatures be described. He did not allow for there to be any unknowns. Vincent hated it. But he complied. When evening began to settle, they called it quits.

  “So, where are you going to go? After you get out of here, I mean,” Vincent asked Slade. He noted that Dave was still standing in the exact same spot, as motionless as a statue.

  “Same place you are going, Gullreach,” Slade said, “Everybody on this expedition will be questioned. That...and there are jobs.”

  “Do you have a home you head back to when you aren’t bounty hunting?”

  “Home is where I travel,” she said.

  “So...no house?”

  “No need for one.”

  “Ah...”

  Vincent heard weeping and turned around. What? Tears were running down Dave’s cheeks. He was crying.

  “What is it, Cordell?” Slade asked.

  “You...go on ahead. It’s probably nothing.”

  Slade shrugged, then she vanished. Sperloc, however, remained behind, documenting everything Vincent did. Ignoring the tuhli, Vincent approached his phantom.

  “Dave...what’s up?” he whispered.

  Dave did not answer. In fact, he didn’t seem to acknowledge Vincent’s presence. Vincent said Dave’s name several more times before giving up. But when he turned to leave, the phantom spoke.

  “I broke them. I’m a traitor. We should have run. My species are pilots. I’m the rock. You have to-”

  Dave spoke like a broken, malfunctioning record player. His sentences were a string of incoherent gibberish.

  “I’m sorry Dave,” Vincent said, feeling empathy for the projection, “I wish I could help.”

  Dave vanished when he headed back toward the camp. However, he was strangely shaken by the phantom’s appearance. The sergeant wasn’t real. He was nothing more than a symptom. Still, seeing him weep felt “wrong”. When Vincent got back to his canopy, he got the vial of Triasat out. But he stopped himself.

  No, he thought, I need to save this.

  Eventually, he would run out. Schizophrenia was an inevitable aspect of his life. He loathed it with every fiber of his being. But he would have to cope with it just like he did on Earth. So, for now, he stowed the Triasat and let the phantoms stay with him.