Prologue

T he sky was on fire.

At least, that was how it looked.

Flaming debris rained down upon the riverbed, as thick, black smoke filled the air.

Where was this?

When was this?

She didn’t know.

The source of the smoke and debris was a fiery hunk of metal that was now half embedded in the ground. She blinked slowly, taking in the view.

An aircraft, wrecked, twisted, useless.

Something running down her face.

Blood?

She wiped her hand beneath her nose, then stared at her fingers.

Blood.

Blue blood.

Sitting up, she saw another person. Was it the pilot? Passenger? She thought it might be a woman. Yes, definitely a woman, although her features were fuzzy, distorted, almost as though she was seeing her through one of those funhouse mirrors.

The woman held a weapon, a pistol, in her hand, and raised it. Then she lowered the gun.

More smoke.

So hard to see.

But something was approaching the wreckage.

Or someone.

She strained to see who it was, coming toward her and the fuzzy woman with the pistol. The pace was deliberate, almost plodding, rhythmic. Advancing through the smoke, closer and closer.

And then she saw the blaster.