Don’t come back. Don’t come back. Contrary to what he said aloud, Rafe really would prefer it if those other vessels decided he wasn’t worth the risk.

He’d severely depleted the power core with his flashy display. He’d not seen what other choice he had. He needed into that wormhole, and they stood in his way. Given his dwindling supplies, he needed a quick jump to somewhere no one was expecting him.

Returning to Earth wasn’t an option. The bounty hunters he’d gotten rid of surely hadn’t been the only ones dispatched to drag him out of there.

The Milky Way galaxy, while pretty from afar, didn’t have anything worth sticking around for.

The wormhole it was, but he didn’t have time to drag the enemy craft into a chase that would allow him to give them the slip and run back to the hole. He wanted through now, and he would go through now, if those other ships cooperated.

Which, of course, they didn’t.

“Juhgga beast-humping son of a whoring Kuffa.” While one ship remained to the side, not threatening at the moment, the other two came at him from dual directions while the wormhole, just behind, taunted.

How to get through?

“Annabelle, how much juice do we have left?”

“We are currently out of fruit beverages.”

“Don’t fuck with me.” He knew his AI understood the Earth slang he’d picked up during his stay.

“We are at sixty-three percent, Captain. Statistics indicate you could possibly eliminate two of the threats but not the third.”

“You are a ray of fucking sunshine, Annabelle. Any chance we can use the first power core at all?”

“Your optimism is inspiring, Captain.”

“Watch the attitude!” he warned, yet couldn’t help but smile. His ship’s sense of humor was growing on him, and it was interesting to note that he was seeing his ship more and more as a person rather than a thing. Perhaps the Internet corruption wasn’t a completely bad thing.

He took back that thought a second later. “Annabelle, what are you doing?”

“I see an opportunity. Overriding control.”

“Excuse fucking me?” He waggled his joysticks, to no avail. Annabelle had shut off his access to the ship. “Turn those back on right now.”

“In a moment, Captain. Please wait while I maneuver us past this obstacle.”

This obstacle was two freaking raiders, small and light, zeroing in on them and firing their lasers.

He’d admit himself impressed when his ship dipped, faking out the missiles, then shot straight up and then forward with a speed that smoothed five years off his face.

He had to strain to look down at the dials indicating various ship attributes. Hull pressure. Radiation. Air quality. Power remaining.

What power? His ship must have overridden the safety controls for acceptable speeds and power use in space. The core burned at an alarming rate. Were he using his primary, he wouldn’t worry overly much, but he was on his secondary already, no backup for it, and it was down to twenty-two percent, eighteen, sixteen…

“Annabelle, we’re going to run out of power if you don’t give me back control.”

“The captain will have to trust his machine.”

Was his ship still pissed about that? Probably. He had a knack for irritating women it seemed.

He couldn’t see Emma, not with the hologram still surrounding them, but he could at least talk to her.

“Get those panties ready, wench.”

“You think we’re going to survive your ship turning into HAL?” Hysterical laughter went with the reference he didn’t understand.

What he did grasp was her lack of faith. Little did she know it wasn’t his time yet. “I’m too pretty to die.” And horny. “Now hold on tight, wench, because, I’ll be damned, my crazy ship did it, and we’re going into the wormhole.” A touch too fast. And it occurred to him that he should probably give his wormhole virgin a warning. “Just remember, nothing you see in the hole is real.”

Unless you listened to the priestesses of the Gytanoi clan—a group of travelers deeply religious, who believed the secrets to the universe and the future lay within the visions seen in the void.

I hope not. Because his visions were really messed up.

Further thought and words were stolen as his ship plunged into the wormhole. For some reason, the all-encompassing darkness made him think of a song he’d heard on earth. A song by a duo called Simon and Garfunkel, “The Sounds of Silence.” Except he didn’t consider the darkness his friend.

Depending on who was asked, people experienced wormhole travel differently, just like time passed differently—it might seem like the trip took the blink of an eye or a lifetime. No matter how much time seemed to pass, not even a smidgen was lost. Although that was only true if the vessel managed to complete the trip.

Where a wormhole spat a ship out depended on a few factors, the angle as the craft went in being the most important. Most folks set their course beforehand and then prayed they got it right. Most smart captains and crew didn’t mess with their set course once they hit the void.

Rafe never did like to follow tradition. He knew that, if he retained enough wits, a captain could shift the trajectory inside the wormhole enough to affect where they came out—and foil any who thought to follow. Some claimed, in the void, with the right angle, a captain could even control the when. Claimed being the keyword. Rafe had yet to meet anyone who actually had. Everyone he’d met only ever admitted to knowing others who supposedly managed to travel through time.

A shame. He would like to have gone back in time and fixed a few things. Changed the course of history and my life.

But now wasn’t the time for regrets. The wormhole swallowed him.

At first, he saw nothing, nothing but darkness. He knew better than to let the nothingness consume him. In the blink of his mind’s eye, the blankness turned into swirling colors and lights, dancing all around him, looking as if they would touch him. He’d left the damned hologram active when they went in the wormhole, and now it seemed as if he floated in it.

He tapped his finger against the button he could feel on the armrest to get rid of it, but rapid jabs of his finger against the sensor pad didn’t remove the sensation of hurtling through a barfing rainbow.

Closing his eyes did not reduce the effect. On the contrary, it intensified the careening sensation and triggered the first of the visions.

Blood dripping from a knife. Fingers pointed in accusation.

Eyes heavy with passion, nails digging into his back.

A gun in his hand smoking.

Stone cell. Bars and torches. Moans of despair.

Stealthy movements as shadows slipped through halls.

The whine of a listing craft on a collision course with a caravan.

A throne. A throne on a planet with—

He sucked in a deep breath as the visions spat him out, much like the wormhole spat out his ship. It took a few minutes of deep breathing to regain his wits.

What had he seen? What did it mean? What did—

“—saw myself doing a hula dance on top of a bar. With blonde hair no less. That’s just nuts,” Emma exclaimed.

“What’s nuts?” he murmured, the grip of the visions slackening.

“This vision I had. I dreamt I was in this really swanky place. We’re talking totally alien digs with like topaz glass all over. And me, dressed in this totally slutty outfit, dancing. Like so totally not happening.”

“I don’t know,” he said, letting the familiarity of his fingers and eyes checking over his ship dispel any lingering traces of the vision. “I think if we got a few drinks into you you’d totally turn into a party girl.”

“I’d never be drunk enough to wear the outfit I saw.”

“Never say never.”

Because it was like dangling candy in front of a pirate. Now he was doomed to try and make it happen.