Prologue

"My stubble itches."

This thought flickers across his consciousness. A giddy wave sweeps through him, from somewhere in the ancient parts of the mammalian brain, followed closely by a stabbing pain in his midsection.

Damn. At least two broken ribs in there, and is that whistling sound a broken seal?

If so, he won't have long to wait, among the debris that was his ship. A Cobra waggles its wings at him, taunting playfully as it jumps to frameshift. His cargo is gone. There's a piece of his old Anaconda's fuselage floating in a spiral toward a distant star, as if unable to give up the task for which it was designed.

His breathing is coming short and space seems to be contracting, narrowing to a smaller band. "Tunnel vision, perfect," he grumbles, wasting precious air in the process. And all he can think of, as his vision starts to blur, is how much he wishes he could reach that itch. His hands float up toward his helmet to try to assuage the irritation, as a bright light appears to draw him near.

All is inky blackness as his eyelids flutter to a close.