“Halt!” someone shouted, and the Reapers slumped to the ground. Their betentacled muzzles probed the sticky netting that pressed us flat. Green floodlights washed over us, their glare obscuring the figures moving across the jointed and hinged decking strapped to the Reapers’ backs.
It wasn’t glue that made the net sticky but a million microscopic hooks that latched onto every hair and pore in my skin and every fiber of my clothing, fixing my arms and legs in place. I could see Karla’s hand only inches from mine. I tried to reach it, but the netting held me as firmly as any spider web ever held a gnat.
These Reapers were larger than any I had ever seen—as big as whales. They were heavily scarred, with great divots taken out of their flesh. Multiple eyes of diverse size, shape and color were arranged in an arcing ridge atop their heads, some open, some closed, the open ones blinking out of sync. They grumbled and growled. Their stomachs whined.
“What’s happening?” said Karla, her voice all muffled. She lie face down, her chin pressed into the dirt.
“Frelsians,” said Urszula. “It is over. We are headed for the Deeps.”
Figures clambered down from decking. A man slammed the end of his staff against the ground and the entire web glowed orange, revealing our captor’s faces.
They were all youngish-looking men, some with facial hair, some without, all Caucasian. They wore helmets that rode high on their heads like oversized yarmulkes. A membranous fringe undulated along the bottom rims as if their headwear were alive.
Some kind of padding or armor in their canvas jackets broadened their shoulders and inflated their chests. Their knicker-like leggings had built-in kneepads with flanges that extended down to protect their shins.
A man with a neatly trimmed goatee who seemed to be their leader. He came up to the webbing and crouched over Urszula.
“Well, well, what do we have here, a female Duster?”
Urszula spat and tried to claw at him with her one good hand, but the webbing held her firm.
“Identify yourselves, please. And tell me, why is this Duster with you?”
“Cummings is the name,” said Bern. “Mr. Cummings.”
“I’m … uh … James Moody.”
Karla mumbled into the dirt.
“What did she say?”
“Karla,” I said. “Her name is Karla Raeth.”
“And why is there a Duster with you?”
“She … attacked Karla,” I said.
He poked at the wrap on Urszula’s ankle with his staff. “Did you people do this? Did you render aid to this creature?”
“Well, yeah,” I said. “She was hurt.”
“Since when are we charitable to those who attack us?”
“She needed help,” I said. “She was suffering.”
The leader shook his head. “Clear the web,” he said. “Wrap the Duster. We’ll bring it back for an extraction.”
A shorter man took his staff and traced a circle around Urszula. Every bit of web outside the circle withered and disintegrated into wisps of ash. He swooped in and retrieved the bundle bearing Urszula’s scepter.
“I don’t know what you were thinking,” said the goateed man, holding up the rod, shaking his head. “But you people were playing with fire.” He tossed it to a man on a platform that bracketed one of the Reapers’ heads like a yoke.
