Free Merkabah Rider: Have Glyphs Will Travel by Edward M. Erdelac Page A

never considered attempting.
    The Rider, for the most part,
remained grounded. Jacobi’s antics were impressive to see, yes, but
impractical. There was a haughtiness to him that the Rider had only glimpsed in
their first encounter. Now Jacobi wore it like a garish coat. He laughed as he
dodged out of the way of the Rider’s shots, and taunted him with derisive
laughter as he somersaulted through the air like a monkey. He was blindingly
fast, impossible to hit, but arrogant and overconfident. He buzzed around the
Rider like an annoying insect, flying in the ear but withholding its sting.
    It was as though Jacobi were simply
playing with him. He returned fire, but not with the single-mindedness with
which he avoided being hit. His attacks were almost afterthoughts. He was
buying time. But for what? The Rider needed to end this.
    “You’re old and slow, Rider!” Jacobi
laughed during a lull in the shooting.
    His arrogance had increased hand in
hand with his ability.
    One of Jacobi’s blasts seared his
cheek.
    Milton and Belden watched as a new
fissure opened in the unconscious man’s cheek and began to ooze blood.
    Milton slapped a bit of cotton to
it.
    “I’ve never seen anything like this,”
he said hoarsely.
    “How you doin,’ Doc?” Belden asked.
Now that he was closer to Milton, the man looked like hell. He was pale and
sweaty, with great rings under his eyes and the same bloodshot eyes and blood
encrusted nostrils as Manx. His quip about Milton having caught some bug from
Manx had been in jest, but they really did look to have the same ailment.
    “I don’t know,” Milton said. “I
haven’t been sleeping. Been getting these nosebleeds. And my throat, very raw.”
He coughed pointedly, as if the mention of it intensified his sickness.
    “Maybe you should get back to your
bunk,” Belden suggested.
    “What about him?” he said, gesturing
to Joe. “I’ve never seen a man in such a state. It’s like he’s awake but…absent.
He doesn’t respond to any physical stimulus. Even his autonomic responses are
dead. But he’s breathing. And these wounds…I just don’t see any reason for
them.”
    “He’ll just have to keep, Doc,”
Belden shrugged. “I’ve known this man for a long time. If he says he knows what
he’s about, I guess he does.”
    Milton rose, a little unsteadily, Belden
noticed.
    “Call me then, if he worsens. I’ll
do what I can, but all I can say is if any more bleeding occurs, just staunch
it as best you can.”
    Belden nodded.
    “I’m going to see to the other
wounded men, then I’m going to retire.”
    “Alright, Doc.”
    “It’s good to have you back in some
capacity, Dick,” Milton smiled thinly. “Even for a little while.” His eyes were
fluttering.
    “Thanks. Get some rest.”
    Belden turned back to Joe as Doc
Milton left the guardhouse. Outside, he could hear Manx’s voice. If there weren’t
some sort of results soon, he’d have the troops’ attention again and that would
be it for Belden, Joe, and Kabede, maybe Lieutenant Cord too, if he kept on
their side. As it was, the boys were on the verge of panic. As far as they
knew, any one of them might up and murder his friend for no reason at all. Cord’s
idea of taking their weapons away was a good one. This way no innocuous gesture
would be misconstrued. Checking a load could easily lead to a shooting at the
rate they were going.
    Meanwhile Joe Rider was somewhere
else. He surely wasn’t here. On long camps at night they had lain awake during
the war, and Joe had talked of the spirit and how it, and not the fragile body,
was the abode of a man’s consciousness. He’d told Belden these things to keep
him lucid. Often the terror of an impending battle had threatened to send him
raving and running all at once. The spirit never died, Joe assured him. Flesh
could be torn and fall away, the bones would dry up and blow to dust, but what
made a man a man would have long moved on by then. Belden had guessed then