Free Quest for the Sun by V M Jones Page B

from the rest, flawless rubies: Alt. Control. Q. And Delete. I positioned my fingers carefully. Double-checked. I wouldn’t want to press Delete by mistake.
    Karazeel breathed in my ear: ‘Remember, dear nephew: no tricks.’ I didn’t trust myself to speak. Just closed my eyes and pressed.

    I’d done it twice before, but it was worse than I remembered — way worse. Like being in a car wreck in pitch dark without a seatbelt … or a human pinball in a real-life game of Galactic Starburst. I rode it out curled like a foetus, breath held, eyes screwed shut.
    At last I felt it: the rushing-water rising that meant it was almost over. Gasping for breath in the gluey air, battered and disoriented, I struggled to my feet, staggering and falling against the corner of a table, staring round for Karazeel. Punch-drunk from the transition, my brain registered fragmented images, a slide-show in shades of grey.
    Night, pale moonlight slanting through the window. The room deserted, computers silent, the globe under its cover in the corner; the door open; the sleeping house beyond. No Karazeel.
    I needed to make the most of every second. Stumbling to the corner I pulled the black cloth off the plasma globe. I couldthrow it over Karazeel, blind him — then I thought of turning it on, as a distraction. I flicked the switch. Purple-blue tendrils of lightning sprang to life in the glass sphere, twisting and writhing as if they were searching for a way out. For a moment I was mesmerised. I longed to touch it, to feel the cool tingle of the dancing strands under my fingers. The plasma globe was harmless, everyone knew that …
    To most people, but not to me. And suddenly, like another jigsaw-puzzle piece falling into place, I realised why.
    As I hesitated beside the globe there was a change in the air behind me. Not a noise; a presence where before there’d been nothing. I shuffled into the shadow of the doorway as a shape materialised out of the darkness, sprawled over the computer table. There’d be no better chance. He was face-down, groaning, his back a perfect target.
    Flick the cloth over his head — and strike.
    My hands were shaking, my chest filled with sick hollowness that made it hard to breathe. There was no sign of the red haze now, nothing to mask what I was about to do, only emptiness. I groped in my pocket for the knife, my hand shaking and slick with sweat. Tightened my fingers round it, yanked it out. It caught on something — pain stabbed up my arm and the knife was falling, spinning in slow motion onto the floor and under a table. My hand was on fire. I stared at the welling blackness at the base of my fingers, dripping into the shadows at my feet.
    Time turned treacle-slow — but not slow enough.
    In a single lithe movement Karazeel was on his feet, spinning to take in the room, me, the open door … the globe. He stared; gave a single, shuddering sigh. For an instant the wavering strands of plasma were reflected in his eyes like fluorescent blue veins; then he turned from me and advanced on it, hands outstretched.
    This was it — my last chance, my only chance. I had to do it. I fell to my knees, scrabbling desperately for the knife. It was nowhere. I had no time. I had to do something — fast. Theglobe would hold him, but not for long. Then he’d be through the door and after Q.
    I couldn’t let it happen. I lurched to my feet, grabbed the heavy crystal pitcher of water from the nearest table. Yes . It would be enough to knock him cold while I ran for help or found the knife. I took two swift strides forward …
    What happened next was encased in a fragile soap-bubble of time, stretching thinner and thinner in a moment that seemed to last forever. Karazeel, crouched like a vulture over the dancing electric tendrils of the plasma globe. Me, creeping nearer, jug poised.
    A sudden shriek from the dark hallway — a trailing feral screech that froze me