The
inside of the large helmet contained four gems. The first projected
the sounds and images surrounding the Golem armour into the mind of
its pilot. The second whispered the voices of the pilots of the
Golems to each other. The third warned of incoming attacks. No one
knew what the fourth gem did - the makers of the large battle suits
had disappeared from Citadel centuries ago.
Letting
the pulses and flashes of the gemstones ebb and flow in his mind was
a skill Stryker had honed over years. The stream of sensations
syncing with the movements in his muscles, commanding the huge steel
suit to fly and hover, twist and roll through the shining space
surrounding the fortress. Today he was repelling a small raiding
ship.
As
he crashed into its hull, a highspeed shoulder-tackle, buckling beams
and popping rivets, the gems briefly flickered. Their signals
stuttered, faltered. For a brief, dizzying moment he was only aware
of himself encased in the armour, staring at the four stones. The
world beyond, the fury of battle, became suddenly distant. He felt
trapped, or adrift, floating or drowning, somehow both and all of
them at once.
This
was the sixth time it had happened to him this past year. The Golem
had been checked and rechecked by the station's Arcane Smiths. They
couldn't find a problem.
Which
meant...
No comments:
Post a Comment