“Lock it down.”

She does.  The air cracks and pops, the lights go out, and there’s nothing but the glow of the portal filling the warehouse.

Rammer clicks the safety off his thrower.  He watches the portal writhe.  He tries to forget his itchy nose.

“Anything?” Reagans voice floats from behind cover.

“Not yet.  You sure the coordinates are right?”

“They’re the ones you – wait, I’ve got something.”

The portal stretches, pulls, membranous and translucent, and Rammer doesn’t like what’s on the other side.  “Reagan,” he yells, over the keening, “you sure they’re right?”

“Yes.  Wait.  Except for this one.”


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