Dominique tastes a metallic bitterness in the back of her throat. She looks up at the Guardian elder, swallowing hard. ‘I’m cold.’

‘You’ll feel comfortable in a few moments.’

The female leans over her and smiles. ‘Pleasant dreams, my dear …

My dear …

My dear …

My dear …

The male checks Dominique’s vital signs. She’s stable. We must hurry, before the star goes supernova.

The male Guardian quickly connects a tracheal tube, intravenous tubes, and elimination hoses to Mick and Dominique while the female fits plugs into Dominique’s nostrils and ear canals. Is cryogenic suspension really necessary?

This was all discussed. One Hunahpu’s mind is in chaos, but it is still quite powerful, and it still has access to the nexus. If left unbridled, it could potentially affect the ship’s trajectory through the wormhole. Placing him in cryogenic suspension is the only way we can shield his mind from the higher dimensions.

I was referring to First-Mother. I don’t like lying to her.

She would have fought us if we revealed everything. She would have delayed the therapy, potentially risking One Hunahpu’s life.

I disagree.

As is your right. Computer, seal both pods. Begin preservation process.

A clear gel-like liquid flows out the bottom of each pod, lifting the two inert bodies as it rises to fill the tank. The Plexiglas frosts, then crystallizes.

The male elder enters the ship’s control room, his mind instantly updated telepathically with multiple status reports from the four Guardian elders inside.

The Balam?

Long gone. It disappeared through the wormhole hours ago.

Most distressing.

Is it possible that One Hunahpu is controlling it?

Impossible to say. The origins of the Balam remain a mystery.

Preparing to enter wormhole.

Appearing on the forward viewport is the wormhole’s glowing emerald green orifice, beckoning them in.

The mammoth oblong transport ship accelerates, entering the time-space conduit.

A moment later, Sirius-B goes supernova, the titanic explosion rattling time and space with the energy of 100 million suns.

A male voice … his screams echoing in the dank, dungeonlike basement.

Dominique’s consciousness moves through the antiquated concrete-block corridor of the Massachusetts asylum, following the guttural sounds to a row of cell doors. She stops at a cell marked SOLITARY CONFINEMENT. Tries the door.

Locked.

Remember, you’re in control.

‘Open, please.’

The bolt unlocks, the door swinging open.

Inside is an eight-foot-by-ten-foot cell, its bare cement floor and walls damp with mildew. A broken toilet and sink. A bare bulb, no windows.

Scratched into the far wall is a map of the world, a half dozen points X’d off in dried blood.

Mick is curled up on a wafer-thin mattress on the floor. He turns and gazes up at her, his ebony eyes so dark, it is difficult to tell where the irises begin.

‘Who … who are you?’

She smiles. ‘A friend.’

Mick sits up. ‘Dr. Foletta won’t let me have visitors.’