XX | Synergique Amore
My son lives, thought Shekalane, numbly, as she struggled toward him through the battling crowd—the blood of her would-be rapists still drying upon her clothes. And yet he is about to die.
How could it be otherwise when the raiders piled upon him one after another—for he had turned against them immediately after the second explosion—and now sought his every artery with their pikes and swords and knives? No, she would never reach him in time—even if she did, what good would her little blade possibly be against such a seething throng?
For the world had gone mad, and seemed to move like molasses in her state of shock and confusion. The ship was sinking, that much was clear—nor did anyone, save the slaves, seem to care; for they were all of them, both the revolutionari
