He saw the sunlight flash off the twirling steel. His mind registered the tumbling axe, but Nikolai's powerfully thewed legs failed to respond as quickly as his sight. The dark-haired warrior felt the searing fire of the axe's bite as it tore into his right side, cleaving through his boiled leather armor as if it was water. The force of the blow through him off balance and he fell to the earth like a hewn oak.

His fellow speaker droned on, but Nick had long since tuned out the words. He pinched his leg - it brought scant relief to his numb mind and his heavy eyelids drooped lower and lower until they drifted closed. The young man started, his eyes snapping open. Nick's head rested on the long desk's rough blue tablecloth. The room was silent, and he raised his head to see every pair of eyes focused on him, including the dark, glaring set that belonged to the other presenter.

"The choice is a simple one, Nick." The disembodied voice thundered. It was tough to tell whether the voice was real or simply in his head. Two doors, each brilliantly illuminated, floated in the dark void before him.

"I see the potential. I feel we're on the same wavelength." The slim man in the immaculate suit leaned back in his chair. His dark eyes surveyed the three men before him. "The question is: what can you bring to the enterprise? Say, hypothetically, if you had three million at your disposal." Nick clenched his jaw to keep it from hitting the floor and did his best to keep the dollar signs from his eyes. To his right Bradley coughed once and shifted in his seat.

Nick had a problem, a couple of them really. First, fairy godmothers were not supposed to be real. Second, in everything he had read they were kind, homely old women with wings and a wand that sparkled. His was very real, achingly beautiful, amazingly irate, and armed with a nasty looking sword.

"I've come to collect, Nick." Idessa crossed her supple arms. It did amazing things to her cleavage, which the young man found hard to ignore. "I really don't give a drunk pixie if you weren't even born."

The small fighter spun, flipped, and rolled. Each maneuver threw Nick against the restraint harness. Still connected to the external feed he helplessly watched as the high energy weapons of their pursuers - particle beams, x-ray lasers, plasma bolts, you name it - narrowly missed due to the antics of the craft's AI.

"How you doing Nicky?" the fighter asked.

It was a good thing that up and down had no meaning in space, but he still felt ill. "Like I'm in a blender set on puree. What did you do to tick off the Ylarians?"

"Newsflash," the smooth alto voice of the AI began, "check the message. They want you flesh bag."

The editor shook his head as he read. His pen scribbled and slashed. Nick caught himself tensing every time he heard the rasp of the ball-point against the once pristine paper. "Nick, Nick," the balding man muttered. He looked up and over his glasses at the young man. "Were you even there?"