Flashthen. Garon II. A hundred lifetimes away and yet close enough to hold against my heart. Cupped in my hand, eight souls which I tossed into the gloom without looking b
Then—Garon II. Weapons boxed like toys and I can’t go any further. The walls are low, the passages narrow. It’s like a palukoo trap and already I can reach up and touch the rock. It’s damp under my fingers. No, I can’t go in there—not with the steam hissing like skewered hara cats. It smells like a storm—can’t you taste the air? No—orders don’t matter—I can’t, I can’t.
Flashthere. Shoulders too big to fit; no, I can’t and I don’t care about a damn court-martial. Stop it, no. Phaser—I don’t want—The grip is slick and I can’t go in there. I don’t— Look how narrow it is, and the light, look at the light! James, don’t you see? Don’t!
Ro Laren died on Garon II; I don’t care what they tell you. Should have, would have, she did. I couldn’t go in the room. James went—didn’t listen to me. No one listened. No one saw the steam, the thin line of light. Lia’s sleeve whispered through my fingers as she passed—a second later they were all gone. No one listened. Nine went in, one came out. Blood on my uniform—and other things, too. Screams echo, you know. Then, the smell of fresh rain—broken clouds and lightning. Mission complete? Weapons bunker confirmed . . . aye, sir. Aye, sir.
Flashnow. The walls of this cell are those colors, the black, the red, the sugar. Too warm in here, but I don’t complain. Laren isn’t happy, but Laren died years ago on Garon II. I don’t think this helps, this therapy. You can tell me watching my father’s death made me panic in that bunker, you can, but I don’t know that I’ll ever believe it. I want to be alone. You don’t want to hear about it all again . . . do you?