The Rebel Faction

Issk's face remained emotionless as the woman struggled. He had been motionless throughout her reminiscence, but inside things stirred. He was a soldier, and soldiers knew about impossible situations, but good soldiers knew there was no such thing. However, she had given a glimpse into a situation he had only heard about in myths, and if there was a solution, it lay far beyond his ability to see.

Eventually, the woman weakened, and Issk watched her get taken away. Issk wanted to sit a while longer, and cursed himself for not having the skill or ability to give words of comfort. But before it could rise, he crushed his self-doubt and regret. It was of no use, and he could not afford to waste time.

He paused as he passed an attendant, and said "Make sure she is taken care of, and if she calms down try and bundle her testimony with the rest of Prometheus's data. I would like to speak to her again, should things go bad or good, to see if she can tell us any more" The attendant nodded, and Issk headed for the walls.

The streets were eerily still, and to the naked eye completely bare. An unimformed observer would think Issk had lost his mind as he skipped, hopped, and paused along his route to the walls, twice calling out a call-sign before continuing. But Issk knew a wrongly-placed step or a forgotten call-sign at this level of alert could be fatal.

Eventually, he arrived at the walltops. Men were shoulder-to-shoulder, rifles poised, and hands steady. Runners made their way up and down the length of the line, passing messages and checking in. Issk could see a terrible force aligned against them on the other side of the walls, but a clearing marked an area out. A solitary... creature... stood in its' centre. One of the scouts from the vanguard came up to Issk and pointed him out.

"That's the one sir. There was a second one, but I can't see him from here, but I don't think that means he isn't around..."

Issk nodded, and picked up a body-length shield. A bit of an old design, but anything to keep his enemies at bay would be useful should the meeting prove to be a trap.

The men bowed respectful, and each watched as he passed with an anxious look. The doors opened, and a battalion filled in the space between them. Issk slipped out, and the doors once again shut, leaving him alone. But unlike past experiences, the living dead did not rush him, instead they stayed completely still. Issk advanced slowly towards the clearing, and still they did not attack. At last, Issk found himself face to face with the creature.

"So" he said "What do you want?"

Pain.

Pain is a funny concept. Biochemically speaking, pain and pleasure are the same thing… a series of electrical transmissions from the nerve endings in the body to the subjects brain. They travel along the same nucleus of nerves and end up in the same brain. The difference between pleasure and pain, is distance.

A centimeter.

A millimeter.

Less.

The brain is an interesting thing. The most powerful of all organs, and yet, powerless of it’s own accord. When faced with the prospect permanent paralysis, most people would choose death.

Sometimes people are not offered the choice. And sometimes, the difference between life on a bed and their body in the ground is merely a matter of distance.

A centimeter.

A millimeter.

Loss.

“…ow…”

When one is paralyzed, the body does not stop moving. Although often not visible to the outside observer, even a seemingly resting body is alive with activity. Cells move against one another and from one area of the body to another, swapping fluids and energies and generally doing what cells do. But one’s body is always in motion.

Even when it cannot move.

“…I… can’t…”

Tiny movements, a paralyzed body is capable of. The lungs, for example, continue to move despite the loss of one’s mobility. Even someone with a complete paralysis requiring life support and constant supervision, destined to die without mechanical intervention, can move their lips.

Can open their eyes…

“…why…can’t…”

“Shhh, don’t try and speak. Close your eyes, and dream of home.”

It’s theorized that even those who are dead beyond hope of recovery still dream. Their mind is alive, though for all intents and purposes their body is dead, and stays active until it’s maintenance is no longer sustained. Many argue that because their brain is still alive and capable of coherent thought and abstract dream alike, they should be maintained or saved in some fashion until their body can be recovered. Others argue that such a position is largely assumptionary and that no one knows for sure.

Do the dead dream? No one knows for sure.

No one will ever know.

Sometimes, the difference between death, and home, is distance.

How far, no one knows.

***

“…show an incredible resilience even in the face of overwhelming numbers. It is my tactical opinion that we have underestimated the Galactic Coalition and that our strategies will need to be adjusted.”

“Have you told the Elder?”

“No… no, and I do not know if I will. I have questioned him once. I am not sure how often I should do so.”

“Would you rather risk the Elder killing you for being disobedient, or the Elder killing you for being negligent?

“Do you not believe the Elder will kill someone who fails him?”

“No. I do not believe it to be in his character.”

“Do not let him hear you say that. I have seen Kal Shora kill men for a momentary hesitation. Believe what you will but speak it not; the he is a killer.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Such is life.”

“Such is life. Shall I see you this evening?”

“No, I am staying on the surface for another day.”

“Unfortunate. Ra’esh’ra a’le’esh’a, Templar.”

“Ra’esh’ra a’le’esh’a, Judicator Badaar.”

…Shran?

“…Shran?”

“Ah, you’re awake! And you remember me! This is good. This is very good!”

“But… what are you doing here? Were you not on the Sep'Ta'Fw'shen?”

”Yes, I was, indeed… still am.”

“But… I… you…?”

“We’re orbiting Kiyar, Zeratul. Aboard the Fw'shen.”

“…oh. Well, that explains a few things.”

“I would imagine. How do you feel, warrior? Tired, surely. Can you move?”

“No… I… can’t move… my arm… Shran… tell me, have I lost my arm?”

“What makes you think that?”

“I… can’t feel it. I can’t feel my arm.”

“What about your other arm?”

“I… well…”

“Or your legs?”

“…Shran! I’m paralyzed!”

“Yes Zeratul, you are paralyzed. On the bright side, you still have all your limbs… they are just useless.”

“…that’s not much of a bright side! How will I function?”

“In a limited capacity, I would imagine. Bed ridden, perhaps.”

“Shran! How can you take this so monotonously?”

“Why should I be upset? You are paralyzed. It will pass.”

“…it will pass?”

“Yes, Zeratul. The paralysis you suffer now is a result of nervous shock from the blaster wound. As the wound heals the impediment on the nerves will gradually fade away.”

“So… I’m not paralyzed forever?”

“Probably not.”

“…probably not?”

“…pretend I said no.”

“Shran!”

“Zeratul, chances are good that you will regain permanent mobility. Listen, I have to depart. I will return in a few hours. If you are hungry, ask and food will be brought.”

And before Zeratul could respond, Shran turned. Zeratul struggled against his own body to sit up and curse at him, but all that escaped him were barely audible grunts of pain.

Frustrated and weak, Zeratul had little choice but to lay back down. And in short order, the ailing warrior ordered food, falling asleep before it could arrive.

***

“Activating energy dispersal field… adapting weapons technology… falling back behind cover… returning fire… concentrate central repair protocols on section a 2347 m left junction of plate… species Kraz, threat level minimal, weaponry is inadequate… request Parrow Lin support… no Parrow Lin available, fall back to command hub… unit down; scavenging functioning technologies…”

“It’s good to see you sitting up, friend.”

The Shadowcaste warrior allowed his eyes to slide open, glow returning to their surface a show of his vibrant state of being. Shran nodded at the show of his condition, taking a seat across from Zeratul.

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Oh, a few hours. I wondered if you’d notice me, and eventually decided that you wouldn’t.”

Shran poked a dish of food that had been left for the Skey’g’aar. It had long since gone cold, but Zeratul felt no need for it any case and brushed it away.

“Can you turn them off?”

Zeratul blinked in surprise.

“The Nexus. Can you turn them off?”

“Oh, I can shut them out. But they are always there.”

“Must be discerning. How goes the battle?”

“Not much of a battle. Armor’tera against armed refugees for the most part. Almost all of the soldiers have taken defensive positions and the tek’a’tara are not persuing.”

“Ah.”

Zeratul saw something in the eyes of the Judicator that intrigued him.

“You don’t care?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Shran Badaar, did Kal Shora not tell you to never answer a question with a question?”

“So he did. No Zeratul, to be honest, I do not care. I don’t care about the ashen remains of this p’az’a’ra’gan or the tet’fed’oy’aa that inhabit it. To me, our time spent above Kiyar is a waste of time.”

Zeratul gestured his understanding.

“That reminds me to say, why are you above Kiyar? I thought you were leading the mission at Vladet?”

“I was. Let us not speak of Vladet; at least, not now.”

“…I… very well. So it is. That still does not explain your presence here.”

“Do you remember your incoming transmissions?”

“Yes.”

“From a Galactic Coalition fleet?”

“…ah, I see. You’ll have to forgive my reasoning, it’s a little… shot.”

“Speaking of that, remarkable stuff, that Mer’a’brazal. It’s been so long since I have seen combat, I can not remember have I ever donned a suit.”

“When you speak to the Elder, can you ask him to return it?”

”Of course. I’m sure he would be indebted to me the reason for visit.”

“Don’t make him come up here. I will come to the surface for it.”

”Are you sure? You do not need more rest?”

“No, Badaar. Use what little time you have left to curry to the Elder, for the moment of my return to duty draws near!”

Badaar brushed Zeratul away, when his eyes flashed with a sudden recognition.

“Zeratul, how soon do you think you will be fit for combat?”

“Sooner then the sun’s pass.”

“Good. We have a… ghost… for you to hunt.”

“Oh? Elaborate.”

“Later. Or, perhaps, the Elder. In any case, I would like your opinion on something.”

Zeratul sighed, swiveling his hips and bringing his two ancillary legs back up onto his cot. This was a conversation he had not been looking forward to.

“The Galactic Coalition.”

“…oh?”

“It is my expert tactical assessment that we have underestimated the Galactic Coalition and that our strategies will need to be modified.”

“…I do not believe I used the word assessment. Although, in retrospect, I should have. It’s such an interesting word. Assessment…”

“Judicator Shran Badaar, I am often amazed you were not killed for your attention deficiency when you were a youth.”

“Blind luck, I suppose.”

“Is that not the line of questioning you wish to pursue?”

“My deficiencies?”

“The Coalition.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I am glad that even in your weakened state, you can be attentive for the both of us. I do indeed wish to ask your opinion on the Coalition.”

“The Coalition is a broad subject. Shall we focus our discussion to a particular area?”

“It is my tactical assessment that we have underestimated the Galactic Coalition. Assessment… that really is a great word…”

“How is it you feel that they exceed our level of readiness?”

“We mainly ascertained from their attacks on the New Order and their aborted counter-campaign that they would surrender when forced with unwinnable odds, and yet they have refused to surrender here, when the world is doomed to fall. This does not seem to be consistent.”

“It is still early in the day.”

“Even so. Take the incident at Dameo.”

“What of it?”

“Their aggressive attack on a much larger and more developed adversary is not the course of action one would expect from your reports of a timid and naturally pacifistic people.”

“They surrendered at Dameo.”

“After the reinforcements for the Damuens arrived. And only after.”

“Regardless, they did surrender.”

”And regardless of that surrender, they did launch the attack, an attack on a force that outnumbered them 2 to 1 and was at least three decades their superior in technological development.”

“True. So they are stupid. What are you driving at?”

“I am not sure we can defeat the Galactic Coalition.”

Zeratul did not say anything. He turned his head, and then gently shook it.

“They’re going to kill you, Shran Badaar. They’re going to kill you and melt you into carbon.”

“Perhaps. If they survive.”

”Judicator Badaar, the Galactic Coalition was established within the decade. The Cree’Ar Dominion has survived for 4 millennia. We will survive them; we will conquer them.”

“Do you not… feel something, from the Coalition?”

“Yes, I do. I feel a wound in my chest, from where they shot me.”

“Not that. I meant… a certain… pal’a’la fo’w’a’sha… a resilience beyond their means. A… a spirit, damnit.”

Zeratul swiveled his hips, popping his feet to the floor to place him facing Badaar again.

“Spirit is often crushed beneath battlements. Such is life.”

“Such is life. Usually.”

“Shran…”

“Zeratul Daz’Da’Mar, there is something unique about the Galactic Coalition. Something that Cree’Ar do not possess. Whether we once did is a matter of personal reflection, but there is an advantage there in the Azguard and their allies, something in their souls that we do not possess.”

When Zeratul said nothing, Badaar sighed.

“Kal Shora sees it too.”

“Pend! You draw dangerously close to a’lora dir’a’tad’or’a. Speaking your nonsense is one line of wrong but projecting it from the High Elder is grossly inappropriate.”

Shran said nothing. For a time, both men sat in silence. It seemed the conversation had reached its end with anything beyond existing in the unspeakable. Finally, it was Zeratul who broke the silence.

“So, you said something about a ghost?”

Shran stood.

“Later, friend. I must deliver a report to the Elder. How shall I speak of you?”

“Sourly as usual.”

“Ra’esh’ra a’le’esh’a, Warrior.”

“You will return?”

“Possibly. Or perhaps, you will join us on the surface. Either way, I will see you again.”

Shran walked from the medical ward, and Zeratul was left to himself. Himself, and the ever-present conversation of the Nexus.

He sighed, closing his eyes.

By the time the Coalition envoy approached, Kal Shora stood alone.

While the Azguard were not small, they were dwarfed by an erect Cree’Ar, raised tall in no small effort to give a sign of standing above the envoy. But as he drew near and as he began to slow down, Kal Shora sunk down to the normal hunch in which he stood, pelvis rested and relaxed, so the two stood eye to eye.

“What do you want?”

The creature asked. Kal Shora raised his hand, and armor’tera began to advance. He noted the Azguard’s stance begin to stiffen as he prepared a self-defense, and the Cree’Ar waved his hand. The armor’tera withdrew. Behind Kal Shora, and well away from the warrior, a single cyborg stepped forward, and began to speak.

“Da’pl’aa’n’a’rah.”

Kal Shora nodded his head in comprehension. He knew what the Azguard would say, of course. There really was not much else to say. And so for a moment, Kal Shora paused for the dramatic effect of composing a response, although there was a response already composed, and no pause was necessary at all, diplomacy was a game, and even the High Judicator of the Dominion had to follow the rules.

“La’l’el, ra’z’ra’z’a’gah, or’s’za’gah, tir’a’ra’dor’a…”

And though the Azguard could not understand it, it was at the least communication. He stood, patiently, eyes never leaving Kal Shora’s glowing portals even though his head moved with his speech. When he was finished, Kal Shora made a sweeping gesture with his hands.

For a moment, there was silence.

And then the cyborg began to speak again, uttering his words in a cold voice devoid of any emotion; unaffected by the tension of negotiation, the possibility of battle, or anything else that hung in the air. The voice didn’t waiver… it droned, slowly…

“Azguard Warrior, of the Galactic Coalition defense effort. I, the creature that stands before you, am Kal Shora. I apologize for the need of a translator but our languages are very different. Perhaps, in time, it will not be necessary. But it is today.”

A small nod of comprehension seemed to come from the Azguard, though Kal Shora could not moments later be sure it ever happened. He had the feeling that while the Azguard were very strong and fast, they could also be incredibly lithe and agile. It was a combination that he respected… and feared.

“I am a Cree’Ar; and I am a representative of The Cree’Ar Dominion. If you care for such things, my official title is High Elder of the Dominion and High Judicator of the Judicaste in the Coruscan Arm of the Universe. Informally, you may refer to me as Kal Shora. When my servant finishes relaying my message, take as much or as little time to consider and reply as you require. Confer with your colleagues if you would; I will wait.”

Kal Shora lowered his head. He raised it up again a second later and began to speak again, and when finished, hung his head and closed his eyes in a sigh as the armor’tera began to speak again.

“As High Judicator of the Dominion fleet I am not often at a loss, however, I am today. For you see, the attack on the world of Kiyar, the invasion by the tek’a’tera and the conversion of the population, was an accident. The Cree’Ar Dominion received information that the population of Kiyar were a direct threat to those around them and, if their society were allowed to expand, to the Dominion itself. We took actions to prevent this and only too late discovered the true nature of the Kiyar/Seras conflict.”

Kal Shora raised his head again, glowing green eyes seemingly to illuminate the shadow his body cast off the setting sun. The Azguard, for his part, merely stood in contemplation until the cyborg spoke again.

“I have ordered my soldiers to stop firing. They will not attack you; they will defend themselves if you continue to attack them but I have been informed that ceasfires have broken out across the planet.”

That was a direct lie; Kal Shora knew for a fact that the tek’a’tara were even now mopping up resistance in some of the tertiary settlements on the planet. He also knew, moreover, which communiqués had found their way to the Azguard as he had his city surrounded and isolated for several hours. The Azguard had also seen the inert warriors himself, lending credence to the lie… but it was still, truthfully, a lie.

“It is my intention to negotiate a peaceful end to this incident. To this end, I would like you to lay down provisions for your surrender of this world.”

And so it was said. For moments, nothing else was said. Kal Shora stood, his eyes now locked on the Azguard, and the Azguard’s eyes locked likewise directly on him. Neither wavered; both stood, saying nothing, waiting for the other to blink.

The Judicator relaxed his legs, shifting slightly in his stance. He was prepared to wait a long while…

For several moments, Kal Shora sat silent, his cyrbernetic servant translating the message of the Azguard into a language he could understand. If he could have smiled, he would have. As it was he kept himself as stoic as he thought he should, belaying small hints of incredulity for effect.

He pushed himself up again, once again standing over the Azguard. He looked back at his ship, and then at the Coalition’s envoy.

He began to speak again; as he did, he walked, hips swiveling to accommodate his third leg. He did this, also, for effect… leaders often made speeches not to their counterparts but rather to the air, to anyone and everyone to hear… to devalue the opposition, to remove hints of respect. Kal Shora was subtly establishing that he had the upper hand… a fact that he believed to not be lost on the Azguard.

After a time, the cyborg picked up where Kal Shora’s voice ended.

“You ask me to issue an apology? Very well; I do so. It was not the intention of myself or my Dominion to come to this world and to engage in combat with your people… but we are here, now. Our intentions then are irrelevant. And our future is clear.

You wish that I surrender. I tell you now this cannot happen. In 4 millennia the Cree’Ar Dominion has never issued a surrender. Every battle in which we have engaged has ended in our victory. I tell you this, also, that today will be no different. If I must I will destroy you… I will kill the Kiyar and I will take your Azguard comrades as test subjects. But there is another way.

While true we are a Dominion, domination is not our primary function. My mission, here, is to secure resources with which we can fight the Yat'a'leg'a'lora… you call them the Yuuzhan Vong. They devastated our territory centuries ago, and now we expand so as to better defend our homeland. Our mission to this world was to eliminate the terrorist threat we had been led to believe lived upon it… and also, to reclaim it.

You have noticed the tek’a’tara. They are more then just our soldiers or our slaves. Many of them were sent out to fight in place of their overlords. Many were poor. Many were sick. Some were dying already when sent to battle us. We have done more then reanimate the dead… we have saved them. The people of this world were infected with massive doses of radiation… we have cured them of that. The ration of food was often stretched to make do… they are now sustained by energy and will never again need to save leftovers… we have raised their quality of life, eliminated their susceptibility to disease, and all that we ask is their unquestioning servitude in order to eliminate an enemy that killed millions of people just like them across your galaxy. I suppose it is wrong to force the choice upon them… I suppose if our sense of morality were more like yours, we would simply kill them. You ask me to apologize, I again do so. I apologize that I have removed poverty and meaningless suffering from their lives, and apologize for not murdering them for standing in my way.”

The Cyborg was silent. Kal Shora had chosen to end there to allow the Azguard time to reflect on what he said as he began, again, to speak. He didn’t expect the envoy to believe his speech… but it was not necessary for him to believe. He likely had instruments that could tell him the radiation levels in the cyborgs were minimal. While he had no doubt the Azguard thought that was small consolation for a life of servitude, he wasn’t finished.

“You finished your answers to me with a thinly veiled threat. Let us listen to it again.”

From the cyborg came another voice, but not his own. Rather, it was the voice, and the words, of the Azguard exactly as he uttered them earlier. “Our forces here are depleted, but I guarantee the Coalition as a whole will not stand for this if you do not take the reasonable steps required of you.”

The two stood, eyes locked on each other, until Kal Shora resumed his pacing and his speaking.

“I may be mistaken, but my subordinate reports that the Galactic Coalition has experienced, recently, shortages of manpower and resources in their ongoing struggle with the New Order. It is my belief and the expert tactical opinion of myself and those in my command, that the words you spoke before hand were hallow. In fact, there are another set of words I would like you to listen to now, if you would allow…”

"It's basically a surrender,” was said, though not by the cyborg itself. Rather, it was the message that had broadcast on the holonet following the Outer Rim Sovereignty surrender to the Black Dragon Empire and the The New Order. The voice continued, "ORS can't keep fighting any more; it was only a matter of time."

“Now, now see here, lower those missiles now,” another voice broke in. It was definitely human and had the Azguard been privy to it, could have recognized it as the Coalition surrender to the numerous opponents above Dameo. “We don't mean any harm. Let those men go, it was all a misunderstanding. Come on now, take it easy. We surrender, see? Now, just take it easy with those weapons, ok?”

Kal Shora stood still, point driven home by the Coalition’s own words. But he still wasn’t finished, as he continued…

“You surrendered at Dameo to the Black Dragon Empire, which has existed for decades. You surrendered at numerous planets to the Galactic Empire, which has existed for centuries. By comparison, the Cree’Ar Dominion has existed for four thousand centuries. It has existed for forty thousand decades. You have seen our soldiers; our ability to reanimate dead tissue, to purge disease, to provide footsoldiers with shielding integrated into their bodies. You have not yet seen our warships. Our space based weaponry. You cannot comprehend our level of technical advancement but examine, today, at the destruction wrought by the ACCIDENTAL deployment of a fraction of that technology. If you have neither the resources nor the manpower to combat your own technologically atrophied domestic empires, you stand no chance against the will of the Red Sun.

If you stand against us… attack us… refuse sensible offers in the interest of non-violent accord… then you will be defeated. Rest assured, however, that we will not just defeat you, or kill you… we will erase you from history. All that will remain of the Galactic Coalition will be your soldiers… serving us.”

Kal Shora stopped pacing. He returned to his original position, buckled slightly to rest upon the sandy surface of Kiyar…

“I speak of another way. It is not too late to end the fighting here. You ask why I cannot surrender; I will tell you honestly. My people do not surrender. I am not sure if you are respectful of gods… our gods did ordain that our primary focus above all others was to safeguard our people against the Yat'a'leg'a'lora, and to that end, to fight, to the death if that is how the battle proceeds, until the enemy suffered complete defeat. There have been few… unspoken… incidents where the Cree’Ar have accepted a surrender. Even then a surrender is looked upon as blasphemy; many Cree’Ar cannot comprehend how a race can surrender in the face of their gods and their people’s safety. However, if I order it so, my men will accept your surrender of this world, if I convince them that it is in the greater good of the Red Sun.

This is as far as I can go on this matter.

Because battle has begun. And were I to surrender this world, my position would drop below tenuous. If I surrendered at this battle one of my officers would kill me, and he would not even offer you the chance to surrender. He would resume firing immediately, and your cities would be burned and your civilians converted, and your personnel executed to send a message to those who would oppose Borleas. The blood that has been spilled on this world would pale in comparison to that which another man, a more fanatical man, a less progressive intellectual would bring upon you if you offered him the slightest provocation.

I admit to you that this is not your best option. Ideologically, I am at fault for what has happened, and it is I who owe to you what you demand. But I tell you what you ask is impossible. I tell you also, that my position is final. You have the option of surrender or the option of destruction. I understand that you will wish to consider my position and consider your options. I offer you as much time as you need to do so now.”

And the cyborg turned, walking away from the immediate area. Kal Shora stayed, sitting silently on the sand… waiting…

Kiriath was seated, staring out a window, when her eyes slowly returned to focus; when she began to become aware of her surroundings again. Her limbs felt heavy, her wrists and ankles were sore, her mouth was dry and coppery. And, she realized with a start, she was in a hovervan, moving a few meters above land along a common traffic route.

The young woman glanced furtively around, and found herself surrounded on all sides by other refugees in various stages of shock and exhaustion. Looking down at her hands and feet, Kiriath realized she was not restrained, though her last memory had been of beings much stronger than she strapping her to a hospital bed and administering a shot. Then, nothing.

Until now.

With a sick feeling, Kiriath realized she recognized the scenery flowing past outside the window. She’d fled in this same direction on foot... toward the “safety” of the bunker...

“Where are we going?” she asked suddenly to no one in particular, her eyes wide and her voice near panic. “Back to the bunker?” Back to that hell?

The question was met with nothing but silent reproach from humans and the occasional Azguard in response, and she dimly remembered having caused a scene prior to her sedation – possibly done even more than that – but Kiriath couldn’t make herself remember everything that had happened since her rescue. Couldn’t, and didn’t want to try. Not when all she could think of was death: her brother’s, the people in the bunker with her, all the nameless faces taken by the alien device...

Their lack of response only served to drive the young woman into further hysteria, and she quickly rose to her feet, attempting to push through the mass of beings toward the front of the hovervan.

“Stop the van!” she shouted, fresh hot tears streaking down her face. “Stop, please! Let me off, I have to get off! I won’t go back there!”

Hands attempted to pull her back, force her down again into a seat, but with a strength born of adrenalin and panic, she forcefully pulled her arms away and lunged at the driver of the vehicle, causing the hovervan to swerve dangerously close to an abandoned building before the autopilot compensated.

People were shouting at her now – Shut up! Sit down! Calm down! – but she barely heard them as she slapped blindly again at the driver’s controls. This time she met with more success, as the door to the vehicle slid open with a hiss.

Kiriath wasted no time: she dove straight out, tumbling head over heel down a grassy embankment, finally coming to a rest at the bottom of a culvert. Dazed, she sat up and shook her head to clear it, her curly black hair standing out in all directions. Checking herself for injuries and finding none, she traced the path of her fall back up to where the hovervan had been and discovered with grim satisfaction that it had continued on its way; they weren’t stopping to retrieve her. Good.

The former publicist didn’t have any survival training to speak of – she was trained at diplomacy at best, a mere “go-between” – and she suddenly realized with dismay that her knife was no longer in her possession, nor was anything else she’d so carefully preserved and defended while in the bunker the first time. This realization sent forth a new font of tears as Kiriath, still feeling the aftereffects of trauma, shock, and repeated heavy sedation, slowly felt herself beginning to break down.

But there was one thing about which she was absolutely certain: being out here alone in the empty, ruined city was a far better alternative to returning to that bunker.

In fact, she would rather die first.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Kiriath got to her feet. Brushing herself off, she wiped the wetness from her face, leaving a brown smudge in its place from her dirt covered hands, and resolutely began to walk along the culvert, occasionally flattening herself against the ground whenever another transport passed by overhead.