Part Five: Voices

It was Gabriel’s fourth day in his cell, and he was getting nervous. The last interrogation had been bad. Nothing like torture—the Alliance was far too civilized to do that—but he’d sat in a room in front of a metal table and a mean-looking guard for something like twelve or fourteen hours—he wasn’t sure—and now he needed to sleep.

He couldn’t sleep. They’d forced some kind of pill down his throat, made him swallow it, and now he was awake. How many days had it been since he slept? He couldn’t count; it felt like a hundred, but was probably closer to two.

In the stark, harsh coldness of the cell, Gabriel had begun to feel guilty. Not for fighting—the hwun dan sons of bitches had it coming—but for betraying the Alliance. And for betraying the Independents. For betraying someone.

He couldn’t remember who.

The room was spinning, faster and faster. He knelt on the floor, pressed his head into his knees; it didn’t stop the spinning; it felt as though it was in his head, as though his brain was being scrambled inside his ruttin’ head.

And there were voices.

At first they were clear, concise; he could pick out words and phrases. Twenty-three degrees left. Am I going to be on duty tonight. Gorram Captain; wish I could tear him a new—

After a few moments, they all blurred together, a cacophony of sound and words, none of which were distinct. He clutched his head, bit back the scream that was forming deep in his chest.

And then the voices grew accusatory, started talking to him. You’re worthless. You’re a traitor. You should give up.

You deserve to die.

He wouldn’t give up. Patrick wouldn’t have given up. But the voices were so loud, and if he talked, they could stop them, it had to be the gorram drug they gave him, it messed him up, and the voices were so loud, and they needed to ruttin’ stop.

You deserve to die.

He knew one way he could stop the voices. That he could keep from talking.

He crawled over to the cot with the pristine cotton blanket that they’d given him to sleep on. Slowly, numbly, he took it up in his hands and pulled. He gnawed at it, the voices grown to the point where he could no longer hear anything; only his own thoughts.

The threads split. He pulled it apart, shredded the blanket into two long strips. He tied them together, double knotted.

You deserve to die.

There was a light fixture on the ceiling. They hadn’t seen this coming. They wouldn’t see it coming. He tied the blanket to the fixture, stood on the bed, then tied it around his own neck.

Traitor.

He jumped off the bed. It didn’t hurt. He was beyond pain.

He was gone.

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“What the hell do you mean, ‘your son is in custody?’”

“We picked him up on Hera. He’s a prisoner of war. Normally, we’d just process him, but, since you’re his father—”

“I get it. You’re doing me a favor.”

“. . .he tried to kill himself two nights ago. We’re keeping him sedated.”

“What—where is he?”

“He’s in custody on Londinium. He was transported there to participate—”

“The program.” The tall man with the graying hair paused, wiped his eyes, and thought, this is all my fault. “Shit. You have to get him out of there.”

“It’s already been approved.”

“Then why are you calling me.”

“Because I can unapprove it.”

“Hwun dan.”

“It gets the job done. He’s still a good subject, but he isn’t the best we’ve found. He’s. . .expendable.”

“What do you want?”

“You’re scheduled to resign in three months.”

“I won’t.”

“Fifteen years.”

“Done. Now get him the hell out of there. Sir.”