Maybe it's true what they say, and Sergeant Avret Galt, age 39, married 11 years and a father of three, gets to see his life flash before his eyes in the half-second before it's over. Maybe not.
I was never there, I can't say.
But I hear him die. We all do. There's a characteristic sound made when a high-powered energy disruptor beam hits a man with enough force to rip through his personal armor and fry the onboard systems: that last, sudden burst of static as a comm link goes down for good. Whenever we hear it, the entire squad stops breathing, waiting--one second, two seconds, come on--for his nearest buddy to hop on his comm and tell us the lucky bastard's alright, brass is gonna rip him a new one for irresponsibly getting shot while wearing their dee-luxe state-of-the-art equipment but fuck it, the bastard's still here. Sure, it's not proper communications protocol and it pisses Galt off something mighty, but what the hell.
As I move in closer, I can see this isn't one of the lucky times.
"We have a man down. Repeat, Sergeant Galt is down. Negative on the medic," I say.
One second. Two seconds.
Over the comm link Larus says, very carefully, "What now, Sarge?"
If we thought he could hear us, we never called Sergeant Galt anything but exactly that, Sergeant Galt. It went both ways with him, too. He was always precise about certain things. That night he got wasted, woke Illand up, and tried to shoot him for treason, he still called him Private Illand the entire time.
There was no helping anyone who forgot to call me corporal while Galt was around, no sir.
What now, sarge?
Sarge. Shit. I'm Sarge now.
And it hits me like a punch in the gut: Avret Galt, age 39, married 11 years and a father of three forever, is truly, inescapably dead, because I killed him.
If that stuck-up bitch Caira thinks she can fix me by making me a housemaid, she's got another thing coming. Her and that smug prick Marsyas both. Fruit didn't fall far from the tree, not with the Xard family, no sir. Ha. Hope they both choke on their dinner. The vegetables I've just chopped are lumpy enough to do the trick--been years since I've cooked anything that wasn't in a self-heating pouch.
At least she left me alone in the kitchen for a while. Nobody will notice me slacking off and sitting down while I work.
My foot does feel fine, though I haven't put any stress on it yet. Not when I haven't slept right for over a week now. All I want is to close my eyes and not wake up for a long, long time, is that so much to ask? But I always wake up in a sweat, convinced I'm back on Bespin, and check to make sure my foot is there. I know that's completely irrational. Still doesn't stop the nightmares.
Crazy thing is, alone in that Ranger cell, I actually missed the sound of Zahn's singing, the off-key bastard. Hope he'll be okay. He's tough; blind him, cut off both his foot, whatever, it probably won't even slow him down.
Wait, that's what I used to think about Darn.
There was a funeral, not that I could go. Don't even know where the marker is, if there is one. I want to ask, but the Jedi hunted him for, what, walking out on that meeting? Things did quiet down, but I suspect Darn Surool is not a popular topic around here.
Well, shit, I thought he was a reckless idiot too. Never changed the fact that he was one of us. He bailed my ass out at Tatooine, that's for damn sure, and I've never forgotten that.
Daedon killed him. Bad enough without what he did to the body.
I learned later that the Jedi wanted to bring that fucking monster back with them. Some inhuman shit so vile he makes your skin crawl, and the Jedi wanted him here where he can get at everyone. They can't police their own order, but they think they can handle Daedon?
No. Fuck that. I saw what he is. I've never seen anything like it before, and I never want to see anything like it again. I won't allow it to get back up. I won't allow it to leer at Navi or Zahn once more, or even think about Kalita and Millennia.
But at what cost? Whatever's left of this rusted soul?
We lost Darn. We almost lost Krussik and Dral on Ischar. I don't want to know who's next, and I'd give anything if it meant we never had to find out. Except I can't shake the cold fear that even if I could kill a thousand more Daedons, I still couldn't guarantee the lives of the people I need to protect.
It's like Valis all over again. Only difference is, back then I desperately believed one dirty sacrifice would be enough to bring everyone back safe and sound.
Now, I'm just desperate.