Chapter Six

Wow. He sat suddenly on the edge of the unmade bed, the nicotine still swimming through his bloodstream. Something which might have been pity swam along with it, but he pushed it away with long-practised ease. That was weird. Strange kid. Wonder how she gets by with that scar? Maybe she’s used to people staring, maybe that’s why she didn’t once look me in the face. Well she ain’t gonna see sympathy here. The momentary need to bolster the cigarettes with a glass of something tickled his spine and he jumped up, began firing up the laptop. Early morning was best for writing, the sun hadn’t yet reached full baking potential; even in October it could still burn through metal at midday, but just now the air still held the silver edge of last night’s chill and he could pretend that he was at home. Sitting in the little office in the farmhouse, fire blazing to keep the long shadows at bay; watching the scenery stretching back into the centuries where nothing changed except the positions of the sheep that dotted the moorland like clouds that had shed all their rain.

The Fallen Skies logo pinged up onto the screen and he stared at it for a moment, trying to remember. Before all this. When space and time were new, when I wasn’t carrying this weight of guilt and regret. How far back would I have to go to lose it all? How far? A deep breath shook his shoulders, another attempt at emotion made it nearly as far as his heart before he stopped it, ruthlessly reaching inside himself and dragging it out half-born, killing it with his neglect.

Yeah. Too far back. But you don’t go back, do you? Back is defeat, despair; all those things you swore you’d never feel again. Course, you won’t feel anything else either, but that’s the price you pay for being the Iceman.

But it’s funny how one little thing can force you to remember. Today it was a voice, an accent. A couple of words and a girl with a scarred face and it was like I was sixteen again, back in Leeds, skinny little runt dragging the tail-end of his adolescence for fear of growing up. Back then, scars were badges of courage, like tattoos but with a better back-story.

Before everything went evil. Before everything I am was ruined.

He closed his eyes and let images fill his mind. Huge ships ponderously crossing galaxies, planets of water and fire, shadows which hid in plain sight. A fight for freedom. And then he started to write.