Adam dealt with the buckles on his boots and toed them off, stripped down and shoved his clothes into the launderer. One good thing about Esther—it had icy lakes in abundance and none of the over-population issues of Earth. He had a whole new appreciation for water since the accident.
The shower unit hummed to life and he groaned out loud when the hot water hit him, sluicing over his body and washing his cares away. The burn marks on his shoulder were a glossy, candy pink. Nowhere near as bad as a week ago. His hands looked almost normal and he could still pilot. It was only surface damage. The med unit knew their stuff. Soon enough it would all blend in with the old wounds from the Continental War. On his back were some laser burns and even the pucker of a good old-fashioned bullet hole.
He soaped himself up thoroughly, scrubbed where necessary and stood beneath the spray. Stayed there until his fingers were wrinkled and his skin saturated. He propped himself up against the cubicle wall with eyes closed and his thoughts in freefall.
Maybe she would be asleep when he went back out. Adjusting to gravity could be a bitch. She would have to take off her coat to go to sleep. Which nixed the issue of what hid beneath same and led straight to thinking…what did she wear to bed, his wife?
Taka had confided that he and Rose had a strict no-clothes policy when they were alone. What an excellent idea. But Rose had gotten off the ship, taken one look at his friend Taka, and swooned. Louise had not swooned. Louise had looked stunned, if anything. Horrified.
Why couldn’t he have gotten someone like Rose? Someone open minded, willing to give the situation a go?
He shook his head in dismay, which hurt, gave in and got out. Hiding out in the shower like a little girl wasn’t going to help shit. He dried off beneath the air wave then wrapped a towel around himself for modesty’s sake.
Everything was silent in the apartment. The lights were low and the air chill. The dividing screen had been pulled out partway, acting as a buffer between the bedroom and the lounge where she sat. A com unit in her hands lit her face with a warm glow.
Her head rose when she heard the bathroom door open but she didn’t turn around. Didn’t kick-start any awkward conversations that in all likelihood neither of them wanted.
Adam swapped the towel for a pair of soft pants and slid into bed. Shut his eyes and did his best impression of sleeping. She was harder to ignore than he had imagined. She breathed so loudly. Or she seemed to. All the little noises she made as she moved around the apartment. His wife.
Sleep took forever.
The dream never varied. It remained excruciatingly exact, each and every night.
The fire started in the right-hand corner of his field of vision, roaring into life and engulfing Gideon whole. The man never stood a chance. Adam’s lungs burned, the fire so hot, so instantaneous. He raced back to the digger for the Halon but it was already too late. Gideon had become a pillar of fire, arms waving as he crashed to his knees.
In reality, he hadn’t seen those parts. He’d had his back to the scene. But every night it played out in horrific detail inside his head like a documentary stuck on repeat.
Farris tried to help the burning man but he could hardly get near him. Then the fire hit Gideon’s canister of oxygen. They all carried one, ten minutes’ worth, which would only prolong the inevitable should anything go wrong in a mine so deep. But that was the company, always putting a good face on things. With an almighty whoosh the fire exploded, overtaking the other man, and Adam took flight as if he’d grown wings. He crashed into the side of the transport and lay crumpled, in a world of pain, concussed and with one collarbone snapped.
Farris staggered toward him, burning up. Gideon had already hit the ground, a charred corpse. Adam forced himself up. The pain in his head and shoulder burned as bright as any flame. He tackled Farris. Took him down and rolled him in the dirt.
Then he started to burn too, explosive agony eating him whole.
Adam jack-knifed upright in bed, his lungs afire and his chest…shit. It felt as if each and every rib had been cracked in two and his heart still pounded into them, reducing them to kindling. He had to breathe, to focus. In and out, slow and slower, just like the shrink had said. He’d only attended the mandatory three sessions but all the bullshit advice could be simmered down to one simple trick. In and out, slow and slower, breathe through it.
He didn’t need a hug. He just needed to breathe.
The sheets clung to him, his body slick with sweat and way too warm. The whole thing felt like a fever dream, only the sickness was in his head, stuck in his memories. This new horror melded with the old superbly, all the things he’d seen and done during the war. Fifteen years on and it all felt fresh again, horribly so. His dreams were cluttered with Russian and Mandarin. Words he’d thought forgotten.