Fractured Mind Episode One (A Galactic Coalition Academy Series) (7 page)

But Lieutenant Karax stopped. He
repositioned himself until he was standing in front of her. For the
first time since their awkward conversation had begun, he looked at
her and only her, the vestiges of distraction flying from his
gaze.

“... Sir?”

“I checked in with the doctors. They said
you had that... episode in the laneway because you hadn't been
taking your medication. Is that correct?”

She stiffened. She could no longer hold his
gaze. Nor could she keep a straight face. She half wanted to cry –
she could feel that familiar pressure welling up behind her
eyes.

Yet at the same time she clenched a hand
into a fist, her whole arm becoming so rigid it felt as if it would
pull from its shoulder socket.

Lieutenant Karax noted the move. He did not,
however, drop his direct, enquiring gaze. “You know the risks,
cadet,” his voice dropped, almost sounding as if a note of
compassion infiltrated it.

She still couldn't look at him. And her
emotions still wavered between anger, self-pity, and sorrow. She
knew her expression would look like a cracked mess. “I know the
risks,” she forced herself to say through clenched teeth. “If I
don't keep up with the regime, I'll be kicked out of the
Academy.”

He paused. “That's not what I meant,” he
said softly.

It was his tone – the gentle note to his
voice – that managed to tear her gaze off the grass. She looked at
him, knowing full well her eyes were wide and shimmering with
tears.

His expression was unreadable. “You need to
look after yourself, Sinclair. Staying in the Academy is one thing
– but do you really want to keep going through what you're
enduring?”

She'd never been asked a more direct
question. It felt like being slapped.

It became almost impossible to hold back the
tears.

Lieutenant Karax's expression was no longer
unreadable. His eyebrows descended over his eyes, his cheeks
pushing high as a frown pressed over his lips. It wasn't anger
playing in his gaze – the exact opposite.

“Cadet, we want to see you get better – but
to do that, you have to trust us. Go through the regime the doctors
have put in place for you. Trust them. You will get better.”

She was stunned. His promise seemed genuine
– as if he honestly believed what he was saying, but more than
that, cared about it.

He suddenly dropped her gaze. “Anyway, it's
probably best you head back to your room for now. You're in no
condition for combat training today.”

Again, she was stunned. Lieutenant Karax was
not exactly the kind of officer to show compassion. Especially to
her.

Especially in regards to survival
training.

He took it so seriously that you had to be
unconscious to get a free ticket out of his class.

Maybe he picked up on her surprise, because
he shook his head. “The offer's on the table, cadet, and I won't
think any less of you if you accept it.”

It took her a few seconds to push past her
surprise.

When she realized this was a genuine offer,
she almost immediately snapped to take it.

... Then she stopped.

There was a reason Lieutenant Karax took
survival training so seriously, and that reason was that now, more
than ever, it was a requisite skill of any Coalition soldier.

Yes, she'd had a trying morning, and yes,
maybe she'd lost her last friend, but rather than turn tail and run
back to her room, Cadet Sarah Sinclair shook her head. “It's okay,
sir, I can still come to class,” the words were out before she
could retract them.

It was that strong part of her – that
elusive side to her personality that always saw her prevail in her
dreams – that said yes to Lieutenant Karax.

Karax watched her intently for several
seconds, then half smiled.

It was the first time she'd ever seen him
smile, especially around her.

It was a charming move, and hinted at the
fact that the lieutenant had a personality beyond his battering-ram
anger.

“Well, I guess that means you passed the
test.”

Her brow compressed. “Sorry, sir? Test?”

“You're in no condition to go to survival
training today, cadet. But it means something that you offered to
do it anyway.” He nodded low. “It can't wipe away your previous
history, but it's a step in the right direction. Now, go get some
rest, and when you're back on your feet, come back to class.” He
turned and walked away without another word.

She stood there, mouth open, staring at him
as he half jogged over the verdant green lawns towards the training
facility.

Had that really just happened?

Had Lieutenant Karax really cut her some
slack?

Before she could convince herself that she
was somehow still in a dream, she turned and headed back towards
her accommodation block. A few times she stopped, twisted over her
shoulder, and caught sight of the lieutenant far beyond.

A few times, he appeared to stop, and look
over his shoulder at her, too.

Soon enough, however, she was back in her
apartment.

She wasted no time in heading into her room,
falling onto her bed, and closing her eyes.

...

Lieutenant Karax

Should he have done that?

Probably not. Just this morning he'd been
looking for an excuse – any excuse – to kick Cadet Sinclair out on
her ass.

This afternoon, he was giving her a
break.

All because he couldn't get the image out of
his mind of her twitching at his feet.

It seemed burnt onto the back of his
retinas.

Again, he tried to tell himself he was just
using the cadet as a distraction.

The looming threat of the Ornax kept
shadowing his mind.

More than that, he didn't want to ponder
this new true intelligence hologram.

Which was another thing that seemed as if it
was burnt into the back of his retinas.

That image of the woman in white.

The way she'd fought. The desperation.

It reached inside his soul and reminded him
– more than anything else could – of where he'd come from and what
he'd had to do to survive.

By the time he reached the training
facility, a cold sweat had slicked across his brow.

He kept swallowing uncomfortably, kept
trying to focus on the all-important task of training the next wave
of Coalition soldiers.

Soldiers. There was a time, not long ago,
when the recruits the Academy produced weren't referred to as
warriors – but explorers. And they had the requisite skills to
chart this galaxy and beyond.

These days, exploring took a back seat to
fighting.

With the uncertainty clouding the Milky Way
like a thick fog over a river, you never knew what would happen
next. What new enemy would lift its ugly head and threaten
lives.

Just before he reached the training
facility, his WD beeped.

Staring down at the screen, it flashed red,
indicating that it was a private call.

He maneuvered himself until he was in a
secluded position along the side of the building, then he tapped
the screen. “Lieutenant Karax here.”

“It's Forest. The Corthanx Traders have
arrived early. You're cancelling your combat session. Meet me in
room 2A in the diplomatic affairs building.” She signed
off.

Karax's head spun.

His stomach also twinged with nerves.

He'd known the admiral for a while, knew
enough to appreciate that she never made snap decisions. She always
did what was best for the Coalition on balance. He also appreciated
that she had access to a great deal more information than he did.
And yet he couldn't push away the feeling that trusting these
traders was a step too far. As he cancelled his class using his WD,
pivoted on his foot, and sprinted back to the main grounds, the
nerves kept building in his gut until it felt as if they would claw
through his throat.

He tried to push them back; he couldn't.

A part of him knew this was wrong.

They were taking a turn down a dangerous
path, and once that turn was taken, there would be no going
back.

Cadet Sarah Sinclair

As soon as she closed her eyes, her
consciousness walked her straight back into that same dream.

It didn't matter that the doctors had
already pumped her full of their drugs that morning.

The dream was irrepressible.

Because it wasn't a goddamn dream.

She appeared in the ice facility, down one
of the shafts, a combat knife still in her hand.

Behind her, no more than 10 meters away, she
heard the deliberate footfall of the hunter.

She pressed into action without pause.

She pivoted her head, spun her gaze from
side-to-side, and checked for a way out.

She saw a few more broken crates lined up
against the massive shaft wall 20 meters away.

She pushed towards them, boots scrabbling
over the ice-covered floor.

It was murder to keep her balance. The
damage to her left leg was so extensive every step jolted, more and
more blood splattering out onto the frozen white-blue ice.

She found the strength to push into a run.
She locked her gaze on those crates.

Though the combat knife was good, if she
could just get her hands on a gun—

Too late.

The hunter sped up to its full momentum.

All this time it had just been shadowing
her, weakening her, waiting for her injuries to take their toll.
Now, just when true weapons could be within her grasp, it
pounced.

She screamed as she threw herself to the
ground, ignored her injury, and crunched into a roll.

Her muscles shook, practically vibrated at
the beating she was putting them through.

It was better than death.

Something slammed into the ice where she'd
been, and she heard it crack like a massive pane of glass falling
to the floor.

A shudder passed through the shaft and sank
into her feet. It wasn't powerful enough that it pitched her
forward, but it robbed her of a little of her precious balance, and
she teetered to the side.

It was the opportunity the hunter
needed.

It snapped up behind her, locked a hand
around her throat, and pulled her off her feet.

She couldn't spare the breath to scream as
it shoved so hard against her windpipe she heard something
snap.

Instantly stars spun into her vision, her
body growing number and number until—

No.

Just as she felt herself dying, just as the
dream threatened to end, Sarah Sinclair fought against its violent
conclusion.

She would not die. Could not die again.

Somehow she found the strength to activate
the combat knife still in her hand. It twisted in her grip as it
opened. She clutched it with her bleeding, sweaty fingers and
plunged it into the hunter's hip.

By all rights, she shouldn't have the
strength to even dent its white armor.

But somehow, from somewhere, she found the
force to dig the blade in like a knife through butter.

A terrifying screech that echoed through the
cavernous shaft, bouncing off the walls and ceiling.

It came from the hunter's armor.

Sarah kept digging the knife in, her teeth
clenched so hard she caught a section of her lip and cut it, blood
trickling down her mouth and over her chin.

She screamed, using that last ounce of her
energy to slice the knife to the side.

The hunter lurched back, dropped the
suffocating arm from around Sarah's neck, and fell to one knee.

Sarah didn't wait.

Still using whatever last scrap of energy
she could scrounge, she lurched forward on her knees and sank the
combat knife into the hunter's neck.

The left nape of the hunter's neck, to be
precise.

... It was always the same.

Whenever Sarah managed to kill the hunter,
she remembered every other time she'd killed the hunter, too. And
it was always the same. She always sank some kind of weapon into
the same spot – just at the point where the hunter's left arm
connected to its neck.

Always the same.

Always the same....

The hunter jerked, tried to clutch at
Sarah's arm, tried to use its superior strength to pull her
back.

It didn't matter.

Sarah shifted behind it, wrapped an arm
around its throat, and kept digging the knife into its neck, until
finally red blood spurted from the hole.

Its white armor began to crack, fissure
lines shattering down its shoulder until they reached a tipping
point, and the armor fell off with a clang.

Sarah stared down at the hunter.

Stared down at the chestnut brown hair, the
brown eyes, the pale skin.

She stared down at herself. Then she shifted
forward and cut her own throat.

And the dream – whatever it was – ended.

Sarah did not bolt awake, not this time.

She lay in her bed, frozen, almost drowning
in her own sweat.

Her covers and pillow were somehow on the
other side of the room, but it was nothing compared to the state
the rest of her stuff was in.

She'd broken her lamp this time, and she'd
swept everything off her desk, most of it a smashed mess against
her covers.

Slowly she brought up an arm and positioned
it around the back of her neck, leaning against it as she stared
with a dead gaze up at the ceiling.

She should be screaming, desperately
clutching a hand to her throat, terrified at the dream she'd just
had.

... She'd slit her own throat. And all this
time, the hunter had been her.

And yet, Sarah Sinclair didn't make a sound.
Not a single noise.

She pressed her head harder against her arm
until she felt numb tingles spread into her wrist.

An ordinary person, after a dream like that,
after dreams so vivid and violent, would seek help.