I’ll be shipped off to Whitefish before I hardly know the judgment’s been handed down. The first thing carries a prison sentence. And they won’t let me go until they know whether my mind is fried and I can’t run anymore. And they can’t let that happen, not until they determine whether the accident was, in fact, my fault. If I were allowed to roam the station, I’d jump the first freighter I found bound for the Outskirts. Perhaps the introduction of a virus into its system…I’ll have to think about it some more.Ĭlearly, I can’t be trusted. In fact, I’m envisioning ways to execute something that is not, technically, alive. To the AI, I’m sure it looks as though I’m meditating. “No.” Wheeling away, I head back to the sleep-mat and sit down, legs furled. I pace ten by ten, and when I reach the door, the AI inquires, “Shall I summon an escort for you, Sirantha Jax?” I didn’t know about either one until I joined the Corp. There are prisons without bars and worlds without sunlight. But I’m incarcerated, even if I’m being watched by an AI instead of a hulking brute.

These are my quarters, provided gratis, while my Unit assesses the damage to my psyche, decides whether I’m whole enough to run.

“Yeah,” I tell it, and the soft yellow glow, simulated sunrise on the most hospitable of the tier worlds, fills my cell. The fragging thing reports everything I do, every time I roll over, probably every time I take a piss. Nothing left of the soul, nothing left of him. I push to my feet, off the sleep-mat, restless, haunted, although they proved a long time ago that it’s all just electromagnetic energy, nothing spiritual. There comes a point when you want to accept culpability simply because you’re the only common denominator. But it’s not my fault they’re using gear that should’ve been decommed after the Axis Wars. Seems too cruel to do this to someone on purpose, and I know they’re going to find a way to blame me for the tech malfunction. But then, what doesn’t? What the Unit Psych calls dream therapy, I call torture. With trembling hands, I yank the patch away from my skull. I sit up, shuddering, shoving the dark mop of hair out of my face, and my fingers come away wet with sweat. Stupid idiot smile, don’t you know what comes next?

Grimspace series