LG's armour is stained with it. It's plating is blackened, friable, breaking off between my fingers. The back is a ruin, scored and melted and burned through.
Was I complacent, because she wore this? Did I take risks with her life, all theirs lives, based on this? I could not forgive myself that. I will keep it, perhaps, to remind me how close to death we are.
The official letter lies on my table. ...regret to inform you... killed in action... died bravely in the line of duty... death was quick, unexpected... some comfort...
It would be easier.
But I will not send it. For now, I can still do better than that.
No letter will be written for Thorne. She will have simply disappeared - another casualty in the war against our invaders. Yet as I compose, it is her face I see. Watching me in the final moments, from the other side of a screen.
The Council will not be happy, that is certain. An encrypted message from them flashes in the corner of my terminal, unread, demanding my attention.
They can take what I did and go screw themselves. I have a service to attend.
| Cpl. Fernanda "LG" Langran-Goldsmith. We will remember. |
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