Randly Clark dived from the main doors of the fleet carrier again flying his scout ship. He had replaced the holo and video, had new books on the computer, and a food supply that was fit for the General’s mess. He was as happy as he could be. There was no responsibility for any others, no morning rituals that had to be followed, and no formations for him to stand.
He thought about the mission he’d led on the Citadel, thought about the men and women who had been lost, and then told himself that is wasn’t his fault. It was the fault of the brass hats who thought they could attack the Citadel with impunity and not suffer any casualties.
He told himself that frequently, but the scenes over the planet as the ships with him had exploded were never far from his mind. He’d go an hour or two without thinking about it and then it would bubble up making him slightly sick to his stomach. And he would again tell himself that it wasn’t his fault.
So now, out in space once more, away from the fleet and the responsibilities, he tried to convince himself that life would go back to the way it was. Sometimes he believed that. Until the dreams woke him and he knew that people had relied on him and that he had failed them.
In a matter of minutes, Randly Clark’s life had changed and he was fighting to put it back to the way it was. He knew that it would take time but he also knew that he would succeed.
Eventually.
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