The Dark Glass - Chapter One - A Wayward Child

Chapter One: A Wayward Child

Before the rest of this story can be told, a few things must be made clear.

First of all, fat old Ciffo is dead, and that is that. There is never any doubt that Ciffo was the first to lay eyes on the child. According to Ciffo’s sweetheart wife, who is now in her eightieth year, the boy wandered down the muddy road and into Ciffo’s arms as Ciffo stood thinking in the doorway of the inn. Marie remembers Ciffo calling her name and then blundering into the kitchen with the grimy tot tucked up under his chin like a violin—a tiny thing no more than two or three years old and fast asleep already.

And that is that.

Any man still alive who ever lived in Droffos will make up some foolish lie about seeing the child but thinking that he belonged to someone else; or else they will tell you that they gave him food and tried to find his parents. That is bunk. Some eighty young children wandered the streets in those days while their parents made business in town, and one pack of mangy brats was indistinguishable from the next. Ciffo didn’t mean anything special by picking the boy up; he assumed someone would come by eventually looking for him.

After a time, Marie adopted the child as her own, and that was that.

Ciffo’s inn was burnt to the ground while Ciffo spent a week in a cage on the account of a vengeful thief—or so they thought him at the time—named Richard. Richard was from Perea, which is something everyone says about undesirable characters because Perea is a lawless place and not concerned with things as trivial as reputation. If someone had once said Richard was from Odumai, there would have been a delegation from Odumai sent to dispel the rumor.

As I said, Ciffo was in a cage on Richard’s account, and only Ciffo would have thought what Ciffo was thinking—which was, “Oh, well, it is not his fault; this town is full of ignorant and vengeful people and they have turned this crime on me.” As it turned out, Richard had made off with his rightful pay for a job and when the money was missed someone fingered Ciffo for it, but that is another matter.

What happened in Droffos was that Ciffo’s wife and adopted child were forced to move in with her sister while the inn was rebuilt by some of the more remorseful citizens—with Ciffo’s direction and under his own steam mainly—and then someone finally said, “Where did this boy come from?” The person who said that was Marie’s sister.

“What is this?” she demanded one day, out of the blue. “The boy is not dirty at all! He’s got dark skin!” It was bath day for the children, and Marie’s sister had been at the child’s face with a rag and making no progress. Upon removing the rest of his clothes, she found the problem to be more widespread than she had imagined.

Marie was actually aware of the child’s tanned skin, having bathed and cared for the child often. She took Kell—for that is what she called him, after her lost cousin—by the hand, and said petulantly to her sister, “What’s that to you? He’s more beautiful than your child!”

Now, Marie needn’t have said that. Her sister, Tanna, had spoken in surprise—not disgust—and her own child, Nabu, had a weaselly look to him, notwithstanding there never was a sweeter child born into this world. But alas, these are the hurts we bring on the ones we love; Tanna made a hollow place in her heart from that day on, and Kell felt her hating him with her eyes.

When Marie and Ciffo moved back into the inn, there was already talk going around about the dirty-skinned child and “its secret origin”—this was in the days when a child’s parentage was a thing used to impress. Tanna mustn’t be blamed for starting the gossip; the talk was kept discreet until she began inviting it into the open, and then it was public. Everyone speculated about the child, even in his presence.

“He’s not black, like the warriors from the south.”

“No. Not black. And not that burnt sugar color like those strange-talking merchants from the east.”

“Of course not! They never bring children with them. Is he a Tehuaco—a cliff-dweller?”

“Could be, but look at his hair! Did you ever see a Tehuaco with curls of hair like that?”

“No. Their hair is always straight and smooth. Maybe…”

This is just an approximation, of course, of the type of talk to which Kell became accustomed, although he could never understand why the most interesting thing about him seemed to be his skin.

“Could he be some kind of mix?”

This comment was generally regarded with contempt, although it was made often and by different listeners. There was a taboo in those days—which perhaps does not now exist—regarding the mingling of different races of people. It is probably what made the question of his ancestry so intriguing. Perhaps if Kell had been found anywhere but Droffos, little if any would have been made of his skin color.

Droffos was not an interesting town, nor was any part of the boy’s life there, but it must be noted. Also, considering the little which was previously known of his life after Droffos, his brief childhood there seems instructive. If it seems so, it is probably only because people have a tendency to overanalyze what little is known about a thing until some new information is gleaned elsewhere.

Kell was fast on foot, and could outrun any boy in town younger than an apprentice by the time he was five. He was also nimble like a pickpocket, and until he could learn that such things were unacceptable in an organized society he went about proving this from day to day. There would have been harsh penalties if anyone could have proven that Kell was responsible for the rash of thefts, but Kell didn’t know this. One day he seems to have simply realized that stealing is wrong; thereafter, nothing went mysteriously missing in Kell’s quick hands.

These two bits of information are not surprising or especially interesting, but they are often dramatized in histories such as this one because everyone is fascinated by the boy’s past. Therefore, none of the usual stories about his childish exploits will be told here.

Here is something those other histories won’t explain, because Marie kept it to herself. In fact, everyone kept it to themselves. Where was Kell for almost ten years? This is where the other historians leave off, because they weren’t there.

But I was.

Levi's Rock - Chapter Four - For Talented Pilots - Part Two

But it would be a few weeks before Ecksel heard that story. Hawking called Spencer into his office the next day, relief evident on his weary face.
“I want you to take this passkey and this print, and I want you to report to Don, who will escort you to the Pathways authority for processing.”
Spencer just stared at Hawking, not moving. “Am I under arrest?”
Hawking looked up, his brow furrowed. “Should you be?”
“No! What the hell—why are you turning me in?”
Hawking shook his head, laughing. “J. Albert Devonshire! Spence, I’m assigning you to the Pathways rotation for deputization. I changed my mind about sending you for orbit detail, that’s all.” He fell back into his chair and exhaled explosively. “Apparently, two of our long-timers didn’t pass health inspection—not unusual, but unexpected this time—and they’re on their way back here now. I guess they’re qualified to ride a rocket at forty-thousand kps, but not qualified to park transports at a hundred kph.”
Spencer passed a hand across his forehead, which had developed a sheen of sweat. “Who is J. Alfred—who?”
Hawking waved a hand. “My grand-daddy’s favorite curse when grandma was around.” Then he eyeballed Spencer. “You really thought I was having you arrested? What in hell for? You got a guilty conscience?”
Spencer bristled. “It’s not a guilty conscience; I just—I have a history of being in the wrong place at the wrong time is all.”
Hawking snorted. “That’s a bit of an understatement. Well, if you get yourself in trouble with Pathways, it’s out of my hands, but around here we overlook an awful lot for talented pilots—probably why those two are on their way back, come to think of it.”
Spencer hedged for a moment, then said, “And if I have an episode while I’m out there?”
Hawking raised an eyebrow. “An episode of what?”
Spencer hesitated only a second or two. “Yes, sir. On my way.” And then he was out the door and gone.
Hawking thumbed his desk and the screen he had been studying all morning sprang to life again, filled with data and maps and a small portrait in one corner with the legend: DaSilva, Ramon. “Yes sir,” Hawking drawled, “around here we overlook an awful lot for talented pilots.” He thumbed a commlink on the edge of his desk and barked, “Laruso, find me that smuggler; I want to see him in my office.”

It was difficult to believe that one could feel excited about something as mundane and tedious as orbit detail, but Spencer credited part of the excitement to the fact that he would be flying something new, a new ship, no matter what it looked like. It was the reason he gravitated toward test-piloting—that and the very real possibility of an accidental death, but that was an area of his own thinking he steadfastly ignored.
As he passed through the bullpen, he ran into DaSilva and wished him luck, thinking DaSilva might be long gone by the time he returned. DaSilva remarked cryptically, “You never know; a place like this grows on you. I could get used to it.” But then Spencer was on his way to meet Don, and DaSilva’s words were forgotten.
Don—or Donny—Firenze was a retired pilot, one of the few who retired by choice rather than due to a crippling illness, accident, or death. He was a fuel jockey for the station now, a regular drunk when off-duty, and something of an unofficial mentor for some of the pilots since he had more stories than anyone else, both the true and the completely fabricated varieties.
Donny’s other talent was planetside leave parties; since the crew never knew until the last minute where their drop would be—or which off-planet transport facility they would be disembarking on their return to Marques—they couldn’t very well plan out their vacations, so they would gather around Donny just after the announcement of the drop to hear Donny’s “unofficial” recommendations of places they might want to visit while planet-side. Invariably there would be a few reputable locations thrown in for comedic effect, but generally it was a recitation of brothels, bars, bookies, and brawling spots that the crew could frequent, tailored to their drop spot and their point of disembarking.
Donny never went on drops—at his age and constitution, he had a special dispensation from both Ecksel and the planetside medics for vessel transport—but he was always the handle pilot for the slow rig between Marques and the offworld transport. In this case, he would be piloting Spencer to a rendezvous with the Pathways scull, where he would trade Spencer for the two disqualified pilots and then return them to Marques.
It occurred to Spencer to wonder if Hawking had orchestrated the transfer this way to keep Pathways from encountering DaSilva, but there might have been any number of casual violations on the flight deck that a Pathways officer would feel duty-bound to report, and so he decided that Hawking just didn’t want to clean house for company.
Donny greeted Spencer gruffly and complained about the transfer, but as the deck decompressed and the magnetic moorings uncoupled, Spencer saw the satisfaction on the old-timer’s face. It was a familiarity that came only after many, many years in the pilot’s seat, and Spencer surprised himself as he realized that—for the first time in quite a while—he hoped to live long enough to feel that way … about anything.
It was stupid to get so emotional about something so dumb, he scolded himself. Then he smiled and shook his head, because he didn’t care.

The flight was not long—half an hour or so—and it passed quickly with the two men yammering away about Spencer’s experience so far on Marques. When the Pathways transport came into sight, Donny fell silent, and so did Spencer, guessing at the level of technical expertise he was about to witness.
There was a panel full of instruments under the dry, shriveled hands of Donny Firenze, and those old but capable hands glided over them, reading them like a blind man might—but Donny didn’t appear to be reading those instruments at all. He glanced at the door-seal light once, but the rest of the time he had his eyes on the approaching ship, even when it slid alongside them, almost completely out of sight from the front viewport.
The panel that should have been lit up, a small collection of laser-guided and magnetic alignment tools that usually beeped and chirped to let pilots know how the docking procedure was progressing—it was pitch black the entire time, and Spencer wondered whether it was just turned off or completely disabled. Perhaps it had never been hooked up at all on Donny’s ship.
The distances and leveling were all done by eyeball and sixth sense, but there wasn’t a bump or a thump to be heard until the single, triumphant clink that announced that the Pathways ship had accepted the docking seal from Firenze’s tiny vessel.
When the two doors had been opened between the ships, a Pathways officer leaned around the corner and called, “Smoothest hands in the business, Donny!”
“That’s what the ladies say!” Donny called back, and then cackled away while Spencer and the two returning pilots traded places.

“Spencer Fyodorim, welcome aboard transport number eight-zero-zero-eight. Are you carrying anything poisonous, explosive, flammable, sharp, or illegal?”
Spencer shook his head.
“I’m required to ask you to answer verbally, sir, as this conversation is being monitored and recorded.”
Spencer looked up at the co-pilot in amazement. “No, sir, I am not carrying any of those things—in fact, I’m not carrying anything at all.”
The co-pilot looked around, and it was his turn to be amazed. “Three weeks on our station and then a wet-drop for planetside leave, and you didn’t bring one single thing?”
Spencer snorted. “It’s not like we’ll be out in the wilderness, right? I assume you guys have soap and running water.”
The co-pilot snorted back. “I assume you know how to use them—but I always assume that about you boys, and I’m often wrong.”
Spencer laughed it off. “I didn’t mean anything by it, sir; I just like to travel light is all. The more stuff you bring, the more likely you are to lose something, or have it stolen. Besides, when you go planetside you get most of your stuff taken away anyway—no offense,” he added, realizing he was talking to a pair of customs officers.
“Oh, none taken,” the co-pilot shrugged. “It’s not like we get any of it. It’s all recycled or destroyed. Right, Eff?”
“Ri-ight,” the pilot drawled, a thin smirk on his face.
Spencer settled into his seat and strapped in. There was a brief conversation between pilots, and then a double-check of the hatches between ships; finally, the clink of the docking seal giving way signaled that they were free. After a slow maneuver to safe distance, the Pathways pilot lurched the ship forward, glancing at Spencer over his shoulder.
Spencer rolled his eyes, but decided to pretend he was impressed, knowing he was about to spend three weeks with these guys. “She’s got a little power to her,” he noted dryly.
If they picked up on the sarcasm, they ignored it. “Yeah, this baby looks big and clunky, but we took the propulsion system from an old Quasar—designed for quick acceleration because they were used—”
“Because they were used for automated supply runs over long distances, ships packed heavy and tight to withstand the stresses of compressed deceleration. I know.”
The pilot and co-pilot guffawed over that, and the co-pilot said, “Ooh, Effey, we got us a real specialist here. Hey, where’d you go to school, Doctor Fyodorim?”
Spencer’s eyes narrowed at them. He muttered a reply.
“Say again, boy? Where?”
Spencer exhaled slowly, counting in his head. “Serpeset,” he repeated, slowly and clearly. Then he leaned forward suddenly in his seat. “Is that a comet?”
“Is that a—what the hell?” The pilot turned slightly to see what Spencer was seeing, and as he did so they all saw the short streak of blue-white make an S-turn and head for Earth.
“That,” said the co-pilot, deadly serious now, “was no comet.”

Levi's Rock - Chapter Four - For Talented Pilots - Part One

Chapter Four: For Talented Pilots

From a few hundred thousand kilometers distance, Earth has rings like Saturn. They turn as the Earth turns, and they scintillate in the light of the sun. There are gaps in the rings, and they are multicolored, swirling from time to time as ships dip in and out. The large space stations orbit just outside these rings, and satellites are synchronized to avoid them.
In the dark shadow of Earth, the rings almost disappear, save for a few twinkling lights. There is an elliptical quality to them, and as the eye follows them to one extremity it can faintly discern one gossamer-thin strand of the outermost ring as it flings itself toward Earth’s moon. There it meets the glimmer of a developing ring around the moon, and the evolution of the rings is illustrated.
As ships near Earth, the nature of the rings becomes clearer. What appears to be dust, debris, and rubble from a distance gains detail, takes shape, and comes into focus. The individual particles of the ring resolve themselves into tiny ships and large vessels of all types, and the grayish wash of the rings becomes a mosaic of ships of every type, style, color, and cut.
There are rings of ships parked in perfect slumber, rings of ships alive with arriving and departing passengers, clusters of connected ships docking and communicating with each other.
Between all these ships dart the nimble ships with the Pathways icons on them, shepherding and sheriff-ing the other ships into formation—creating order out of the chaos, so that from a distance the serene and surreal image of a ringed Earth is preserved, harmonious and beautiful among its cousins.
The Pathways officers are numerous and respected, but the traffic that flows into these rings—both from the planet surface and from deep space—is unpredictable. From time to time, extra help is needed.

Thirty of the pilots crowded into the Marques briefing room, where assignments were usually distributed, and the last to arrive was Hawkins. He pressed his way to the front and thumbed the viewscreen to life. He had to repeat the voice-code twice over the buzz of the pilots—they had gotten the call less than ten minutes ago, and most of them were on the wrong rotation right now, but it couldn’t be helped.
“Alright, listen up,” Hawking grumbled, as a series of images poured up on the screen. “We’ve been asked to provide thirty pilots for temporary assignment as Pathways support officers. This is not your chance to lord it over civilians and throw your weight around. You’re going to be deputized for three weeks on a rotation; at the end of your stint, you hit the drops for planetside leave, and as soon as your feet touch solid ground, your deputy status ends.
“Ten of you leave now, ten next week, and the last group two weeks from today; you’ll fly a twenty-four hour shadow patrol, and for the first week you will be eyes-only, echoing everything to your counterpart officer. Most of you are already familiar with the routine, and I expect you to fill in the rookies. Make us look good out there; there’s a bonus in it for the station, and I don’t have to tell you it won’t be going in anyone’s pocket—we still need some repairs to the auxiliary ship-lift, right Corsi?”
There was some good-natured razzing which Corsi endured with a groan.
“You’ll be flying … er,” Hawking hesitated and cleared his throat, “I’ve been told you’ll be flying impounded vehicles—now, just hold on—it’s ….” After that, it was no use trying to quiet the men down for a few minutes as the room erupted in an equal mix of cheers and jeers.
Hawking’s personal philosophy was that any pilot worth his seat-space should take to whatever ship he was given like a wild animal to a mate. If the ship was fast or powerful or looked nice, that was a bonus, but all a pilot should care about—in Hawking’s opinion—was whether it moved and how to steer it.
Unfortunately, Pathways was not guaranteeing that speed, strength, or beauty would accompany the ships to which these deputies would be assigned. The men from Marques Station who had accepted stints like these in the past knew that Pathways could not even guarantee the ships would move—or steer. This was because instead of issuing out their own ships—which were boring but plentiful—Pathways frequently insisted on using ships that had been impounded, some of them because they had been parked in the inner rings for years, disowned or discarded when the owner died.
There was a lottery-like chance of getting a nice ship, particularly if a smuggler had been caught recently, but any ship that Pathways had in impound was probably not worth much, since they usually went on auction right away. If it was worth very little—not enough to sell, but just enough to keep it from getting scrapped and parceled out to little space concerns—then it sat in the Pathways impound until needed.
The cheers among the Marques pilots being briefed was probably an even mix of pilots with Hawking’s enthusiasm for any new ship and pilots who looked forward to being paid for three weeks of turning in ship after ship that broke down on them, “forcing” them to endure the three weeks on the Pathways base station. The Pathways base station was easily three times the size of Marques, and the amenities made it a perk for officers.
The jeers among the pilots were also an even mix—on the one hand were pilots who didn’t look forward to flying hunks of space junk, and on the other hand were pilots whose own ships would languish back at Marques because Pathways was too cheap to insure them against damage or loss. Some of Hawking’s top pilots had sunk every cent they earned during their tenure at Marques into ships that were luxurious rides and impressive performers. To be forced to leave their babies behind for three weeks, followed by another few weeks of planet-side rotation, was akin to having their baby kidnapped—or in this case, hijacked—right out from under them.
Hawking waited, waited, and finally began reading out the names of the ten pilots who would be leaving first. Better that they find out about the health inspection later, he decided.

Hawking, Ecksel, and Spencer had a brief meeting after the first group was dismissed to pack for the transfer. Hawking cut straight to the point.
“You will not be in any of the groups assigned to Pathways rotation,” he said bluntly.
Spencer shrugged. “We didn’t need a meeting for this. It’s your call who goes and who stays. I’m not the only one staying.”
Ecksel looked back and forth between Hawking and Spencer, but he addressed Spencer. “You’re not bothered by this decision at all? You do have more experience than a lot of these guys, even if it wasn’t here at Marques. Do you think you would do a better job than some of these guys?”
“Even if I did, I wouldn’t say so—not right now, not like this. Besides, any idiot can park ships in the space lanes. It’s a fair bit safer than their usual job.”
Hawking nodded. “I’m glad you feel that way. But I’ll be honest with you: it’s not your attitude I’m worried about. You’ve made some close friends in the last few weeks. If anybody asks you how you feel about being excluded from this nice, cushy assignment—well ….”
“I would say I’d rather be here anyway; it’s bound to be a lot quieter, and I can get some work done on DaSilva’s ship—unless you’ve got something else for me to work on?”
Hawking shook his head. “Excuse us,” he said, gesturing to Ecksel, and a moment later Spencer was vanishing through the door.
“And how is he physically?” Hawking inquired after a moment’s pause.
Ecksel waved a hand absently. “He’s fine. He comes out of those states as shaky as a leaf, and his body chemistry goes nuts for a while, but after a few days it’s like nothing happened, except—well, except for the dreams, which are more intense for a while—and the amnesia. Mind you,” he held up a hand, “he’s only had three since he arrived, and one of those arrested prematurely, but I’m going on the information from his file as well. This guy Schill—the medic on C’bathos—took some good notes on him.” Ecksel’s face clouded over. “Too bad he won’t be talking anymore.”

Whether because they were both too busy or because neither wanted to admit it, both Ecksel and Hawking arrived at the conclusion, over the course of the next few days, that it had been a mistake not sending Spencer with the rest of the pilots.
There were complaints about Spencer’s nightmares—complaints that were familiar, but hadn’t been heard in over a month. With the first batch of pilots gone, many of the men were accommodated simply by switching their sleep rotations, but it left Spencer’s shifts sparse, meaning the men on his rotation worked harder and accomplished less. The irritable, cabin-sick pilots who hadn’t been chosen for Pathways duty had been awarded station repairs and inventory tasks; the ones on Spencer’s schedule were crankier and more overworked, and Hawking could tell it wouldn’t be long before there was a fight.
He headed one off the day before the second crew left for orbital patrol. Passing through the mess hall on a shortcut to the crew quarters, he overheard a conversation that was reaching the pitch just below venomous, when neither party is sure whether the other guy is joking. An old instinct kicked in, and Hawking paused as though he had forgotten something. He was holding a tablet, and he clicked through page after page of data, not really seeing it as he concentrated on eavesdropping.
The men were ganging up on Spencer, interrogating him in deliberately controlled tones, implying what might happen to him if he couldn’t get his nightmares under control—and offering friendly suggestions of how he might do that.
Spencer’s low, steady tone made his replies impossible to make out from this distance, but after one murmured rejoinder several of the men lurched toward him—kept in check only by the hisses and muted gesticulations of the ones whose job it was to keep their eye on Hawking.
Spencer eventually got up and walked out between the other men without a scratch, and Hawking continued on his way smoothly—but he knew it would be a mistake to stop like that again in the future, transparently signaling to the men that Spencer was somehow under his protection. He resolved to let Spencer fight his own battles from then on.

Spencer slapped on the door a few times, then cranked Ecksel’s door open.
“Come to cheer me up?” Ecksel quipped, sweeping a hand across his desk to clear the screen. He looked up, revealing dark circles under his eyes.
“Nothing I have to tell you will cheer you up—and it won’t help you sleep either,” Spencer added.
Ecksel snorted. “I don’t have trouble sleeping, I just have trouble finding time to sleep—I sometimes switch my sleep rotation if I have a lot of work to do, but then I end up pulling three or four shifts in a row. It’s probably not the sleep at all, you know.”
Spencer nodded. “Oh, I know: my doctors have always told me I needed ‘creative free-time’ more than I needed extra sleep, especially after an episode.”
“Yes. I’ve noticed you drawing on your tablet. I’d like to see what you draw if you don’t mind—not in a medical context, but purely out of curiosity.”
“Sure. So, should I come back? Are you going to take a nap?”
“If you leave, I’ll just work on something else; I’m too busy to stop right now. It’s probably better if we have a session. At least I’ll work a different part of my poor, addled brain.”
Spencer laughed and settled in on the couch.

I was ten years old when Kiyos was torn apart. Kiyos wasn’t destroyed from above by spaceships with bright green lasers; it was broken up from underneath by careless miners and bad math.
It took me ten years to say that. For ten years I couldn’t bring myself to believe that it could be the fault of the miners, because that would put at least part of the blame squarely on the shoulders of my father. He was my hero, and he was a great man, but he was also a miner trying to feed a family, and maybe the fact that the mines were tapped out—or that the contracts were depreciating and falling through—maybe something drove him to make a bad decision, to take a risk that cost so many people their lives.
I think about the day that it happened less and less as the years pass, but when I do … I still review the events of the day with a morbid fascination. I can’t help going over and over the sights, the sensations, the horrible realization that the whole world was coming apart. It was weeks later, at my aunt’s home on Serpeset, that I finally got the whole story, the meaning behind the madness. I rebelled against the truth with a vengeance, and for years afterward I told everyone that there was a conspiracy—a plot to destroy the mining colony—and that my father must have been at the center of it.
It was too perfect not to believe: my father must have known what was happening, and he died trying to stop it.
Maybe it was C’bathos that convinced me that accidents happen. Maybe it was just time to stop deluding myself. I’m sure that the horrors I have seen since Kiyos have made me consider the evil in everyone I meet. I never know who will betray me.

“Does that make it difficult to make friends?”
“It doesn’t make it any easier.”

I owe my life to my father’s foresight. He had our home built miles from the town, on a high, sheer cliff overlooking the crater—our lives revolved around that crater and everyone in it. I went to school with those kids, I greeted everyone in town almost every day, there was no one on the whole damn rock that I didn’t know personally—and I was only ten years old. Right up until the day I left—forever—I hoped I would live the rest of my life on Kiyos.
Of course, that sounds ridiculous now: for one thing, the whole rock was only so big, not even a planet by scientific standards, and the mining would have been halted in a few years, contract or not. You can only dig so far before you come out the other side—or, as we found out, before the structural integrity of the rock is compromised.
It was just bad math, that’s all. Maybe somebody knew they were pushing too hard, and maybe nobody knew; the point is moot now, because the cookie crumbled.

“You seem intent on trivializing what happened,” Ecksel interjected.
“What do you mean?”
“Several times since our sessions began, you’ve referred to this event—the destruction of Kiyos, your first home—with colloquialisms and quaint terms, almost as though you are diminishing the importance of the event.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Doc; I was devastated when it happened. It’s just that it’s been so long, and so much has happened since then … it seems like Kiyos was just the beginning. Wait till you hear about Serpeset.”
“Okay.”