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A few
cadets tried to ask what was going on, but he blew them off, and
quickly marched off with Nida when the lifts arrived at the ground
floor.

He
desperately wanted to know what was going on with her, but there
were too many people around to ask.

Plus . . . he doubted she would tell
him.

She
appeared to be focusing all her attention on reaching the med bay.
Not for the first time, he wondered whether he should call a
transport anyway. He didn't though. Instead, he monitored her,
ready to step in if she needed him, but content to walk by her side
for now.

Soon
they reached the hospital. It took up an entire building. It didn't
simply house the clinics of the Academy, but the medical research
labs too.

Well,
as he walked in the front door, he grabbed the first doctor he
could see.

Soon
Nida was whisked away into a room.

He
still had no idea what was wrong with her.

As he
stood there in one of the sparsely decorated waiting rooms, his
wristwatch beeped with a message.

He
glanced at it, noting with a grimace that it was Travis,
admonishing him for being late to the E Club Event.

Carson
technically could leave the hospital and head straight over, but he
had no intention of doing so.

He was
going to stand in this room and wait until someone could tell him
what was going on with Nida.

Which
could be a long time. Heck, it could take all night. But he wasn't
leaving. After a moment's pause, he messaged Travis back, inventing
some story about work. When Travis called immediately, Carson did
not accept the message. Travis would know Carson was lying, but
that didn't matter.

He
wasn't leaving.

With a
tight sigh, Carson finally found a seat and sat down roughly.
Locking his arms against his chest, he stared at the clean white
walls.

And
there he remained.

Cadet
Nida Harper

She
hadn't expected to see Carson hovering outside of her door. She'd
been glad for his company though.

He'd
walked with her, in thankful silence, all the way to the med
bay.

Though
he'd asked what was going on, he hadn't pushed when she'd failed to
reply.

Now
she sat on the edge of the hospital bed, wondering just how much to
tell the doctor by her side.

“I'm
sure your . . . dreams are simply a result of
stress,” the woman tried.

Nida
shook her head. “You don't get it. I don't feel right. Something is
wrong.”

The
doctor tried for a smile, but it was clear she was sick of Nida's
stories.

Because that's what people thought they were.
Stories.

The
doctors thought she was making this up. That she was overacting.
That she was a hypochondriac.

But
she wasn't.

Something was happening to her.

“You've been seriously injured recently, multiple times,” the
woman pointed out slowly and clearly, “you need rest.”

Nida
shook her head.

Rest
would not help her.

She
had to find out what was happening.

Ever
since her return from Remus 12, something had been building within
her.

The
flashes of blue, the dreams, the accidents. They were all
connected. But when she'd shared that theory with the doctor, the
woman had dismissed it out of hand.

Because it didn't make sense.

Nothing had happened to Nida on Remus 12, and none of the
numerous tests done on her revealed anything out of the
ordinary.

She
was making it up.

She
was stressed.

“You
just need rest,” the doctor spoke through a heavy, rattling sigh.
“Everything will be fine once you give yourself time to calm
down.”

Nida
didn't reply.

She
simply sat there.

She
had convinced herself to come to the med bay because it had seemed
like the right thing to do. Sitting there and suffering in silence
had been stupid. And while Nida was a lot of things, she wasn't
dumb.

But
the doctors could not help, because to them, nothing was
wrong.

“Just
go home,” the woman tried to offer a reassuring smile. “Everything
will be okay tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Nida managed, realising she couldn't just sit there
like a surly teenager.

“I can
give you something for the dreams. It'll stop you from experiencing
them,” the doctor said as she walked up to Nida and administered
something to her neck with a syringe gun.

Nida
felt the injection, but almost immediately the sensation became
indistinct as a flood of tingles surged towards it. It was almost
as if they were nullifying the effects of the
syringe . . . .

Nida
did not say anything to the doctor. Instead, she stood up, thanked
her, and walked out.

She
strode from the med bay, her mind a mess.

She
had no idea what to do.

Every
time she closed her eyes, all she saw were flashes of her latest
dream.

If you
could call it a dream.

The
way she'd walked through the Academy halls, killing
people . . . .

She
buckled forward as she recalled the screams and blood. Clamping a
hand over her mouth, she kept stumbling forward though, determined
to get back home.

She
would try and sleep, and hopefully the medication the doctor had
administered would stop the dreams.

. . . .

Except
Nida doubted it would. She knew instinctively that nothing could
stop them. They would simply become worse with every passing
day.

She
went to go home, but she stopped. As she walked across the lawns
between the Academy buildings, she realised she couldn’t go back to
her stuffy room.

She
just couldn’t do it.

The
thought of sitting down on her bed felt like opening up to the
shadows.

. . . .

The
shadows that apparently did not exist.

Everyone was telling her she was just stressed, that the
dreams were nothing more than figments of a fatigued
mind.

And
maybe they were right.

Maybe
she just had to distract herself and wait for it to
pass.

Strolling across the grounds, she paused and looked up at the
accommodation buildings before her.

Then
she turned and cast her gaze towards the city. It sat there
glittering, promising distraction with every twinkling
light.

Nida
paused, stared down at her left hand, then pushed
forward.

Not
towards her apartment, but away from the Academy compound and into
the rest of the city.

She
could ignore her headache—it wasn’t that strong any more. The
doctor at least had fixed that.

And if
she really tried hard, she could ignore that cold, stone-like
feeling creeping up from her left hand.

Because it was just her imagination.

. . . .

It was
just her imagination.

Carson
Blake

He was
starting to get worried. Nobody had come to see him, nor had Nida
reappeared.

He
stood sharply, the chair behind him toppling as he did.

“Right,” he muttered as he strode from the waiting room. He
caught the first person he could find, asking them for some
information on Nida.

He was
shocked to find she’d already been discharged.

Too
shocked.

Figuring the nurse had been wrong, he checked in with the
hospital’s records himself—something he could do with his rank—and
confirmed the news.

She’d
left without him.

And
worse than that, she’d been discharged.

When
he’d taken her to the hospital, she’d appeared in a bad way. Yeah,
capable of walking, but he’d seen the pallid, sickly hue to her
skin, and the horrible, tense way she’d clutched her left
hand.

. . . .

But
they’d discharged her. Apparently, nobody could find anything wrong
with her, well, physically wrong. According to the records he’d
accessed, the doctor who’d seen her had made a note about stress
and possible hypochondria.

In a
way, he couldn’t believe it. He’d expected the doctors to
find . . . something.

Because there was something wrong with her.

He
shook his head as he marched forward.

He
headed back up to her apartment.

In
fact, he reached the lift at the bottom of the building at a jog,
and didn’t wait when a cadet rushed up and told him to hold the
lift.

Instead, Carson crossed his arms and waited for the lift to
shoot up to the right level. When the doors opened with a
resounding ping, he sprinted through them.

He
didn’t stop until he reached her door.

Then
he jammed his thumb into the intercom button. “Nida? It’s Carson.
Open up,” he demanded.

No
reply.

He
kept his thumb on the button. “Nida, come on. Open up. You left
without saying a word. I just want to check up on you,” he couldn’t
keep the frustration from his voice. He couldn’t keep it from
tightening his chest either, and crawling its way up his
throat.

She
still didn’t answer.

“Nida?
Oh, fuck it,” he took a step back, coming to a quick and hasty
decision as he did. Without pause for reason, he overrode the
lock.

The
door swished open and he ran in.

She
wasn’t in the main room. “Nida,” he announced as he strode over to
her door.

It
wasn’t locked, and he walked in, hesitating and even bothering to
knock first.

. . . .

She
wasn’t in there.

She
wasn’t anywhere in the apartment in fact.

After
he searched it, he rested one hand on the kitchen table and swore
again. Loudly.

Where
the hell was she?

She’d
been discharged a little under an hour ago.

Anger
rushed up his belly, and hot on its heels came worry.

She
may have been discharged—and that was a questionable decision, as
far as he was concerned—but she was not in any state to be rushing
around town at night.

“Where
the hell are you?” he muttered under his breath as he took a step
forward and considered the view.

He saw
the rest of the Academy complex, and the city stretching out beyond
it. Everything was drawn in shades of midnight blue, set off with
the sparkling lights of the city.

In the
gaps between the buildings, he could see a thin stretch of the bay
with a luminescent night sky glittering above.

It was
beautiful.

In
some ways, he found his home planet far more amazing than the rest
of the galaxy combined.

But no
matter how startling and still the night appeared, it could not
distract him.

He’d
already broken the rules by overriding the lock to Nida’s
apartment, but he wasn’t done yet.

He
accessed the private Academy communication lines from his watch. As
a lieutenant, he had certain privileges, and as the head of the
Force, he had even more.

Usually you had to have a very good reason to look up a
cadet’s personal contact details, and Carson never abused that
power.

Today,
he didn’t even hesitate as he dug up the number for Nida’s
communication device.

He
called it. Without pause.

She
didn’t immediately answer.

When
the call finally went through with a click, he pushed his head back
and sighed with relief. “Where the hell are you?” he snapped
immediately.

“Ah,
who’s wrist device is this?” someone answered.

It
wasn't Nida.

“It
belongs to Cadet Nida Harper. Now who the hell are you?” Carson
spat.

“Ah, I
just found this on the street,” a man answered.

Carson
froze. The hand holding his wristwatch to his mouth stiffened to
the point of turning to stone. “Where?”

“Ah, I’m in the 4th
District,” the guy
answered.

“Return this watch to the closest Academy cadet or officer you
find,” Carson commanded.

“I am
one. I mean, I’m a cadet,” the guy said with an awkward cough. “And
you are?”

“Lieutenant Carson Blake,” Carson barked. “Take this watch
back to the Academy now.”

“Whoa,
Carson Blake,” the guy’s pitch changed from one of mild shock to
reverence.