Archive of Our Own ^beta

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It was easy then, in the domes. So much easier than it is now. I don’t like to think about it, how it was when I was dosed with suppressants and made into just another mindless drone. A model citizen. Because if I think about it too hard, I almost miss it.

I don’t let on to the others. What would they think if they knew their beloved leader—well, beloved to some—actually wished he was still under the oppressive thumb of the Federation he was sworn to destroy, at any and all costs?

And I don’t, not always. I don’t miss the faceless guards that roamed the corridors, always watching us, waiting for us to step out of line for one instant so that they would be justified in their barbarity. I don’t miss the pitying glances from peers and officials that I couldn’t quite understand, not until I knew just why they felt so sorry for me. I certainly don’t miss the lack of individuality, the same style of clothing that all of us wore and the same books and music that all of us read and listened to.

There were no opinions, no explanations, no reasons for anything. You just trod on, oblivious to life and why you could possibly wish to go on living it. No, I don’t miss that. No one would. Except perhaps a mutoid.

I just wished it weren’t so damned hard! I fight for the freedom to think, to live, but it’s so very tiring to have to do it on my own. Back in the domes, I didn’t have to think. No one did. I simply did as I was told and I never had to weigh moral quandaries or consider who else would be impacted by my decisions.

Now, everything I do affects someone else. Hurts someone else. Kills someone else. How many lives have I ended in the bitter name of freedom? Of independence? And how many of those lives didn’t even want freedom? How many were content to live out their days under the Federation? How many didn’t want to leave the safety and comfort of the domes?

It’s hard to think when the thoughts that consume you are whether or not anyone even wants the freedom you are forcing them to die for. I sometimes wonder if Avon feels that way. He certainly doesn’t claim to want freedom, not my way. His definition is wealth, and I sometimes wonder if he’s right.

Give him open access to the entire Federation, and he’ll only rob them, drain a portion of their funds and possibly steal a ship, and be on his merry way never to be a bother again. Give such an opportunity to me and… Well. We all know what would happen then.

It’s hard to think when you don’t know what to think. It was easier when I didn’t have to be right.

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I’ve always liked to feel in control of my life. When I was a child, I was always the puppet of my father and brother, but that changed the day I learned to fly. From then on, I was free as long as I was in the sky. No one could dictate where I went or what I did, and every time the force of lifting off subsided and gave way to the weightlessness of space, I felt it—that freedom.

I suppose that’s why I left. One day, I just took off and never landed. I had my clothes, my ship, my gun. What more did I need? What reason had I to stay? They never supported my “ridiculous obsession with foolish adrenaline rushes”, as my family put it. They didn’t understand why I needed to be free of my cage.

When I became a smuggler, I felt not only free, but in control. Of course, I was a hunted woman with a dozen headhunters on my trail, all of them too slow or too stupid to keep up with me. I enjoyed leading them on.

I was a different person then. I was reckless, ignorant, and selfish. I knew the Federation was out there, but I didn’t care. What they did didn’t affect me, and as long as I was running illegal cargo and evading hunters, danger was a thrill.

And then I was caught. Oh, I kept up the act. I fixed a mask of cool indifference on my face and pretended to have everything all worked out—how I was going to get out, how I was going to rebuild my career, and how I was never going to be caught again. But that’s all it was, an act. A lie.

And Blake saw right threw it. I like traveling with Blake. I fly a magnificent ship no one else in the galaxy owns the equal of, I work with people I’m not certain I trust, and I taste the thrill of the chase every day. Only it’s different now. The danger is real, tangible. It’s not as invigorating as it once was.

When you’ve looked death in the eyes enough times, the adrenaline wears off and you’re left with an empty sort of exhaustion, and the knowledge that you have only so many more lucky chances before you run out. No one can cheat death forever, not even Blake. And sometimes, I miss not knowing that.

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I have never been one given to looking back in longing at times past. There is no point to it. You can hope and wish all you like, but time travel is not possible, and letting your emotions overcome you will not change that fact.

But even I must admit that sometimes, when it is late, I can almost imagine that Anna is still lying beside me. It is not an intentional thought, merely an unconscious association brought about by a parallel set of events. Perhaps that is all nostalgia is. A reaction. Pattern recognition. Mindless data.

A soft sound awakens me—white noise, probably an automatic adjustment to the ship’s trajectory—and in my haze, I mistake it for Anna shifting. I turn to reach out to her and my fingertips meet empty sheets. Confusion clouds my thoughts. I assume that perhaps she has gotten up early, that her husband asked where she was, before the truth dawns on me. She is gone. Dead.

I lie on my back and watch the smooth metal ceiling, looking for cracks and scratches. Flaws, like the one that haunts my brain. An almost nightly ritual, this particular set of events. It always ends with the same conclusion: pattern recognition does not always yield useful data.

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Silence. Some—Avon—find silence comforting. They call it a reprieve, the voices of the world too loud and conflicting for them to hear every moment of their lives. And others—Aurona—find silence to be painful.

Heavy, oppressive, sharp. My thoughts dull in my ears, my voice grows familiar and repeats the same emotions and opinions again and again. There is no variance to it, only the same sound. It never ceases.

The voices of others offer another sound, a new perspective, alternate emotions. You are never alone, trapped with only your thoughts for company.

I am isolated. My words blur. They are no longer sentences, no longer coherent. All I can hear in my mind is an endless scream, the first syllable of “alone”, drawn on for eternity. I am alone with my voice.

It is silent, but never quiet.

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I miss my mum. What kid doesn’t? Well, Avon probably doesn’t. I don’t think he’d miss any of us. I’m not convinced he even had a mum. Wouldn’t surprise me if he was built in a laboratory from spare computer parts.

But I had a mum, and she was the best one in the galaxy. She had to be, to make up for my not having a dad. I didn’t miss him all that much, either, and I still don’t think about him much. Never knew him. Probably isn’t worth knowing a man who left the best woman he’d ever know, anyway. Didn’t need him. Not when I had Mum.

I used to have nightmares, you know. Still do. New horrors every night. Don’t know how my head doesn’t run out of ideas, but it hasn’t yet and I don’t think it plans to anytime soon. Last night it was those creepy spider things on Kairos crawling around the Liberator and the night before that it was Blake coming back as a ghost and just lurking all ghost-like and the night before that… Well, you get the point.

Mum used to let me sleep in her bed when they got bad. I’d wake up crying and she’d just hold me until I fell asleep again. Now I just pour myself a drink. Never seems to help as much, though.

Wonder what she’d think, if she saw me now. I’m a thief, a common criminal, a drunk. A coward, they tell me. A fool, Avon says. Pathetic. Useless. All sorts of other words they’ve used too, ‘specially Tarrant. Some of them aren’t repeatable in polite company.

Been ages since I’ve had polite company. Mum, she thought I’d be a space commander and stick around with civilized Federation captains and section leaders. Nowadays, I’d end up with a crew of mutoids. Don’t much care for them. Vampires, people say. They’ll suck you dry if they run out of blood serum, and I’m not good with needles. Medical condition, you know.

What do you s’pose she’d say if she knew I ran with Blake? Think she’d care that I was a wanted a man? A rebel? And the only one not worth capturing. I think it’s better she won’t ever know, but damn, I miss her.

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Everyone’s lost someone. Sooner or later, if you live long enough, you will outlive someone you care about. The tragic part is when you outlive someone because of someone else.

The Federation murdered my woman, and I tried to kill that guard. That’s why I have a limiter. It’s a constant reminder of the day I lost her, a headache that never quite goes away. And a heartache.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop being aware that she isn’t at my side, and I know I’ll always be aware of how useless I am. I’m the biggest, strongest man on the Liberator, and the only one who can’t kill. How am I supposed to defend my friends if I’m paralyzed every time I try?

One day, I’m going to be the cause of one of their deaths. I’ll lose someone else I care about and not be able to do anything about it. They won’t blame me, neither would my woman, but I will.

So I make up for it as best I can, doing little things like fetching drinks or medical supplies. I check up on people and joke with Vila. I like Vila. I like Blake. The only one I’m not sure of is Avon. I don’t trust him. I think he’s going to sell us out one day, and I’m going to be helpless when he does.

I’m lucky Blake keeps me around at all. I don’t expect him to forever. If it came right down to it, me or one of the others, only a fool would pick me. But that’s alright. I don’t have much left to live for, anyway.