Darkness.
Everywhere.
Thick and absolute, wrapping around her like a shroud. She could see nothing. She could hear. There were muffled sounds. Shuffling noises like feet moving. A vast number of feet.
She turned her head, trying to get a sense of where the sounds were coming from. She couldn't, they seemed to be everywhere. She tried to step back, to turn, but she couldn't.
Her feet wouldn't move. Something was holding them. She tried to reach down, to see if she could free herself, but her hands were held fast as well, bound at the wrists by what felt like manacles.
What was happening...?
The shuffling feet grew closer, pressing in. Her heart began pounding. She wanted to flee, but was held tightly by her bonds. Why was she bound...?
A light suddenly flared in front of her, far above her. It shone down on a man standing behind a podium. A tall podium, impossibly tall. He stood like a God on his mountain and even across the great distance she could clearly make out the gleaming red and black robes he wore. A judges robes. A Macronesian judges robes.
Confusion solidified into stark fear and a ice cold pressure gripped her heart.
Figures emerged from the darkness surrounding her. They all wore the same uniform and the same face and their numbers were legion. She wanted to close her eyes, to look away. Look away from that young, trusting face with it's accusing, dead eyes. The eyes of the guard who had died helping her escape. The crowd around her was vast, and every one of them wore his face.
Fear turned to panic as the judge spoke from his mountainous perch, his voice as deep as thunder.
" For the crime of smuggling..."
She tried to cry out, to scream that she was innocent. The crowd answered for her, drowning her out with terrible force.
" Guilty..."
The judge spoke again.
" For the crime of others dying in her place... "
" Guilty..."
" For the crime of living when she should have DIED...!"
" GUILTY...!"
Far above, the judge raised his hands as if in benediction.
" The sentence, is death..."
No... God, no...
The crowd picked up the chant, cruel and cold.
" DEATH... DEATH... DEATH...!"
She was suddenly yanked back, pressed against something hard and cold and unyielding. She looked around frantically, trying to see what was holding her and let out a whimper of helpless terror.
The Macronesians used what they called ' the Grid ' for their more high profile public executions. A large, ladder like latice structure, it could send enough power through the body of the condemmned to reduce it to charred ash.
Her body. She was bound to the Grid. She was the condemmned.
Around her, the crowd suddenly fell silent. For a moment, all she could hear was the frantic pounding of her heart. Then a tiny voice called out...
" Where's my daddy...?
No, no, no... Against her will, her head turned and she looked. The boy stood there, small, blonde, perhaps eleven years old. He stood alone, the crowd fading into shadows behind him. Sorrow and confusion showed on his face.
" Why isn't my daddy here...? " he asked, tears in his eyes.
Noooo...
Behind the child a tall figure emerged from the crowd, walking forward to lay hands paternally on the boy's shoulders. The cruel, hawklike features showed icy contempt. Seeing him, her terror flared to white hot rage.
Alexander Bourne. The Macronesian president's face twisted into a mocking smile.
She wanted to scream, to cry out, tell the boy to run. Her rage turned to sick grief as she realized she couldn't.
She didn't even know the child's name.
Bourne spoke, his voice rich and cultured and dripping with disgust. For her.
" Why is this child alone...? " He looked at her, looked straight into her soul. " Where is his father, Lenore? "
Bourne nodded to her side. She didn't want to look, didn't want to see. And as before, she was powerless to stop her head from turning. Next to her stood the firing console for the Grid. A lone figure was standing at it, staring at her through sad, dead eyes. Something far beyond horror washed through her. Her knees buckled and only her manacles kept her from falling. A low moan, barely human, escaped from her.
Jim Brody stood there, staring at her through grey, lifeless eyes. His face was a cold mask, his chest a horrible ruin of charred flesh and scorched blood.
No... God, please, please no...
" I never knew my son... " Brody spoke with depthless sadness. The voice of the dead. A sorrow beyond describing crushed down on her soul. She wanted to speak, to tell him how sorry she was,
to beg for some kind, any kind, of forgiveness. All she could get out was a single, pathetic moan.
" Jim..."
Brody looked away from her, off to his son. He stayed that way for a very long time before looking back to her. His eyes were no longer sad.
" Guilty. " He said, and fired the grid.
Lonnie Henderson woke up screaming. She couldn't stop the terrified wail that tore from her throat as she lunged upright in her bunk. She kicked backward with all her strength, sending her blankets flying and slamming herself back into the bulkhead behind her. Her hands caught a deathgrip on the walls and her eyes were wide and desperate as she frantically looked around her.
She was in her quarters. Her quarters aboard SeaQuest She was alone and she was safe and she was alive. She tried to slow her ragged breathing, ease the frantic pounding of her heart. She couldn't. Tears shone on her face and she was shaking so violently her teeth chattered. She desperatly wrapped her arms around herself, held on tightly.
It was a dream, she told herself, over and over. It was just a dream.
The thought brought no comfort and she stayed as she was, trembling, pressed into the end of her bunk, for a very long time. Yes it was just a dream. And Jim Brody was still dead and Alexander Bourne was still out there threatening the world and safe was something she didn't believe she would ever feel again.