CALLY
The Liberator is quiet. Very quiet.
Too quiet.
The silence inside my mind hurts. I head for the flight deck, where there will be light and people and noise: Avon and Tarrant arguing, Vila telling bad jokes, Orac buzzing and lecturing, Dayna singing badly and playing her lute even worse, Zen humming and clinking and all of it loud and brash and my shield against the silence.
They are there. Avon has his back to Tarrant, whose mouth is moving, whose teeth and flashing in that sweetly smug laugh of his. Vila is sprawled on the couch, talking slowly and lazily to - I think - Orac. Or maybe Zen. Certainly not to Dayna, who is tuning that awful lute thing of hers, perhaps. I can see her fingers, snapping at the strings. I can see it.
I cannot hear it. I cannot hear anything. I know I am crying, but I cannot hear my own sobs, my own cries, my own voice.
The silence is everywhere. Oh god, it hurts.