Overhead, the night sky was a comforting blanket of opaque ebony.

A tiny pinprick of light appeared, despoiling the calm, perfect darkness. It grew larger: a single star that shone brightly in the heavens, a remorseless eye that looked down upon the face of the world.

Sitala looked up, locking her gaze on his. Her dark hair framed her beautiful, terrible face, cascading over her shoulders in a waterfall of black silk. Her eyes flashed cold fire.

The lone star seared the heavens, brilliant and hard as Sitala's eyes, relentless as the death that spread across land and sea alike.

Wave after wave of shimmering death swept out, rolling over the planet, sterilizing everything in its path.

Inexorable.

Final.

Alone.

Makepeace sat bolt upright in bed. Clenching his hands in the blankets, he tried to scream, but his throat was closed with a horror not his own.

"Colonel!"

Makepeace barely heard the cry. He was still trapped, caught up in the murder of an entire world. His eyes saw only darkness, his soul overwhelmed by an abyss of loss, of grief, of inhuman hatred and unbearable sorrow. He gripped his hair in his fists and squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to see, not to remember...

"Sir, stop—"

Hands wrapped around his wrists, forced his arms down. He fought against them.

"Colonel, please, wake up—"

He knew that voice—it was part of another life, a saner life, not the smothering horror of a relentless alien logic. Makepeace's eyes snapped open. Tom Henderson was leaning over him, still gripping his wrists. Makepeace broke the hold then clutched at Henderson's arms, his fingers digging through fabric into flesh, until Henderson winced and protested.

"It's dead," Makepeace gasped out. "Everything's dead."

"No, sir, no one's dead. We're all here, we're all alive."

"No, it—"

"Sir, please, calm down. It was a nightmare."

"A nightmare?"

"Yes, sir, a nightmare."

A nightmare. Makepeace stared at Henderson, taking in the familiar features, barely visible in the dim light. The room was almost completely dark, but from somewhere nearby a night light provided a tiny amount of illumination. The dreams faded as he grew more aware, their taint of horror receding with them. His racing heart slowed, his breathing calmed. He felt sweat cooling on the bare skin of his chest and arms.

Henderson gazed back, his face a shadowy mask of worry mixed with fear. Why fear? Makepeace blinked, realizing he still held Henderson's arms in a death grip. He loosened his fingers, joint by painful joint, releasing the corporal.

Henderson sat back, rubbing his bruises, watching him with clinical wariness. "Feeling better, sir?"

Makepeace nodded. He let out a shaky breath. He was in bed, in a darkened room, but he didn't know how he'd gotten there. "What happened to me?"

"You had a nightmare."

"Not that." The evasion exasperated Makepeace. "Before. Something happened to me. My headache. It got worse, then it felt like my head exploded." He remembered his other symptoms, too: shaking hands, bloody nose, then everything became jumbled, confused. "Something was really wrong with me, wasn't it?" He saw the apprehension on Henderson's face, and insisted, "Tell me. Please."

Henderson nodded with reluctance. "Vara's language probe must have caused more serious damage to you than we all thought," he said, watching Makepeace closely. "You had some kind of a seizure, and Vara's servitors took you away. We were told that Vara was going to 'fix' you. Do you remember anything after that?"

Makepeace thought back. He hesitated. "I remember—"

"Yes? Sir?"

"I remember a room, all black and chrome, with bright lights, and instruments— Machines— I—" Terror clawed at him again.

"Sir?" Concern edged Henderson's voice.

"I think it was a lab, or maybe an infirmary, or something like that," Makepeace forced out. "I blacked out. That's all."

"You were unconscious when the servitors brought you back to us. Godfrey told us to let you sleep. He said you'd be all right in the morning."

"Godfrey?"

"Our hologram butler." Henderson smiled. "Sergeant Andrews named it."

Makepeace also smiled. With his customary irreverence, Andrews had named the hologram after a character from an old screwball comedy about a butler who was far more than he seemed. "My Man Godfrey," Makepeace said, remembering the title of the film. He hadn't seen that flick in years. Years and years and years.

"Yes, sir. Andrews is into that old stuff." Henderson prattled on, gabbling about trivialities associated with the movie and Sergeant Andrews's sometimes Byzantine reasoning processes.

Makepeace gazed off into space as he listened to the comforting chatter, letting it calm and lull him, knowing that was the intent but letting it happen anyway. He needed the reassurance of normalcy, just for a little while. It helped ground him in the real world. He yawned hugely, feeling sleep stealing over him again. He resisted its seductive call and stayed sitting up. "Henderson?"

The corporal broke off. "Sir?"

"How long was I gone?"

Henderson hesitated.

Patiently, Makepeace repeated, "How long was I gone?"

Sighing, Henderson said, "Hours." He gestured to the darkened windows. "It's night, now."

Hours? Night? Makepeace felt disoriented, out of sync. He tried to marshal his thoughts, but they wandered in odd ways. He suddenly felt exhausted, like he couldn't stay awake another moment. Obviously, his body needed more time to recover from whatever had been done to it. Unable to stop himself, he lay back against the pillows, staring up.

"Status," he said, falling back on procedure in his confusion, fighting a losing battle to keep his eyes open, to keep sleep at bay. "What's the situation?"

"We're still prisoners, sir. We're getting good treatment, though. As gilded cages go, it's not too bad." Henderson paused. "There's nothing you can do, for now. You look tired. You should rest. We'll give you a full sitrep in the morning."

Makepeace felt himself relax into the soft, warm bed. Henderson was right; he was so tired he couldn't think straight. Henderson didn't seem too concerned about the situation. It couldn't be dire. Probably was the same as before, probably didn't require an immediate strategy session. Probably. His eyelids drifted shut.

As his awareness leached away into the night, he vaguely noticed that Henderson was arranging the covers over him. Other than the occasional overbearing doctor or nurse, no one had tucked him in since his childhood, but with Henderson he was amused rather than indignant. He murmured drowsily, "You've got a good bedside manner, you know that? Strong enough to manage an old warhorse like me."

"Thank you, sir." Gentle humor laced Henderson's tone.

"You ought to go back to school. Finish that M.D. like you're always talking about."

Henderson made a soft, amused noise. "And miss out on all this adventure? Med school can wait. When am I ever going to get another chance to explore other planets?"

"Makes sense, I suppose," Makepeace mumbled.

Henderson said something else, but Makepeace didn't hear. He slept.