This Isn't About Reya

Chapter Thirty-Seven

At some point, he must have fallen asleep. When Michel awoke, his head felt groggy. He'd forgotten where he was. There was a low hum from somewhere behind him, and a bright, shimmering, white light that illuminated the center of the room.

A massive room, so huge that he couldn't see the ceiling or the corners. The white light did not reach that far. 

Michel looked around. Crates, softlight energy cells, generators and machines. Piles of sharp, black, gleaming metal. 

The colony.

He was in the protomaterial processor of the colony he'd come to investigate.

And the monster.

Michel leapt to his feet with a start and feverishly looked around the room, his eyes wide and his head snapping back and forth as he looked for it. But it wasn't there. There was nothing moving in the room besides himself and the light of the depositor behind him.

He forced himself to relax, slowing his breathing, sinking back onto the floor. He struggled to purge the imprint of fear that the thing had left on his soul. He couldn't quite shake it completely, but eventually he could think again.

Think, he told himself. Stop, breathe, and think.

He stared at the shadowy corners of the room, searching for any sign of the creature. He saw none, but he kept staring, regardless.

Maybe I just fell asleep and had a nightmare. Michel desperately wanted to convince himself that it had only been a dream, a figment of his imagination brought out by the stress over the past few days, the fear of being alone in a colony that had mysteriously gone dark.

He shook his head, the unshakable fear gripping his heart. It had been all too real.

He took another deep breath, looked down at the floor around him, and found that his pistol was missing.

"Damn it!" he cursed through clenched teeth. It had come back while he was still asleep and taken his only defense from him.

A thought occurred to him. What had happened while he'd been asleep? If the thing had returned, what else had it done to him? He began vigorously examining his body, looking for signs of tampering. Everything was normal. The cut on his cheek had stopped bleeding.

Was he dead?

Was this his Hell?

Michel sat there, on the floor, his back against the metal base of the depositor, for a long time. He did nothing but stare at his hands and think. Had he led a good life?

No. He'd done terrible things. He'd had terrible thoughts. He'd never been a religious man. He hadn't sung the Songs of the Winds or meditated with the Seas in a long time. What would happen to his soul if he was still alive? Or was it too late?

His head dropped into his open palms. His fingers laced themselves through his hair, and he grieved for the men and women he'd killed in his line of duty. He grieved for the men and women who had died for him. He grieved for the millions more who would die soon.

He shook his head. If there was still time, if he was still alive, he would pay for his sins. One way or another.

Eventually, he stood. He looked around the room again. He was alone in it. 

What could he do?

He began to climb the rickety metal stairs out of the processing chamber, but found that the door was closed once again. He knew he would be unable to open it, and so he took his foot off of the first step and turned back towards the depositor. Walking around the room, he eventually found one of the ventilation shafts that could lead him back to the administration building. If he could get off the planet, or even wire himself into one of the communication terminals, he might be able to send word back to Aquilo-Nix in time.