Mortals

01: LILITH

The door opens and the light springs forth like a solar flare, lashing at my eyes. I raise a hand against the glare, blinking, blinded. It's the first light I've seen in weeks.

A shadow hovers in the doorway, dark and tall. "You're free to go, Satorace," he says.

"What?" I rasp. I clear my throat, try again. "What?"

"I said you can leave. Charges have been dropped."

My eyes sting. My mind blurs. I grimace.

"Well? Don't just stand there! Major Cordese needs this space cleared for incoming prisoners."

"Major who?"

The man swears and moves into the cell. He grabs my arm roughly and starts dragging me out. "They told me you'd suffered memory loss but I didn't expect you to be stupid. Major Cordese? In charge of prison sector? Honestly."

Outside the cell, the full force of the light hits me, hot against my skin. I blink and stare down the long swathe of white hallway, disoriented. "I'm free to go? Just like that?"

The man nods. "Just like that." He's dressed in the regulation military uniform: dark green slacks and shirt, a tactical jacket, combat boots. The United Space Organisation logo – a rocket shooting upwards over a ringed planet, the letters USO in front – is patched proudly over his left breast. A black belt around his hips bears an assortment of gear, including a baton, a gun, and a pair of keys that jingle with every movement. My eyes fixate on the keys, just as I'd fixated on the sound of them while I'd been locked up. They were a symbol of freedom I held on to, grasped desperately, but now they're meaningless.

It's been three weeks since they locked me up, three weeks since the Hermes returned to Earth after our unauthorised trip through a space-time rip and into a parallel universe. Three weeks since I saw Merc or Cal or Atara, my crew aboard the Hermes, my friends, and in some instances, my enemies. But it feels like it's been much longer. In my cell, hours stretched slow and long like pulled gum, and every day felt like a week. The only way I was able to keep track of time at all was by counting meals, the unsatisfying, paltry things that they were.

"Can you get a move on, please? You're crowding up my corridor."

The guard reaches for the cell door, slamming it shut and locking it with the keys on his belt.

"Where am I supposed to go?"

"How should I know? I'm a guard, not your mother. The boss tells me to let you out, I let you out. The rest is on you."

"Lieutenant Morgan." The voice booms at us from the far end of the starched corridor. At first the figure is just a black blot on white walls, but as he moves closer, I make out the primness of his military suit, the shine of his shoes, the stern brow on his forehead. He's clean shaven and icy-eyed and taller than even my guard. The insignia pin on his breast tells me he's a major.

Lieutenant Morgan swallows. "Yes, sir."

"What are you doing with this prisoner?"

"Releasing her, sir."

"Care to explain why?"

The lieutenant looks at me and back at the major, uncertain, a sweat breaking out at his temples. "I was ordered to." And then, more hesitantly, he adds, "Forgive me, sir, did you not order this prisoner to be released?"

For the first time, the major turns his gaze on me. "Name," he says.

"Satorace," I say, tilting my chin up. "Lilith Satorace."