I have always believed isolation and time are a deadly combination.

Every moment I wasn’t before the Tribunal for my hearing, I was manacled securely to a concrete bunk in a secluded, empty cell. The guards outside were on a twelve hour rotation. The first morning guard had one leg slightly shorter than the other; I could tell from the rhythm of his gait. They never came near my cell. I was told the solitary confinement was for my own protection; I somehow doubted that.

My defence attorney, some hotshot lawyer, visited me often, but I never said much. I simply had nothing to say. I had done no wrong. I knew it, and though nobody else might ever know that truth, my integrity was intact. The lawyer had finally given up on me, telling me if I wanted to hang myself, feel free; that if I wasn’t willing to help him, there was only so much he could do.

In the end, it wouldn’t matter. What would be, would be.

The cell was cold, but I didn’t care; I had done extreme weather training as a cadet. What was gnawing at me, frustrating me, consuming my very soul, was the loneliness.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t handle being alone; I had been alone most of my life, physically and emotionally. I enjoyed my own company. I wasn’t the needy, social type. All ‘friendships’ proved to be liabilities in some way or another, and yet we all had them, even me.

The loneliness and inability to do nothing was the lethal combination for me. On my own, I had many hobbies and obligations that kept me busy most every hour of the day, but being here, in this cell, unable to do a bloody thing … was maddening.

I was left to dwell within my own mind, and anyone left overanalyzing a situation would eventually drives themselves to depression. After depression would come resignation. After resignation, nothing else mattered. It was a dangerous place to be mentally, especially when your entire future hinged on others interpretation of your mental state.

My mind thought about Mynxee, and how very wrong I was to ever have trusted her in any way. Thankfully, my emotional walls had been thick, and she had never actually cared about me enough to break them down. I guess there had never been anything between us beyond the physical, the anticipation itself the euphoric high we shared. She had been using me from the get-go. Fortunately, I had a rule about keeping business and personal separate. Things could’ve have gone much worse.

I thought about the Sanmatar (funny how I couldn’t think of him as my friend Maleatu anymore), and of how utterly disappointed he was in me. Surely he knew I could never have done what I had been accused of. Yes, I was a soldier, trained in both hand-to-hand combat and piloting, and yes, I was capable and authorized to use lethal force on a daily basis, but he must’ve seen the surveillance recordings. I looked up towards the corner of the wall outside of my cell. There was a camera there, but no power light indicating activity. Maybe it had been the same for Mynxee’s cell. Maybe official policy was to have no record of the ‘interrogations’.

My chest was heavy. The Sanmatar had placed so much energy into me, so much effort, and I had failed him, failed myself.

I was brooding, self pitying, self loathing. As I said, too much time left with one’s own thoughts could be devastating and permanently scarring.

I willed myself to think on more pleasant things, and Daul immediately came to mind.

I remember the first time I met the kid, on the Highway of Heroes, I remember telling him to contact me if he wanted more from life, and he had, less than a week later.

He had proven so eager, so adept, so hungry for approval and acceptance. In many ways, he reminded me of myself; maybe that’s why I pushed him forward so. Maybe that’s why the Sanmatar had encouraged me so.

I took Daul out for a drink after his first promotion under my command. We drank, ate, and laughed, and it was the first, and one of the only times I had ever seen the kid relaxed and open.

A much needed chuckle sprang to my lips remembering the story he had told me on that occasion.

—

“So we’re out in the jungles of Kulheim, in the Pator system.” Daul began, his demeanour significantly lightened by the continuing amount of alcohol we was enjoying. “It was beyond humid in that jungle, there wasn’t a single part of me that wasn’t covered in sweat. I’l tell ya, people think a yellow sun is bad, but an orange K5 will kill ya.”

He drained his glass. I tipped my head to the waitress, indicating a refill for my friend.

“Anyway, we’re dug in, trenched up good, Slam and I. Oh, Slam was my buddy from basic training. Big oaf, strong as an ox, you’d like him. So we’re firing our rifles into the jungle, covering fire, trying to keep the enemy from advancing. I don’t remember who we were fighting exactly, some insurgent movement against the local Tribal Leader. But there we are, sweating our asses off, neck deep in jungle, when something bites me, hard, right on the … you know.” He pointed his hand downwards towards his lap.

I cringed inwardly at the thought. I liked to think I was beyond vanity, but if I had to choose, anywhere but the face or groin please.

“I tried to stifle myself, but man it hurt! I whimpered enough that Slam could hear me. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, and I told him ‘Something bit me!’

‘Where?’ Slam asked, suddenly concerned.

‘On my fucking cock!’ I said.” Daul said, a bit too loudly, gathering some scowling glares from nearby pub patrons.

“‘Oh shit!’ Slam said, trying not to laugh, the bastard. I bet he wouldn’t have thought it so funny if it had happened to him. ‘Seriously,’ I said, ‘It burns like hell, and I’m starting to feel a little dizzy. Get me the medic.’

‘I gotta examine the wound first.’ Slam replied.

‘Ah hell’, he continued, ‘You’re lucky I like you, Wick.’ he said, undoing my pants, dropping them to below my knees. I’ll tell you one thing, Colonel, there is no worse feeling than literally being caught with your pants in the middle of a firefight!

‘Well, you’re not exactly my first choice for this either, Slam.’ I snapped back.

So there’s Slam, moving my, you know, around, me still firing at the treeline, the pain growing more and more unbearable. Finally, he let me know what was going on.

‘It’s a snake bite!’ Slam said.

‘Well it fucking hurts! Get me the fucking medic!’ I replied.

And man, did it ever burn. It was like someone was roasting skewered hot dogs on the BBQ, except it was me!” I made a mental note of a potential new recipe to try in the field.

“So Slam goes scurrying off, keeping his head below the trench line, and I’m left there alone, my manhood swelling, and not in a good way, while trying to stay conscious and focused enough to keep shooting at the enemy.”

He laughed then at the absurdity of it, and I chuckled, enjoying his story. We both finished our drinks and ordered another round before Daul continued.

“It felt like he was gone forever, but finally Slam came running back.

‘I got bad news and worse news, Wick, which do you want first?’ Slam said, a total look of fear and sadness on his face.

‘Gimme the bad news first.’ I said, starting to panic at seeing my friend reacting this way.

‘Doc says the only way to remove the venom is to suck it out.’ Slam said, his tone even and factual.

My eyes widened. I didn’t want to die in the jungle from a snake bite with my pants down!

‘What’s the worse news?’ I asked, starting to panic.

‘You’re gonna fucking die.’ Slam replied, a smile stretching across his face. ‘No way in hell am I removing the venom!’ he laughed.

I broke into a smile myself.

‘You sunuvabitch!’ I said, relieved that he was just yanking my leg. Wait, that sounded wrong.

‘I got a shot here for you, Wick.’ Slam said as he jammed the self-injecting needle into my leg. ‘Now pull your goddamn pants up before anyone else sees us. I’ll cover you.'”

Daul couldn’t continue on, both us with tears streaming down our eyes. It was one of the most hilarious basic training stories I had heard. True or not, the kid spun a good yarn. My ribs hurt from laughing so hard.

—

I sat alone in the cell, my entire life on hold, but at least I still had a life to hold onto.