Editing Doubts

The slanting light angled toward sunset as I sat on the steps of the mystic’s cave and listened to the wailing drifting across the camp. El Cabah was dead, executed by a single shot through the forehead by Arden’s cousins. I’d never met the man face to face, I owed him no allegiance, and yet his death made me angry. Yes, he was a weapons dealer and yes, he very likely hired the goons who carved us up with their swords.  Even so, he was a mystic and a holy man to those now mourning their loss and I disliked the manner of his passing. To be sure, I’d shot and killed any number of people over the years, but it had been in combat. I had never executed someone as El Cabah had been, during an implicit ceasefire while business negotiations were underway, and the fact that it had been during our negotiations made it worse. Whether it was our fault or not, the man died under our noses and we would always bear some responsibility for it, by association if not by intent or action.<br><br>

Smoke from the campfires snaked through the air, stinging my eyes and making them water. It reminded me of Juniper Springs on Jiang Yin and of the funeral pyre the settlers had burned the bandits on … and the shroud I’d sewn around Ivan Potemkin. Was the same being done now for El Cabah? What words, if any, were being said over his body? Would it matter if I added mine? ''I’m sorry''. I sat on the steps and saw again the Sophian I had in my sights, aimed again to make him drop that grenade. Felt again Arden’s elbow digging into my wounded side, making my shot go wide. It didn’t matter that I’d intended to prevent a bomb from bringing the cave on top of our crew or tearing them apart—Arden spoiled my shot and the end result was what we got.<br><br>

I had little liking for self-pity and even less use for it. Being wounded had a lot to do with feeling sorry for myself, I knew, and disgust over El Cabah’s death added its own brand of bitterness to it. The damage was already done and recriminations now didn’t mean a thing. I took as deep a breath as my wounds would allow and tried to let go the crap inside me. I wasn’t entirely successful but it helped.  Knowing the others would be leaving soon, I hauled my ass off the steps and went off in search of them. We had cargo to pick up and deliver, and the sooner we got to it, the better. Yet even as I joined the crew, I couldn’t help wondering what, if anything, they’d say.<br><br>

'''Go back to: ''[[Mutineers Timeline, Season Six | Season Six, Aug 2522 to -- ]]'''''<br>