Page 1 of Origin (Deridia #13)

His chest burned.

No, not his chest. Or more than his chest. Something higher, something...

His throat. It was on fire. He was on fire.

There was a ringing in his ears, harsh and insistent, and something else. Something softer, that was maybe meant to be soothing, except that nothing could do that when he was being burned. Maybe they thought he was dead? A quick cremation and then he could be scattered through the rest of the quadrant. They were all stardust, weren’t they? That’s what the ads were always saying. Connected.

Bunch of nonsense. He’d never believed it.

He should make a noise. Tell them he wasn’t dead, and they needed to stop the machine before it was too late and none of it mattered anymore.

He tried, but his throat wasn’t working, and he flinched when something reached for him, something cold and hard. “Intubation will cease in fifteen seconds. Please, remain calm.”

That should not have felt an eternity, but his body wasn’t his. Not at the moment. He couldn’t calm down, couldn’t force his muscles to relax. They were bunched and tight, primed to fight and struggle out of his restraints.

Was this a medical bay? Or some sort of torture chamber?

The fire in his throat worsened, and he was acutely aware of his body coughing up a tube. It worked of its own accord. His will did not match the motions ingrained in his body’s responses. “Attempt to breathe normally. You will be collected when a guard is next available.” A whirring, and there was no more voice, no more instructions.

More coughing. A wheeze. A rasp. He needed water, desperately. Something to cool the burn in his throat, the ache in his chest.

But there was nothing. He didn’t want to wait. He wanted the darkness to recede. Or maybe he had only to open his eyes? He blinked. Squinted. Maybe he was blind. Was that it? He couldn’t...

He tried to kick. To push at his surroundings, but he was bound tightly. He never did like the dark. Didn’t like enclosed spaces, either.

He opened his mouth. Let out a yell. Was punished for it by his already abraded throat pulling and burning, the sound minimal at best.

“I’m coming,” a voice muttered.

A loud sound. A whoosh and a metallic ping , and then there was light. Which should have been a comfort, except that it was searing into his eyes and causing yet more pain.

“I wouldn’t get too excited about going out there,” a man continued.

The pod was moving—pulling upright.

Then the restraints released without warning, and his limbs felt no stronger than a newborn and he crumpled forward.

The man sighed, shaking his head. “If you hadn’t made such a fuss, you would have taken time to acclimate.” Another sigh, a harsh hand coming beneath his arms to pull him upright. “Don’t you remember the briefing?”

Anger, hot and biting, nearly had him shoving at the man beside him, never mind that he was what kept him standing. “I don’t remember any briefing,” he rasped, each word an agony. A pause, as he tried to grasp for anything before the pod. The fire. “I don’t...” A new fear, one that had nothing to do with dark and confined spaces. “What have you done to me?” he asked, his heart beating wildly in his chest as he turned, struggling against the hands that held him, shoving and yes, his legs could support him after all, although he found himself crashing into another pod, his escape thwarted. There was supposed to be something there, surely. A glimpse, a flicker. Something that spoke of a life, a name, a person .

He held out both hands. Trying to keep the... what had the voice called him? A guard? He had to keep him away. Had to find some place to think. To collect himself.

“Disorientation is normal,” the guard intoned, as if he’d explained it a thousand times before. Maybe he had.

He looked about him, the lines of pods seemingly endless. Some open, many closed.

“I’m not disoriented,” he tried to get out. Managed fairly well. It still hurt, but he didn’t have to push so hard to force the air through a bruised and battered throat. “I can’t remember.”

He brought his hands to his hair, tugging firmly. Trying to push anything at all through the haze of nothingness inside his head. They should be there. He was sure of it. But the harder he pushed, the more it flittered away.

“That won’t help you,” the guard insisted. Infuriatingly calm in the face of the other’s distress. “Pretending you can’t remember your crimes won’t keep you from paying for them. You were sentenced, same as everyone else. Just do your time. Which I hate to remind you, don’t begin until we’re off this craft.” He took a step forward. Reached out.

He acted without thinking. His hand shot out, grasping the guard’s wrist and twisting until they were back to front. “You did something,” he hissed. “I know nothing about any crimes.” He pushed harder, and the guard gave a shout.

“You’ll get another year to your sentence if you don’t let go right now,” he insisted. Another jerk, and he suddenly wasn’t so calm any longer. “All right! Just let go. We’ll have the droid back to give you a scan.”

He let go.

The guard stumbled forward, glaring and rubbing at his wrist. “I don’t get paid enough for this,” he groused, shaking his head and barking at the droid to get back there.

“Check his head,” the guard ordered. “Says there’s something wrong with it.”

A blue light shone out, scanning over his face. It didn’t feel like anything. Warm, maybe, or perhaps he only imagined it. Wanted it to feel like something. Like it would help. Would shove something back into place and everything would come flooding back. Like a joint popping back into place.

He frowned. Had that happened to him? A shoulder? A knee?

“Well?” he insisted. “There has to be something.”

If they found it, they could fix it. Then he could sort the rest of this mess out after. He didn’t belong here. Wherever this was. He couldn’t.

The blue light faded. The droid turned to the guard.

“No, no,” he insisted, taking a step forward, willing to grab the droid if necessary. “This is my head you messed with, and you’ll tell me how you’re going to fix it.”

The droid rolled backward a half-measure. “Your care is under the jurisdiction of the crew until debarkation. I will fetch one.” The guard wasn’t crew?

His head began to throb, and he made to reach out to the droid before it could get out of reach, but there was a movement at his side, and his muscles were slow and he couldn’t stop the thump against the back of his head as the guard pulled out a baton and hit him with it.

“Your cooperation is appreciated,” the guard mocked as he crumpled downward, his head warring with the searing pain in his throat.

Then he was struck again, and he didn’t get to tell which won.