Her bones burned.
That was the first of her deaths, alone in the ruined craft, with the orbital bombardment from the Cathedral ship lancing around her, and with Ondo swooping in aboard the Dragon to rescue her and flee before any pursuing Concordance craft could catch them.
Her twenty-two other deaths she endured in Ondo's operating theatre, her body succumbing again and again to the traumas of her repair; the straightenings, the reconstructions, the graftings of flesh and nerves and bone. And often, between each end, there came moments of clarity: sensations of light and pain, glimpses of unexpected, disorientating detail. Those moments were confused, their timeline unclear: reality, nightmare and drug-induced hallucination impossible to tell apart.
She recalled one such moment early on: a sudden emergence from a horror-filled replaying of her last day on Maes Far, of farewells hugged against distant screams and explosions. The backwash from the lander's thrusters flattened a wide circle of red blooms in the flower meadow. Her home was far enough from the town to avoid the mob, but they'd seen the ship descending, and they'd be coming. Her mother's arms around her, the whispered final message. Then her father. His lips moved as he looked at her, grief-stricken, horrified, eyes liquid with tears, but he hadn't been able to find words to say to her. Then the object he handed her as she climbed into the lander, and the simple, inadequate message he finally uttered.
Her wakening was, no doubt, chemically induced, as Ondo battled to stabilize her shattered biology. For once, mercifully, there was no agony. Specks of grit clogged her mouth, fragments of reconstructed tooth or bone. Her body tingled, the long muscles of her limbs spasming. She was aware of dull aches in her left arm, but when she tried to move it, nothing happened. Exploring with her right hand she discovered that her left arm and that whole side of her body simply weren't there. Their absence seemed almost comical, like some magician's trick. Instead of flesh and muscle, there was only an emptiness beside her on the bed, ducts and tubes and cables leading off into a battery of machinery.
She was an incomplete thing, misshapen, half not-there. Half alive.
“The planet?” she said. Her voice came out as a hoarse grunt, her severed lips and mouth and mandible unable to form the words.
The face of the man who had plucked her from the sky – it could only be Ondo Lagan, although she had never seen him before – smeared into view. His hair was wild, his appearance unkempt. As she found out later, he'd been alone for so long he'd stopped giving thought to his appearance. His eyes were bulbous through the complex lenses of his multiglasses as he studied her. Again, as he often repeated later, he could have operated on his own eyes, fixed their age-related defects, enhanced them so that he didn't need external devices to correct them. But he could never find the time, his studies and research consuming him.
He seemed to grasp what she was trying to say. “I'm sorry, Selene. Only you have survived. Those few who remain on the surface will not be alive for very much longer. The situation was deteriorating rapidly when we left.”
“No.” The fact of it was too huge to grasp; it was an ocean of dark water engulfing her, consuming her. She'd been chosen by her family as the one to be rescued. Her parents, her aunts and uncles, they'd all been insistent: she had her life ahead of her, she deserved the chance. There was an unborn sister, a surprise and unplanned late pregnancy, her mother barely showing, and perhaps two lives might have been saved aboard the tiny lander, but the risks were greater, and the decision had been made. At the end, there'd suddenly been no time to argue further. The simple calculation of it was brutal.
She'd left behind others, too: colleagues, acquaintances, friends, among whom was Falden, becoming a lover at the time of the appearance of the shroud. She felt the ghost of his grip in her left hand as he led her through the flower meadows that lawned the slopes around their home, a day of perfect, golden light and whispered promises.
“I'm sorry,” Ondo said again from beside her, as if he were to blame, as if the solar shroud had been his doing.
The moment of bright clarity faded. Perhaps Ondo had granted her drug-induced oblivion. She slipped back into the welcome fog of unconsciousness, the faces of her dead family, her father's tears and Falden's grasp going with her into the darkness.
It was only Ondo – patient, quiet Ondo – that kept tally of her deaths as he battled again and again to pull her through, bring her back to some semblance of life. Two years later, when she'd physically recovered, he would repeat it to her often, wonder and horror in his voice. You died twenty-three times: once in the lander, then a further twenty-two times under my hand. The haunted look in his eyes as he repeated the mantra gave her some clue of the toll those days had taken on him.
At the time, she had no thought for him: no gratitude, no empathy, no insight. He was an unknown figure, her rescuer, her tormentor. There were days when she clung to him as a sick child would to a parent, sobbing from the pain, desperate for reassurance. There were days when she begged for release, all dignity gone, her useless, supine flesh bringing her only suffering. He could anaesthetize her, of course, but always there was the time when arm or leg or chest or skull
