Captain Miller opened his eyes in the tent assigned to him.
He lay awake, barely breathing, until painful memories flooded into his mind like molten lead, the stabbing pain spreading from the back of his head to his chest. Then he could breathe again, as if declaring to the world that his life would continue. To him, the disaster aboard the Event Horizon felt as though it had happened the day before yesterday. He could open his mouth and call out his crew members' names, then imagine their replies—but there would be no replies. All he had left were the folded gray training uniform beside his cot and the watch he had brought aboard the Lewis and Clark. He would never again be in the tranquility of space. The neighing of horses and the howling wind had replaced and filled all the air—he could barely remember yesterday's conversation with the Emperor, and every strenuous attempt to recall it brought pain and exhaustion. He was simply too tired. That exhaustion spread outward from the depths of his soul. He glanced at the watch beside his head and closed his eyes again.
This was the first time he had refused to follow the routine he had maintained through years of self-discipline, even though the sounds outside the tent indicated that the Emperor's Praetorian Guard were preparing to relocate. This was a convoy, the strongest convoy on this plain, one that could not possibly be attacked, whether in the future or now—before he had fallen asleep, the Emperor's Imperial Guard had already informed him of their next move. They would migrate with the convoy and supplies, searching for the Suitable Candidates the Emperor needed. The convoy's destination would be human settlements rather than empty Desert Wastelands and grasslands.
After condemning his own laziness