The memory of his sorrow at Yasunon's death was enough to make Corina toss restlessly in bed. She seemed to see the funeral from two viewpoints at once: her own, the film in history class, and Jim's being there. Then came the Conclave that elected Forrest as Crown Prince when Davis became Emperor.
Then war struck. Fragmentary memories of battle flickered by, then came a chance to capture a Traiti ship. Ray Kennard had come up with an idea that might keep imprisoned Traiti alive, at least long enough to be questioned before they succumbed to the prisoner psychosis that so inevitably killed the ones who could be kept from suicide.
He'd gone with the boarding party despite Hobison's objections. He'd seen his first live Traiti then, with its leathery gray skin and sharklike face. Not attractive at all to Medart's way of thinking— then—but the big male was hurt and in obvious pain; he'd knelt, intending to help, only to be torn almost in two by the Traiti's claws and teeth.
And, he found out when he was allowed to regain consciousness after that week of immersion in rapid-heal, it had been for nothing. The two prisoners the boarding party did manage to take had lived to reach Terra before the psychosis set in, no longer.
It was a memory that reeked of failure and self-accusation. He should've expected that trick; although it wasn't common, it was known. His carelessness and stupidity could have cost them the ship, cost the Empire a Ranger it could ill afford to lose, wasted even more lives.
Corina shifted, unable to accept that even in a dream. He was a Ranger, he had been doing the only thing honor would allow…
Then came the interrupted recovery leave on Irschcha, and his meeting with the young Losinj. In Medart's memory, Corina watched herself defeat the Marines, studied her own records, discussed them with the Emperor. Again came the invitation to join the Rangers, but from his side this time, and the intensity of his emotion was enough to bring her awake shivering.
She rose and automatically went through her morning routine, then went to the service panel and got a glass of milk. She sat at the desk, then, taking occasional sips and thinking. Did she still have a choice, or did the Empire's need of her make this a matter of honor? Jim—no, Ranger Medart, though it was now difficult to think of him that way—would, she knew, leave that question to her. And she was terribly afraid she knew how she would eventually have to answer.