Trust no one, even those you think are your friends.

— attributed to Ryland LeSarte, date unknown

19 Decem, 5249 PD

“Is it far?”

“No, not far.”  There was pain etched on Frederick’s face as they moved away from the shore.  His leg was on fire, painful in ways that he hadn’t experienced since the early days after his injury.  Winston was concerned.

Of course he’s concerned.  There’s air raid sirens going off and he’s letting an invalid direct him to safety!  Of course he’s concerned.  I’d be concerned if I were him.

If there was a way to easily direct the boy toward Gabe Forrester’s place, he would have, but Frederick suspected that Winston would have gotten himself lost somewhere in the tangle of vines in the vineyard between the beach and the café.

“I don’t understand why this would be happening,” Winston said, his words half a mumble and half a growl.  “Why the hell would people hate all of you so damned much?”

“It’s the fear, not the hate,” Frederick said through clenched teeth.  “I’m surprised that you didn’t start piecing it together before now.  We symbolize something that’s terrifying—and we represent the possibility that man isn’t infallible and might have to make some kind of damned effort and sacrifice something in order to keep on living.”  He shot the young Inspector a quick, wry smile.  “Of course, there’s also the fact that we’ve got more psychics here per capita than anywhere else in the Commonwealth.  People don’t like the idea of folks in their heads, hearing their thoughts—never mind that it doesn’t quite work that way for most of us.”

Winston grunted, looking down the pathway ahead.  “Through those hedges?”

“That’s the vineyard,” Frederick said.  “Through there and down the hill.”

The whine was rising, too loud and wrong for the sound to be just the air raid sirens.  Frederick risked a glance back in time to see two of the Colony’s fighters scream overhead high above, heading back toward base at a quick clip.  He swallowed bile and shook his head quickly.

“This is about to escalate badly.”

“How do you know?”  Winston asked.

“Because that pair of wingmen isn’t running toward a fight, they’re running home for refuel and reinforcements.”  Frederick swallowed again.  “I’ve seen it before.”

Winston looked like he was about to ask where, then shut his mouth.  “Right,” he said.  “We need to move faster, don’t we?”

“Absolutely,” Frederick said, feeling sick.  He straightened slightly and started to move faster, ignoring how much his leg hurt and trying not to consider what he was doing to already permanently damaged muscles and tendons, knowing that the only thing that mattered right now was making sure that the young man with him survived whatever attack was coming.

It’s not too much farther now.  He swallowed again, mouth sour with fear and nausea.  He hadn’t faced something like this in decades.

I got used to the lack of fear.  Now that it’s back again, now that the danger’s back, I’m about to freeze like I did the first time I set foot in a war zone.

A glance sidelong at the young man with him was enough to know that Winston’s thoughts were paralleling his own.

This was the crucible, and either they’d come out of it alive, or they were going to burn.