“
He watched his booted feet, dark and distant hillocks, waver before him as he was borne aloft. Feet first, it would have to be feet first. He barely felt the prick of the first IV in his arm. He heard Elena’s voice, raised tremblingly behind him. “All right you clowns! No more games. We’re going to win this one for Admiral Naismith!” Heroes. They sprang up around him like weeds. A carrier, he was seemingly unable to catch the disease he spread. “Damn it,” he moaned. “Damn it, damn it, damn it . . .” He repeated this litany like a mantra, until the medtech’s second sedative injection parted him from his pain, frustration, and consciousness.
”
”