I wonder for an instant if that saved my life: that not jumping up in a start and going for my gun—just laying here like the sight of her in my room is not at all unexpected—keeps her from showing me why she has the reputation she does. Zauba’a Ghaddar. “Good morning…” I tell her. No demands, no questions about how she got in here or why she did so. I move slowly, no threat, just trying to wake up like it’s any other morning. I don’t even pull my blanket off to let me move more freely—I just shift to sitting a little more up on my pillows. Give my eyes more time to focus, to take in my situation. Get breathing. Get my blood flowing. Warm my muscles up without looking like that’s what I’m trying to do. I wonder if I could put up a fight, no longer in my prime even without what fifty years of Hiber-sleep did to me. I consider how I would go about it: with a skilled, strong, armed and armored enemy in a tight space. She doesn’t say a word. She just sits still as a stone statue in my desk chair, which she’s turned to watch me as I slept, becoming visible out of the darkness as the “environmental lighting”
What do You think about The God Mars Book One: CROATOAN?
