warring in her head
As she turned her entire quarters into one giant memo, she realized that she was wearing out yet another marker. But she wanted to keep writing. And she had the awful suspicion that once the marker wore out, she'd probably open a vein and start scribbling in blood.
It didn't matter, though. None of it mattered. As long as she remembered.
Except she couldn't remember what she was supposed to remember.
She glanced at the wall, saw the word "danger," said in a low and demented tone, "Oh. Right. Danger," and continued with her activities while trying to ignore the part of her that was assuring her that there was no danger ... except for the likelihood that she was losing her mind.
It was an option she found far preferable. Because if she was simply losing her mind, then it was her own personal little problem. One more madwoman in the galaxy didn't seem to be that major a consideration. But if it went beyond that-if she were not, in fact, going mad, but instead the glimpses she was seeing of imminent and star-spanning danger were true-then it was the problem of every man, woman, and child in the galaxy, for as long as they managed to survive. Which, as it happened, would not be terribly long.
Elizabeth Trent was an attractive young woman in her thirties, with light brown skin and a perpetually amused air that covered a mind like a steel trap... and a soul that matched her mind. When Sheridan entered, he saw her eyeing his office as if she were sizing up a piece of real estate. He had a sneaking suspicion that if he'd arrived five minutes later, she'd have been seated in his chair, tilted back and relaxed, her feet up on his desk.
She turned to look at him and appeared to be considering him in the same manner that she