Lying there, looking up at the ceiling, I had a strong visceral memory of the time when, as a child, I had been caught fighting with another boy. I didn’t even remember the other kid’s name, but I knew he had to go and see the nurse while I was sent to the head teacher. For three long hours I sat in the corridor outside that woman’s office, waiting for the punishment I knew must surely follow. There would be detention and a phone call to my parents, but somehow none of that was as terrible as the feeling of fearful anticipation, of sitting there alone and listening to the clock ticking, with nothing to do but think about the inevitable recriminations to come. It was like waiting for a bomb to go off. I found myself becoming impatient to face the consequences of my actions, just so I could get them over with.

From my current perspective, my juvenile years seemed impossibly distant, almost as if they had befallen another. And yet somehow, that particular memory—of wincing in horrible, powerless anticipation—had managed to retain its sting, whereas all the happy days of my childhood had been leached from me by the jungle’s tyrannical heat. All the optimism and resilience of my youth had drained from my pores, leaving my hair wet and my skin feverish. I couldn’t even picture the faces of my parents. They were like strangers from a half-forgotten dream; the partially submerged flotsam of a half-lived life.

I was feeling sorry for myself, and it disgusted me. I’d always loathed self-pity in others, and seen it as a weakness of character. Yet here I was, stewing in it. I realised I had given no thought to escape, or to completing my mission through alternate means. But how could I? The only way to escape would be to renounce my Conglomeration citizenship and disappear among the stars—but to do so would also be to renounce the career that had shaped and defined my adult life, the society I had sworn to protect, and a huge part of my identity.

I surprised myself with a cynical chuckle.

Some career.