As D1 was making comments that made Jura feel creepy and unclean, she decided to go above decks and have a smoke.
To the east the distant crackles and thuds of artillery tapestried the irregular heartbeat of war, deaths festival of light.
She doubted that if there was a “winner” here, the victor would celebrate with fireworks, they were playthings for societies long divorced from conflict, for those who deferred their senseless fights to places like this, the other side of the TV, a screenplay written in others blood.
Someone had said to her once that everyone prays to god in a trench under barrage, She’d replied, if that’s considered a method for recruitment it was a poor company model and she’d pass.
The only thing she prayed for was the new enlightenment, but latter day Bacon’s and Descartes seemed thin on the ground here amongst the ex-torturers and former television clowns, humanity it seemed would have to wait.