Jessica leaned beside him, thankful for the moment of rest. She heard Paul pulling at his stillsuit tube, sipped her own reclaimed water. It tasted brackish, and she remembered the waters of Caladan—a tall fountain enclosing a curve of sky, such a richness of moisture that it hadn’t been noticed for itself…only for its shape, or its reflection, or its sound as she stopped beside it. To stop, she thought. To rest…truly rest. It occurred to her that mercy was the ability to stop, if only for a moment. There was no mercy where there could be no stopping.
