Croft:

In my dream I seem to separate from my body and drift upward, through the walls of this lousy cell, through the superstructure of the prison barge itself.  For a while I float above the ship, looking down on its dim gray exterior, its battered sections of unpolished uncaring metal - seeing simultaneously, it seem, the hundreds of poor wretches who are squirming within the squares of her grids, each prisoner trying to find one comfortable spot in which to rest.  A con's greatest goal is the search for a comfortable area to rest in.  You never find it but you keep looking.  You're like a rat searching for an enclosed safe niche and settling for a scratchy rope being blown from side to side in a stiff wind.

I can't stand staring at the barge any longer and I seem to catch a magical air current that has mysteriously snaked its way through the vacuum of space, just to find me and help me to escape.  Escape, of course, escape.  The only real dream a prisoner can have, no matter in what form his dreaming mind disguises it, is escape.  He may escape from his body, as I do, or find himself in a dreamland of sweet pulpy food, beautiful people, and, and complete luxury

I slide off into empty space, leaving the fleet behind me.  Looking back over my shoulder I watch the ships turn into slow flying insects, gradually diminishing to specks and disappearing.  The Galactica is last to disappear; it is the largest insect of all.  As I look forward again, I know that ahead is either the good dream or the nightmare.  In the good dream I land at the summit of a mountain, alone and enjoying my aloneness.  In full gear, my hand delighting in the feel of the sturdy ice-ax through the thickness of my gloves, my feet shifting about and digging hard-metal crampons more firmly into the summit's icy surface, the hood of my parka enveloping my head so that only a narrow view of the great craggy vistas is allowed, a monstrously fierce wind blowing into my face in spite of the narrow parka opening.  And, unless the dream includes the climb or the descent (rappeling in an unlikely slow-motion slide), that's all there is to the good dream.  It's good simply because I feel so good.  I have been pardoned, redeemed, allowed to resume the only kind of life I've ever loved.

The nightmare is nearly identical to the good dream.  Except the wind is hurtling at me in hurricane force, my parka is ripped to shreds, my ice-ax is tumbling away from me down the mountainside, my feet are beginning to slide out from under me.  And Leda is there.

Leda is there, reaching for me.  I don't know if she is trying to save me or trying to kill me.  And that dilemma is the essence of the nightmare.

This time it seems to be the good dream.  Or is that Leda below me, hauling her tall form and considerable but well-structured weight over an impossibly difficult cornice?

I never find out, for the next thing I'm aware of, Jester, the turnkey with the permanent sneer, is shaking me awake.  It seems as if he's simultaneously trying to bash in my skull on the metal flooring.

"Stop it, Jester!" I cry.  "I'm awake.  I'm awake.  See my eyes.  Open right?  Awake.  Open means awake."