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Authors: Alex Freed
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better off than I was before you showed. I’m worse off, in fact, since all three of us are using what’s left of the air.” She didn’t give the unconscious guard so much as a glance.
Namir exhaled in a hiss. The air
was
getting thinner, and it smelled of smoke. He was prepared to stare down Chalis if he had to, though—to ignore his cloudy vision and try to put her in her place by force of will.
As he squared his shoulders she smiled sourly, like a woman taken with her own dark humor. Not a woman worth saving. Yet not a woman who appeared to fear death, either.
Namir watched the guard’s chest slowly rise and fall. “You may not be better off. She is,” he said.
The governor shrugged, as if she didn’t see the statement’s relevance.
Namir closed his eyes and leaned against the bulkhead. “Any idea who attacked us? You’re the expert …”
A distant rumble from below accompanied a jolt through the deck. Namir bounced an arm’s width off the floor and couldn’t quite stifle a gasp when he landed hard on his tailbone. Chalis didn’t cry out, and Namir didn’t bother opening his eyes to check on her.
She waited until the ship settled before answering. “At a guess,” she said, a hint of strain in her voice, “I’d say my former colleagues are coming after me. Can’t have Imperial secrets falling into rebel hands. Can’t have another Tseebo, or a Death Star
incident …
“By now, Darth Vader himself should be in pursuit. Whether that’s his flagship out there, I can’t be sure; if not, we may be spared so he can kill me personally.”
Namir snorted. “What is it with you people and Vader?” he asked. “It can’t be the helmet that scares people. Stormtroopers have helmets.”
When Chalis replied, her voice held a note of curiosity. “Most rebels blanch when they hear the name,” she said. “He may be mythologized, but he’s earned his reputation. I could tell tales of how he slaughtered children, the Dhen-Moh genocides—”
“Spare me,” Namir said. “That’s my dying wish. Spare me the stories of the great
Lord Vader’s
terrifying triumphs over the
Rebellion.
”
After he spoke, he wished he hadn’t added such a sneer to the word
Rebellion.
He cracked his eyes open enough to confirm that the guard was still unconscious. Chalis was watching him closely. “You don’t think of yourself as one of them, do you?” she asked.
Namir closed his eyes again and made an obscene gesture in Chalis’s direction. He’d learned it from Twilight’s dead comm tech long ago, and he wasn’t sure how commonplace it was. From Chalis’s laughter, however, she seemed to get the point.
Neither spoke for a while, and eventually Namir realized that the shuddering of the deck had ceased. The battle, apparently, was over. Even better, the pain of Namir’s burns had decreased to a steady but subtle throbbing. It probably meant he’d gone into shock, but he wasn’t in any shape to worry.
Namir knew he was drifting in and out of consciousness, and he ceased to fight the pull of darkness when he heard the hiss of air vents coming back to life. His last thought was about the guard, the new recruit from Thession.
Her name was Maediyu. She never listened during training.
Namir hoped she would survive.
During his tour with Twilight Company, Namir had spent more than a few days in
Thunderstrike
’s infirmary. He’d broken bones, taken blaster shots, and seen shrapnel lodged in his flesh. In his experience, Twilight’s medics offered two types of recuperation:
The first involved a blissful state of oblivion and submersion in a tank of liquid bacta. The tank was a sanctuary from pain and need, a welcoming home for as many hours or days as the medics deemed necessary—or, in less ideal circumstances, until bacta supplies ran low. The patient floated in pure, viscous
health
, emerging from unconsciousness gradually until full awareness was restored. The aches that came in the days following
Namir exhaled in a hiss. The air
was
getting thinner, and it smelled of smoke. He was prepared to stare down Chalis if he had to, though—to ignore his cloudy vision and try to put her in her place by force of will.
As he squared his shoulders she smiled sourly, like a woman taken with her own dark humor. Not a woman worth saving. Yet not a woman who appeared to fear death, either.
Namir watched the guard’s chest slowly rise and fall. “You may not be better off. She is,” he said.
The governor shrugged, as if she didn’t see the statement’s relevance.
Namir closed his eyes and leaned against the bulkhead. “Any idea who attacked us? You’re the expert …”
A distant rumble from below accompanied a jolt through the deck. Namir bounced an arm’s width off the floor and couldn’t quite stifle a gasp when he landed hard on his tailbone. Chalis didn’t cry out, and Namir didn’t bother opening his eyes to check on her.
She waited until the ship settled before answering. “At a guess,” she said, a hint of strain in her voice, “I’d say my former colleagues are coming after me. Can’t have Imperial secrets falling into rebel hands. Can’t have another Tseebo, or a Death Star
incident …
“By now, Darth Vader himself should be in pursuit. Whether that’s his flagship out there, I can’t be sure; if not, we may be spared so he can kill me personally.”
Namir snorted. “What is it with you people and Vader?” he asked. “It can’t be the helmet that scares people. Stormtroopers have helmets.”
When Chalis replied, her voice held a note of curiosity. “Most rebels blanch when they hear the name,” she said. “He may be mythologized, but he’s earned his reputation. I could tell tales of how he slaughtered children, the Dhen-Moh genocides—”
“Spare me,” Namir said. “That’s my dying wish. Spare me the stories of the great
Lord Vader’s
terrifying triumphs over the
Rebellion.
”
After he spoke, he wished he hadn’t added such a sneer to the word
Rebellion.
He cracked his eyes open enough to confirm that the guard was still unconscious. Chalis was watching him closely. “You don’t think of yourself as one of them, do you?” she asked.
Namir closed his eyes again and made an obscene gesture in Chalis’s direction. He’d learned it from Twilight’s dead comm tech long ago, and he wasn’t sure how commonplace it was. From Chalis’s laughter, however, she seemed to get the point.
Neither spoke for a while, and eventually Namir realized that the shuddering of the deck had ceased. The battle, apparently, was over. Even better, the pain of Namir’s burns had decreased to a steady but subtle throbbing. It probably meant he’d gone into shock, but he wasn’t in any shape to worry.
Namir knew he was drifting in and out of consciousness, and he ceased to fight the pull of darkness when he heard the hiss of air vents coming back to life. His last thought was about the guard, the new recruit from Thession.
Her name was Maediyu. She never listened during training.
Namir hoped she would survive.
During his tour with Twilight Company, Namir had spent more than a few days in
Thunderstrike
’s infirmary. He’d broken bones, taken blaster shots, and seen shrapnel lodged in his flesh. In his experience, Twilight’s medics offered two types of recuperation:
The first involved a blissful state of oblivion and submersion in a tank of liquid bacta. The tank was a sanctuary from pain and need, a welcoming home for as many hours or days as the medics deemed necessary—or, in less ideal circumstances, until bacta supplies ran low. The patient floated in pure, viscous
health
, emerging from unconsciousness gradually until full awareness was restored. The aches that came in the days following
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