Read Online Star Wars: Battlefront: Twilight Company by Alex Freed - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alex Freed
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always felt worse for the loss of the bacta’s pleasures, but they passed soon enough.
The second type of recuperation involved lying on a hard bunk stinking of cleaning fluid and shivering in too-cold air while slipping in and out of sleep. During moments of near-lucidity, the patient was afflicted with visions of blood-soaked medstaff making their rounds, alternating stinging shots with numbing balms. During sleep, the patient suffered confused fever dreams without narrative or logic: endless strings of images, of faces strange and familiar, along with inexplicable feelings of terror and alienation—as if the dreamer were alone in a world where every once-familiar object hid horrors.
Namir’s recuperation from his burns took the second form. Hours after he’d been rushed to the medbay, during one miserable moment of clarity, he saw that Maediyu had been placed in a bacta tank.
Lucky girl
, he thought.
He was back on his feet within two days, his arms scarred and tender but his body largely restored. Von Geiz warned him not to return to full duty for another few shifts—a suggestion Namir was willing enough to take, given that Twilight’s next combat assignment was nowhere in sight.
The attack on the
Thunderstrike
had apparently been a fluke—a chance run-in with an Imperial reconnaissance squadron—resulting in the deaths of three crew members aboard
Apailana’s Promise
, half a dozen injuries aboard
Thunderstrike
, and minor systems damage to both ships. There was no evidence that the Imperials had been hunting Governor Chalis, who had been found unscathed in the air lock with Namir and Maediyu. The woman led a charmed life.
A day after Namir’s release from the infirmary, after he’d read the latest reports and screwed up his courage, he arranged a meeting with Howl. He found the captain in the workroom off the operations center, pacing between upright displays and a holotable that projected topographic images of a world dense with waterways and jungles. Howl was speaking softly to himself, one hand tapping at the air as if beating out a rhythm to his words.
Captain Micha Evon was a tall man, with dark-brown skin and graying hair that seemed to tangle in his thick beard. Namir knew little of his past and had trouble imagining him existing prior to Twilight; he had founded the company (so Namir had been told) and it seemed impossible that he would ever leave. He rarely emerged from his lair, going unseen by the rank and file for days at a time while his senior staff passed down orders.
Namir believed with utter certainty that “Howling Mad” Evon was the greatest mind he’d ever fought with. He also believed Howl was responsible for the deaths of dozens of his friends—deaths that might have been avoided—and that the captain would sacrifice Namir in an eyeblink to win some esoteric victory for the Rebel Alliance.
Howl laughed at something while Namir stood inside the doorway, waiting to be recognized. When the captain finally waved him closer, he looked Namir up and down with an almost fierce intensity. “Sergeant,” he said. “What have you heard about Mount Arakeirkos?”
“I’m not familiar with it,” Namir said as Howl gestured distractedly at a chair. Namir walked to it but didn’t seat himself.
“Neither am I,” Howl said. “But at the top, there’s a great clock set in stone, built by the Arakein Monks almost two thousand standard years ago. According to legend, whoever watches each swing of its pendulum for a day will have the life span of the universe revealed before his eyes.” He resumed his pacing as he spoke, punctuating his words with small gestures and finally looking back to Namir.
Namir shook his head. “I’ll take your word for it. Religious orders aren’t my thing.”
Private conversations with Howl were like exhuming a corpse. You had to dig and dig before you found what you were looking for, and even then it wouldn’t be pretty. But Namir had learned that
The second type of recuperation involved lying on a hard bunk stinking of cleaning fluid and shivering in too-cold air while slipping in and out of sleep. During moments of near-lucidity, the patient was afflicted with visions of blood-soaked medstaff making their rounds, alternating stinging shots with numbing balms. During sleep, the patient suffered confused fever dreams without narrative or logic: endless strings of images, of faces strange and familiar, along with inexplicable feelings of terror and alienation—as if the dreamer were alone in a world where every once-familiar object hid horrors.
Namir’s recuperation from his burns took the second form. Hours after he’d been rushed to the medbay, during one miserable moment of clarity, he saw that Maediyu had been placed in a bacta tank.
Lucky girl
, he thought.
He was back on his feet within two days, his arms scarred and tender but his body largely restored. Von Geiz warned him not to return to full duty for another few shifts—a suggestion Namir was willing enough to take, given that Twilight’s next combat assignment was nowhere in sight.
The attack on the
Thunderstrike
had apparently been a fluke—a chance run-in with an Imperial reconnaissance squadron—resulting in the deaths of three crew members aboard
Apailana’s Promise
, half a dozen injuries aboard
Thunderstrike
, and minor systems damage to both ships. There was no evidence that the Imperials had been hunting Governor Chalis, who had been found unscathed in the air lock with Namir and Maediyu. The woman led a charmed life.
A day after Namir’s release from the infirmary, after he’d read the latest reports and screwed up his courage, he arranged a meeting with Howl. He found the captain in the workroom off the operations center, pacing between upright displays and a holotable that projected topographic images of a world dense with waterways and jungles. Howl was speaking softly to himself, one hand tapping at the air as if beating out a rhythm to his words.
Captain Micha Evon was a tall man, with dark-brown skin and graying hair that seemed to tangle in his thick beard. Namir knew little of his past and had trouble imagining him existing prior to Twilight; he had founded the company (so Namir had been told) and it seemed impossible that he would ever leave. He rarely emerged from his lair, going unseen by the rank and file for days at a time while his senior staff passed down orders.
Namir believed with utter certainty that “Howling Mad” Evon was the greatest mind he’d ever fought with. He also believed Howl was responsible for the deaths of dozens of his friends—deaths that might have been avoided—and that the captain would sacrifice Namir in an eyeblink to win some esoteric victory for the Rebel Alliance.
Howl laughed at something while Namir stood inside the doorway, waiting to be recognized. When the captain finally waved him closer, he looked Namir up and down with an almost fierce intensity. “Sergeant,” he said. “What have you heard about Mount Arakeirkos?”
“I’m not familiar with it,” Namir said as Howl gestured distractedly at a chair. Namir walked to it but didn’t seat himself.
“Neither am I,” Howl said. “But at the top, there’s a great clock set in stone, built by the Arakein Monks almost two thousand standard years ago. According to legend, whoever watches each swing of its pendulum for a day will have the life span of the universe revealed before his eyes.” He resumed his pacing as he spoke, punctuating his words with small gestures and finally looking back to Namir.
Namir shook his head. “I’ll take your word for it. Religious orders aren’t my thing.”
Private conversations with Howl were like exhuming a corpse. You had to dig and dig before you found what you were looking for, and even then it wouldn’t be pretty. But Namir had learned that
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