Inspiried by a tumblr post by txrkin.


Everything is ready and in place. Bacta plasters and sprays, bandages, painkillers and adrenals. Clear sterile white sheets in a clear, tidy, sterile med bay. The last moment of calm before the storm.

She knows it well. It is hardly her first battle, after all. It is always different, and yet always the same – the unrest, her heart fluttering with fear – but then, after the first shots are fired, it all melts away. Once the fighting starts, she is calm, focused, collected. Decisive, but patient. Relying on instinct and almost thirty years of experience.

This time, too, she feels a twinge of anxiety. But it is different. Perhaps it is because of Darth Vader's recent visit to the dreadnaught, perhaps it is because of the recent losses - not that after the battle of Yavin anyone still dismisses the threat the Rebellion poses.

Perhaps it is because she could not help thinking of the past in the last few days, and it always makes her feel like a traitor. She has never been a Jedi, never made it to becoming a padawan – too weak in the Force, they said. Maybe whoever had tested her before bringing her to the Temple had made a mistake. But she stayed, and learned how to heal – using conventional methods mostly, because her Force connection is too weak even for that, and the only thing she can use it for is helping her patients calm down.

She was with a clone trooper unit during the Clone Wars, as a field medic, and they liked her well enough. Not as much fun as some girls, they said, but not as loud.

And then the world changed and she had no idea what to do with her life and herself. She survived Order 66 only because no one thought she had any connections to the Jedi.

She stayed with her team, comforting herself that her unit killed no Jedi. But there were no doubts in her mind that had there been a Jedi on the mission with them, they would have. Even if that kind of programming, as it turned out, took its toll on the troopers' mental health. She stopped thinking of them as clones very quickly – each had his little quirks and, most importantly, that need to be different, to have a personality that would define them – she thought of them as friends – and then she did not known what to think.

She stayed. She heals soldiers, because she has been doing that all her life and knows nothing else. She has never been a Jedi, not even close. There are billions of people in the galaxy who do not care whether it is the Republic or the Empire or something else entirely. But there are also those who care, and whenever she thinks of that, she feels like a traitor.

That, and... Weird things have been happening since the battle of Yavin. Or, more precisely, since the destruction of Alderaan. That was something even those with no Force sensitivity felt – nightmares, vivid nightmares of a thousand voices screaming in the darkness, of flashes of scorching heat and flame, she knows it well because many of the soldiers talked about it and sought the help of the resident counsellor. But she, with what little Force sensitivity she has, felt it. Wanted to talk about it, too, but could never find words. The whole galaxy frozen in terror and dread. The air like fire, merciless and suffocating. A beloved voice going hoarse in a short scream, and dying in a blast of burning wind. A hand in hers, flesh melting to the bone and then drying into ash in a blink of an eye. Countless souls scattered in the void in the cold light of distant stars. She wanted to talk about it, she still does, but how can she? The words she can find are never good enough.

It must have been Alderaan. A tear in the fabric of the universe, the Force. And then the soldiers started repeating strange tales, always in hushed whispers, reluctant to show fear, but more afraid of what they saw than of their superiors' wrath.

Footsteps echoing in empty corridors. Voices in the earphones when all the instruments clearly show no one is calling the frequency. The smell of smoke and burning flesh. The distant silhouettes of those killed and lost.

There have been many battles since the beginning of the Clone Wars, yes, but Alderaan tipped the scale. As if the galaxy – the Force – was telling them to stop... except that no one listens. And there are other, even stranger tales, of soldiers returning to protect their friends in the battles they fell in and of commanders returning to their posts to give their last orders.

"Atrill, if you want to take a nap, do so after the battle," the chief medic's crisp voice interrupts her musings. "Seris has just called, they want another medic on the bridge." Which is somehow excessive, but since that one captain died on the bridge because they did not get him to the medbay on time, some officers do not want to take that risk. "So you'd better hurry." The expression on his face softens a little. "Good luck there, kid." Doctor Karell, known among his staff simply as Doc, calls everyone kids. Even when those kids are already sporting some grey hair themselves.

She just nods, takes a medkit and hurries out of the room. One universal truth about the imperial officers is that they do not like waiting.

. . .

She runs the last few dozen metres, because the battle has already began while she was in the turbolift. And then stops in her track as soon as she reaches the bridge, frozen to the spot, staring at what everyone else in the area is staring at. An officer, giving orders. She can see his lips moving, but there is no sound. She can see the stars and enemy fighters through his rapidly gesturing hands, his uniform and face. She knows that face, back from the Clone Wars. Remembers healing a laser burn on his cheek, and she must have done a good job, because there is no trace of it. Not that it would matter to a ghost.

Fortunately, he disappears soon, and they somehow manage to survive the battle – not a victory, but not a defeat either. She can see the cautious glances and hear snippets of talks. Surprisingly, admiral Jarvis does not reprimand the soldiers, but simply stares at the now empty space in the middle of the bridge. He did not set his foot there during the battle. Something tells her he is in no hurry to do so.

She slips out into the corridor, unnoticed, and slowly walks towards the lift, not quite certain if she would rather be in the medbay or in her cabin, and tries very hard not to think about what she saw. So the stories are true. She was too shocked to notice it, but now, as she analyses the memory the way they taught her in the Temple, she can feel it – a smallest tug in the Force.

There is something under her boot, like sand – something distinctly different than the immaculate smooth surface of the metal floors – and she looks down. And stifles a scream against her hands when her brain registers the small pile of ash under her foot. She quickens her pace, desperately trying not to run. It is just exhaustion and shock, she tells herself, and while the strange sighting on the bridge was real, this cannot be.

. . .

"You look shaken," Doc observes gently, too quietly for others to hear.

"It's..." She tries to find words, but her voice comes out in a croak, and she gives up, shaking her head. "I'm sure you'll hear plenty about it in the cantina. And everywhere else."

Karell gives her a long glance, then nods slowly. "If you'll want to talk, you know where to find me," he offers, both out of duty – he is their counsellor as well as a medic – and out of concern for a member of his team. He looks down, at her boot. "Now, kid, trauma and all, I understand, but really, no dirty boots in my med bay."

"Yes, sir," she stammers, trying not to think that it is real, too, trying not to think of the implication of that.

Doc sighs, rolling his eyes. "When was the last time you got some proper rest, eh?"

"But..." She tries to protest, but he interrupts her.

"No buts, Therani." He shakes a warning finger at her, disguising it as a joke, but he only calls her by her name and not 'kid' when he is serious. "You get a day off tomorrow. And now off you go."

She does, and tries to relax and rest, but she cannot sleep. Quietly, not to wake her bunkmate and fellow medic, Darmalia, she changes into her civilian clothes and walks out of the cabin.

. . .

There is a trooper standing guard by the lift, as he turns his head a little to the side as he watches her, surprised by her presence, but does not stop her.

"You're that medic, aren't you?" he asks. "You were on the bridge during the battle?"

"One of those medics, yes." She nods.

"Good." He pauses. "My bunkmate didn't believe when I told him that... you know." Soldiers, it seems, are a superstitious lot, but she finds it easy to understand.

"I'm sorry, I'd rather not talk about it." She gives him a faint smile. "Not yet, at least. Just came here to... Think things over."

He nods. "Go ahead. I'll let the others know you'll be around, they won't bother you."

"Thank you."

"No problem, lass." His voice sounds as if he was grinning under the helmet.

Ah, one of the old guard. She manages a more honest smile. "Bring your friend to the cantina sometime, and I'll tell him I saw everything, too," she promises.

"Tomorrow evening?" he asks.

"We're there almost every night. Hard to miss us medics. Usually people shout at us to stop telling all the grisly medical jokes, because we spoil their appetite." With a final brief smile, she walks away.

He will probably not bring his friend after all. And she does not mind. But now, she has to focus on something else.

. . .

She walks the corridors for quite a long time, but finds nothing. And then she recalls something and wants to slap her hand against her forehead for not thinking about it earlier. Turning around, she goes to the turbolift and two levels down.

There is small memorial room on that level, and for some reason someone though it would be a great idea to put a certain piece of metal debris there. A splinter of the first Death Star.

The cabin is almost empty – a simple metal bench, a transparisteel panel covering almost one entire wall – space and stars behind it – and the remaining three walls are background to one big screen, long, endless lists of names flickering in and out of sight.

She sits down on the bench, waiting, not daring to try to reach into the Force, just thinking. It would have been poetic justice, she notes bitterly, if they had lost yesterday's battle because of him. Looks at the names on the screen, tries to count them, thinks of Alderaan and then tries to stop thinking, shaking her head. Stars – Force – what is she doing here? Why has it even occurred to her?

Because she remembers the Clone Wars and the Republic Admiral who was demanding and harsh, but never that ruthless, remembers the troops from her unit both admiring him and fearing him a little, and wonders what has happened during those years since. What it takes to turn a man into...

There is no sound, just a faint smell of smoke and crisp clean uniform. Slowly, she opens her eyes, hands tightening on the edges of the bench seat until her knuckles go white, because suddenly she is afraid. The dead will not hurt you, someone told her once. It is the living you should fear. The words do little to comfort her know.

A tall, lean silhouette is walking out of the cabin with quick, purposeful steps. She has not seen him in person since the Clone Wars, has only seen holos, but still recognises the proud, slightly stiff set of his shoulders.

She is a medic. Healing is the only thing she knows. This is for the troops who are afraid, she tells herself, and not to alleviate her own fears. Certainly not for... Whomever it is for, she needs answers. And to get those, she needs to ask questions.

Would he hear her, she wonders. Would he talk? How does one talk to a ghost?

She must call him before he disappears. But how? The man he died as would not necessarily give her answers, perhaps would not even listen to her. But years ago, there was a different man. Perhaps... No, that is insane. She stifles a hysterical laugh. She wants to talk to a kriffing ghost. It cannot get any more insane than it already is.

Slowly, she gets up, her heart trembling. She is willing to bet there will be new threads of grey in her hair after this, she really is.

"Admiral Tarkin?" she calls quietly, not expecting a reaction.

He stops and turns, and she gasp as during that one swift move his hair goes from grey to auburn, and his uniform changes, too. He blinks, startled, then knits his eyebrows, staring at her with his piercing eyes.

"Do I know you?"