This is not my story - I merely have the honor of transcribing it for Imara. Normally, those who exist in what we lovingly call the "Star Wars" universe prefer to talk to Mr. George Lucas and his affiliates, but they were too busy. Since this is in no way my own work (other than making a few minor changes for clarity to her recitation), I can claim no credit. I'm just glad to have the privilege of presenting it.

- Laryn Chillbreeze

...

DISCOVERY

Personal log, Captain Imara Goodspeed

[4/12/02 ATC]

I haven't managed a good night's sleep in three days now, and it's starting to take its toll. Can't believe I got sucked into delivering weapons to Ord Mantell – that's definitely not my usual kind of cargo. (Note to self – delete this log later.) Oh well, a job's a job, and morals don't pay for fuel. Still, with this kind of payload being shipped to a Republic military planet, I need to get my head on straight. Last thing I need is some suspicious young buck sergeant pawing through the goods because my tongue slipped.

Yeah, I know the dreams keeping me up are things which really happened. I still can't believe I didn't see through him...

Like almost everyone else that terrible day, fourteen year old Imara Mathon had lost family and friends. In her case, both parents and everyone within fifty meters had been killed during an Imperial bombing run of various Balmorran settlements. She would have shared their fate had she not been out looking for salvage to repair... well, that doesn't matter anymore, since whatever it was got blown to salvage itself. Oh yes, the power generator for her parent's house. Her house. The one which didn't exist anymore. At least that's what the mayor had told her over the holocommunicator. "Come back quickly and help with damage containment," he had instructed, "and bring whatever you've found. No doubt we can put it to good use."

Imara shook her head in a vain attempt to clear it. He hadn't actually said her family was dead, had he? Just that their house had been destroyed and they hadn't been seen since. Maybe they had taken a break from their morning routine to visit their friends. Imara had been gone for a few hours, after all, so that was plenty of time...

A low groan on the other side of a nearby pile of scorched and twisted metal broke her train of thought. Rounding the corner, Imara spied a particularly interesting bit of salvage: a half-grown young man, probably from the next settlement. A second glance at the wreckage identified it as a ground speeder. Part of the ruined chassis had punched through the boy's shoulder just outside the collarbone, pinning it to the ground. She dropped her collection sack and started digging through it for her first aid kit. Good thing emergency medical care is part of the standard curriculum at school, she mused as she pulled out her bandages and kolto packs.

He was still breathing, although mostly unconscious. Good, that should make things easier. After administering the kolto, cleaning the wound with water from her canteen, staunching the bleeding, and securing his chest and arm, Imara used a vibroknife to slice through the metal tubing a few centimeters away from the skin on each side of the shoulder. The pieces clattered to the rocky ground unheard by the young rescuer or her patient. She wadded the cleanest of the salvaged cloth and packed it around the remaining bit of pipe, effectively immobilizing it and covering the wound, and finally bound it all into place with some tape. Well, Old Man Farin did say he wanted the salvage put to good use. Imara wiped her hands on another piece of cloth, took a drink of water, then sat down to wait for the young man to regain consciousness so they could start back toward the settlement.

He finally came to after about ten minutes. Imara guessed his complexion was at least a few shades lighter than normal from the blood loss, if the stain on the ground was any indication, but the fact that he was awake and trying to sit up meant either he was in good enough condition to travel, or a damned fool who would get himself killed trying.

"Good, you're awake. Sorry there's not much more I can do for you here," she began, "but we're not too far from..." An odd sound cut her off. Only after several seconds did she realize it was a combination of the boy laughing and groaning in pain every time the motion jarred his shoulder.

"What? What's so funny? Are you in shock?" She tried to get him to lay back down to increase bloodflow to the brain, but he just waved her off.

"I'll be fine, and I'm sure I have you to thank for that." He glanced at his bandaged shoulder, admiring the handiwork, then looked back at Imara. "It figures, though. My father always told me I'd get myself killed riding 'one of those things', but I never listened. Of course right when I need to be moving fast, I hit a ditch and go flying. You people really need to get the roadways fixed."

Imara bristled at the comment. "The roadways were just fine until recently." The young man's head snapped up, concern creasing his brow.

"What do you mean 'until recently'? What happened?" He was already shaking his head when she started to relay her limited knowledge of the attack.

"We have to hurry," he urged as he started gathering the remnants of his gear. "I need to talk to the person in charge."

"Why? The damage is already done... isn't it?" His reticence was even more troubling as they started back toward town.

Fortunately, her meandering path through the fields of debris had not taken Imara far from the village. A mere 15 minutes of walking, even at the slower pace necessary to minimize his pain, had the pair at the first line of houses, where they were met by several concerned-looking older women. Imara noted with growing trepidation that more of the looks were directed at her than at the young man beside her, even though he was the wounded one. She hurriedly introduced her guest and asked the nearest of the greeters to continue his medical care, then rushed off to her home.

Imara stared in disbelief at the ruins of the place she had grown up. I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, she thought numbly. The whole place is torn up. I must have... The thought was interrupted when she nearly stumbled over an oddly-shaped stone. She pulled her foot back to kick the offending object out of her way, then set her foot back down and kneeled to take a closer look at the stone. Not a stone – this is the stoneware bowl Mom uses. What's it doing out here? Imara picked up the bowl and turned it over in her hands, tracing the patterns etched by the crafters and worn by years of use. Clutching the bowl, she moved toward the skeletal house, intent on proving to herself her parents were not inside. She was stopped by strong hands on her shoulders and Farin's familiar tenor saying, "You can't go in there, child. The whole place could fall down on your head."

She angrily pulled away from the mayor and turned to face him. "I have to go in there. My parents are trapped or something, or they would have shown up by now.

Farin stretched his mouth in a strained smile and explained, "Our rescue teams are working on houses where they have heard people inside. After that, I promise they will work on the rest of the houses, including yours. In the meantime, why don't you check the school? It's been converted to an emergency shelter, so if your folks are anywhere else, they'll be there." Imara thought she saw a doubtful expression flash across the mayor's face, but politicians were notoriously adept at hiding their emotions. She hastily discarded the notion and started running toward the school, tossing a "thank you!" back over her shoulder as an afterthought.

The scene greeting her was almost comically like something from a holovid. The common area was full past capacity with young children clutching the skirts of their mothers, elderly people and some adults tending to the wounded and distraught, and everyone covered in a layer of dirt. Unlike the 'vids, most of the people moved with an air of confidence, seemingly taking the carnage in stride as they worked to recover. Imara felt a brief surge of pride to be part of such a hearty community, but it was quickly replaced by increasing dread as her scan of the familiar faces failed to produce the ones she sought. Her former ward – Huldar, she suddenly recalled - was there, and met her glance with a nod. She looked away and left the impromptu shelter, intent on checking the rescue teams for her missing kin.

After several hours of fruitless searching and somewhat distracted first aid treatment administered to other rescuees, Imara collapsed into the rough blankets provided by the shelter and fell fast asleep.