-2-

"The skirmish in Patriim?" she prompts, finding her voice at last. She has to speak quietly to keep it from shaking, and sincerely hopes that she is not staring.

He frowns in concentration, and then recognition flashes in his eyes, now even more striking than they were in life. "Ah, of course. Medic Therani, was it?"

"Atrill," she corrects in discomfort. "Therani is my given name." But no wonder he would make the mistake, when all the troopers called her that.

He watches her closely, eyes focused on her face. "Shouldn't you be younger?"

"Patriim was twenty years ago, admiral."

That shocks him, and his eyes widen momentarily. She loses track of thought then, because when he moves towards the window there are stars visible through his eyes, and the eerie sight is oddly mesmerising.

He shakes his head. "I think I would remember if twenty years have passed," he says, and she wonders just how big a mistake she made when she called him 'admiral'.

"They have," she says, softly, hoping that tone would conceal her hesitation. "And..."

Apparently, she does not have enough presence to keep his attention for long enough to be able to decide how to put in words that twenty years have indeed passed, that he died, oh, and that he destroyed a whole planet.

"Those names..." He looks around, at the letters flickering on the screens. "What is this? That many casualties? Unthinkable." His voice is cold and she remembers that he has always been a harsh judge.

"It happens when the biggest space station is blown into space dust," she replies.

His eyes narrow. "Mouthing off to an admiral might not be the wisest course of action, Miss Atrill," he warns. Something in his voice tells her that no matter the state he is in, this is not an empty threat. But in the end, his curiosity wins over everything else. "How big was that station?"

"The size of a small moon." She gives him an odd look. "Strange that you don't remember, admiral. You were its commander." Momentarily, she hesitates. "And blew a planet away with it," she adds in a whisper.

He just stares at her in disbelief. "A planet?" he echoes. "But that's impossible. Not to mention it's a ridiculous notion."

She glances away, and then looks back at him, not knowing what to do. So she called him and he answered, and they are talking, and now what? Is she supposed to just say goodbye and leave? What would be the point of asking him further questions when he does not even remember?

"This doesn't make much sense, Miss Atrill," he says sternly. "Those things you talk of... If we had such technology, we would have used it during the war. But it's impossible. And I don't remember anything of those twenty years that have supposedly passed..."

There are footsteps in the corridor. She turns to see who it is, and when she glances back, the room is empty.

"You must come here often, don't you?" asks admiral Jarvis's deep voice. He meets her questioning gaze. "With all the soldiers that die in the med bay," he explains.

"Ah... No, it's not that. Just..." She shakes her head, not knowing how to say it, especially to him.

Jarvis is not a bad man, but he is too uncertain in his rank yet, and it shows – he tries too hard, his reprimands are too harsh. He is desperately trying to gain more authority, but he does not necessarily choose the best means to do so. It goes without saying that it does not help his popularity, and while people follow his orders without question, he is not liked very much. He might be a commander, but he is not a leader.

He nods, with surprisingly much understanding. "I think we're all a bit shaken by that," he admits. "Makes you think of life and death, I guess."

"Something like that," she mutters, smiling tightly. "I won't be disturbing you, admiral," she adds, nods to him respectfully and leaves.

. . .

Since she is not able to find any rest – too many images hover under her eyelids whenever she closes her eyes, all of them much too vivid for her liking – she goes to the med bay. Most of the soldiers are back in their cabins, as their injuries are not very serious. Except for the twelve fighter pilots who got blasted out of the sky – out of space – because the command was too preoccupied with a ghost on the bridge, and two that died during the night, but she knew from the beginning that they were beyond help.

But at least she can go there, clean the place up, check the supplies, do all those menial tasks that can clear the mind so wonderfully. Besides, if she is to have any company, Doc's will be acceptable. They have known each other for twenty five years – more than half of her life – and even if they are not exactly friends, they are family by now. He has seen enough in his life to understand much without having to ask any questions, and today, she will be grateful for silence. Besides, he often has a bottle of brandy stashed away somewhere in his desk, and she would be grateful for that, too.

When she enters the med bay, Doc glances at her at her from his desk, visible through a transparisteel pane, frowns at her decision to waste her day off in the med bay anyway, but just shakes his head and returns to work. He knows trying to dissuade her would be of no use.

The main room is clean and smells of disinfectants; the night shift left everything in order. Briefly, she wonders when Doc finds any time for sleep, but ever since she met him he has never slept more than six hours a day, and keeps functioning pretty well, so perhaps that is just his peculiar talent.

Pressing her lips together, she turns to another room. It does not look very typical for a med bay – there are beds and equipment and all, but also a wide window, taking up almost an entire wall. This is the room where they put those soldiers who have no chance of survival, give them painkillers and adrenals, and just try to make their last moments bearable. She was the one who insisted on the window, and Doc backed her up, and his argument with Jarvis – a captain back then – must have been heard by the entire ship. But it paid off. She knows many considered it a whim, but she still remembers a soldier from the Clone Wars – Shooter, their sniper, who caught a nasty fever while they were down on some swampy planet - who said how soothing the stars were – he died on a cloudy, rainy evening, without seeing his beloved stars for the last time. That was why she thought of the window in the first place, and usually, when she goes to that cabin, a sad smile appears on her lips as she thinks of her dead friend.

The soldiers, in a display of war humour that rivalled even the gruesomeness of some jokes of the medical staff, called the room the mortuary. It was out of fear, she knows, and the best way to combat fear is by laughter. That is how they live, laughing at everything they can, and how they try to die, laughing death in the face. She knows all too well how often they pass away with tears of fear or regret or moans of pain, or just in resignation, but never said it to anyone except for Doc, during of their more philosophical discussions.

She presses the button to open the door, expecting to find the room empty and clean, and just wanting to check everything. And when the door opens she freezes in place and gasps, trying to catch her breath, because the sight before her squeezes all the air from her lungs.

There is a soldier on the bed, his burns so terrible she can tell instantly he will not make it, and she marvels how it is possible that he is still alive. The skin on his face and neck has all the colours except those it should have, all charred, his hair is singed, and his eyes are blind. His uniform is black, half-molten into flesh, and his hands... Force, his hands... Two open wounds, a mass of blood and ash, skin and muscle on his fingers burned away, revealing bones.

Without thinking, she rushes to help. It is an instinct, stronger than dread and nausea.

"I will help you," she says softly, trying to focus on finding the proper adrenal shot, but she cannot help the wave of compassion that floods her. And even with her weak Force connection, this close she can feel his pain, like a heavy rain. But he does not even make a sound, except for shaking, laboured breaths, and he is still, just turns his head slightly towards her when she speaks.

Carefully, she stuffs the adrenal shot into the syringe, and approaches him in quick, decisive footsteps. Why has Doc not taken care of him, she wonders, angered. No, Doc would never... Was it possible that the soldier got in here unnoticed? No, absolutely not. Ah, so probably he has been there since last evening, and got some painkillers at night, but they have worn off.

She looks at him, trying to think of a way to get to under the uniform – no wonder they did not take it off, though, it would have only caused even more pain – and find a vein to insert the needle into.

Finally she notices a spot on his left arm, where the uniform has burnt and ripped off, but the skin underneath is mostly intact.

"This may hurt a bit," she says softly, and reaches out to hold his arm as she readies the syringe... And gasps loudly as her hand passes through the outline of his arm.

He turns his head towards the voice, brows knitting in concentration over unseeing eyes.

She wants to flee, but she is frozen to the spot and cannot move, can barely breathe. She wants to get out of the room and never come back but somehow she knows that it would not help. Somehow at some point this morning she did something that made him appear at a place he has no connection with, but she has. Somehow at some point she has gotten herself into another grand mess.

Her gaze moves over his form, assessing the injuries. If he were alive, no amount of bacta would help. It would just be adrenals to keep the pain at bay and smooth out his passage, make his last moments a bit more comfortable. But of course traditional means will not help a ghost.

And then a thought strikes her. A ghost's form is not a physical one. So perhaps if she used her soothing Force trick, it might help. At least it is worth a try, she thinks, because if she does not do something they will stay like that for Force knows how long.

She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes and concentrates, and experimentally moves a careful hand over his eyes. He blinks slowly, and the white fades away a little, revealing the familiar icy blue. He looks at her face with such focus that she cannot withstand it and glances away.

From the corner of her eye she can see his lips move as he tries to speak, but no voice comes out – the injuries to his neck are too severe, and there are no longer any properly functioning vocal chords he could use.

But it is clear he wants to say something, probably something important, too, otherwise he would not bother. His terribly marred hand reaches up towards hers – the sight is grisly, but she has seen many similar sights in her career, and while it is unpleasant and sends a cold shiver down her spine, she can bear it, because she knows she will not feel anything.

Except that this time, she does. Burnt flesh, dense wetness of drying blood, a smear of warm ash, and the bones digging into her skin as he tightens his grip. She flinches away violently, jumps back, dropping the syringe, which hits the metal floor with a single clear clink, her own scream echoing in her ears as she closes her eyes in a desperate attempt to shut everything out.

"Are you all right?" asks Doc's concerned voice from the threshold.

When she opens her eyes, she is alone in the room, save for Doc, no traces of anything except for the broken glass on the floor... and a small stain of ash and blood on her palm. She curls her hand into a fist in an attempt to hide it, blinking and shaking her head, trying to get a grip on herself.

Doc comes closer, reaches out, but after one glance at her face he hesitates and – thankfully – does not touch her. She is not certain how she would react if he did.

"What is it, Thera?" he asks, really worried now, because he calls her by name only when things get serious. "You look like death."

"It's... I..." With a start, she realises she is shaking. "Oh, Force," she just sighs.

Doc gives her a long look. "Come on," he says at last. "I have a bottle of Corellian brandy hidden in my desk. You could use a drink right now. Ah, no protests," he adds, when he notices she opens her mouth. "Doctor's orders."