4.

"So you've bothered to wake up."

The voice was snide and strange, cutting through the pounding haze in Dustil's head. At first, he wasn't sure what it was about the voice that bothered him so much, but the second time he heard it, he realized what the problem was.

"It's a good thing you were dying down there, boy. Anything less, and the Lieutenant Commander would have had you killed for being lax in your duties."

The voice was female.

Dustil's eyes fluttered open, and he found himself staring up into the unsympathetic face of a woman who was old enough to be his mother, but who had none of the necessary softness in her eyes. She looked at him without compassion, and lines cut deep grooves downward from the corners of her mouth, making her expression permanently cruel.

"It's a mystery that they've let you live this long," the woman continued, and she slapped a freeze compress across Dustil's forehead with stinging force. He winced at the unexpected pain, but it wasn't much, and the cold did reduce the pounding in his head. The woman didn't seem to care whether or not it did. She had already turned away, and was washing her hands with every appearance of disgust. "Why we're wasting fluids and nutrients on a little grunt like you," she complained, "I have no idea."

Neither did Dustil. It was clear to him that he was in a med bay, and that this woman was a medical tech. It was also clear that he must have been carried here by a Sith. It was hard to imagine that they cared enough about his life to bother hauling him into an analysis cot to keep him alive.

But apparently they did. Dustil eyed the soldier across the room, who was seemingly asleep in the furthest cot. He looked pretty young, but strong enough to carry him. Perhaps they had forced him to do it – not that it mattered. Dustil shut his eyes and decided to appreciate this moment for what it was. He was in a bed for the first time in what felt like months. Once upon a time, it would have seemed an uncomfortable cot with an unreasonably thin pillow; now it was sheer comfort. Even feeling like hell, he still felt better than he had in a long time.

"A few of us thought you might have crawled up another vent and died," the woman said, with a laugh that suggested she would have enjoyed it if that had been the truth. "You're lucky you didn't get trapped during the pump cycle the first time you tried it, but then, I suppose you're too stupid to know about that."

Dustil breathed out and ignored her. He had known about the pump cycle, but what was the point in talking back to a Sith? He wanted to stay in bed as long as he possibly could, and irritating the tech was probably the fastest way to get thrown out.

"It would have been a hassle to pull you out, though," said the woman, with another barking laugh. "No one would have bothered risking it until there was a stench."

Dustil sighed out quietly. She could say whatever she wanted. It wasn't any worse than the things he had already heard, and at least he was warm and resting.

"Only reason anyone bothered with you this time is that the levels were off in the generators, and believe you me, they didn't go down there to check on you." The woman snorted. "They went to punish you for negligence. Lucky for you, you were half-dead and dried up like a stone. Another hour or two without water, and that fever would have killed you. You're lucky it was that bad, or there's no telling what your punishment might have been. Very, very lucky."

Yeah, thought Dustil bitterly. I'm so lucky.

"You can't just go shirking your work around here. I'm not sure what sort of sugar-coated life you're used to, but on this ship, you do as you're told."

Dustil fought the urge to tell the stupid woman that he was actually used to doing what he was told, and that if she knew his mother, she'd know that.

"You're lucky you were told to do anything," the woman went on. "You know what happens to those they can't find a use for, don't you?" She made a sucking noise and clapped her hands. "Straight out the airlock they go. And if you ask me, they should have done the same thing with you."

Dustil's heart gave a cold beat. He opened his eyes.

"The same thing?" he asked. They were the first words he had spoken in a long time; perhaps it had been several days. He couldn't hear his own voice. It was nothing but a rasp of air in his dry throat.

"Something to say?" The woman shot a disdainful look over her shoulder.

Dustil reconsidered the question and shook his head. Surely she didn't mean what he had thought she meant. For one horrible second, he had seen a visual image of the little crying boy being shoved into the nothingness of space. But even the Sith couldn't be that cruel.

Could they?

"Do the other young sentients share your familiarity with Omega-class capital ships?"

XR's toneless voice cut into Dustil's thoughts. XR hadn't believed that the other children would have been put to work like Dustil. XR had seemed to think that the idea made no sense. And even though XR was a pain, he was a droid… and he was logical.

Maybe the other children weren't working, like him. But if they weren't… then where were they?

Dustil tried to clear his throat and moisten his mouth.

"Whatever you're about to say there," said the woman, who was now sorting through pressure injectors, "make sure it's important. If you're just going to waste my time, I have no issue with sedating you."

"There are…" Dustil had to cough and try again. "There are other prisoners," he managed finally. "Like me."

"Are there?" replied the woman, with a smirk in her voice. "Thankfully that's not true. There are no other prisoners who have made a nuisance of themselves."

"Are they working?" Dustil asked. Across the room, in the furthest bed, he saw the sleeping man shift. "Did they get put to work?"

"I heard you the first time," said the woman. "What makes you think I'm going to give you an answer?"

Dustil blinked. "Because… I asked?" he ventured.

The woman laughed aloud, and turned to look at him with real amusement in her face. "I heard you were an idiot," she said. "Not a rumor, I see."

Dustil clenched his teeth, but only for a moment. "I just wondered," he said. His voice sounded big in his head, which felt hollow. He reached up his hand to rub it, and found that he was just as filthy as before; caked grit rolled between his fingers and his damp temple. They hadn't bothered to clean him up. Not that he was surprised.

"Did you just wonder?" the woman taunted. "Well, since we all have plenty of time to indulge your wonderings, why don't you ask whatever you want?"

Dustil knew better than to take her up on the false offer. He fell silent again and glanced across the room at the young man in the far bed, who was now quite still again. Perhaps he was unconscious. Dustil wondered what was wrong with him, then realized he didn't really care.

"But since you're so curious," said the woman abruptly, "I might as well tell you that none of your little friends were given jobs to do. I imagine they're quite comfortable, in comparison with you. But that's what you get for crawling around in maintenance shafts and getting yourself caught, isn't it?"

Dustil frowned and took his hand down from his head. "They're still in holding cells?" he asked, somewhat relieved.

"Is that what I said?"

"You… said they were comfortable."

The woman turned back to her work with a disturbing chuckle. "I said I imagine they're comfortable," she replied. "Not that I'd expect a halfwit like you to take my meaning."

"What's your meaning, then?" Dustil said, a little too hotly. "Are they imprisoned or not? What are you doing with them?"

"Me?" asked the woman, holding up a pressure injector to the light. It was full of clear liquid that might have been anything. Water, poison – Dustil didn't know. "They're no business of mine. And you'd better watch your tone, if you know what's good for you."

Dustil did know what was good for him, and he knew it was reckless to keep needling the tech, but he couldn't help it. "I made a deal," he said, his voice gaining strength. "They said if I worked, the others would be fine."

"Well, you stopped working, didn't you?" replied the woman with an unkind laugh. "I'd say the deal is off."

"But –" said Dustil anxiously, " – but where are they?"

"Worried, are you?"

"You – you said they weren't useful," Dustil went on, panic growing in his chest. "And I know there's no Jedi on the ship to test them for anything, so what –"

He fell silent. The woman had turned and fixed him with a very narrow stare.

"And just how do you know that there are no Jedi on the ship?" she asked quietly.

Dustil realized that he had said too much. He didn't want to give away that XR had given him the information, or XR might be removed from the maintenance level – and as obnoxious as he was, at least he was company.

"I…" Dustil hesitated. "Well, I haven't seen any."

The woman let out another guffaw of amusement. "You haven't seen any?" she repeated condescendingly. "You haven't seen any? Is that so? And what – you think Jedi are going to go wandering through the pit of the ship, where you can keep an eye on them?" She laughed again. "Idiot brat," she muttered. "You're stupider than I heard."

Dustil couldn't believe how easily he had tricked her. The Sith were the idiots, not him. And the Sith had made a bargain with him.

"I want to see them," he said in a low voice.

"See who, the Jedi?" The woman snorted. "Well, whatever you want, of course. I'll go and fetch them right now – "

"Not the Jedi." Dustil heard how cold his voice was. "The other prisoners. I want to see them. I want to see them now."

The woman turned, still holding the pressure injector up slightly. She advanced on Dustil, tapping it with her finger. "Did you just make a demand of me, boy?" she asked softly. "Is that what that was?"

Dustil swallowed, but held her gaze. "I had a deal," he said again. "It's only fair. I want to see them, or else I'm not working anymore."

The woman looked surprised, but only for a moment. She stepped up to his bedside and stabbed the injector against his arm. Dustil felt something pierce him, and then suddenly the room began to swim.

"You're not in much of a position to make ultimatums," said the woman. "I told you I'd sedate you if you couldn't keep your mouth shut."

Dustil's head fell to the side as his body began to course with drugs that turned his limbs to lead. He stared dully across the room as the med bay grew foggy before him, and he struggled to stay conscious, but it was no use; his eyelids were like duranium blast doors, dropping heavily and irresistibly down to cut off his vision. Just before he lost all sight, he saw that the young soldier in the furthest bed had his eyes open and was watching him somberly. He was the youngest Sith that Dustil had ever seen.

And then he saw nothing.

"…asking questions I didn't have clearance to answer, not that he deserved an answer…"

Dustil had never felt quite so groggy. He fought his way up from the depths of drugged sleep to hear snatches of the conversation that was being had over him.

"…said he hadn't seen any Jedi… wanted to know if the others had been put to work… something about a deal…"

There was a low, masculine laugh. An ugly laugh. Dustil recognized it at once, and it chilled him – that was the man who had killed Baden. The man who had struck him in the head with the blaster.

"So I sedated him, Lieutenant Commander… believed it was the right choice… in my opinion, you ought to get rid of him. He's more trouble than he's worth."

There was a pause. "Did I ask for your opinion?"

"N-no."

"No what?"

"No, Lieutenant Commander Vortok."

"Can you imagine a situation in which I would ask for your opinion?"

"No, Lieutenant Commander."

"Then perhaps you should shut your mouth before I sedate you."

Dustil laughed. He did it before he could stop himself, and to his relief, the sound that came out of him wasn't recognizable as a laugh – it was a toneless, garbled cry.

"Well well." Lieutenant Commander Vortok sounded bored. Dustil heard boot steps come nearer to his cot. "The weakling lives. Is he still feverish?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is he still in danger?"

"No, sir, not of dying, sir."

"Then get him out of that bed. I won't have him lounging around. What was the problem with him?"

"Malnutrition, sir, and dehydration. Also a bacterial infection caused by – "

"Pains that can be suffered without resorting to this kind of drama," said the Lieutenant Commander with disdain. "Another episode like this, and I empower you to get rid of him. I won't have time and resources repeatedly wasted on a hostage."

"My pleasure, sir."

Dustil fought to open his eyes. When he did, the world was bleary for several long seconds before Vortok's face came into focus, cold and savage, staring down at him.

"Get up."

Dustil struggled to lift his head. The room spun. He propped his elbows at his sides and pushed himself into a half-sitting position; it was excruciating, and he was weak, but he knew better than to ignore the command.

"I said up."

Dustil grimaced. With all his energy, he braced himself on his hands and slid his legs out of the bed. His bare feet hit the cold floor and he gasped.

"Don't make me say it again."

Summoning his will, Dustil clenched his muscles and rose to his feet. But he had been prone for so long that vertigo overwhelmed him and sent him staggering into the next bed. He doubled over and put his hands out to grab the opposite cot and break his fall.

"He's rank," said Vortok with disgust. "That stench. Has he wet himself?"

Dustil burned with humiliation. He probably had. He had no idea.

"I didn't put him in the fresher, sir. But if you want me to –"

"No, of course not. He's more than capable of keeping himself presentable, he's not an infant."

Dustil was on the verge of lashing out – of saying that he had no way of keeping himself in any kind of condition, the way they treated him. But it took all his energy just to right himself and stand on his feet before Vortok, whose eyes bored into him.

"You'll do something about that," said Vortok, raking a look of revulsion over Dustil. "Disrespectful little swine. But first I believe you wanted to take a walk. Is that right? A little walk to sate your curiosity?"

Dustil looked dully up at him. He didn't know what the man was talking about.

"You don't remember making demands? I understand you gave one of my soldiers an ultimatum."

Dustil licked his lips with a dry tongue. Now he remembered. "I asked to see the others," he rasped.

"And so you shall." Vortok smiled, then turned his head sharply and addressed the young soldier in the furthest bed. "Ensign Reymark."

"Yes, sir."

"Are you recovered?"

"Fully recovered, sir."

"Get up and escort the boy. He wants to see his friends. But I won't have him falling into walls and soiling the entire ship."

"Yes sir."

Behind Vortok, another man laughed. Dustil didn't recognize him, but he had a feeling that he was seeing the unmasked face of one of the soldiers who had brawled with Baden, before Vortok had murdered him. The man's eyes were bright and vacant and vicious.

"You too, Enor," said the lieutenant commander, jerking his chin at the soldier behind him. "Get his other side."

"Right away, sir."

Dustil was grabbed on one side by Enor, who locked his arm into a painful position. Ensign Reymark supported his other arm, and when Vortok turned, the two soldiers followed him out of the med bay, bringing Dustil between them. He heard the footsteps of the tech follow behind them, and knew he was surrounded. Not that he would have made any attempt to escape; it would have been ludicrous. He was weak and sick and drugged. It was a struggle just to walk, which he didn't have to do. Enor did a more than ample job of dragging him along. He was grateful that Ensign Reymark's grip was nowhere near as rough.

They turned corner after corner, and went up more than one level. Nothing was familiar to Dustil until they reached the detention corridor. He remembered it far too well – the lighting, the way the soldiers' boots sounded against the plasteel flooring… all of it. It was bizarre that a detention corridor on a Sith cruiser was so familiar to him. But it was.

"Look," said Enor, with an almost shrill laugh. "Up ahead, boy. There's that grate in the floor that saved your life." He laughed again. "Wait… no it didn't, did it? Shame about your officer friend who gave you the idea. Torture didn't sit too well with him."

Lieutenant Commander Vortok cast a look of gratified amusement over his shoulder, and his smile widened when he saw Dustil's face. Dustil wasn't sure of his own expression, but if it reflected what was in his mind, then Vortok was smiling at a look of pure hatred.

"And here we are." Vortok stopped dead in the corridor beside the grate. From his position, Dustil could see into both the cell on his left, where the boys had been kept, and the cell that was slightly ahead on the right, where he had seen the girls.

The women's cell was empty.

Deep in Dustil's gut, acid nervousness began to churn, like a horrible premonition. He stared through the flickering shield for a long moment to be sure his eyes weren't deceiving him, and then, when he was sure that no one was there, he turned his head to the left.

No one was in his old cell. Not Shaardan. Not the little boy.

"Where are they?" Dustil whispered.

Vortok crossed his arms and let out a sigh of satisfaction. "As you can see, they're all behaving themselves. Quiet and orderly."

The tech gave a low, appreciative laugh.

"Where are they." Dustil's breath trembled.

Enor adjusted his grip on Dustil's arm and squeezed it tighter than ever, hurting him. Out of the corner of his eye, Dustil could see that the man was grinning.

"Where do you think they are, Dustil?" asked Vortok quietly.

Dustil stared into the empty room and did not answer.

"We sent them out for a little walk," said Vortok, after a moment. "The outer hull needed inspecting."

Rage, quiet and ice cold, flooded Dustil's mind and blurred his eyes. But he would not cry. Not here. Not in front of them.

"But of course," Vortok continued, still softly, "we're operating on an unfortunate shortage of environmental suits these days, so I'm afraid the children had to go without."

The youngest girl couldn't have been seven. The youngest boy couldn't have been five. The scene played out in Dustil's head as though he had been forced to witness it. The tears there must have been. The screams. All mingled with the laughter of the Sith.

Were these men human?

"They weren't nearly as efficient in their task as you've been down in the sublevels," said Vortok. "Pity."

Dustil could not move his eyes from the room. He stood as if frozen.

Vortok glanced at him in something like irritation, then forced a condescending smile.

"No words, eh?" he said carelessly. "I suppose you're wondering what became of our bargain, are you? You've been working hard, you'll say. To protect the others. It isn't fair, you'll say."

Dustil made no response. He had left them. He had left them all, and saved himself, and they were dead. It was a failure beyond comprehension.

Vortok moved, unexpected and swift, and grabbed Dustil's shoulder, pushing him with a jerk so close to the forcefield that he felt the tingles of it a finger's width away from his face. The other two soldiers stepped back.

"Take a good look," the lieutenant commander said, his voice harsh now, and low. "It's time you got the truth through your naïve head. There are no bargains. There are fools who hope, and fools who believe that promises mean something in this world. You work, you live. That's the only bargain that matters. Weaklings have no right to hope. Weaklings have no purpose."

Tears rose in Dustil's eyes. He felt them there, stinging and hot. They didn't fall. He didn't try to stop them, but there weren't enough of them for weeping. This was nothing he could cry over. This was something for which he had not yet learned an emotion.

Still holding Dustil there, Vortok leaned in close to his profile.

"You want to cry? You want to feel guilty that you didn't save all those innocent little boys and girls?" He made a noise of disgust that filled Dustil's head. "You want to cry like a baby and make yourself so sick again that you spend the rest of your days wallowing in pools of your own vomit? Go ahead. You won't live long, and you'll prove to everyone just how weak you are. Frail and pathetic and naive, just like the rest of your failing Republic."

He pulled back and finally let go of Dustil's shoulder.

Dustil swayed back from the forcefield and nearly fell. A hand touched his left elbow and steadied him as Vortok gave a single, deep, disdainful laugh.

"Assuming anyone even cares enough to come down and wipe your drooling carcass off the floor. Next time we'll just clean the area with a plasma sweep. You can lie down like a dog and wait for it if that's all you're fit for."

Enor snickered, and under his breath, he gave a low, growling, dog's bark.

Vortok and the medical tech exploded with laughter. Enor joined them, shrieking with delight at his own believed cleverness. Their laughter echoed in the corridor, filling Dustil's ears, his brain, his chest. Vortok gave Dustil a shove down the corridor, back in the direction from which they had come, sending him stumbling into Ensign Reymark. Reymark righted him and held his shoulders firmly, steering him forward, back to the lift and back along the wide, sterile corridors that led to the med bay, while the others laughed.

Dustil couldn't look at any of them. He could barely even think. Dimly, he noticed that the hands on his shoulders, while firm, were not in any way cruel. If he closed his eyes and wished hard enough, he could almost pretend the hands were his father's, guiding him out of this place, this nightmare.

He wouldn't cry.

"Let him use the fresher, for everyone's sake," Vortok was saying to the tech, behind him. "See to it that he has the proper nutrients to prevent this happening again. Then Ensign, you will make certain that he returns to the maintenance level without incident."

"Yes, sir." Reymark's voice was rather quiet.

In the med bay, Dustil stumbled into the fresher. He could not enjoy the water that pulsed down onto his skin. He washed himself mechanically, keeping his mind as blank as possible, and he rinsed his clothing without much thought. He probably wouldn't have another chance to get them half-clean for a long time.

He dressed in his dripping clothes and was made to stand where he was until the medical technician was satisfied that he wasn't going to leave a trail of water on his way through the ship. When he stepped into the med bay again, Ensign Reymark was waiting for him, and for the first time, Dustil looked right into his face and felt a stab of bitter disappointment. How he could have imagined this soldier's hands to be like his father's, he did not know. Reymark was barely older than he was, still lanky with youth. In his eyes there was no steadying comfort. Only uncertainty.

"I'll take him," said Reymark.

Dustil stuck his feet into his shoes and allowed the ensign to lead him back down to the maintenance level without a word. Reymark lingered in the sublevel doorway for a moment as Dustil trudged ahead of him, back into the darkness of humming machinery and the faint smell of vomit.

It was only when he was alone again that it occurred to Dustil that, through all the mockery, Reymark had never laughed.

He wasn't sure why he knelt on the grated floor. There was a weight on his shoulders – he had heard of such things in books and vids, but he had never known how real it could feel. It was as though he was being pressed down beneath the force of some invisible burden, and he simply could not stand.

"It has been nearly a week. I assumed you were dead."

Dustil didn't look up at XR. He stared at the floor and realized momentarily that something was shining on the grates. He felt his face with half-numb fingers and realized that it was wet. He didn't remember beginning to cry, and he wasn't sure why he was crying. He wasn't hurt. He felt no pain.

He felt nothing.

When he could stand, he did so, and he went to the first small maintenance chamber. Lifelessly, he checked the levels and entered them. And then again. And again.

When he had completed his tasks, he lay down on his side and stretched out his arm to cushion his head, staring at nothing.

"No one is coming."

The words slipped from his mouth as though someone else was saying them, and when he heard them, he finally knew that they were true.

No one was coming to save him. There would be no rescue. No Republic. No father, blasting through the doors with a fleet behind him. No one knew where he was. This was all there would be.

Dustil lay on the floor and waited to feel a wave of hopelessness, but it didn't come. There was nothing at all. No fear, no fury. Just the shivering of his damp body on the floor and the rhythm of his breath, which he could hear pulsing in and out, keeping time with the humming of the generators around him. It was all he had. Just life.

It wasn't much of a life. He knew that. But maybe the point was to cling to life for its own sake. It was the only thing he had here that belonged to him, and he wanted to keep it. Just another day of breathing.

It was more than any of the others had left.

Whether XR left him alone because he had no interest in him, or because he somehow knew that Dustil was beyond the reach of insult, he did not know. But the droid stayed back in a dark corner and said not one more word.

Dustil was too empty to feel grateful. He slipped into dark sleep, and dreamed of faces he had only barely known, floating silently in endless blackness.