Chapter 21
Giriad was becoming accustomed to life as a Rebel prisoner, and that worried him.
Once he'd been deemed stable enough he didn't have to stay in the medicenter, he'd been transferred not to the cell he was expecting but a sort of barracks room, not unlike ones he'd lived in before at the Academy or at the flight training center. There were six bunks, all occupied by captured Imperials, a 'fresher unit, and even limited access to the ship's databanks, though Holonet access was cut off and of course there was no way to communicate outside their quarters. Still, they'd been given a change of clothes, meals were regular if just as uninspired as Imperial rations, and while they weren't permitted to wander at will, there was a strange sense that they were more awkward guests than prisoners.
It was made more so by how, every day, Fiolla Newthon seemed to make an excuse to stop by. Someone's medical readings were inconclusive, the security monitors were acting up a bit and there wasn't anyone from engineering free, she'd thought that perhaps they (and it might have been his imagination, but Giriad had the sneaking suspicion that 'they' really meant 'him') would like a few entertainment holos-old and probably boring but what could you get in a Rebel fleet out in the far reaches of space? He suspected not as far out, as they'd made at least one hyperspace jump, but they were still far from anywhere. Fi didn't say, and he didn't ask.
The other five prisoners-cum-guests in the barracks with him were keeping quiet, too. For the two who'd been retrieved from an escape pod launched by Devastator moments before she joined her successor flagship in a fiery demise, it seemed to be shell shock. Both had been gun crew and they had escaped by the skin of their teeth. He couldn't tell if it was the horror of the situation, or whether they felt guilty surviving when so few of their shipmates had made it out alive.
The other three were fighter pilots, all like Giriad stranded either when they had the "good fortune" to survive when their fighter took a fatal blow, or unable to scramble aboard an evacuating Destroyer. Lieutenant Daggair, who preferred to go by "Dag" than by a first name he hadn't offered but claimed was too Rim-world hick for anyone in the Imperial Navy, was a bomber pilot, while both the others, Lieutenant Kal Amurry and Lieutenant Commander Mertani had been flying standard TIEs. And while Dag and Kel seemed like more or less decent sorts, the Lieutenant Commander, who hadn't bothered telling any of the lieutenants (let alone the enlisted gunners) his first name, was a constant reminder just how lucky Giriad had been in his immediate superior.
Mertani refused to address any of the Rebels who came in. He took food when it was offered, submitted to medical tests if required, and otherwise remained stonily silent. And if he'd remained silent while the Rebels were present, it seemed to be because he was saving it all up for when they were gone.
The door had barely closed behind the crewer (not Fi, to Giriad's disappointment) who had delivered their breakfast when Mertani, who'd sullenly accepted his tray in complete silence as usual, rounded on the rest of them. "I thought I made it clear we don't cooperate with Rebels."
The gunners shuddered in their seats, but Dag just rolled his eyes. "Asking what the gray stuff on the tray is doesn't count as cooperating, Commander."
"Everything can be collaboration," Mertani retorted, his dark eyes fixing on Giriad, sitting on the opposite side of the table. Giriad fought the urge to look away and glared back, not saying anything. "They're luring us in. Hoping to get us to turn coat and give up information."
"Why would they bother?" Kal said, poking at some of the gray stuff, which they had been assured was a kind of porridge. "What's left for them to learn about the Empire? The Emperor's–"
"You don't know that!" Mertani's voice cracked like an electrowhip. "That could be a lie the Rebels are telling us to break our spirit."
"The Emperor was on the Death Star," one of the gunners said quietly, "So was Lord Vader. And the Death Star was destroyed."
"There were shuttles that escaped," Mirtani retorted. "I saw one myself. For all we know, the Emperor or Lord Vader or both were aboard. Trapped here, how would we know? That jump might have been to get us out of range of the Emperor's retaliation."
"Because they'd go to all this trouble lying to a few pilots and crew," Dag said. "That makes perfect sense."
"The Rebels will go to any extreme to break the will of loyal Imperial officers." Mirtani didn't even glance at the food. He'd eat eventually, Giriad knew, his devotion to the Empire apparently didn't extend to hunger strikes, but he seemed to determined to make sure by letting it go cold there was no risk he might accidentally enjoy the meal.
"I really think they have other things to worry about than messing with our minds." Giriad poked at his breakfast, and took a tentative bite. It had probably been eggs at some point, though of what and how it had been preserved and prepared, he was happier not knowing.
"You only think that because they're doing a damn good job on you, Lieutenant." Mirtani was staring at him, not with disapproval, but open disgust. "One halfway-pretty Rebel girl crooks her finger at you, you're spilling security codes and ship layouts like we weren't at war!"
Giriad felt the same sort of rising ire he had when Zeth Orono had been taking swipes at all three of them, only this time the nastiness was directed exclusively at him. "Fi's nice. It doesn't do anyone any harm to be kind when we're prisoners."
"And that is exactly what I mean." Mirtani's eyes hardened to flint. "Nicknames, chatting, thinking there's no harm in it. Another week and you'll be spitting on the Emperor's statue and giving away security clearances."
"Oh, give it a rest," Dag said around a mouthful of the protein ration. "If Giriad has a pretty girl's attention, more power to him. Ever occurred to you he might get her to defect?"
"I don't know what kind of squadron you served in, but this is the Navy, not a pleasure cruise." Mirtani turned the cold glare on Dag, but the bomber pilot barely blinked. As if scanning for another target, he turned back to Giraid. "I do know what sort of squadron you served in. Bad enough they let females into officer training, worse they let them fly fighters. But every pilot in the Outer Rim fleet knows about the freak you flew under. Women in the fleet are bad enough. But alien filth . . . ." He grimaced. "Who knows what she did to get her rank?"
Giriad could feel a burning like a blaster bolt to the chest. He managed to grind his teeth long enough to get some control of his voice. "Fly well enough that she's out there and we're in here."
The glint in Mirtani's eye warned him something was coming that he wasn't going to like. "You must have got hit early. Otherwise I don't know how you missed it."
"Missed what?" Giriad fought down a rising sense of unease.
Mirtani looked positively gleeful now. "Your flight's Two, screaming her name, not even her designation but her name, on an open channel like a lunatic. Sounded like his heart was breaking," and the delight dripped from every word. "Don't know what happened him after that, but the 207th's Lead went in to the station after the Rebels and took the last of the squadron with him. Lover boy probably was out of his misery ten seconds in, if he even made it that far." The beady black eyes, that increasingly reminded Giriad of a Gamorean, glinted. "Is that how she liked to play it, your alien wingleader? Was your wingman a special case, or did she make you compete for it?"
Giriad bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. No. Thelea would never have just been shot down . . . Rurik would never have given up like that. And the very notion of Thelea . . . of her playing games, luring them, she never thought of him like that, and Rurik . . . he remembered as they waited, dismissed from Vader's presence, Rurik half-mad with fear and ready to rush back and face the Dark Lord himself, or when Thelea had, for whatever reason, hidden up on the gantry and Rurik had gone back . . .he couldn't imagine they would have truly gone any farther than friends. Technically, relationships weren't prohibited in general, but a direct C.O. and junior was, and they would never have violated that. No matter how much he suspected Rurik, at least, might want to. "You're lying." He looked at Dag and Amurry. "Did you hear that?"
Amurry shrugged, and Dag shook his head. "There was so much going on, and I was EV about ten minutes in."
"The 207, or what was left of them, did go in to the superstructure," Amurry said, sounding apologetic. "I don't think any of the TIEs came out, or most of the Rebels, either."
Giriad took a shaky breath, fighting to keep his composure. It couldn't be true. One of the few hopeful thoughts he'd had was thinking that Thelea and Rurik were safe with the Fleet, far out of the Rebels' reach and probably boggling at how he'd been so careless. Or, he thought, forcing himself to honest, mourning him as dead. Part of the fantasy had been the looks on their faces when he returned, alive and well with a story about Rebel captivity.
The idea that he might be the only survivor had never crossed his mind.
Mirtani, damn him, still had that satisfied smirk on his face. "If it weren't a disgusting thought, an alien like her, it would almost be romantic. Though filth like that is the reason we're here. Aliens and alien-lovers . . . is that why you get on so well with the Rebels?"
Giriad forced himself to exhale slowly, and get a grip on his temper.
Then he threw the tray at Mirtani's head.
"I'll say one thing for you Imps," Fi said, running the medical scanner over the cut on his forehead, "you don't go for half measures on anything."
"Well, he asked for it," and Giriad winced as blood trickled down into his eye again. Head wounds bled horribly. "And I didn't have anything else to hit him with."
"You're lucky he didn't have anything to use to hit you. He did good enough with his fists." Fi pressed a cloth to the deep scrape where he'd been knocked into the bench by Mirtani's second punch. Or was it the third? It was hard to remember clearly. The two gunners had leapt out of the way as Mirtani lunged across the table, knocking aside Amurry's attempt to stop him. He clearly had spent some time in the sparring ring as he got in two solid hits before Giriad was able to kick his feet out from under him while Dag got hold of the commander's elbow and tried to haul him off. He'd been tossed into a bunk and according to Fi had a minor concussion, but Giriad had gotten back for them both, putting an elbow into Mirtani's midsection hard enough the other pilot apparently had bruised ribs before the Rebel guards rushed in to break up the fight.
He also had the solitary confinement he apparently craved after Giriad and Dag had fingered him as the instigator, and Amurry had remained silent while the two gunners insisted they hadn't seen anything. The Rebel apparently in command of the prisoners, a reddish-blond, beared man who had the eerie aura Giriad used to associate with ISB, hadn't said much, but despite looking extremely skeptical, he'd ordered Mirtani separated from the others.
And Giriad was somehow not surprised to find Fi tending to his injuries. It even made being back in the iso section of the medical bay, complete with leg restraints, not so bad. At least this time they hadn't bothered securing his arms, and the bruises and pain gave him something to think about other than what Mirtani had said. He would write it off as lies, all of it, except Amurry confirming the part about the 207th's last survivors joining the pursuit into the Death Star, and as for Rurik screaming Thelea's name . . . maybe it was unprofessional and wrong, but then again, when they'd been stranded a lifetime ago in the Dhregan system, hadn't he had to tell Rurik shouting across vacuum wouldn't help when Thelea's comm had been temporarily fried? If he'd thought she'd been hit . . . .
If he'd thought she was dead . . . .
He realized his eyes were stinging again, and when he went to wipe away the blood, the liquid that came away was clear. Humiliation at the thought of crying in front of anyone, let alone a Rebel, let alone a pretty Rebel girl who had been nothing but kind to him since he'd been brought aboard even when she had no reason to be, actually made it worse. He bit his cheek again, trying to think about anything besides the idea Rurik and Thelea were so many atomized particles over the forest moon, that the only real friends he'd had in the last four years were dead, and all he had done was distract them but somehow he had the nerve to be alive while they weren't.
Something was clenching in his chest, painful and hot, and he thought for a minute he'd taken more body blows than he'd realized. Then he tasted salt instead of iron, and realized he was crying openly now. His friends, dead. Everything he'd had and been, destroyed. The whole galaxy turned upside down and he was adrift. His family . . . his family was going to be so disappointed in him. And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. He couldn't make it better, he couldn't get back what he'd lost, he couldn't make his friends be alive if they were dead.
He realized there were arms around his shoulders, and Fi was holding him. He tried to steel himself, be a proper Imperial officer, but something cracked and he was crying hard enough he was shaking. She didn't say anything for a long time, only rocked him, gently, and let him purge. When he looked up, those bright amber eyes of hers were wet, too, and that was the breaking point.
"I think I knew all along they were gone," he said, wishing his voice didn't crack with the pain of weeping. "Everything's gone."
"I suppose for all of you, it's a whole new galaxy." Fi didn't let him pull away, and he was grateful. Her arms were surprisingly strong, and the gentle embrace was the most stable, real, thing he could remember feeling in a long time. "I wish it didn't have to be this way."
"It didn't!" Giriad felt another of those burning sensations like plasma building in his chest. "None of this ever had to happen! If your fleet hadn't attacked, if no one had ever rebelled in the first place–"
Now Fi pulled back, that fierce glint in her eyes. "If your Emperor hadn't built weapons that killed billions of people, if so many worlds hadn't had their freedoms taken away, if the Senate hadn't been disbanded, we wouldn't have had to rebel!"
"The Senate was a disaster!" Giriad couldn't help it, but at least the tears were drying. "My parents remembered what it was like before the Clone Wars, when worlds were being blockaded and bombarded and invaded, or a plague would break out, or pirates would hit shipping lanes, and the Senate did nothing! They were happy when the Emperor took over during the Clone Wars! It was the first time the Senate ever really did anything other than argue and delay and wait while everyone else died. If we went back to that, what happens when something worse comes along?" He remembered the Aris Val being yanked out of hypserspace and blasted to atoms, the nightmare blockade locking Telamara in place. What would a bickering, useless Senate do against that?
But then, a small voice whispered, no one came now. He tried to shake off the thought–of course not, they had been wasting their time chasing the Rebels halfway around the Outer Rim!
"And that makes it all right that the Emperor destroyed Alderaan?" Fi's cheeks were flushed with color.
"That was Grand Moff Tarkin," but Giriad had an odd feeling about that, too. If it were only the Tarkin Doctrine, backfired and useless, then what was the point in building another Death Star? He remembered the instinctive, unthinking sense of shock and, if he was honest, horror he'd felt when they arrived at the remote moon and had seen what they were there to guard. Rurik and Thelea had sounded equally numb, unable to comprehend the massive planet killer.
And Thelea had planned to run away. Rurik had apparently been discussing it with her as he hadn't been surprised when she'd broached the idea. She'd said run to somewhere, but where? The Rebels? No. He shook that thought off. Thelea's voice had had the same tone of relief and excitement they'd' all felt when the mission had become clear, she'd wanted this uprising put down. So wherever or whomever she wanted them to flee to, it wasn't the Rebel Alliance. Only now the plan was dead with her, with Rurik, with the Empire . . . .
"We kept fighting," he said, realizing she was staring at him and feeling an absurd urge to justify himself, "because you always did! We were constantly chasing one Rebel base or breaking up cells or attacking your convoys. We wouldn't have been fighting you if you weren't fighting us!"
"We kept fighting because better to be dead than living under tyranny!" She looked more sad than angry, he thought distractedly, biting her lip in a way that was unfairly distracting for someone trying to carry on an argument. "There's more to life than just being alive, and blind obedience!"
"Oh, like what? Chaos? Constant fighting?" Constant fighting where your friends could be alive one minute and dead the next . . . . "Now the Emperor's dead, and you say Lord Vader is, too–"
"Commander Skywalker said it was true, and if he–" Fi cut herself off. "Oh, you probably think he's a war criminal and a liar, too!"
"I don't even know him, just his wanted posters! And what if he is telling the truth? Do you think the Emperor's dead and Vader with him, everyone's just going to throw a party and it'll all be sunshine and smiles? They probably know already on Imperial Center–"
"Coruscant," but she didn't sound quite as vehement now.
"Wherever! But the Imperial Court's probably already cracking down on anyone who so much as looks in a good mood, and now with Executor gone and I assume Admiral Piett with it, there's going to be a scramble to take over the fleet, and if you think anyone who ends up winning that is just going to say 'Let's all shake hands and be friends' you're as crazy as all the other Rebels! Fear of Lord Vader was the only thing that kept some of the Admirals and Moffs working together and not tearing their sectors apart."
"So what were we supposed to do? Say 'well, the Emperor kills whomever he pleases and takes over wherever he wants, guns down protestors, blows up entire worlds, but at least if we keep our heads down, we're safe?" It was Fi's turn to sound as if she were going to cry. "What difference does it make if you're shot by pirates or if you're just rounded up in a protest you weren't even part of, and the stormtroopers start shooting . . . ."
Giriad stared at her, seeing the tears glistening unshed in her eyes as she clenched her fists and looked away towards the deck, her shoulders shaking. "That happened to someone you cared about?"
For a moment, he thought she was going to snap at him, tell him to mind his own business. Then she drew in a long, shaky breath and nodded. "My little sister. She was fifteen. She wasn't a rebel or a troublemaker. She never even got into trouble at school, she was just coming home at the wrong time. Moff Berrin was touring the sector, though, and there were protests, strikes, and the local garrison was supposed to clean it up . . . How can you justify that? How can you excuse a girl getting shot down for being in the wrong place?"
Giriad shrugged uneasily. "I can't. How can you justify the Rebels cutting supply lines to the Outer Rim? The colony worlds rely on that, and on the fleet being able to come when they need help! Just a few months ago, I wound up trapped on a planet where they were being cut to ribbons, but the Fleet was off hunting your people again. They couldn't even get a message away. If Thelea hadn't thought up a plan to get me out to carry a message no one would have come. Is another Republic full of politicians going to be any better? Or worse, because there won't be any patrols in the far Rim because that's not where there biggest, richest, systems are?" That he was from one of those rich Core worlds didn't seem to matter, was more of a distant memory. "That was Rurik's homeworld . . . I used to think all the Rim was just smugglers and pirates and slavers, like the Hutts or Black Sun, but Rurik . . . that was his home. I could finally see why he wanted to be in the Navy, what he was protecting, and it was the Imperial governor who got him the chance. And Thelea . . . I don't know where she was from, somewhere beyond Wild Space and just what I saw come out of there . . . and she never thought anything her people had would be enough to stop those things, but the Empire might."
He shook his head. "I'm sorry about your sister. Truly." And he meant it, he realized, he was sorry an innocent was swept up in the chaos and sorrier that Fi clearly still ached at the loss . . . but how many had there been just like that under the Old Republic their Alliance wanted to restore? "But even if the Empire wasn't perfect, how can going back to the old ways prevent things like that happening, and protect places like Rurik's homeworld, and be able to put up a unified fight against the things that are out there who aren't going to care what kind of government we have? A Republic that didn't care about anything that wasn't under their noses is how we got the Empire."
"I don't know!" Fi choked out. "But there has to be a better way than Death Stars and stormtrooper garrisons. And people being killed for just being in the wrong place . . . ." Her shoulders were shaking.
Leaning as far as the restraints keeping his legs pinned to the table allowed, and well past what propriety should have permitted, Giriad put his arms around her. For a moment, she went very still and he was afraid she was going to call for the guards to come back, and then she was slumped against his shoulder, crying as hard as he had.. Too emotionally drained to cry any more himself, Giriad patted her back, in the same way she'd comforted him, and by the time her tears had stopped, he didn't want to let go, and Fi seemed equally inclined not to pull away. The didn't talk politics any further, but not because of any tension. If anything, it was as if all the tension and all the grief on both their parts had drained away with the tears.
There was an awkward moment when they finally had to draw apart, and Giriad realized in any other circumstances, appropriate or not, he'd have kissed her. Fi, from the look in her amber eyes, had the same thought.
And she kissed him, not quite at the corner of his lips, before calling for the security escort to take him back to the prisoners' quarters.
Dag didn't come back, leaving their quarters almost preturnaturaly quiet with just the two gunners, and a very subdued Amurry, and two days later, Giriad somehow was not surprised to find himself taken to a small office, where he found the reddish-blond bearded Rebel officer waiting for him. Crix Madine, it turned out, was a general, and a defector, not unfamiliar with the sort of questions Lieutenant Quoris had asked Medical Specialist Newthon, and which had made their way to the general's ears. Apparently, it was not the first time someone had questioned what kind of government their new order really ought to be, or pointed out the failings of the Republic the Empire had replaced. And while Giriad had no answers, he was surprised to hear that neither questions nor lack of answers were considered problematic.
In fact, if this General Madine could be believed, they indicated the sort of person who, in the Alliance's opinion, was badly needed to help build the galaxy over again after the Empire. Not that he would suggest to anyone that they turn their coat, of course. The prisoners would, at some point, be released without further consequences, when matters were more settled. But, of course, any who chose to join them for reasons of their own would be welcomed, regardless of prior affiliations. Madine himself was proof of that, and he was willing to provide further examples, if they were desired. Including, he indicated, Lieutenant Daggair, hence his transfer from the other prisoners.
Thelea had wanted them to run. Rurik was willing to go with her and he would have gone with them. They were willing to commit what was, after all, desertion at best, treason at worst, because of what they had all seen, because Thelea had thought there was a better way to fight the darkness. The Emperor was dead. The Empire would, he knew, be in chaos, dying. With the wrong sort of people at the helm, the same corrupt politicians as before, the new would-be Republic would rapidly go the way of the old. If he couldn't follow Thelea's plan now, and with her and Rurik gone, how could he, then . . . was this another way?
If things like the black ships were lurking just beyond Wild Space, was it really important whose uniforms they wore to oppose them?
They put him in smaller, but unguarded, quarters meant for two, and he was mildly unsurprised to find himself sharing with Dag again. The Rimworld pilot was pleased to see him, but not especially surprised either. Both were now issued monitor cuffs on their wrists as they were still clearly on probation, and they still had no access to external communications, but they were now at liberty to leave their quarters, and were assigned to a squad of six other defectors supervised by Rebel–Alliance–troopers who seemed to answer to Madine. Giriad wasn't sure if the debriefings and lectures they were compelled to attend were meant as subtle interrogation, deprogramming, or both, but he had the sense they were being tested.
As such, it was nearly a week before he saw Fi again, and then only for a moment in the mess, but the way those incredible eyes glowed when she saw him out and about made even the monitor cuff an indignity he could happily bear. She contrived to find him later, and with his new ability to move about the ship more, they were able to meet more and more often. There were no more hugs, though, or kisses, until the day he and Dag were ordered to transfer to one of the cruisers. Pilots, it seemed, were still at a premium, and they would not be the only ones learning to fly what they used to consider targets. Fi was waiting and watching when they reported for transport, which was also the moment when the monitor cuffs were finally removed.
Fi waited just long enough for the Intel officer to take off the cuff and step away, leaving Giriad technically free for the first time since he'd woken in the medical bay. Then she kissed him very firmly and properly and completely, and for the first time in even longer, he didn't care who was watching him, or what they thought at all.
The Defiance had been in a holding pattern, like the rest of the fleet, for what was really only a few days. For anyone on the crew not directly involved in the ongoing struggle for command and control, it seemed like weeks, or months. It might have been a standard year, for all Rurik noticed, except he thought he'd probably have had more mess times and mind-breakingly dull rest watches if that were the case. There were patrols to fly, and briefings to attend, but there was no enemy to fight and no one to really direct the patrols or order drills. Rurik supposed, in some part of his mind that wasn't completely numbed to the whole business, that he ought to be glad Defiance had Interceptors available. Given the cluster the entire situation had turned into they might have wound up flying bombers. Or stuck on the bridge. Or cleaning the waste-recycling systems. It was that sort of disaster.
He almost wished the Rebels would run them down and finish them off. It seemed logical, and in any case, it would get things over with. Every time he opened his eyes and found himself staring at the bulkhead over his bunk instead of blasted to atoms, he was mildly disappointed they hadn't.
"You know," and he jumped, having once again forgotten his roommate's presence, "this is going to be a really unpleasant living situation if you're going to play mute the whole time."
Rurik sighed, and looked towards where Zeth was standing, having just come out of the 'fresher half-dressed and shaking his head. "There isn't much to talk about."
"What, you don't want in on the pool for whose fleet we'll end up being?" Zeth tried to smile, and almost managed it.
"It'll be Harrsk. Maybe Prittik Maybe Intelligence will take over. Who knows?' He kept staring at the ceiling, fiddling with the flat bit of metal in his hand. "Who cares?"
"The Emperor's dead, and Vader must be or he'd have turned up and stopped all this by now, and your take on it is, 'who cares?'" Zeth snorted, grabbing his undertunic and yanking it over his head.
"Yeah, who cares?" Rurik turned on his side but made no move to get up. It was a rest rota, and he had no desire to work out and even less to hit the simulators. Even eating seemed like far too much effort. "The Emperor is dead. Lord Vader is dead. The Executor's gone," and he saw the same grief he still felt at the thought reflected in Zeth's eyes. Strange, but the loss of the Super Star Destroyer seemed somehow more painful and personal than the Emperor or Vader himself, as if a great living thing had died. "Everyone I cared about in the Fleet is gone. Barring the Emperor being miraculously resurrected, or some mastermind none of us have ever met who can force everyone to cooperate appearing out of nowhere, what's the point?"
"Oh, I don't know," and Zeth slouched onto his own bunk. "Defeating the Rebels? Getting revenge for everyone we just lost, from the Emperor on down?"
"It's not going to bring them back." Thelea . . .if I could go back, if I could just stay on your wing like I should have . . . if I could just bring you back. I should have said let's go now, as soon as I thought of it, steal a shuttle and go, forget knowing where we headed just as long as it was away and you were there.
"No, but it might make us feel better." Zeth shook his head. "I just want to hit them again. I don't know even know for sure who got Cuhan, or Nihall," and Rurik felt slightly guilty it took him a moment to remember that was, had been, Nihall Lodi, Theta Three. "But killing more of their fighters would make me feel a lot better." His eyes narrowed. "Might do you some good, too."
"It won't bring them back. It won't bring Giriad back. It won't bring . . . it won't bring Thelea back." He heard his voice crack and couldn't find the energy to care. "On the other hand, I'm not doing very well at blowing myself up and joining them. At least getting back to a shooting war might help that along."
Zeth didn't say anything for a moment. Finally, he sighed. "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"For what I said. Back on the Exec." That made Rurik look at him, expecting at least a wry smile, but Zeth looked dead serious. "I didn't really believe the rumors about . . . about you and Commander Thelea. No one did. It's just, well, she was an alien, and female, and–"
"You're not helping yourself."
"Sorry! I mean, you know how people are about any female who makes it past Lieutenant, unless it's something safe like medic or desk-jockey stuff. And you two were always . . . ." He stopped himself. "I was in a bad mood, everyone was talking about the three of you after you disappeared and Vader just let you skate, so I just . . . it wasn't fair, and I shouldn't have said any of it. I'm sorry."
Rurik was stunned enough it seemed to punch through a little of the fog in his brain. Finally, he said, "I forgive you. And anyway, you were wrong, but . . . to be honest, not completely. She never–I never–" He made himself stop; the babbling was welling up again. "Not because I didn't want to. But she was my C.O. and she didn't forget that." Except twice, and I'm going to be reliving those times until the day I die.
"Heh." Zeth's smirk had a very self-deprecating quality to it. "Well . . . I guess I can't really blame you." Rurik raised an eyebrow. "The eyes were creepy, but that skin, and her hair! For an alien, she was hot."
The flare of temper that prompted felt oddly muted, and Rurik realized he was suppressing an almost-giddy urge to laugh. "Stang. I told her you were just jealous."
Zeth looked as if he were fighting a genuine grin. "Did you also point out I was single and not her direct subordinate?"
"You wouldn't have lasted five minutes. She'd have just stared at you until you wished it was Vader you were dealing with."
"Oh, I see, you were interested, she shot you down."
Rurik grabbed the thin pillow from his bunk and threw it in the general direction of Zeth's head. The other pilot ducked, not that it was very accurately thrown, and Rurik shook his head, some of the giddiness draining away. "It doesn't seem fair to laugh."
"Nah. But it's laugh, or keep staring at the ceiling in here until you starve to death or we sit here so long with admirals fighting about who's in charge the Rebs run us down and blow us into atoms." Zeth stood up, and grabbed his uniform jacket. "Come on. I'm meeting that nice little medic friend of yours in Rec for some casual chat and light workouts, and if you come along we can find a way to keep you occupied in case I want this berth to myself for a while."
"Jasha?" That he hadn't seen coming, but then, women were scarce in the Navy and it wasn't as if they were looking at shore leave any time soon. Or ever. "This I have to see." He rolled to his feet, and realized he was still fiddling with the metal plate. "Assuming we ever get paid again, I'll bet your next paycheck you're bunking alone this rota and I don't need to worry about it. In any case," and he looked down at the colored squares, "any quarters open up, you might get your wish."
"You're on, and you're going to regret that." Zeth saw the item in his hand. "What's that?" Rurik silently held up the plate, and his wingman's eyes widened. "Wait, they made you lieutenant commander? Who die–"
Zeth cut himself off, but Rurik knew how he was going to finish it. "A lot of people, actually." Giriad. Thelea. Sobusk. Aldacci. Half Defiance's TIE complement. The whole sharding Empire. "Apparently, someone up the chain thinks I'm leadership material. Or they're desperate. So if I decide I'm sick of you, I can ask for a quarters upgrade."
"I don't know, I might get stuck with someone who's not as understanding about my occasional need for privacy." Zeth threw Rurik's uniform jacket at him from where he'd dumped it when he'd come off
shift. Possibly, Rurik thought as he caught it, it was a not-so-subtle suggestion the other wanted a neater roommate, too. "Come on. You can't spend the rest of your life staring at the ceiling. Maybe Jasha's got a friend."
Rurik felt a hard, pained clenching in his stomach. "No. Not that. If you seriously need me out of here this rota, fine, but don't try to do me any favors there. Not now, not ever. Got it?"
Zeth stared at him for a long moment, the humor drained out of his expression completely. Finally, he looked away. "Stang." His breath came out in a rush. "Sorry. I won't bring it up again. And for what it's worth, and I know it's too late to matter, but . . . Commander Thelea was a great pilot. And that kid wasn't so bad either. It was an honor to fly with them in the squadron."
"You're right," Rurik said, pulling his jacket on. "It's too late. But that isn't your fault." He fasted the hooks, and then carefully snapped on the additional red and blue square above his heart. "And you're also right–it was an honor to fly with them." One I don't know if I deserved. And whoever ends up leading this rear-guard action, they wouldn't deserve any of us.
Zeth was near the door, watching him. "Well, come on, Lieutenant Commander. If you've got the rank, might as well show it off."
"Might as well." He followed, the fog in his mind finally seeming to lift, but what was replacing it was a strange, detached kind of numb. At the door, he paused and looked back at their quarters–both bunks rumpled, a belt hanging over the back of a chair, the light in the 'fresher still on. Giriad, he thought, would have had conniptions at the very much not-by-the-book disorder. Thelea would have crossed her arms and glared, probably muttering something about humans, or boys, or boy humans.
"Sorry, Lead," he murmured to the ghosts and the empty room. If you come back, I promise to clean it up. There was no answer, of course, and Rurik turned away. He was already getting used to the silence.