Chapter 36 – The Turn

Bowdaar liked to think that he would have made a good hunter. Despite faithfully spending a portion of each day reflecting on what he remembered of the forests of Kashyyyk, those memories had grown static and dim as years stretched into decades. He was no longer entirely sure what he truly remembered, and which elements were filled in by hope long denied.

He quietly made his way down the wide hall. According to the plans, most of the rooms on this floor were used to store equipment that wasn't currently in use. He paused by the third door on the left side of the hall. If the plans were correct, this was the room he wanted.

Pulling one of the blasters from his belt, he tossed it toward the door. It hit with a solid thump and then clattered to the floor. For several moments, nothing happened.

Then, the door slowly swung open. A man and a woman, wearing matching uniforms, stood in the doorway, peering out. "Bud?" called the woman. "Darvell?"

Bowdaar crept closer, watching their faces as they glanced up and down the hallway. But even as the woman's gaze passed directly by where he was standing, her expression didn't change. When she turned and gazed intently the other way, he moved more quickly toward them.

The man frowned and dropped to a knee, reaching down to pick up the blaster that lay on the floor. "That's Bud's gun," he muttered. He stood and let out a sigh. "Look, you stay here. Call up and tell security to look into this. I'm going to look around a bit, see what I can find out."

She nodded and stepped inside as he walked away. Bowdaar swiftly moved into the room as well, just before the door swung shut behind him. Perhaps his hurry caused him to step less quietly, because the woman spun around, looking from side to side nervously. "Who's there?" she called out, backing up.

The wookiee stayed frozen in place, and as the moments slipped past, he saw the woman's breathing slow down again. Her posture eased as well, shoulders relaxing. She smiled to herself and shook her head, turning to walk briskly over to the intercom.

Bowdaar pulled the stun stick from his belt and silently walked up behind her. As she reached toward the intercom, he activated it and gently touched it to her shoulder. She let out a cry of surprise and pain, but even as she turned to look over her shoulder at the intruder, her eyes rolled up and she dropped to the floor, unconscious.

Perfect. He debated going after the other technician, but decided it made more sense to complete the main objective as quickly as he could. Chances were he'd be able to shut down the building's power before the tech returned with security. He walked over to the console and pulled up the control screen. A window popped up, and the same calm voice he'd heard in the elevator intoned, "Vocal authorization required."

He hesitated, and it repeated the message. Well, damn.

He looked down at the stun stick he held, then pulled the second blaster out of his belt and looked at it as well. The gun was ammunitioned by a cylinder of combustible gas. If he could position it effectively enough, a sharp charge to the weapon would cause the chamber to rupture, and the gas would explode. The thought of creating an explosion with something he held in his hand was unpleasant, but his options were severely limited. I cannot fail now.

Bowdaar dropped to his knees and peered underneath the console. The duraplas guard was held in place by a few small clasps, and it was fairly easy for the wookiee to pry it off and set it quietly to the side. He pulled some of the wires to the side, shoving the blaster up into the workings of the machine as far as he could. He forced himself not to hesitate and gritted his teeth and shoved the stun stick up against the underside of the weapon. It sizzled for a moment, then a sudden pop was immediately followed by a sharp bang.

Pain seared through his senses, mingled with the acrid odor of charred fur and flesh. Fortunately, though, the result was an immediate loss in power that plunged the entire room into darkness.

He shuffled back away from the controls and cautiously stood, cradling his wounded hand against his side. He listened carefully but couldn't hear any commotion, so he made his way over to the door and lifted the latch, peering out. It was as pitch-black there as it was in the power room, and so he headed out carefully, senses alert for any possible danger.

Bowdaar crept down the hall, listening attentively, but heard nothing – the oppressive silence of the darkness surrounded him. Still, he continued to move slowly, knowing that his objective was at the end of the hallway, keeping his hands out in front of him gently playing back and forth, feeling around for anything in his way. Finally they brushed a cold smooth wall. He felt around for a few moments until he felt a small bar. The door stuck as he pulled. He yanked harder, but it still wouldn't budge.

Ever so carefully, he put his other hand through the handle as well, wincing as the pressure of the bar rubbed against the burned skin. Taking a breath, he braced one foot against the wall and pulled with all his might. At last he felt the drawer give way, and an instant later, he had to clench his jaw against the putrid stench that wafted out . With a sigh, he began to crawl into the small opening. Completely disgusting, he thought, but pushed into the narrow chute. It was a tight fit, but he was able to twist and wedge his way downward.

Despite the slope, he had to pull his way through, inch by inch. It wasn't easy to wrench himself through the narrow passage, but he didn't want to risk a moment's rest. They had timed their arrival to coincide with trash pickup, and if he missed it, he'd be stuck in the compactor with no way out. For the moment, the power was down, and he wasn't in any danger. But he knew that situation wouldn't last – and in addition, it would give the security teams time to track him down.

The space around him abruptly opened, and he had just enough time to close his eyes and pull into something like a tuck before he landed in the week's refuse. Groaning quietly, he sat up, rolling his shoulders and stretching carefully. His fall had been sudden but brief, and while there was significant discomfort, none of it seemed to indicate major injury.

Picking a few bits of particularly-stubborn refuse out of his fur, he clambered over some lightweight boxes that had probably held new equipment or replacement parts, or maybe cleaning supplies. The schematics had indicated that the hatch was along the wall to the right of where he'd come in. But when he reached that wall and began to feel around, there was no break in the grimy, pockmarked duracrete.

Panicking will do no good, he reminded himself. Think. Plan. If he could rearrange things to create a pile near where he'd fallen in, he might be able to get back into the chute. From there he might be able to –

Just then there was a grinding sound, and the items below him shifted. The grinding ended in a harsh, metallic clank, and everything around him moved, taking him along. He reached out, but there was nothing solid, just fiberboard and plasteel and something that might have been lunch a few days ago, all of it sliding down further and further. Something went crashing past him, the sound muffled, and he realized he must be half-buried in the garbage.

The movement slowed, then stilled. He blinked, straining his eyes, but could not see any change in the darkness. There was another loud sliding clank… and then silence.

[AN: Merry Christmas, readers! Thanks for sticking with me.

Bowdaar is still something of a challenge to write, but I think he's starting to find where he fits within the crew. He still feels like an outsider, but while before he'd sort of accepted that as normal, he's wondering if maybe ... maybe it would be okay to hope for something more.

I hope this holiday season finds each of you healthy and happy, and that 2014 brings you buckets of joy!]