Summary and Disclaimer:

Even though Aaron Allston's Wraiths were the best thing to happen to the GFFA . . . ever . . . their presence meant it would be a long, long time before anyone had the chance to try and find the scattered Lusankya prisoners. Unless I missed something, we don't know anything about what Isard and/or her clone did to them between Bacta War and Isard's Revenge. And I, for one, think their story is worth telling.

If you haven't read the X-Wing series, a few things for you. First of all, read them. Right now. Second, Lusankya, Iceheart, Corran, Tycho, every location every mentioned, anyone else I'm forgetting, and all the prisoners (except for the narrator, he's an OC) belong to George Lucas and his minions (mostly Mike Stackpole). Oh, and any Wraiths you may or may not see belong to Aaron Allston – no promises, but they do seem to have a habit of emerging in unlikely places, and I want to have my bases covered. This story starts during The Krytos Trap and spans the time period between Corran's introduction into the general prison population on Lusankya until after they're rescued in Isard's Revenge.

A string of cursing running down the side of the chamber startled me out of another restless sleep. Disoriented, I glanced around groggily, trying to figure out what the problem was this time.

And then it hit me. Literally. Something decidedly hard and flesh-like rolled over my outstretched legs, and my curses quickly joined those of my fellows as dark purple bruises formed on my shins.

"Quite the entrance," a voice commended. Urlor Sette, I think his name was. I tended to have a hard time remembering names, now that they weren't really important. Names, after all, were for people, people were free, and freedom came from pleasing Madam Director.

"I had help making it." The ball of flesh that had caused my latest bruises unrolled into a man. Sette introduced himself to the newcomer, making another snide comment about the Director's pet Trandoshan that nobody particularly liked. The feeling was mutual.

"Corran Horn," the stranger offered.

I watched Sette lead him away, probably to present him to the Old Man, Dodonna.

That was a name I could remember. Bloody Rebel general cost me my family and my freedom. I didn't really remember how that came about, just a collection of vague images and sounds, but I knew it had happened. It must have. Madam Director had the records and everything, and records don't lie.

I closed my eyes and tried to remember the scene, for the millionth time. And for the millionth time, I couldn't. All I could dredge up from the morass of my scattered memories was the image of Madam Director reminding me of the story. The mutiny, the Rebel betrayal, the escape pod, the Imperial rescue, the home here. I sighed, fists clenched. It wasn't fair.

I should probably introduce myself to the newcomer, since the Old Man's done with him now. He seemed to walk like a pilot, with a swagger that could only belong to a Rebel with enough arrogance to believe that they actually could destroy the mighty Empire; maybe he had been at Yavin and remembered what happened. Hell, maybe he was the one who destroyed my ship.

He didn't look old enough, though. The same kind of years weren't in his eyes; there were struggles, maybe, but he probably didn't see the Rebels blow up Alderaan firsthand. The same pain wasn't there as was present in, say, the Old Man's eyes. Or Tycho Celchu's.

Celchu was the only Rebel prisoner I remember almost admiring. True, he washed out of Madam Director's training program, but only because he remained steadfastly loyal to his cause. The wrong cause, granted, but for Celchu I had to respect that. After all, I wouldn't want the Rebellion to sway me to their side just like he didn't want to be swayed to our side.

Somewhere, in the depths of that back corner of my mind, I knew it didn't make much sense. Why wouldn't I want a Rebel to realize and enjoy the benefits of the Empire? I chose to ignore the hypocrisy of my admiration.

Celchu never talked much while living here, made catatonic by the training regiment. Such a reaction wasn't incredibly common, but it wasn't rare, either. He would just sit against the wall, watching the rest of us guests in Madam Director's re-education facility, eyes blank of all emotions except one, the pain.

It was unnerving, how he would stare at us through those pain-laden, fearful eyes. He was strong enough to resist the training, but I'd guess that much of the strength he tried to present to us was a facade. The Director had made him weak as a child, weaker even than I usually felt, terrified of the interrogations. They gave him nightmares, I think. You could tell when he woke up from them, hands visibly cold and clammy, covered in sweat.

I remember watching him sleep once, when he must've been having those dreams. It was the only time he ever talked, and his only word was a scream, shouted in fear and agony. "Winter!" he would scream, over and over. We didn't know who or what Winter was, but the Old Man thought that Winter, whoever she was, was the only reason Celchu remained as strong as he did.

If I ever please the Director enough to make up for my mistakes, enough for her to free me and grant me status as a person, I'd like to meet this Winter. Maybe I could even tell her about Tycho, about how he screamed like a baby but was more of a man than most of the other visitors to this wretched place I called home.

Sometime after the newcomer's arrival – and his almost immediate punishment while down in the mines for the first time; I always knew Rebel pilots were stupid – I was eavesdropping on his conversation with Sette and the Old Man.

Not, of course, that my eavesdropping mattered. We had no secrets. Secrets were for people, people were free, and freedom came when you pleased Madam Director.

"Don't worry, I'm no Tycho Celchu, nor will I let myself be betrayed by one another time."

I coughed. Betrayed – by the only good man in the Rebel fleet?

They continued chattering about Celchu, the newcomer accusing him of murder and treason. I shook my head. Sleepers didn't wake up to become murderers and traitors. They ended up on the surface somewhere, reaching their ultimate level of usefulness harvesting the bland produce we were given and living out the rest of their natural days pleasing Madam Director.

I envied the sleepers. I tried once, maybe a couple years ago, to convince everyone that I had become one so I would get the chance to live out the rest of my natural days pleasing Madam Director. Nobody was convinced, so I abandoned the plan.

The conversation finally ended, with the stranger turning around and noticing me. He approached; I froze. At this point, it would be customary for me to introduce myself. He, after all, would introduce himself and likely would expect a response.

But introductions were reserved for people who knew who they were.

We made eye contact. He vaguely reminded me of a teacher I had had once, while in grammar school on Corellia – at least, that's where Madam Director says I grew up, and she has the records for that, too. I'm not sure if it was Corellia or not, but I remember going to school. And given the vocabulary I somehow retained, one of the only strong memories of . . . well, of anything, Corellia makes sense.

He offered his hand. "Corran Horn. Did you know Tycho?"

Now I was definitely back in that classroom, a blubbering schoolboy before a strict teacher. Dumbly, I nodded.

His smile was more predatory than friendly in my mind. "What's your name?"

I shook my head. Please don't misunderstand me, Mr. Horn. I would tell you if I knew. I have a story and I'm the youngest guest here; I know that much. I know that you're a lower-than-dirt Rebel and I'm not. I lost everything at Yavin. This is my home. That's all I know.

He frowned. "You okay?"

I coughed. "Fine, Corsec." That seemed to fit more than a schoolteacher. Whether or not I really was from Corellia, this Corsec-stranger had to be. He looked the part.

He chuckled, eyes seeming to search the past. "That's one I miss hearing. Come on, it looks like we have some time, so why don't we sit down and trade stories?"

"I don't know who I am," I whispered at last, sitting on the cold, hard floor. Its chill seemed to match the temperature of this newcomer's heart.

He looked puzzled.

I sighed and tried again. "I have a story. But a name . . . names are for people, and people are free . . ."

The pilot nodded and cut me off. "Why don't we start with the story?"

I glared. Blasted condescending Rebels; just because I was easily the youngest by ten years or so and looked like a child didn't mean they had to treat me like one. True or not, I assigned him in my mind as the man who flew the fighter that blew up my ship and my life at Yavin.

Down here, truth was kind of relative, anyway.

"Rebels blew up my ship at Yavin. Madam Director took me in. This is the only thing close to a home I have now." I laughed bitterly. "It's just as well. Nobody seems to want me. Corellia spat me out, the Rebels destroyed what I had, and even the Director has forgotten about me by now."

"You were at Yavin?" He seemed surprise. No wonder – I knew I didn't look old enough to have seen the Rebellion's biggest triumph.

The memories flooded back. Well, at least, the sound of Madam Director's voice telling my story. I repeated what she said. "My father's crew mutinied and threw in support with the Rebellion just before the battle, but they rejected us. Instead of communicating and answering our pledge to help, a pair of Rebel fighters destroyed our freighter. I was waiting out the battle in an escape pod, which the Rebels didn't bother to pick up."

I frowned. This was the part of the story that never really made sense to me, but I guess it didn't really matter. Truth was relative; and when you've lived almost half your life in a re-education center on some backwater planet, it was irrelevant. You believed what you were told because you didn't know anything else. I took a deep breath and continued. "I was a Rebel. But they destroyed everything, so now I want to be an Imperial. They're teaching me how to do so, and right now this is the only place they have for me to live."

The stranger frowned, and I could tell he felt as uneasy about the story as I sometimes did. But he didn't say anything, except to ask about Celchu.

"Sleeper," I said automatically. I didn't want anyone to know what I really thought of the man – if they did, there was no way I'd ever please Madam Director enough to warrant a new home or a position in the Imperial military, where I could get revenge on the forces that destroyed my life. "Thought he washed out."

He nodded curtly. "Thanks."

Four or so sleeps later – they might've been four or so days, but life without the sun eliminated the need for such distinctions – everyone's favorite Trandoshan tossed us a burnt skull. "Meet Corran Horn, famed pilot of Rogue Squadron!" a voice bellowed from beyond the doorframe. Another skull followed. "And Derricote!"

I glanced around. The Imperial, nobody could care less that he was missing; he was obnoxious, although the synthetic ale he brewed had been pretty good. But, sure enough, the Rebel pilot was nowhere to be seen either.

No loss, I decided. The galaxy was better off with one less Rebel. And maybe, just maybe, they'd all disappear – and bring my family back.

Just as the Trandoshan disappeared, the skulls on the floor began rattling, seemingly of their own volition. I jumped back, slamming against the wall and sliding down to land hard on my tailbone. I winced and tried to stand up, but now the whole floor was shaking, more violently with each passing second.

A groundquake. And we were underground. Yet none of Madam Director's servants appeared to rescue us. She was leaving us here to die! I glanced over at the Old Man. He sat on the floor, arms wrapped around his knees, shaking; from the floor's vibrations or his own sobbing, I couldn't tell. He looked up, straight at me, scared.

She was leaving us here to die. We weren't free because we hadn't pleased her, so we weren't people. And the deaths of non-people didn't matter.

The rumbling got worse and then, several minutes later, abruptly stopped. The temperature slowly began dropping in the prison – because that's what it was, not a home but a prison – and I shivered unconsciously, wrapping my cloak tighter around myself. Shakily, I stood, planning to run or jog or something to ward off the sudden cold.

And promptly landed back on my already sore tailbone, jolted sharply off balance. I cursed, a collection of Old Corellian insults my father would have been ashamed to know I knew. A shadow fell over me – the Old Man was standing next to me now, chuckling at my vocabulary while staring wide-eyed around the prison. "Never jumped into hyperspace before?"

My mouth snapped shut, and I stared at the senile old man. "I don't know or care where you came from, but where I think I grew up, prisons didn't fly."

The Rebel chuckled once more and offered his hand. "We're guests of Iceheart herself, my boy. Leave it to her to trick us all this time."

I glared, refusing the proffered hand. "Madam Director won't appreciate that nickname," I sneered, defending the only home I had and temporarily ignoring the fact that my "home" was a high security prison. I could deal with that later.

"If you think . . ." the Old man shook his head. "This is your home, kid? If so, she's betrayed you."

"Don't call me that." I had long since given up on being called anything but "kid" or "boy," but in order to avoid answering his accusation, I had to protest it for the first time in years, even though I knew my protest would be in vain. Even though they had nothing else to call me, because –

"Iceheart stole your name," the Old Man observed.

"That's not true," I snapped quickly. "I never had a name."

He nodded sagely, apparently not choosing to press the issue. I was thankful for that.

But his words struck a chord with me. I knew that what he said had to be true, and he knew that I knew. I shook my head. Why did I care about such a minor technicality? The fact remained that I was nameless. I lost everything to a Rebel fighter while on board a ship supposedly allied with the Rebels. Anything they said – especially General Jan Dodonna, leader of the force that destroyed my family and my name – couldn't be true. And logic demanded that if the Rebels were lying, the Empire was telling the truth.

Truth was relative, after all. Relative and irrelevant.

But it still bothered me.