Chapter 15
Tilyer gazed out the view port from his seat in the copilot's chair of the old Spacecaster-class transport. The ship shuddered briefly as it shook off the last vestiges of atmosphere and leapt into the twinkling blackness of space. He was going home. He should have been relieved, should have been happy, but the reality of it was he didn't really know how to feel.
At first, the things Tana had said about him gnawed at his ego like a pack of ravenous womp rats. But after a while, he realized she was right. He had been so caught up with playing the perfect soldier that he couldn't see past the lauded image he had projected over himself in his mind's eye. He was like a selfish child trying to play dress up. He could recognize that. He could deal with it. He could change it. But he couldn't as easily come to terms with the questions she raised about the Empire: his foundation, his rock. She had called into question the groundwork upon which all of his convictions had been based.
He simply didn't know what to believe anymore. The mortar that held together his preconceived notions of the Empire had gradually been chipped away since the very moment he set foot upon the Enforcer, but the hatred of the Rebellion still burned like a bright ember at the core of his being. Perhaps his hate stemmed from some propaganda proliferated by the Imperial media to tighten its hold on public opinion, but then again, it could just as well be justified. All the evidence pointed to the latter. One dead brother was proof enough for him at the moment. But whatever the truth was, he would have to sort it out on his own.
He felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked up to see the bearded shuttle pilot looking at him expectantly. Tilyer blinked at him, realizing for the first time that he didn't even know his name.
"You listening?" the man asked.
"What? Um, no. Sorry. I was thinking."
"I said we're five clicks out from your ship. I thought you might want to get your things ready."
"That close already?"
The pilot pointed out the view port. "See for yourself."
Sure enough, the small indistinct form of a Corellian Corvette could be seen floating in a lazy orbit above Belsavis. As they drew closer, Tilyer was able to make out more of the ship. Instead of the crisp manicured lines he had first viewed from his seat upon the shuttle Corsuca, the Enforcer's sleek outline was now nothing more than ravaged bulkhead. The whole top side of the vessel had been decimated. The hull was pitted and scarred, and the communications dish that had previously graced its dorsal spine was nonexistent. She still looked like she had seen far better days, to say the least.
The pilot gave a low whistle, "Looks like your boys took a real pounding."
Tilyer nodded slowly but said nothing, lost in his own thoughts.
The navigation console buzzed with directions for the ship's approach, and the pilot brought the vessel around in a smooth loop to the Enforcer's underside, settling onto the auxiliary docking collar with a loud grinding thump.
As Tilyer unbuckled his crash webbing, a thought struck him. His homecoming seemed hauntingly analogous to the first time he set foot upon the vessel. Though everything seemed somehow similar, everything felt different. Scant weeks had gone by since he first laid eyes on the ship, and yet both he and it had changed so much.
"Thank you for all your help." he told the pilot as he rose from his seat.
The man flashed him a smile and grasped his hand in a firm handshake, "Anytime friend. Think of it as a favor." He threw Tilyer a wink. "You'll just have to owe me one."
Tilyer cracked a sad smile and nodded, heading back for the air lock. The magnetic locks disengaged on the hatch overhead and a small ladder slid down as the passage whirred open. The pilot gave one last wave before Tilyer started up the ladder.
Soon he emerged in the same stark white corridors he had found himself in weeks earlier. And again, Commander Venka was there to greet him. Linia Taulin and several other officers Tilyer had seen before flanked the wolfish commander, but Captain Ygra was not in evidence.
"Flight Officer Raan," Venka said in a startlingly pleasant tone, "welcome back."
"Thank you, sir. It's . . . good to be back."
"Very well then," he continued on brusquely, "Debriefing will be in thirty minutes, so shower up, get changed, and report to the debriefing room as soon as you can."
"Yes sir."
Venka turned to go, but a word from Tilyer made him pause. "Ah, sir?"
Venka turned back toward his junior, "Yes, Flight Officer Raan?"
"If I may ask sir, where is the Captain? I expected he'd be here when I returned."
Silence fell over the other officers, as if none of them dared to breath. They looked to Commander Venka with unsure eyes as the older man fixed Tilyer with an even stare.
Tilyer glanced toward Linia, seeking some indication of what he had said that was so reprehensible. He had little time to consider the unease evident in her gaze before Venka's voice called his attention back over to the other officer.
"Yes, I suppose after your prolonged captivity you must be rather ignorant of recent events. To answer your question, Captain Ygra was injured in the Rebel attack on the Enforcer and later died of his wounds. As such, I have assumed command."
Tilyer nodded dumbly as he tried to sort through the mixed feelings of shock and doubt whirling through his mind like a Tatooine sandstorm.
As Tilyer stood dumbstruck by the news, Venka turned on his heel and strode down the hallway. The other officers followed suit, but Linia lingered behind.
"I can't believe it," Tilyer mumbled as she slowly approached him.
"A lot has happened since you were shot down," she said softly.
"Yeah, no kidding." The Captain was dead. That put things in a whole new light as far as Belsavis was concerned.
"No, I mean something else."
"What?"
"Urtis. He—" she faltered a moment. "He's dead."
"He died in the attack?"
"No," she said, shaking her head, "afterward."
"How?"
"Tilyer . . . he killed himself."
Tilyer's mind reeled. "What? Why?" he asked in confusion
Linia folded her arms over her chest and shook her head, not wanting to meet his gaze. "I don't know . . . I just don't know. He'd been acting strange—distant even, but I never expected this. I never expected to see him swinging from . . . " her voice faltered and she clamped her eyes shut.
Tilyer was so lost in his own thoughts that he said nothing, looking off past her at the bulkhead beyond.
Finally she gave a humorless laugh, "Some soldier I am. One officer dies and I go to pieces."
"Two."
"Huh?"
"The Captain makes two officers dead."
"Yeah, I guess you're right. It's just—"
"Look," he said, cutting her off as gently as he could. "I have a debriefing to get to, and I still need to change. Why don't we talk about this later?"
Linia frowned but nodded, "Oh . . . ok."
"Are you going to be off duty in, say, an hour or so?"
"No, my shift starts soon."
"It's ok. We'll see each other soon enough, I'm sure. I'll talk to you later." Tilyer turned to go, but Linia's voice stopped him.
"Oh, Tilyer."
"Yes?"
"Urtis's funeral is tomorrow."
Tilyer paused, looking back at her. He studied her face for a moment, watching as she looked back at him with pleading eyes. He searched her features for some indication, some clue as to why his death had struck such a cord with her, but only the barest hint of her true grief and doubt could be seen as she forced a façade of professionalism onto her features.
"I'll be there," he finally said. Then he turned away and strode off down the corridor.
