AN: Okay... I felt a little guilty about the short chapter... I know I said I'd try to post twice a day to get the story up complete before my vacation, but chapt 13 was a bit too short to really count- I hope this makes up for it!
Thanks for the feedback!
All previous disclaimers apply...
Missing
XIV.
Captain Jordan Donat yawned as his eyes wandered over the information flashed at him from the monitor screen on his desk. He paused the read-out and relaxed back in the chair, letting his brain familiarize itself with the subject before he arrived. He frowned and sat straighter as the words before him sparked questions in his mind. He tapped one of them out on the keyboard. It was answered immediately. No, there had been no error. A smile crawled over Donat's thin lips. The school instructor had said Ryder Lasjow; but according to the records, there no longer was such a person. He slouched back again, his fingers unconsciously playing with the gun belt that lay on his desk top. No Ryder Lasjow? Then who was being brought in?
He sighed; he would find out soon. Then he would decide on what further action should be taken. It was a pity the whole Lasjow family had to be arrested, but if the youth did indeed turn out to be a member of the Rebel Alliance, they might have to be punished.
The com on his desk buzzed, informing him of the prisoner's arrival. All questions would be answered now. He reached over and flicked the switch. "Bring him in."
As the door to his office slid open, Donat feigned a disinterested air. He busied himself with the computer read-outs, building up the charge sheets, while he worked out his method of approach. The open door revealed two Stormtroopers, flanking the bound youth. They pushed him into the room, causing him to stumble. Then they stood guarding him as their lieutenant entered behind them. He saluted his captain and placed the small box he was carrying on Donat's desk. The captain nodded his thanks and turned his attention from the computer screen to the box's contents. He lifted them out one by one: a blaster - he smiled; data pad - he flicked through it, taking note of what it contained; a holocube - his eyes glittered with recognition. He set the items out in a line before the captive. He leaned on the desktop with his elbows, resting his head on his hands, and studied the boy before him.
Whoever he was, he could not be Ryder Lasjow, for obvious reasons— the first and main one being that Lasjow had died nineteen years ago. If he had lived, he would be in his mid-twenties now, and this boy looked as if he had not yet left his teens. The final reason: Lasjow's mother had been dark-skinned, and dark haired and her child had inherited her looks. The suspect in front of him was fair, and blond. Donat's scrutiny moved on. The prisoner was slight, looking pitifully insignificant between the towering, armoured soldiers. His clothes were dishevelled, his hands tied behind his back, his face bruised and bloodied; evidence of a struggle. His jaw was set in a brave attempt at determination, but his eyes darted nervously around the office, betraying his fear.
Donat pushed himself from his desk, his inspection over. He turned to his lieutenant, who now stood by his side. "Resist arrest, did he?"
"Yes, sir."
Donat noticed the boy glancing apprehensively at him and the lieutenant. "It's funny how they all do that." He murmured, putting a hint of humour into his voice as he rose from the chair.
Luke fought to keep his body from trembling; he did not want these Imperials to know how scared he was. His eyes followed the captain as the officer walked around his desk toward him, and he wondered frantically how he should handle this. Should he grovel and plead for mercy, act like the terrorized farmer he was? Or should he stand his ground and say nothing, like the Rebel he was supposed to be? He licked his dry lips and swallowed hard, trying to decide.
The captain sat on his desk in front of Luke. He swirled the screen around so he was able to read it from that position; it also gave Luke an unobstructed view of the data displayed there. The Imperial spoke to him the way a school principal would address a misbehaving pupil.
"I'm sure I really don't have to explain to you why you are here, but it's regulations." He turned to the screen and read aloud. "You are charged with treason against the Empire, illegal possession of lethal fire arms, espionage and, resisting arrest." He looked back at his prisoner. "Quite a little collection. Do you understand the charges?"
Luke remained silent.
Donat lifted the data pad, flicking through it once more. He glanced up at Luke, who gnawed his inner cheek, dreading the next question. The captain held it up. "What were you going to do with this?"
Again Luke said nothing.
"Don't you have a tongue?"
Luke fought an insane urge to stick his tongue out at the officer.
The next question came. "What do you know of the Alliance?"
Luke knew what Donat was thinking. Here were notes of Imperial movements on Irlam, shuttle times, the numbers of patrols around the outpost, approximate Imperial numbers and the amount of weaponry they had. There really was only one conclusion to make and so Luke didn't answer that question, either.
Donat sighed and placed the data pad down. He pursed his lips, musing over the situation, trying a different approach. "You're not making it any easier for yourself… or the Lasjows."
The statement struck a chord in Luke. He chilled. "Please, let them go. They haven't done anything!"
The captain smiled, happy to get a response. "And you have?"
Luke bowed his head, angry with himself for dropping his guard.
Donat took the action as defeat. "I ask again, what do you know of the Alliance?"
Luke saw no point in remaining silent, now that he'd already answered. He tried to obey Alex's command to think before he opened his mouth. "Only what I've heard on Imperial broadcasts." As he spoke, he could see from the corner of his eye the lieutenant consulting a hand held scanner. He didn't get a chance to question this as he captain laughed, drawing his attention back.
"Imperial broadcasts?"
Luke could feel himself dying inside; he'd said the wrong thing again.
"Are there any other kind?"
"No, I meant—" Luke tried to rectify the situation, tried to gain control, but Donat cut him off sharply.
"I know what you meant." The boy had divorced himself from the Empire; that was enough for Donat. He turned to the other objects on his desk, going over them. "A blaster; a gun belt — Rebel issue; and a hologram of the Princess Leia Organa. You don't get many of these at the local market."
Luke spoke quickly. "I found them." Well, it was almost true. He had found the blaster, Tamara had found the hologram, but he had no idea where they'd gotten his gun belt.
"Where?"
"In the woods, after the fighting."
A smile crept over the Imperial's face; the steely grey eyes stared at Luke sceptically. "I would believe you, but that's too simple; the answer is too convenient." He paused, preparing his strategy, getting ready to throw the boy off balance with an unexpected question. "Tell me, what do you know about the Jedi Knights?"
The inquiry had its desired effect. Horror widened Luke's eyes. He paled, remembering Brett's first question: "What's a Jedi Knight?" He faked innocence, hoping his act was bought but knowing it wouldn't be. "I don't know what that is."
"Don't act simple," Donat advised him. "It doesn't suit you somehow. Young Brett Lasjow told his instructor that you knew about the Jedi." He let the information sink in, but the Rebel didn't look surprised. His expression was one of sadness. He'd been betrayed by a five-year-old's curiosity. Donat continued, "If you were from Irlam, and if you were who you say you are, then you never would have heard of the Jedi."
"I haven't, and I am from Irlam." Luke spoke as firmly as he could under the circumstances. He could still see the lieutenant busy with the small scanner, and it nagged at him.
Donat brought Luke's attention to the screen; there was a picture of a dark-skinned child. There was print underneath it, but Luke didn't try to read it. He had a sinking feeling that told him what it said.
"Lasjow, Ryder," read the Imperial. "Died in a speeder accident with his parents. Age six." He turned his gaze from the screen to the Rebel, who once more hung his head to stare hopelessly at his scuffed boots. Carefully, Donat watched for the youth's reaction as he spoke to the lieutenant. "Do you have the voice analysis results?"
Luke gave a start; a cry of disbelief almost escaped his lips. Voice analysis? If only he'd thought, if only he'd kept his mouth shut. He forced calmness over himself, although he knew he was lost. He waited for the lieutenant's conclusions.
The officer handed Donat the computer print-out. The captain read over it slowly, relishing every word, making the captive sweat. Finally he told Luke what he already knew. "Your accent is a good impersonation. Probably good enough to fool the locals. You are from Tatooine." There was some surprise in Donat's voice and he looked at Luke inquisitively. "Which gives me another charge to add to your collection; you are here illegally. It also gives me another question: How did you get here? There are no commercial flights."
Once more, Luke did not answer.
Donat breathed a heavy sigh of exasperation. His frustration, born from not receiving the answers he wanted, was building. The Rebel just stood there, silent. He rose to stand in front of Luke, a good head taller and several kilos heavier. He breathed down on him. "I ask again, boy; who are you?"
Luke gave him the only answer he could: "Ryder Lasjow." Why did it sound so strange again?
"Are you one of the Rebels who landed here a few weeks ago?"
"No, I was born here."
"You're lying." Donat snapped.
"No, I….
"Give me your name, rank and number and end this charade!"
"My name is Ryder Lasjow. I have no…" The slap caught Luke unprepared. Tears, caused by the sting, prickled; they rose in the corners of his eyes and fell, sliding down his reddening cheek. He blinked, desperately trying to stop the flow.
Donat laughed, mocking him in front of the troopers. "I do believe the child is crying." His laughter abruptly ceased, his mood ugly. "Name, rank, number and the location of your Rebel base." he hissed, lightly spraying the Rebel with droplets of saliva.
Quiet anger, the result of the taunt, simmered within Luke, temporarily over-riding his fear. "Go to hell!" He winced as the Stormtroopers' grips automatically tightened on his arms, digging into his muscles.
The captain was pleased with the outburst of defiance. He smiled. "That's the Rebel spirit. I wondered when it would show itself." Donat drove his gloved fist into the Rebel's stomach.
Luke's knees buckled as his body tried to double up in the customary reflex action; but the soldiers held him where he was. He gasped, coughing, trying to regain his breath as renewed pain flared from the results of the previous days lowen attack. He struggled to loosen the Imperials' hands; then he was lost under a rain of blows as Donat rid himself of his anger. The final stroke lashed his head backwards, painfully jerking his neck and bursting his lip. The Stormtroopers released him. Weakened in body, he slumped to his knees, shaking his head as he tried to clear the fog in his mind. Donat spoke, but the words were far above him, and their meaning was lost to him. An armoured hand grasped a fistful of his hair, pulling his head up and back, forcing him to face his assailant. The fog lifted, leaving everything unclouded, crystalline.
"Who are you?" the captain breathed in a voice heavy from his exertion.
Luke gasped, spat blood, almost smiling as he answered, "Ryder Lasjow."
Donat was surprised. "Still spirited?" He raised his fist once more. Luke flinched, expecting the thrashing to continue. The Imperial smiled as he saw the effect his gesture had on the boy. He wasn't as brave as he would have them think. Donat lowered his hand and backed away to perch on the edge of his desk. The troopers lifted the boy to his feet. Blood from his lip dribbled down the Rebel's chin and dripped onto his jacket. The bruises were already beginning to darken and swell his face; his head hung low and he would collapse to the floor if the soldiers were to release their grip of him. If he had looked pathetic earlier, then it was more obvious now. Donat almost pitied him. He spoke slowly, making sure the youth heard every word.
"Lieutenant?"
The officer snapped to attention, the grin he had been wearing immediately disappearing. "Yes, sir?"
"Escort this prisoner to Detention and Interrogation."
The lieutenant's grin returned as he obeyed his order.
Donat massaged his knuckles, easing the pain caused by the beating, as the boy was dragged from his office. He reached over and lifted up the hologram of the Rebel princess and smiled at the image; it looked liked the Princess Leia was about to lose another one of her recruits - Colonel Dassu could be quite inventive when it came to breaking down a person's spirit.
ooOOoo
A barely-perceptible hum issued from the control panel as the technician's fingers danced over the buttons, activating the systems one at a time. He looked into the one-way view screen before him, watching as the lights in the cell grew bright, bringing its emptiness into sharp focus. It was larger than most, but its designers hadn't strayed too far from the standard Imperial lay out. A thick metal slab jutting out from the wall served as a bunk; a food and water dispenser had been set into the wall next to it; and in the far corner, as though to give the prisoner some privacy, was the waste disposal unit.
Byron Jared laughed, scoffing silently to himself. Privacy? In this particular cell there was no such thing. As well as the view screen he was looking into now there were hidden cameras and audio systems. They added up to a perfect view of every activity that would occur within the cell's confines. The technician shivered, feeling nauseous, as his mind cast unwanted memories at him; other cells, other prisoners, same duty. He ran a nervous hand through his short, cropped hair. He would rather repair droids or clean out Stormtroopers' barracks than sit here for hours, watching a prisoner live out his last days in terror, participating in those terrors and listening to every scream and plea echo in his dreams.
He glanced uneasily at his duty partner, hoping to see some of his concern mirrored in the older man's face; but the rough, craggy features remained totally impassive, and Jared turned in disappointment back to his work, feeling almost alone.
His counterpart noticed that glance and sensed his younger companion's restlessness. He smiled to himself. Second Class Technician Jared always did have a weak stomach. The rumours around the base suggested that was the reason he had been demoted from his captaincy in the Emperor's Elite to a lowly detention centre tech on the backside of a nowhere planet.
Kasden hit his final switch, and the cameras sent pictures of an empty cell to the monitors on their desk. He slumped in his chair, watching Jared closely. The younger man's fingers twitched hesitantly as he adjusted the brightness of the monitors; his jaw was set rigid, determined; his pale face contrasted sharply with his jet-black hair. He had attempted to put an air of confidence and indifference around himself, but he failed miserably. By looking at him, anyone would think he was the one the cell was waiting for.
"You look as though you've just eaten something that doesn't agree with your stomach," the older technician commented, putting the emphasis on "stomach."
Byron tensed visibly at the taunt, but tried to shrug it off. He knew what was sniggered about him behind his back by his colleagues; but they didn't know the whole truth behind his disgrace and, if he had his way, they never would. If it were ever exposed, his secret would bring him more than hurtful taunts and whispered rumours. It would bring open hostility, total mistrust, probably court-martial and imprisonment. He was eternally grateful to his Elite superior for not reporting all of the facts of the incident, but he damned him to all the hells for sending him into this service. He sighed audibly, debating whether or not to answer the insult. He decided he would, and smiled humourlessly at his partner. "It's just the presence of your company, Kasden."
The older man's face coloured with displeasure, but he laughed off the sarcastic remark. It wouldn't do for ill feelings to exist between partners. Besides, there was no telling how long they would have to endure each other's company; that depended on how long the Rebel lasted.
"You know something, Jared? I might just get to like you."
"I'm honoured." Byron sat back in his chair, trying to relax.
"I'm pleased to see you're both settling in and getting acquainted."
They both spun at the unexpected voice from the doorway. The person who filled the opening was tall and broad, his grey uniform was starched stiff and his black boots reflected all. Despite his formal appearance, his face held qualities that were rare in Imperial officers: a twinkle in the sky-blue eyes, happy lines around the soft mouth and jaw. His white hair collected in a gentle ring around the back of his head, leaving the top a polished bald. He could be anyone's grandfather.
The technicians stood rigid and saluted as Colonel Dassu entered the viewing room, allowing the door to close behind him.
"All systems activated, sir." Kasden told him in clipped tones.
"Good." Dassu waved at them to take their places. He stood behind them, staring into the cell, waiting for his charge to arrive.
The colonel's presence added to Jared's tension. The man's nearness caused an invisible slime to crawl slowly over his skin, and cold beads of sweat to gather on his brow. Dassu might look like a grandfather, even speak softly and caringly like one, but that was a disguise to put everyone, including the prisoners, at ease as the work was done. But it never took long for his true sadistic colours to emerge.
Byron jerked his eyes away from his control panel and his thoughts away from Dassu as the cell's door finally opened. Muffled protests issued from the corridor, and Byron unconsciously leaned forward, curious in spite of himself. A small figure was tossed into the room by the accompanying guards. He fell heavily onto the floor grating. A curse floated through the audio systems, and Byron saw Dassu smile in response. The Rebel, his hands bound behind him struggled to sit up. The door slammed shut and he slumped against a wall. He sighed deeply, shaking his head before lifting his eyes to study the four bare walls of his prison.
Byron gasped aloud as he caught his first glimpse of the prisoner's face. It couldn't be! He couldn't be here; but the build was the same, the hair the same blond, the features were battered, but--was that a cleft chin?
His intake of breath caught Dassu's attention, and the colonel glanced at the technician as he peered closely at the cell's occupant. Kasden also turned in Jared's direction.
"Is there something wrong, technician?" Dassu asked pleasantly.
Byron shook himself, tearing his eyes away from the youth who looked so chillingly familiar. He stammered, fighting to come up with a suitable answer. "Uh, no, sir…I…"
The door behind Dassu swept open, and the two guards who had escorted the Rebel entered the viewing room. The colonel's attention shifted once again, and Byron breathed a sigh of relief, hoping his officer would not ask more awkward questions. Kasden nudged his elbow and he looked in the direction of his partner's nod; immediately he had to suppress a grin. The guards looked rather the worse for wear, and a little sheepish as they reported to their colonel. Their black uniforms bore scuffs, their helmets scrapped and one bore a freshly injured eye.
"What happened, Thaler?" Dassu demanded.
Thaler looked and sounded decidedly embarrassed as he answered. "He tried to escape as we entered the turbo lift, sir."
Dassu's mouth curled into a satisfied smile. "A fighter, eh?" He glanced back at the Rebel, who had managed to work his way onto the bunk. He sat, swinging his legs over the side, looking utterly miserable. "In that case," he said thoughtfully, "I want him controlled."
Kasden moved to obey the order, but Dassu placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Not you." He turned to Byron. "Jared."
Byron's already pale cheeks lightened by another shade of white. He knew why the colonel had turned on him; it was obvious to anyone. Dassu knew the Rebel's appearance had an effect on him, and now he was testing him, digging for a reason for that effect. Reluctantly, Byron hauled himself from his seat and pulled a small gun from his desk drawer. With shaking hands, he loaded the small cartridge and motioned to Thaler to follow.
Dassu resumed his place behind Kasden. "I want full monitoring, life signals, lie detection and charge."
"Yes sir," Kasden answered, secretly relieved to have the job passed on to someone else.
Byron hesitated outside the solid door of the cell. He looked down at the small weapon he held in his trembling hand. It wasn't designed to kill; its only purpose was the application of a small monitoring disc into the skin of the prisoner. But to Byron, at that moment, its meaning was the same as any weapon of death. Damn it; he was scared to go in there. He could not do this if it was him; and if it was him, then Byron could kiss the remainder of his career goodbye. Every thing would be out in the open; there would be nothing left to hide. Perhaps that would be for the best, though; who knew what fate had in store for a man? But could he do now what he had been unable to do a year ago?
The docking bay was silent and empty of all activity. Captain Byron Jared stepped carefully into the open space; searching for the Rebel pilot he had seen duck in here. A Rebel X-wing stood cold and alone on the bay floor; there was no movement near it. His eyes cautiously scanned the area, falling on a patch of Rebel orange flight suit among the packing crates. He smiled as a blond head disappeared down behind a box. Byron hadn't been seen yet. Stealthily, he crept up on his prey and pressed the muzzle of his blaster against the back of the man's head. The Rebel stiffened.
"Stand up, very slowly." The captain spoke calmly and softly. "Raise your hands and place them on your head."
He was obeyed without question.
Byron quickly took the Rebel's blaster. "Now turn around."
"Hi, Bro." The captive used Byron's childhood nickname. "Never expected to see me again, huh?"
"We—we thought you were dead!" Astounded, Byron gazed into the hazel eyes. He lowered the blaster.
"You don't look too pleased to see me," the Rebel grinned.
Byron exploded. "You're a gods-be-damned Rebel, Sam!"
"An' you're an Imp—but I'm sure as hell pleased to see you!"
Distant shouts from outside trickled into the bay. The young Rebel turned in their direction. "Sounds like your friends—I guess I best get out a here." He started off in the direction of his fighter.
Byron came to his senses. "Don't move, Sam; you're under arrest." The blaster once more pointed at the pilot.
"Don't talk shit; you want them to get their hands on me?" Was there uncertain panic in the cocky voice? He continued slowly toward his ship.
"I'm warning you, Sam." Why did he have to put him in this impossible position? His finger tightened on the trigger. The shouts grew louder.
"You ain't gonna kill me, Bro." It was said almost as a question.
Their eyes met once more, and happy childhood memories passed through each of their minds: vacations with their parents, battle games and fun fights. Byron lowered the gun once more.
A huge grin, a mixture of relief and joy, played over his younger brother's face. "Thanks, Bro." He ran to the waiting X-wing.
By the time his comrades reached him, Sam's ship was roaring into the sky. Byron handed himself over to his major for allowing the Rebel to escape. As he was led away, he glanced back up at the clouds. "An' I never want to see your ugly face again," he whispered with love.
And here he was again—maybe— behind that door. He wasn't afraid for himself, but for Sam. How could he possibly take part in his own brother's interrogation?
"There something bothering you, Jared?"
Thaler's query jerked Byron from his troubled thoughts. He mustered his resolve and palmed open the door. "Let's just get this over with, huh?"
The Rebel's eyes followed them as they stepped into his cell. Byron noticed the blue eyes, narrowed with suspicion, and an enormous weight lifted from his mind. It wasn't Sam! He smiled compassionately at the youth, who frowned, obviously unable to work out what there was to smile about. He was about to speak when Thaler took charge.
"On your feet, Reb." The guard hid none of his distaste for the boy.
Shakily, Luke obeyed the command as he watched the men approach him. He glanced behind them at the open door, at the beckoning corridor beyond.
Byron brought the gun into view to check if it was ready for discharge. At the sight of the weapon, the Rebel bolted; ducking down to avoid Thaler's outstretched arm, he headed for the door. Lulled by the previous compliance of the prisoner, Byron was slow to act; but Thaler, having previous experience with him, shot out a foot, catching the Rebel's ankle. He fell down and Thaler was on him immediately, straddling his back, keeping him pinned down.
"Get off me!" Luke bucked and wriggled violently, the weight of the man pinning him to the floor grating. He turned his head toward the technician as the Imperial kneeled quickly beside him and brought the small gun into his view once more.
Byron firmly pressed the weapon against the base of the youth's neck in line with his spine.
"Let me up!" The cool metal chilled Luke's skin, and adrenalin flashed through his body in quickened waves. He wasn't going to make this easy on his captors. He twisted his head, reared up again, tried to turn his body to unseat the Imperial who was holding him down.
Not Sam: but it could have been. Not Sam: but someone else's brother... Byron lifted the gun away.
"Get a bloody move on, Jared!" Thaler growled, fighting to keep his balance; he grabbed a handful of hair and bounced the boy's head off the floor.
Pain lanced through his skull, giddiness blurred his vision and groggily Luke felt his head being pushed forward until his neck was once more exposed.
He's a Rebel, damn it! Byron replaced the muzzle against the boy's skin.
"No," Luke moaned, "don't…"
Byron closed his mind, his ears, and his eyes and gritted his teeth. He pulled the trigger. The soft phut! was instantly followed by a cry of pain, and the youth's body shuddered and relaxed as the fight left him. Jared stood and watched as Thaler checked to see if the control had been correctly placed. Blood swelled around the metal disc, ran down the sides of his neck, and stained the Rebel's shirt. Thaler nodded, indicating their work was complete. The guard removed the cuffs from the boy's wrists and both exited the cell, leaving him to lift himself from the floor.
Dassu allowed a slight smile to flicker over his thin lips as he watched the short struggle in the cell. His eyes narrowed with a frown when he noticed Jared's hesitancy, the reluctance clearly reflected in the technician's features. It was not only the weakness of his stomach that was Jared's problem; there was something else, something the appearance of the Rebel had sparked off. If there was one thing Dassu could not stand, it was a mystery, especially one that might disrupt his operations; his curiosity had to be satisfied. Jared would have to watch himself.
"The control unit is fully operational, sir."
Kasden's voice brought Dassu's attention from the cell activities to the instrument read-outs in front of the older technician. His eyes skimmed over the small screens; the boy's vital signs were strong and rapid - he was scared. He already knew the prisoner's background. Captain Donat had relayed a full report of the arrest to him. Also, from the marks on the captive's body, it was clear the captain had reached his usual standards by attempting to take matters into his own hands. And, as usual, he had achieved nothing apart from making the Rebel more stubborn, and Dassu's job harder.
The first part of that job concerned the Lasjow family; the second part would be the Rebel's admission of guilt. And from his own past experiences, Dassu knew this was the most vital element in any interrogation; for the more guilt was denied, the harder it was for information to be drawn from the subject. Once they had admitted their crime, they were usually easier to break. The information gathering was part three, and part four was the execution.
The Rebel lay still on the floor until he was alone. Tentatively, a shaking hand went to the wound on his neck, and he hissed in pain. Slowly, wincing, he pushed himself from the floor and sat on the bunk. He leaned against the wall as he lifted his hand away from the unit in his skin, and wiped the blood from his fingers onto his prison shirt. Then the same trembling hand lightly touched the growing lump on his forehead. Looking dangerously near to tears, he drew his legs up to his chest and hugged them, as though he had just curled into a protective cocoon. He was shivering uncontrollably.
Dassu knew the procedure; he and his staff had practiced it to near perfection. Let the prisoner sweat, keep him alone and in silence, disorient him by altering light and temperature, and keep him awake, hungry and thirsty. When the time for talking came, he would be grateful for the company. The colonel looked forward to their first meeting; but first, he had a family to greet.
"You know the routine, Kasden?" he asked, unnecessarily.
"Yes, sir."
He turned to leave, gesturing at Thaler's partner to accompany him. Byron, just about to enter the room, jumped aside as Dassu brushed past him. The colonel stared at him with seeming contempt.
"You took your time, Jared." There was hidden anger in the statement.
"Yes, sir; I'm sorry."
Dassu had no more words for the technician, and strode away down the corridor, closely followed by the two guards. Byron watched their retreating backs. Gradually, their footsteps faded, leaving an uncomfortable silence in the walkway. He turned his gaze to the cell door before him and sighed unhappily. He knew Dassu would be watching him now. He punched open the door to his and Kasden's chamber, then noticed the flecks of blood on his hands. He would have to wash them.