Author's Note: I'm back after vacation, a new puppy, and one Harry Potter book. Thank you to all my reviewers for waiting so long.
In the Dark
Now…
"You're mine."
He was at the foot of her bed. Staring.
"You're mine."
"No."
Slowly, he began to pull the covers off of her. And she was naked.
"You're mine."
"No."
"Mine."
"No."
"Mine."
"NO!" Amara awoke shivering and cold, jolted awake by her own scream. With a groan, she turned her face into the pillow and searched clumsily for the sheets that had been pushed to the bottom of the bed during the night, but she knew she wouldn't fall asleep again no matter how exhausted she was. Next time I'll read the fine print: Warning! Interrogation by sadistic doctor may interfere with healthy sleep patterns. Still grumbling to herself, Amara slid out of bed and shuffled across the room to the windows where she traced the constellations she had created during other sleepless nights when the echoes of boots in sterile halls raked across her subconscious. Her fingertips glided across the transparasteel, following the outline of a crooked Orion, whose sword hung by his side, no longer aloft.
Killed for love and hung in the sky. The image of a stormtrooper, one of many, indistinguishable, rose from the shadows of her mind, but she flinched away from the memory—forcing her thoughts instead onto Sgt. Knight…and his band of merry men.
Amara smiled in the darkness. Between "running into" them in the halls and "coincidental" meetings, she had managed to meet all of the dozen Knights—from Striker, a Coway who did little more than look superior, to Marcus who always denied that he was with her for any other reason than that she was "beguiling":
"I simply enjoy your company, Spitfire."
"You're a liar and flirt, Marcus, don't insult my intelligence by pretending to be neither. You're following me," Amara said with mock-severity.
Marcus flashed her an innocent grin, but there was a roguish twinkle in his eye as he promptly turned down another hallway without a backward glance.
"Oooo…tricky, Marcus, tricky," she laughed at his retreating back. "And yes, I know you're there Striker," she threw over her shoulder to the tall shadow behind her and continued walking down the hall.
Of course, Jonathan was with her as often as he could be (or as often as he thought wise), and he had slowly begun to pull back the layers of her defense, sitting up late with her after the flippant light of day had faded and the world had once again become serious and cold. One lonely night, she had told him about the slave ship—about Amy. She didn't know why but the words had spilled from her mouth unasked for, filling up the dark silence, and he had listened without interrupting until her throat closed and the last word was no more than a strangled sigh:
"It wasn't your fault," he said gently.
"Hah." Amara turned away from him. Blaster shots rang in her ears.
Jonathan grasped her forearm, ignoring the slight wince it evoked, and forced her to look at him. "Amy—the boy—their deaths weren't your fault."
She nodded half-heartedly and looked away. "I know."
"No, you don't."
Amara shook her head and blinked the tears from her eyes. Jonathan's hands twitched, but remained at his sides. She said nothing, and after a few moments, he left.
Her slim fingers paused over a cluster of stars she called "God's Peak." He could have stayed—he could have…She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the cool windowpane. Why did I tell him about Amy? He didn't need to know—doesn't need to know about anything until… Amara's stomach clenched. As the trial date neared, her nightmares got worse—and now today, the Knights were going to escort her to Coruscant. I'll see him soon—see him... She could almost see Dr. Rave reflected in the transparasteel—he loomed over her shoulder. And he will look over and smirk and know…
A soft tap on her door brought Amara back to the present. "Come in," she said, but her voice was hoarse, and whoever it was tapped again. "Come in," she repeated, louder, and turned around. The door slid open and a silver protocol droid stepped cautiously over the threshold.
"Pardon me for intruding, miss, but will you be having breakfast this morning?" it asked in a synthesized, feminine voice.
Amara blinked uncomprehendingly, the obsequious politeness of the droid failing to mesh with her thoughts of a moment before. A chill light—not at all like the rosy morning light of atmospheric sunrises, but harsh and crisp—had crept into the room. Belkadan's sun was rising. "No, thank you. I'm not very hungry." The droid moved to leave, but Amara raised her hand, a pleading gesture that made the 3PO unit pause, delighted it was needed.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Is…do you know if Sgt. Knight is awake?"
"Sgt. Knight has been awake since 0500 hours. He is on duty right now. Would you like me to call for him?"
Amara tried to ignore the queer ache in her chest. "No—that's all right." The droid nodded and left. Amara's eye's lingered on the closed door. The room felt emptier. And the sun drowned the stars.
The departure of the Corellian corvette CR90, Seeker II, was quiet and unremarkable—most of the base had no idea that they had played host to the key witness in the upcoming (and well publicized) war crimes trial, or that that girl was now watching the blue ball of Belkadan drift farther and farther away as she sat next to Sgt. Knight in a small conference room, gazing out the windows.
Marcus sat across from them. "Don't you ever get tired of looking at the stars?" he asked.
"No," Amara replied glibly without glancing at him. But then as an afterthought (and still refusing to look at the muscular young man) she added: "And I know how much you hate not being the center of attention."
Jonathan watched with some amusement as Marcus pretended to be deeply wounded by Amara's remark, but his excellent acting was lost on the little imp who still looked steadfastly out at the stars. But Jonathan thought he saw the corner of her mouth twitch. He leaned back in his chair, glad that Amara was allowing herself to relax on their trip to Coruscant—she wouldn't have many opportunities once they arrived.
The engines hummed, and Jonathan felt the pressure of the ship's increased velocity as the stars blurred, and Seeker II rocketed into hyperspace.
"So…is this your first trip through hyperspace?" Marcus asked, again trying to strike up a conversation with the green-eyed girl, "And I'm not counting when you were unconscious, Spitfire."
Amara's face tightened, and Jonathan's mind immediately flashed back to what she had told him about her experience on the slaver's ship. Don't push it, Marcus. He glanced at his best friend who didn't seem to notice anything wrong. He held his breath, but the next second all the tension drained from Amara's face, and she replied with a warm if somewhat forced smile: "Well, than I guess this is my second trip, Marcus. Although the last time, while I was awake, I was in a cage."
Marcus was struck dumb by this tidbit about her life said in a such a sweet, conversational tone that you would think people went about in cages all the time. Jonathan smiled at his second's bemused expression and turned to meet Amara's eyes, where humor mingled with sadness in their olive depths. "I'm afraid our accommodations aren't quite up to your usual standards," he said softly.
She heaved a deep, suffering sigh, "Not at all, but I'll manage."
Looking down into her small, pale face, he noticed the deep worry line between her brows, saw the age and wear around her eyes, but he also saw the laugh lines around her mouth, her brave smile. She'll be all right. Amara blushed under his lingering gaze but didn't look away.
"Well, Spitfire," Marcus interrupted, startling Jonathan from his thoughts (Jonathan frowned at the knowing glint in Marcus's eye), "sounds like you have a story to tell me, but it will have to wait." Placing both hands on the smooth black table, he raised himself from his seat. "I'm going to go check on the rest of the squad," he said and strode to the door, but before he left on his self-assigned errand, he bowed low to Amara, solemnly intoning: "Until next time, milady."
Once Marcus was gone, Jonathan straightened in his chair, unsure whether he was annoyed more with Marcus or himself. He noticed that Amara also looked a bit flustered. "It seems you and him get along well. Marcus always did have a talent when it came to ladies," he said ruefully.
"I can imagine a trail of broken hearts follows in his wake," Amara replied, but her eyes were unfocused. She was somewhere else.
He suddenly wondered if there was someone on her planet that she loved—that was waiting anxiously for her return—and without considering the consequences, he asked, "Do you have any family?"
Amara started. She sat very still, and for a moment, he didn't think she would answer him, but then she looked down at where her hands were clenched in her lap and shook her head. "I'm sorry," she said and raised her face to his, "it's just…everything from then seems so removed—so impossibly out of reach, it's strange to hear…." Her mouth quirked upward, and she gave her head a small toss. "No, there's nothing at home except…home."
And for some reason, Jonathan was glad to hear it.
In a cramped, dark cell on Coruscant, Dr. Rave lay awake on his not uncomfortable bed, staring unseeingly at the ceiling. The past few weeks he had enjoyed playing the role of the oppressed scientist forced to perform horrible procedures on his fellow creatures under penalty of death ("I still hear their screams at night—horrors that will haunt me to my grave."), but now he was consumed by the knowledge that he would see her again, be near her, hear her voice.
He dreamed of her. And in the lonely hours of the night, when the press had gone or another sensational story eclipsed his, his mind replayed one memory over and over:
She lay beaten and bleeding on the floor before him—every last defense and lifeline stripped from her soul. There was no one to comfort her, no one to care… but him. And she reached out. As he knelt beside her, her slim hand reached up and touched his cheek…so gently, like a feather. With a moan he cradled her in his arms, there on the durasteel floor, her body so frail he could have crushed her if he squeezed too hard. Her head fell onto his chest, and she sobbed into his shirt.
He held her long after her sobs faded, listening to her heartbeat, and knowing she was his.