The nervous tapping of her boot on the black deck plates filled the silence inside the passenger cabin of the shuttle Tydirium, a Lambda-class transport that was symbolic of the new Empire. The gray and black color scheme used throughout the interior of the shuttle was reminiscent of a prison, and she supposed in a way that it was a prison, albeit one of her own making. The dark-colored interior seemed to absorb both light and sound, and lent the interior a claustrophobic feeling that put her on edge; the white illuminator panels on the ceiling only seemed to enhance this effect.
She checked her chrono even though it had only been five minutes since the last time she'd looked. Stang! she cursed to herself. She'd never cared for shuttle travel, and her nerves were already frayed from thinking about her first official assignment. Time seemed to be stretching out like a rubber band for her; she wanted to get off this shuttle, collect her package, and report for duty.
Nor was she alone. A stormtrooper sat in the corner near the open blast door leading into the cockpit. The faux-leather grav-chairs faced each other across the central aisle, and she sat in the opposite corner from the stormtrooper, near the back where she could feel the hyperdrive humming away behind the bulkhead. She cast a longing, mournful gaze at the stormtrooper armor, then looked back at the deck plate beneath her booted feet.
Dressed in the slate gray uniform of an Imperial naval officer, Jaslin Paradas was en route to Bilbringi to take up her first posting ever as Adjutant to Inquisitor Nilas aboard the Fury, an Imperial I-class Star Destroyer. Her rank plate contained thee red squares over three blue squares, and each shoulder pocket contained a single code cylinder, denoting her rank as a Junior Commander, and the small insignia pins of aurodium on the corners of her collar revealed her status as a Support Specialist.
As Adjutant, she technically outranked everyone aboard the Fury except for the Inquisitor himself, though this only applied in matters of operational protocol, not the day-to-day logistics. She could issue orders, but it was up to the Captain of the vessel to decide how to implement them.
Though Junior Commander she might be, she was still technically fresh out of the Naval Academy on Prefsbelt, one of the most prestigious naval academies in the entire Empire, and was absolutely terrified of her new posting. She'd spent an additional two years at a certain Imperial facility on Yaga Minor that did not officially exist being "re-educated" after a fiasco on Prefsbelt that ended with her arrest and the death of a superior officer whom she'd been romantically involved with.
When she'd first enlisted in the Empire, her only goal had been to become a stormtrooper stationed with the 501st Legion, infamously known as Vader's Fist. She'd fallen in love with the myth and mystery of Lord Vader from the few holo-news pieces he was featured in, but really knew nothing about him other than his no-nonsense, get the job done right and damn the consequences persona, not until much later, and then to her lasting shame and regret. She'd even collected his toy from the Jolly Meal at Biscuit Baron.
When she'd been transferred to Prefsbelt from Ord Mynock rather than Carida as she'd put in for, she could almost hear the door closing on her dreams of being a member of the 501st; Prefsbelt was naval, whereas Carida was the heavy-gravity world where stormtroopers were forged into elite soldiers of the Empire. When she was arrested not long after, the slowly-closing door slammed shut and her dreams died.
She glanced at the stormtrooper again and swallowed the lump in her throat. She'd been sent back to Prefsbelt a good little cog in the Imperial machinery to finish her last year, and while she may have graduated at the very top of her class, the pain of the death of her dreams still ached and robbed her of any joy at such a rare accomplishment. It was a hard fact to accept, but she was a complete and utter failure, and far worse, truth be told.
"Is there something you need, sir?" the stormtrooper asked, looking over at her.
"No," she answered quietly, looking away. She pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and blotted her neck and forehead; she was sweating despite the coolness of the air in the cabin, and felt that familiar, feverish buzz behind her ears.
The last leg of the trip, Rondai II to Bilbringi, was only supposed to take four hours, but it was beginning to feel a lot longer than that. If she didn't get to her package soon, she was going to be a mess, and her first assignment would be over before she even started.
She cursed the day she met that abo, Lieutenant Jonn Ramiro; her girlish crush had been clay in his hands. Her family's continuing existence, however, depended on her success and obeying orders, no matter how hard they were. Her opinions, her very morals, were of no consequence, anymore. It had been made excruciatingly clear to her that if she were to fail to obey, or fail her mission, the 501st Legion that she had so idolized as a young girl would be ordered to Ywllandr, her home planet, and they wouldn't be going there to have a chat with her parents.
She sighed despairingly as the old pain and self-loathing reared its ugly head, then wiped her forehead once more and tucked away the handkerchief. She reached into her duffel bag next to her to retrieve her datapad. Her arm spasmed painfully as she pulled the device out, causing it to clatter to the floor.
"Kiff!" she swore blackly, drawing a momentary glance from the stormtrooper. Scowling, she reached down and snatched the datapad off the floor, groaning as the bindings holding her breasts flat dug into her skin. Her chest was modest, but wearing the wraps for hours at a time chafed.
Normally, women weren't permitted in the Imperial Navy except in special circumstances—only very rarely did they serve as officers in the navy, and even then, it was usually never higher than a junior lieutenant. The Empire wanted absolute conformity in all things, but every so often, the powers that be would come to their senses and give merit to someone who'd earned it with talent.
Her gifts of observation and perception hadn't gone unnoticed, so exceptions had been made. Her file had been sealed, and she'd been ordered to bind her breasts and project the appearance of masculinity in all things. After her little sojourn on Yaga Minor, the higher ups had gone a step further and doctored her personnel records so not only was there no mention of her arrest, her gender was changed to male.
The growing fever made it hard to concentrate as she flipped on the datapad and brought up a set of mission notes. "Storage locker besh-one-one-six, deck twenty-nine, storage facility yellow-one-aurek. Deactivate security measures by 1510 GST or contents will be erased, and mission will be considered a failure. Resupply on Coruscant. Coordinates upon disembarkation."
It would take fifteen minutes at sub-light to reach Orbital Station Nine where the Fury was being refueled and resupplied. It would take five or ten minutes to get through security, and maybe ten or fifteen minutes to reach the locker. She had a fifteen minute window, then—not a very large time frame. Especially if this kiffing ship didn't exit hyperspace soon! she fumed.
She'd met up with several agents on Rondai II while the shuttle was being refueled. They'd given her a steri-syringe so she could dose herself, but it hadn't been enough. She'd tried telling them that, but intelligence operatives were a touchy lot even under the best of circumstances. They'd coldly told her she'd wait until she arrived at Bilbringi, and that was an order.
Stupid abos, she cursed. Her back twitched involuntarily, only confirming that she'd hadn't received a big enough dose to last her to her destination. One thing that she'd learned the hard way in the Empire was that superior rank did not necessarily mean superior intelligence. Now, she'd most likely be incoherent when she finally dosed herself, and would thus run the risk of being late to board the Fury.
"Four minutes to reversion," the navigator called out from the cockpit.
She lifted the datapad off of her lap with a jerky motion that she fought to control, then stood and twitched again as her back spasmed painfully, making her hiss. She fought to keep from looking like a poorly-controlled marionette, gritting her teeth with the effort until the spasms passed. She was acutely aware of the irony—how little control of her life she seemed to have these days.
"Fools," she muttered, cursing those agents as her head began to spin with vertigo and more sweat began to bead on her forehead. Her skin was damp with sweat as the feverish heat burned through her. She stretched, hanging on with one hand to the hand-straps mounted to the ceiling, then strode to the open blast door to look out of the cockpit window.
Behind her, the hyperdrive's high-pitched whine suddenly descended in pitch as the shuttle reverted to realspace. Through the cockpit window, she watched as the purplish swirls of hyperspace gave way to streaks of light that snapped into a starfield as they reached the Bilbringi system.
Bilbringi was a star system whose lifeless, rocky planets had only one redeeming feature: they were incredibly rich with heavy metals perfect for manufacturing starships. The shipyards were composed of dozens of orbital construction platforms that turned out warships around the clock. Most were dedicated to building everything but Star Destroyers, whose contract Kuat Drive Yards jealously guarded. Several platforms had been turned into refueling and maintenance stations which dwarfed the Star Destroyers berthed in them.
The entire inner half of the system was abuzz with activity, with hundreds of massive cargo ships such as Action IV transports hauling raw ore from the planets to the orbital refineries, and the finished products to the construction platforms. Countless shuttles flitted back and forth, carrying personnel and supplies, and there were many other support vessels, too.
One of the new, massive Imperial Dreadnoughts lumbered past. At forty-eight hundred meters, it was three times the size of an Imperial-class Star Destroyer. TIE fighters circled it like sea birds around a whaladon.
"Orbital Station Nine straight ahead," the navigator said.
Hanging above a lifeless brown planet speckled with patches of black and tan that reminded her of a mynock egg was a massive station that resembled a vast mushroom glittering in the light of the system's primary star. The "cap" contained all the living areas and smaller hangar bays around its periphery. Underneath the cap was a long "stem" containing more hangar bays and engineering areas, as well as docking and refueling arms for capital ships. Currenly attached were several such ships, including a Nebulon B frigate, a Victory-class Star Destroyer, and the Fury.
Of course, her shuttle couldn't just fly into the Fury's forward hangar bay—Imperial protocols were far too tight here to permit that, even if she was a Junior Commander. Instead, she'd have to land on the station and suffer through the security checkpoint before being allowed to board the Fury.
The shuttle banked gently and headed for a small hangar bay on the side of the stem, directly under the cap. The opening was outlined in white from the energized atmospheric containment field. As the Tydirium entered the hangar and began the landing procedure, she that "small" was relative; the hangar bay was easily a hundred meters on a side and perhaps twenty or twenty five meters high.
Several other Lambda- and Theta-class shuttles were present, and there were stormtroopers everywhere. Some were in squads, while others stood guard over stacked crates or waited for a cargo lift to appear in the deck. Maintenance personnel ran about, some pulling hoses to refuel the shuttles as others inspected the hulls. Flight officers observed the frenetic activity from behind transparisteel windows a dozen meters above the main deck, while several more walked around with datapads, checking flight manifests.
A hydraulic whine filled the cabin as the wings of the Tydirium folded up and the landing gears engaged; it landed with a soft thump in a cordoned area even as Jaslin was gathering her duffel bag. She clung to a hand-strap as she did so. Her head was spinning and her mouth was dry, and there was only one thing on her mind as she rushed down the boarding ramp.
"Greetings, Commander," a young, fresh-faced ensign said, stepping forward and saluting sharply. "My name is—"
"Doesn't matter," she said coldly. "Let's go. I have an appointment to make."
He frowned. "Security is this way, sir." He gestured to a nearby corridor leading out of the hangar bay.
She could sense his shock when he saw her lightsaber, not that she cared one way or another. All she cared about was laying her hands on the package awaiting her in the storage locker. She felt the itching coming on, like little pin pricks all over her skin. Not a constant tingling, as though a limb had fallen asleep, but annoying nonetheless as she tried to ignore it and not scratch.
The ensign, a kid, really, with just the barest shadow of facial hair to show that he'd shaved that morning, led the way into the station. Several mouse droids in a train skittered past them as they walked down the curving corridor. The duty station wasn't far in, but she glanced nervously at her chrono anyway. Their boots tapped smartly on the high-gloss black deckplates, and they passed several pairs of stormtroopers and a silver and black R2 droid repairing a power node before finally arriving.
The duty station was an island in the center of an intersection. Two serious-looking officers stood behind the console, but only the lieutenant offered a tired salute. "Commander," he said, nodding. "Welcome to Orbital Station Nine. Please insert your ideni-tag and put your hand on the scanner."
She reached into the neck of her uniform jacket and pulled out her military identi-tags, a pair of thin durasteel tags with her service number, name, and blood type etched on one side. In each tag was an embedded RFID chip that provided her service record. She plugged one into the slot on the front of the console and placed her hand on the palm scanner.
There was quick hum, followed by a beep.
"You're clear, Commander," the lieutenant said, pressing several buttons. "Boarding for the Fury is on deck forty-seven."
She took her tags back and put them around her neck, then offered a perfunctory salute back.
Her escort gestured down the corridor. "I'll escort you—"
"I don't think so," she said, her head and shoulder twitching. Focus! she told herself. "Where is storage facility yellow-one-aurek?"
"Two decks up, sir." He cocked his head to the side, obviously confused. "You aren't going to the Fury?"
She glanced at her chrono. She had less than ten minutes. "No. Let's go." She set off in search of the turbolift.
"But—" he said, rushing to follow her.
"That's an order, Ensign." The corridor stretched out in front of her as a wave of dizziness swept over her. Just a little farther, she thought feverishly. Her eyelids felt so heavy.
"Yes, sir."
They took the turbolift up two decks, and by the time they made it to the storage facility, she had less than three minutes left. The facility itself was less than impressive in appearance, being nothing more than a very large side chamber lined with lockers along the bulkheads. There were several rows of additional lockers in the middle as well, and the aisles stretched away for at least a hundred meters, about the only thing noteworthy of its appearance.
"Choobies!" she swore, frantically searching for locker besh-one-one-six. "Look for my locker!" she ordered, giving the ensign the number—technically a breach of her security protocols, but she didn't have time for observing such niceties.
"Yes, sir." He took another aisle.
Besh-forty-one, besh-forty-two—where in blazes was it? she wondered. She crossed an intersection and the numbers jumped into the one-fifties, so she went back and looked at the opposite. "There!" she gasped, yanking out her code cylinder and jamming it into the locker's SCOMP-link interface. The door slid open. Inside, a silvery attache case sat, its digital display beeping and running back from 34. Next to the display was a number pad.
The ensign came around the side and looked in. "Is that—" he started to ask in alarm, his eyes growing wide.
"Quiet!" she snapped. Her head shook like she had palsy as she punched in a nine digit code.
The beeping stopped; she breathed a huge sigh of relief as she closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the locker. Her lower back spasmed. "Son of a—"
"Maybe I should report this, sir." The ensign backed away.
She looked at him sharply; she didn't have time for this poodoo. "You really don't want to speak of this to anyone," she growled, waving her hand and hoping she was still coherent enough to make this work.
His eyes became dull. "I really don't want to speak of this to anyone," he said softly, as if the idea had just occurred to him.
"Good idea," she said, another breath of relief releasing itself from her. "I can find my own way from here."
"Yes, sir," he said, giving her a salute and leaving.
She pulled the attache case out, put away her code cylinder, and grabbed her duffel bag. Another wave of searing heat and dizziness swept through her as she followed the corridor deeper into the station. When she got this bad, the Force was often hard to control; she'd feared it wouldn't work when she mind-tricked the ensign. If it hadn't, she would have had to kill him; she was glad it hadn't come to that because she didn't think she could murder someone.
The corridor lead into a larger one with a bank of turbolifts on one side and series of refresher units on the other side. About a dozen officers were passing through at any given moment as were stormtoopers and droids. None gave her a second glance as she ducked into a refresher room.
She quickly made sure it was empty, then entered the last stall farthest from the door and locked herself in. She set the duffel down and sat on top of the closed lid of the commode, placing the attache case on her lap. She licked her dry lips and reverently stroked the surface of the attache case before releasing the latches and opening it. A grin spread across her face as she gazed hungrily at the contents.
Nestled in foam were two steel vials sealed with an airtight rubber membrane, and a steel-barreled syringe with a thin, short needle. The foam itself was laced with traces of detonate, and it would've destroyed any evidence of what the case contained if she would've been just a little slower.
With trembling hands, she picked up the syringe and vials, closed the attache case and set it aside, then put one of the vials in the hidden compartment in the heel of her right shoe. The other vial would go in her left shoe, and the syringe would disassemble and be hidden in her duffel bag, once she was finished. The labels on the vials read, IMPERIAL RESEARCH DIVISION, and had the silhouette of the Imperial emblem behind it. No description of what was inside; that would only incriminate her further if she got caught.
She rolled the sleeve of her left arm and used her belt to tie off, then drew 0.25 ccs of the contents of the vial into the syringe and put the vial into the heel of her left shoe. She found a vein, shot up, and hissed at the pleasant/painful burning in her arm, then tossed the syringe in her duffel. She'd been ordered to use her femoral artery so as not to leave a track mark, but once in her arm wouldn't hurt. She untied the belt.
Instantly, the ryll kor spice blew through the rest of her body, causing her back to arch as her muscles clenched and the wah-wah-ing buzz blew through her.
"Nnnn," she groaned in rapture, her eyes closing. It was like her insides had ignited and burned away in glorious fire as the ryll kor turned her blood into molten gold. She panted and moaned as wave after wave of ecstasy washed through her. It was so acute that it bordered on agony and left her breathless. She could feel every hair on her body, every drop of sweat on her skin. Her body seemed to swell with the light of a star which moments or minutes later—she didn't know or care which—exploded deep inside of her, leaving her gasping for breath. She lay limp and sprawled back against the wall, her limbs feeling like neutronium weights as an electric tingling radiated outward from below her belly.
As the initial rush wore off, the echoes came on.
"—going to Alderaan this year to see the new—"
"—does he even like me? I'm such a failure—"
"—hope I get posted to Coruscant—"
"—can't believe that the Empire would do that—"
The voices that bounced around painfully inside her head, like feedback from an audio amplifier, making her skull seem to vibrate. She wasn't actually hearing any audible sounds; they were the surface thoughts of people around her, dozens of them all clamoring in her mind at once. It was one of the stranger effects of ryll kor, and was why the Empire was so interested in using it in Intelligence and Signals.
Ryll kor granted a sort of limited telepathic sensitivity, and because the ryll kor she was taking was many times more refined, and therefore more powerful than anything on the black market, the effects were that much more amplified, and the drug that much more addictive.
That telepathic sensitivity was the main reason she'd been forced to keep taking the liquid ryll kor on Yaga Minor as part of her "re-education." She was to spy on Inquisitor Nilas, a man who was known to be so paranoid that anyone who worked directly for him was forced to undergo a complete physical examination and was scanned with an EM detector to search for subcutaneous listening devices. Who better, then, to keep an eye on him than someone who could read his surface thoughts, and who'd only recently discovered that she was Force-sensitive? She would be his new apprentice after having received rudimentary training in lightsaber combat and using the Force on Yaga Minor by several faceless and nameless masters.
She'd begged and pleaded with her shadowy, anonymous keepers to be allowed to detox and get clean, but they'd refused. When she would refuse to dust herself with ryll kor, they would strap her down and force her to take the drug. They'd use ever greater amounts, too, to ensure that she was hopelessly addicted, and she would be so high during these sessions that she would be unable to tell fantasy from reality. They'd strip her naked and toss her in a padded cell to keep her from trying to hurt herself, and she would lay there delirious for hours that felt like years.
After two or three weeks of this (or was it months?), she stopped resisting and fell in line, and her real training began. She was now just a secret tool of the Empire's will, bought and paid for in ryll kor. At least the drug numbed the shame. She wasn't a member of the Imperial Navy, despite her graduation from Prefsbelt; nor was she a member of the Inquisitorius by virtue of her apprenticeship to Inquisitor Nilas.
In reality, she was nothing more than a conscripted operative of Imperial Intelligence, a puppet that danced to the tune of her masters on Yaga Minor. Her military career was a fabrication and she had no hope of ever advancing based on her own merit unless it served the interests of the Empire. She was a fraud, just a kiffing junkie fraud.
The thoughts of others reverberating in her head began to fade as the intensity of the rush wore off, slowly turning into a quiet susurrus of whispers in the back of her mind. By focusing on them, she could easily bring them to the fore and listen in, but she had little desire to do so; she had enough problems of her own to deal with without having to listen to someone else's life.
She could still feel every hair on her body, every rustle of cloth against her skin as she reached over to roll down her sleeve. As she moved, it felt like she was swimming through air that was thick like water. This tactile hypersensitivity was one reason why many ryll kor addicts turned into depraved hedonists who sought ryll kor and sex like a starving man food.
The gift that keeps on giving, she giggled to herself. She was as high as a belker, and she gritted her teeth as she tried to ignore the sensations that moving was causing as she struggled to sit up.
Slowly, she opened her eyes, and immediately regretted it. The light in the refresher room stabbed into her eyes like a thousand needles, washing everything out in a white haze. She tried opening her eyes again, much more slowly this time, and the white haze dimmed slowly until she could open her eyes without too much discomfort.
"Nerfs," she mumbled, standing up and swaying drunkenly. She broke down the syringe and tucked the pieces into her fem-kit, something Nilas was unlikely to pay any attention to. She picked up her attache case and duffel bag and exited the stall, dumping the empty case down the garbage chute on her way out of the refresher. Maybe some dianoga would make the mistake of eating it, she thought, trying hard not to laugh.
She glanced at her chrono as she walked towards a duty station. She had about forty minutes until the final boarding call went out for the Fury, and she wanted to jump into a sani-steam before boarding. Her microgarments were damp with sweat, and she could smell herself, which was simply unacceptable. She might be many things, but she would be damned if she was going to walk around smelling like a damp wookiee.
The ensign at the duty station saluted as she walked up. "Sir!"
"Is there a refresher room equipped with sani-steams near the boarding area for the Fury?" she asked. She put one hand on the desk to steady herself; it felt like she was in free-fall and her entire body was buzzing.
"One moment, sir." His fingers clattered over the keyboard as he scrutinized the display. "There's one for crew, but it's five hundred or so meters away. I don't see anything for officers."
"It'll do."
"There's an officer refresher on deck—"
"No time. Just me directions to the first one."
He gave them to her and saluted her retreating back.
General crew refreshers differed from officer facilities in that officers were accorded some privacy, with individual sani-steam stalls. General crew facilities were unisex with communal sani-steam rooms. While stormtrooper ranks might include women, for example, they were treated no differently and given no special consideration. They were expected to conform to the Imperial uniformity just like everyone else.
Of course, she wasn't supposed to permit anyone to know that she was a woman, and was authorized to use lethal force to maintain that cover. Only Inquisitor Nilas knew, as he'd been the one to arrange things so that her personnel files were doctored. According to her masters on Yaga Minor, this was because he planned to use her to infiltrate the crew. They couldn't figure out why, though, which is where she came in.
She had to adapt to changing circumstances, though; she couldn't very well show up smelling like an unwashed bantha, now could she? Besides, she reasoned, it was unlikely that anyone else boarding the Fury would be in the refresher.
Luck was with her as she entered the locker room. There were two aisles of lockers with a central wall of lockers running down the middle, and benches in the middle of each aisle. There was no one in the refresher, to her surprise and relief. She picked an empty locker and put her duffel bag in it, then quickly stripped down and padded into the sani-steam room.
Thankfully, the water heads lined the outer walls instead of being on a central column like they had been on Prefsbelt. "Ahh," she sighed, shivering in delight as the hot water washed over her. She closed her eyes and let her head loll forward, putting one hand on the wall to brace herself. The steam opened and relieved her dry sinuses; the recycled air was always so dry on stations and ships that she would get chapped lips and nosebleeds.
She heard whistling as someone came into the locker room. "Nerfs!" she swore under her breath, quickly rinsing off and putting her back to the entrance. —back to the Fury— the man was thinking. He whistled the Corellian Boogie, a popular song of late. —wonder if there will be any Stormtrooper women— Abo, she thougt in annoyance. Go away!
A few moments later, he came into the sani-steam room. "Oh, sorry! Didn't know anyone was in here!" he laughed, going to the opposite corner. "My last day of R and R." His thoughts, however, were typical. —Is that a woman? My, my, those stormtroopers have rather nice ass…ets. Oh, nuts, is that a Five Hundred and First tattoo? Good thing I didn't say what I was thinking!—
Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "I'll be out in a few moments," she growled.
"No rush, ma'am."
She could read every one of his thoughts as his eyes roved rather recklessly over her backside, especially her slender hips and small posterior. Her blush burned all the way down her chest. She was sorely tempted to just beat him senseless.
"Yeah, I'm the helmsman for the Fury," he boasted, thinking to impress her.
She had to hold back a disdainful laugh. There were many helmsman aboard the Fury.
"Nice tattoo. Where did you pick that up?"
She stiffened. "Prefsbelt," she answered. On her left shoulder was the image of a large katarn wrapped around the helmet of a clone commando, with an ornate ribbon below it that read, "501st Legion—Vader's Fist."
—Oh, poodoo!— the man thought. "So, you're not a stormtrooper then," he said, sounding very nervous. "You're an officer."
"That's right. I tried to go to Carida, but they wouldn't let me."
"Um, then what's your rank and position, if I may ask, sir."
She smiled at his anxiety; let him sweat for a while. "Higher than yours, ensign."
"Can I at least know your name?"
"Lieutenant Ramiro," she lied. How she had cursed that name after her arrest, and cursed herself for her girlish crush on him. The man had been a scurrier, injecting her with ryll kor for the first time at a private party on Prefsbelt, then taking advantage of her hypersensitivity. At the time, she had been flattered by the attention of a higher ranking officer. What a fool I was. Death had been too merciful a fate for him, though she hadn't thought so at the time.
"I'm Ensign Valens. Maybe I'll see you around sometime." His thoughts, though, seemed centered on seeing her face, which she wasn't going to permit. "I'm going to try to get a sabacc game together as soon as we're underway and everyone is settled, hopefully without the big brass noticing." Again, his thoughts betrayed him. —I bet she's prettier than a Twi'lek dancing girl, too. That would be great, showing up with her. The guys would be so jealous!—
Prettier than a Twi'lek dancing girl? You abo! she fumed. He was lucky she didn't turn him into the ISB for sympathizing with alien races! Sensing his back was turned towards her, she quickly exited, glancing guiltily at his backside. He is rather nice from behind, she mused. It would be a waste to turn him over to the ISB. Smiling and blushing at her own foolishness, she grabbed a towel from the pile near the door and bolted to her locker.
She toweled dry and dressed in record time, wrapping her breasts tightly and quickly throwing on her uniform. She grabbed her duffel bag and was heading out just as he was coming into the locker room. She breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed behind her. "Abo," she scoffed, though a smile tugged at her lips at the thought of his nice backside.
As she walked down the corridor towards the boarding area for the Fury, she felt like she was going to launch herself up to the ceiling and bounce. She was so high that she thought she was going to trip and fall, or look stoned, but no one gave her so much as a second glance. She hadn't even peaked yet, and wouldn't for several more hours.
Usually, withdrawal symptoms and the high itself weren't this intense, but because she'd gotten addicted to an experimental liquid version of ryll kor that was far more potent, its effects were that much stronger. What made her situation a nightmare though, was that Imperial Intelligence gave her just enough to keep her coherent and wanting more. It was just another hook to control her with.
Oh, she still served the Empire she'd once idolized, but now it was a twisted mockery of her childhood dreams of fortune and glory, and there was no escape.
A little farther on, she spotted a cargo skiff being piloted down the wide corridor by a red and black R2 droid. The skiff carried several large transformers and spools of cable.
"Hey," she said, flagging it down as it passed by.
The droid whistled and stopped.
"Are you going past the boarding area for the Fury?"
The droid whistled an incomprehensible series of trilled beeps.
"Good. Let's go," she said, hopping on next to the droid.
The droid trilled in confusion, and when she refused to get off, it buzzed rather rudely and used its manipulator arm to push the throttle forward, sending the skiff flying down the concourse.
The boarding hall curved gently to the left. It was perhaps twenty-five meters wide and twenty meters tall, with open blast doors and two balconies lining the left bulkhead. On the right were floor to ceiling transparisteel windows a meter thick, looking out into space. The Fury was docked next to the station and blocked much of the view with its bulk. Hundreds of people walked along the plaza with stormtroopers everywhere. Other cargo skiffs flitted about, and several chrome 3PO droids ambled about.
As the approached the boarding area, she could see the massive docking arm attached to the Star Destroyer's port mid-line trench, just forward of the lateral quad laser battery. She'd never been this close to the exterior of a Star Destroyer, and so had never truly comprehended how large a ship they were. Hundreds of tiny-looking droids crawled over the Fury's hull, inspecting and patching it. In reality, each one of those droids was probably the size of a GNK power droid. There were flashes of bright, bluish-white light where they were tack welding patches in place.
The droid pulled the skiff to a stop in front of the boarding terminal, then trilled.
She jumped off the cargo skiff and found herself in front of a Junior Commander, holding a datapad. "Junior Commander Jaslin Paradas, Adjutant to Inquisitor Nilas, reporting for duty, sir," she said saluting. "Requesting permission to come aboard."
He held out the datapad. "Insert your identi-tag."
She did as instructed.
"Welcome aboard. I'm Junior Commander Tevis, Chief of Security," he said. "Right through there, Commander."
"Thank you, sir," she said. As she walked down the docking arm, she fancied that she could almost feel herself floating. As it was, her whole body tingled and buzzed as if a subsonic vibration was resonating through her. She stopped at the threshold and looked down at where the docking arm was attached to the Star Destroyer, then stepped across; there was no turning back, now.