Quinn activated his secure line to Lord Baras on the console and then turned to face the holoprojector. 'Lord Baras,' he bowed his head respectfully as the Darth's image appeared before him, 'How may I be of service?'
'Ahh Quinn, I have a little task for you,' as always the Sith's voice was dry, and matter of fact but with that hint of amusement that grated against Quinn's sense of propriety in professional matters.
'Of course, I am, as always, ready to serve, my Lord.'
'Good! I have read the reports of one Captain Massarano. Your piloting skills are quite exceptional, apparently and I have need of an outstanding pilot.' Quinn inclined his head at the compliment as Lord Baras continued, 'I require some cargo transferred very discreetly. It will be ship to ship with no stationary transfer point. You will then need to drop it from low orbit onto Balmorra. Think you can handle that, lieutenant?'
'Yes, my Lord.'
'Excellent, I will ensure all the details are forwarded to you as soon as possible and a ship is made available for you. Your assignment, codename Achilles, will start the day after tomorrow. We shall speak again when you have returned,' and with that the holo disconnected.
Quinn went to his desk and continued to work on his report for Imperial Intelligence on the use of Imperial agent assets in the Balmorran resistance. It was a few hours later when his console beeped. He carefully read the attached document, entitled "Operation Achilles" which stated, rather bluntly, that he should report to a special Sith hangar in Sobrik, which would be made available to him for his mission.
He was to join a routine patrol of the first moon of Balmorra and on the way back rendezvous with a shuttle designated Chronicle from the Harrower class dreadnought Oppressor that would have his cargo. The whole thing had to look as natural and part of the customary activities of Imperial forces, to help avoid raising suspicion. Once the cargo was transferred, he was to do a low altitude drop to a designated location and return to Sobrik.
Checking through the orders, he noted that nowhere was it specified what the cargo was. It seemed likely it was "need to know" and he didn't, which was standard operating procedure for one of Lord Baras's missions. The Darth compartmentalised everything with ruthless efficiency.
The description of the cargo was a single, sealed crate 2m by 1m by 1m which was miniscule. No wonder Baras needed a first rate pilot, transferring something that small between ships that were both in motion was not going to be easy. The whole thing was fraught with risk, both for him and the other pilot. Briefly, he wondered what was so important to make it worthwhile, but quickly pushed the thought to the side. It was not for him to question orders and at least he would be back in space!
He closed the file and went back to the letter currently open.
From: Quinn, Malavai
Subject: More Tales from Balmorra
Dear Kairoth,
I hope Odile and Paria enjoyed the space adventures of uncle Malavai as I recounted in my last letter and that you have actually now finally, after much gnashing of teeth, gone to see someone about the damned leg!
It is not often I pester, but I am now. I know you, Kairoth, you say "Oh it hurts a bit" what you actually mean is you're not sleeping properly because you're in agony. Emperor's sake! No I am not your mother, but I am your best friend and I will write to her AND Gen if you don't start taking better care of yourself.
It's been nearly three months since my last assignment in space, and the interim has been awfully dull. I am glad I did my duty, don't get me wrong, but I miss space. There is something inexplicably wonderful about the hum of the engines and a ship that is running well. I like the clean, crisp order of it as opposed to the bug infested organic mess of being stuck on-planet. Still, I wouldn't trade a single second of it, however much I miss it when I'm trapped on the ground once more.
The closest thing I currently have to excitement is some part-time secondment work with the idiots, which I cannot talk about, but even if I could would put you to sleep. Still, it's important work and I am glad that someone is utilising my brain for something more important than troop deployments.
Your last letter sounded a bit... down, hence my nagging about the leg, as I assumed that was the issue. Let me know how you are, Kairoth. I worry about you.
Write soon,
Malavai
From: Agilo, Kairoth
Subject: Re: More Tales from Balmorra
Dear Mal,
You're invoking the "women in my life" clause? Wow, pretty drastic, Mal. I'll think about it, okay? I'm not sure I would consider myself to be in agony no, but it has been getting worse and ... yeah... maybe I need to think about doing something about it.
Pari and Odile were thrilled with the latest tales of pilot Malavai Quinn, saviour of the Sith Empire, confidante of Darth Baras and all around wonderful guy! Don't worry, you're always the dashing hero who gets out in the nick of time and sometimes gets the girl.
Odile wants me to do a picture of you for his birthday, but I know it would mean so much more to him if you sent him one? I know you always remember and send a holocard and present, but he would really, really like to put you on his wall with the rest of his heroes.
The stories really make them both smile and I think right now they could use it. Gen's currently having another bad turn. I'm not sure what's wrong, but she's been quite distant with me over the last couple of weeks. I've suggested the doctors as well, but she says she's "fine" (which, by the way Mal, is wife code for "not at all fine in any way and screw you for not knowing why"). The kids are starting to notice and I'm running out of excuses.
Sorry not to have more fun news for you, but ... yeah I could really use some advice. Weirdly, you seem much better at giving it to me than you do actually following through on it yourself.
Miss you!
Kai.
From: Quinn, Malavai
Subject: More Tales from Balmorra
Dear Kairoth,
I am so sorry. Is it the same issue she had after Paria was born? I know that was very rough on her and you. My first instinct is to say be supportive of her. Upon receipt of your letter I went and did some research and my general understanding is women don't want space and when they say they do, they want to see if you will chase after them to prove you care enough to see what's wrong.
It seems very counter-intuitive to me, but then I find most things about people difficult, regardless of their gender. I'm guessing you already knew this. Sometimes I envy you and your innate ability to understand these things. The research is such a hassle.
Drawing on my own experiences, I was thinking perhaps don't make excuses for her but spend more time with the children while she is ... unwell? Be honest and say you don't know what the matter is but that you all need to try and support her. At least then, if something more serious is wrong, they do not feel like you have lied to them about it. I wish my own mother had done that when my father died. Children are tougher then we often realise and they will want to help too - maybe they can help you?
I will forward a selection of holoimages of myself, including one with my ship and in my pilot's gear for him. I cannot guarantee they will arrive in time, but I will do my best. I know a transpo officer who owes me a favour and might be able to fast-route it to Dromund Kaas. I will also write Odile a letter and tell him it's on the way. Would that help? Anything to help cheer them up, and you as well!
I'm glad you're thinking of seeing someone. I would suggest if Gen is not herself that this is even more imperative as someone has to be able to tend your lovely children. I really wish I could get some leave, but I don't see it happening. Damnit, I want to be there for you!
Also, I might be gone for a few days, I can't say more, but don't worry if there is some delay in my replying.
Take care,
Malavai
Quinn entered the hangar and gasped in surprise, then smiled thinly and exhaled. In front of him was one of the Mark VI Supremacy-class starfighters, also known as an ISF interceptor. Beautiful. Deadly. A joy to fly, or so he had been told. He found his fingers flexing of their own free will, itching to get their hands on the controls, feel the sheer serenity of becoming one with such a machine.
Before proceeding further, he managed to talk the tech, an alien, into taking a dozen holoimages for him, and then walked back to the hangar entrance and instructed one of the guards to return his holocamera to his office. It was incredibly awkward for him; he didn't enjoy having his image taken at the best of times, because he tended to fidget and look far too serious. Still this was important so he pushed the feelings to one side and did his best.
He had promised Kai and it was important to Odile, who was not just his best friend's son, but also his Imperial ward. Both Kai's children were. Part of Quinn's duty, as their Imperial Guardian, was to ensure the continuation of the Agilo legacy, the proper instruction in the ways of the Sith Empire and Odile and Paria's transition into adulthood. It was a duty he took extremely seriously, even from Balmorra.
When he returned to the hangar, he took a closer look at his interceptor. It became immediately obvious that most of the weapons had been stripped from the craft and replaced with a military grade tractor beam. At least it was now clear how he was supposed to ferry cargo in a fighter. The Mark VI had minimal shielding, a sacrifice the pilots he had spoken to believed was worth the superior manoeuvrability it afforded them.
The combination of the lack of shields and now the lack of weapons would leave Quinn in a very precarious position should things go wrong. Nevertheless it was a risk he was willing to take. He had faith that Darth Baras would not be asking him to risk his life if it was not important. Anyway, he owed Baras his career, and he was more than willing to die to repay his debt.
Quinn walked over and took his gloves off, tucking them in his belt. He allowed his hand to run along the edge of the wing, still smiling, feeling the smooth, cold metal under his fingers. Everything about the fighter was beautiful - the clean lines, the tilt of the wings, it just looked as though it was designed for speed. It one of the gratifying aspects to working for Lord Baras; he always had the best equipment and was willing to assign it to the agents he had on various planets.
The tech walked over and nodded, bringing Quinn back to his assignment. He nodded at the Chiss then climbed the ladder into the cockpit. While the tech attached the various hoses to his suit, he put on his helmet and gloves, listening to the hiss of the air and the strange otherworldly sound of his own breath. Eventually the ladder was withdrawn and the tech gave him the thumbs up. He leaned forward and sealed himself into the cockpit, then activated the comms, 'Tower, this is call sign Ultraviolet on special assignment unlisted 5 checking in.'
There was a pause, presumably while the tower checked his unlisted status, 'We read you Ultraviolet, please standby for final clearance,' the controller paused for a minute or so, 'Hangar is safe, you are cleared for engine start.'
'Copy,' Quinn brought the engines up, feeling how quickly they activated, 'Engines online, awaiting final confirmation.'
'Copy Ultraviolet, standby,' there was another pause, 'Ultraviolet, you are cleared for launch.'
'Thank you tower, Ultraviolet out.'
Quinn grabbed the single controller and placed his feet on the pedals. It was a very different cockpit from the Rycer, and it had taken him a minute or so to adjust. Slowly, he brought the interceptor about and nudged the controls. The interceptor shot out of the hangar, making him hum contentedly at its responsiveness. It really was a beautifully designed piece of engineering. Whatever else this mission might be, it was going to be a wrench to return this piece of cutting edge tech!
Once in space, he set a course for the Oppressor. He then spent some time testing the controls, adjusting his movements to get the exact response he wanted from the Interceptor. He had never flown anything with controls so sensitive, so it took him a few minutes to adjust completely to its precision.
After ten minutes, he began his approach to the Oppressor itself and his comms activated, 'Unregged interceptor 5, this is Oppressor control, please activate IFF and transmit your authorisation code.'
'Copy, Oppressor,' he replied, flipping the identify friend or foe switch used in combat and then transmitted the codes Lord Baras had provided for him. There was a pregnant pause.
'Copy Ultraviolet, you are cleared for approach. Board is green. Forward upper bay. Speed 125. Call the ball.'
'I read you Oppressor. Forward upper landing bay, I make my speed 1-2-5. I have the ball,' he replied as he piloted the interceptor between the two massive forward sections of the destroyer and manoeuvred into the upper landing bay.
Once he felt metal hit metal, he activated his comms again, 'Oppressor control, Ultraviolet. Interceptor unlisted 5 is secured.'
'Copy Ultraviolet, welcome on board the Oppressor. I've been informed you're to stay with your ship, we'll refuel you and your squad will be ready to go in 10 minutes. Control out.'
Once the ship was fully secured and swarmed by techs, he opened the canopy and a ladder was shifted so he could disembark. He removed his helmet and descended, then sat on the bottom rung of the ladder and just waited letting himself enjoy the feeling of being back on a bustling Imperial ship; the sound of the people, the engines, the smells he associated with serving in space. Even the recycled air had its charms.
Some minutes later a woman approached, she was young, perhaps 20, and red haired. Quinn stood as she stopped in front of him.
She saluted, 'Sir, Ensign Halkina Shelay. I understand you will be completing patrol Peth with us today?'
He returned the salute, 'That is correct, Ensign. Lieutenant Malavai Quinn.'
'Nice to meet you, lieutenant,' she replied, 'I'm afraid the Captain has been told to have no direct contact, but he wanted someone to welcome you. I'm the rook, I got the job. He says you don't need to be briefed, is that correct, sir?'
'That is correct Ensign, but please inform your Captain I appreciate his or her courtesy.'
She nodded and smiled at him again, touching her hair, 'Th...thank you sir, you may as well get ready, we'll be hitting space in five,' she saluted again and walked away.
Quinn furrowed his brow, the number of women who seemed to feel the need to touch their hair in his presence had always baffled him. He had never quite been able to work out why, but he was not good at body language. He turned and headed back up the ladder and into the cockpit, re-donning his helmet while the flight crews and the techs fussed around him and the interceptor.
Finally, he was back in space, enjoying the feel of the interceptor's sensitive controls and seeing the cool, crisp black out of the cockpit window. He completed the patrol, as expected it was virtually eventless and then peeled off for his rendezvous as the rest of the squad headed back for the Oppressor. They had barely said a word, but that was to be expected.
There were a great many crafts around at that moment, as shuttles and patrols arrived and departed the Oppressor, so his small diversion would hopefully go undetected. He saw a shuttle appear from his starboard side and he cut his engines and used the inertia to form up on its six. After a moment, he saw the bay door open and a small pod float out.
Quinn knew the timing had to be precise, he used his targeting computer to help him line up, understanding this had to be as fast and natural as possible. Several seconds passed and he activated his tractor beam, and used the controls to bring the pod closer. After a moment, he heard the clang of metal on metal and realised that the cargo must have a magnetic lock on it. Captured. He'd got it. Throttling up, he came about and headed back towards the blue green of Balmorra.
He used the onboard computer to calculate the best re-entry point for the drop and then adjusted his trajectory and speed for optimal cover. The interceptor was just starting to skim into the top of the atmosphere, the bottom of the wings starting to glow with the friction of the atmosphere, when his proximity sensors sounded. Quickly, Quinn checked the readings and swore, another TZ-24 Enforcer was coming at him, firing. He theorised it had waited until the last possible second to minimise the superiority of the interceptor's speed and manoeuvrability.
Damnit, I'm stuck. Nothing I can do. Just hope I can weather it, he thought.
He was nearly through the atmosphere when suddenly there were a number of explosions to his port, mainly aft side. He heard the wail of the sirens as the airtight seal of the craft was breached and felt the pain in his shoulder and torso as shrapnel tore through both his cockpit and body. The pain was white hot and dull at the same time and he cried out, trying to fight the surge in adrenaline that was making his arms shake and mouth dry. Checking his damage report, he discovered his port propulsion was badly damaged and his already minimal shields were completely knocked out.
Quinn throttled back, wincing in pain as his shoulder protested, in the hopes of preventing the craft yawing and ending up in a flat spin by matching the two engines speeds. Suddenly there was another violent explosion, probably from a ground to air missile.
He fought with the interceptor's controls, trying to keep his ailing craft level and the pain in check. Glancing at the screen, he saw it was less than a kilometre to the drop point so he activated the tractor beam and saw the pod disengage from his hull.
Once it was a safe distance from the Interceptor's hull he released it and, his duty done, checked the damage report. It was hopeless, this lovely craft was going down and there was nothing now that would prevent it, but he needed to hold it in one piece a little longer to get himself away from the pod's landing zone. Allowing the craft a bit more leeway now the drop had been completed, he turned the Interceptor more north west then cut the engines to a minimum. Keeping his eyes on the readouts he more or less glided for another few kilometres, hoping to make it to a friendly outpost in the area.
He was cold and starting to shake, which he imagined was a combination of shock and blood loss. Checking the readout again, he was now at least 10 kilometres away and well to the west of the pod site. The craft was not going to stay airborne much longer, so he reached up above his head with both hands, crying out again as the pain nearly overwhelmed him, grabbed the emergency cockpit ejection handles and pulled hard.
The explosive bolts fired and the cockpit, as one piece, came away from the chassis. Quinn felt the secondary thrusters activate, driving the pod back into the air, then the jerk as the parachutes opened. There was nothing for him to do but sit there, slowly bleeding to death, hoping that he was found by friendlies. It seemed unlikely. He passed out.
Quinn came to sometime later, he was lying face up in a cot. His flight suit was gone and he was dressed in a tunic and pants made from rough, thin cloth. He tried to move his right hand and found it was handcuffed to the cot. Opening his eyes, he discovered a drip sticking out of his arm, it looked like they were giving him synthetic blood.
'I wouldn't move around too much, Imp. We've patched you up best we can, but those kolto patches are going to take a while to work and you lost a lot of blood,' said a gruff voice.
He looked over to see an older man, white haired and bespeckled, looking at him and leaning back in a chair.
'Quinn, Malavai. Lieutenant. INDKR-25365527.'
The other man kicked his chair back forward, 'Yeah they all start like that. We'll see, Imp. We'll see. I'll see you get some decent chow before we start. Least I can do. Tomorrow though, now you need to rest. That shrapnel tore your guts up pretty good.'
The man got up and walked to the door, before looking over his shoulder, 'Usually we wouldn't bother healing Imp scum like you, but pilots tend to be ultimately tradable. The Empire puts too much effort into an Interceptor pilot to let him rot in a cell for long and we have our own people to get back, so we're hoping you'll be valuable to us.'
Quinn lay there and tried to work out how long it had been. It was difficult to tell. It seemed likely he had been captured by the resistance. He imagined their interrogators to be a shade on the amateur side, but that in itself was dangerous. Pain could be a powerful motivator, but in the wrong hands it killed the detainee before it broke them. Judging by the primitive medical facilities, he did not hold out much hope if he were to be injured again.
While lying there, he mentally prepared his lines of defence. The various bits of intelligence that he could give up to the interrogator so it looked like he was breaking and then broken. The small lies he might get away with, some operations which were unimportant and some misinformation he might be able to use. He also considered the things he might need to bear in mind during the process that might save his life. The position of the room, the number of guards, any small details that might give him a way of escape or a clue to where he was.
He was awoken in the middle of the night, sat up roughly and hooded. Hands grabbed him and pulled him out of bed and dragged him down a number of corridors to a cold, dark room. Confused and shackled, Quinn could do little but be punched repeatedly, while a group of what sounded like mainly men cheered and whooped before being picked up from his knees. A man stood near him and whispered, 'That's for my family.'
Again, he was roughly marched down a corridor and handcuffed back to his bed. When the hood was removed, a woman spat at him, 'You baby killer!'
He offered no defiance or witty repartee, resistance fanatics all had some sob story about losing their families and children to justify the orphans and widows or widowers they, themselves created. As if somehow that evened the score or excused their atrocities. There was little point arguing. Best just to let them have their fun and get it out of their systems.
The only downside, besides the black eye he could feel swelling, was the unpleasantness of wiping saliva from his face. He wasn't a germophobe per se, but it was distasteful to his sense of decorum.
For approximately the first three days nothing happened, Quinn postulated that they were letting him heal up and regain some strength before starting his questioning in earnest, but he was disturbed and beaten most nights. He guessed it was against orders, but a nice morale boost for those involved.
The next five days, or so, he couldn't be entirely sure, were a blur. The sessions themselves were batteries of questions, followed by beatings, followed by more questions on and on and then a random period of rest, which could be minutes or hours. Once the beatings proved ineffective, they moved onto electricity. Quinn was moved several times a night and once was forced into a stress position for several hours. Always, he was kept in isolation.
By about day six he began, slowly, to give up some intelligence, small pieces of gossip and anything else he could think of to make the interrogators think he was starting to break. Despite the Republic's belief that there were men who were too tough to break, it was just nonsense. Everyone broke in the end. Everyone.
He had once read that surviving an interrogation was a race, if he could give them enough without breaking and they could hurt him enough without killing him. Either way, they seemed to feel they were making progress and that meant less muscle and more food, which was good for him as his wounds were still painful and felt hot sometimes. He suspected their medics had not done their job properly and his wounds might well be infected.
There was also some hope, he had heard the guard talking when they thought he was asleep, the area he was being held in was not secure. It did occur to him that this was some form of psychological technique to encourage him to talk, but none of the people he encountered on the base seemed to be professionals. Unfortunately, his interrogator was a talented amateur.
Quinn estimated it had been about two weeks and he was starting to develop a rapport with Isin, his interrogator. He was bright enough to know Quinn was holding back, but stupid enough to believe he was making real progress. The muscle continued, though at less of a pace with the question sessions and breaks being longer and more relaxed. He got the feeling Isin was in a rush, but was pleased enough with the progress not to push him too much harder. It also seemed he had yet to divulge the exact nature of the real question he wanted to ask. It was nothing but a hunch, and, for the time being, was completely un-testable.
Quinn had studied the room they used and knew it well enough that if the opportunity arose, he might be able to escape. He was sure it would be at least another week before they realised he was not as forthcoming as they would have liked, as by then the pieces of operations he had been able to give away would be proven to be fake or misinformation. The other bad news was he had a fever and chills, which meant that it was very likely his abdominal wound was infected. Trust the resistance to mess up a simple patch job.
The days became a blur and truthfully Quinn had lost count. He felt it had been about twenty days, but it was a wild stab in the dark to keep his mind tied to some sense of order. He was sitting in the room, tied to a chair, shivering in the thin trousers and tunic they had given him. He dragged himself back to listen, but was finding it increasingly difficult, '... so we wanted to ask about the Oppressor.'
Quinn focussed, 'Oh? Ask me what?'
'We would like some more information about getting aboard.'
'Aboard the Oppressor?'
'Yeah, the standard codes the Imps use. Anything that might help us.'
'I don't know all the procedures of the big destroyers. They... they... have changed...'
'Don't make me punish you Quinn. You know I can tell when you're lying,' Isin replied quietly.
No, but you can tell when I want you to know I'm lying, he thought.
'I'm... I'm sorry, I'm not well Isin. There's something wrong with my wound.'
'I know, we're trying to get in some better equipment and a doc. Maybe we can fix you up, huh? You tell me this and I promise I will ensure you live.'
Quinn looked up at him, bleary eyed, 'You... you can't promise me that. I doubt you have the facilities...' he realised that, in his weakened state, his mouth had engaged before his brain and that answer earned him a punch from one of the men who always stood by his chair.
He leaned forward and spat out a mouthful of blood, then caught his breath and sat back up, feeling his lip swelling.
Isin shook his head, 'I thought we were starting to trust each other, Quinn. Now I've given you as much leeway as I can and now I need to know,' he indicated a large basin of water off to his left. 'I don't want to have to do this, Malavai, but I will. I need to know how to get aboard the Oppressor.'
'I...I ... I don't know. The codes, they change and...' another punch followed by Isin nodding at his guards.
'Sorry Quinn, no choice. I need that information and I'm going to get it, one way or the other.'
With that he was roughly unchained and stood up, his hands rebound behind his back. He tried to get his feet under him but couldn't, his legs were too weak, his guts on fire. The two guards grabbed him under the arms and dragged him over to the basin, letting him drop to his knees. He looked at his own reflection in the water - there were dark circles under his eyes and a fair growth on his beard, plus the various bruises from the repeated beatings. His skin was so pale and he realised, in some ways, he barely recognised himself.
As Quinn braced himself for the inevitable, there was a sudden explosion and all the alarms in the room went off at once. It was chaos, the lights dimmed and the whole place was filled with smoke and noise. The guard just dropped him and he managed to fall sideways, avoiding the basin altogether and landing roughly on his right side.
Even in his diminished state, he struggled weakly against his bindings hoping to free himself and escape in the confusion, but to no avail. They were biting into his skin and he thought he could feel blood in his hands. After a few minutes there was a blur in front of him, an Imperial soldier bent over, 'Sir? All you all right sir?'
'Lieutenant Malavai Quinn.'
'Yes sir, Corporal Glasca. Can you walk?' he asked, cutting off the hand ties.
Quinn tried to sit up, but immediately fell, and only avoided hitting his head through Glasca's quick thinking.
'Don't worry Lieutenant, we'll have you out of here in no time,' he turned and spoke into his comms unit, 'Glasca here, we need a stretcher and medic in sector A, room 4 north side.'
The solider broke off the comm and turned back to Quinn, 'We didn't know there were Imperial prisoners here, we were looking for some 'Pub scientists, we had intel they had been shipped from off world for a special job, something really big. You're lucky, usually we would have just bombed this place. You seen anyone like that, sir? Any labs?'
'I'm...no.. only guards... Isin my int..interrogator... that... that's it.'
'I'm going to leave you and continue my sweep. The medics will have you out in no time,' replied Glasca and turned, running out of view. He lay back and stared at the ceiling, his body still tense, wondering if he might die before he reached safety, or worse if his captors would return.
Sometime later Quinn was aware of a number of medics kneeling beside him, assessing his condition. His body relaxed as he was loaded on a stretcher and removed from the building. He floated in and out of consciousness, remembering the sight of the black sky above him and the smell of the plants and flowers mixed with fuel and explosive residue.
Then there was the feel of the lift of the medical craft, the Imperial comms chatter and the sounds of the medics talking as they examined him. When he opened his eyes again, he saw the zip, zip, zip of the lights going past above him, the sound of many voices shouting and concerned looks from a nurse holding something over his nose and mouth. Glancing around he saw the clean whiteness he recognised as the hospital in Sobrik. He vaguely remembered being shifted onto an examination table and swarmed by a trauma team before the blackness overcame him and he sunk into its welcoming arms.
From: Agilo, Kairoth
Subject: Re: More Tales from Balmorra
Dear Mal,
It's been a while since I heard from you, nearly five weeks. Is everything all right? I am growing quite concerned. I checked the KIA for Balmorra and you're not listed.
Write to me, Mal. Please, I need to know you're okay!
Kai
From: Quinn, Malavai
Subject: Re: More Tales from Balmorra
Dear Kairoth,
I apologise for my tardiness in responding but I am in hospital recovering. I was shot down during my last mission and captured by the resistance. Before you get all upset, I am all right. I am still listed in "guarded" condition whatever that means. I was finally allowed a data pad today after threatening my nurse with pulling out all my IVs and escaping.
Now that I am sufficiently recovered from the surgery and internal regen the doctors had to do, I am going in a kolto tank. They expect me to be in and out for about a week. Luckily they let me write this first. I took the holoimages for Odile, they are on my desk and I will send them as soon as I am out. I understand I am to be on light duties for at least month!
Please don't worry, I'll write as soon as I am able,
Malavai
From: Agilo, Kairoth
Subject: Thank the Emperor!
Oh Mal I've been in a flat panic. I'm so glad you're okay.
Just sending this back quickly so you know I've read your mail. You can tell me all about it when you're out of the tank.
Kai
From: Quinn, Malavai
Subject: Re: Thank the Emperor!
Dear Kairoth,
Let me, once again, apologise for a tardy response. They kept me in the tank for an extra four days and then insisted on keeping me in a recuperation wing in the hospital for another two days with no access to anything. I've been bored silly reading awful popular magazines while a bunch of nurses fussed around me as though I were 10. Plus not a chess board in sight!
It is perhaps the worst aspect of my "incarceration" on Balmorra, there have been so few opponents for chess of any note. The Chief of the Civilian police, a tall, bad tempered fellow named Barr indulges me when he has time, but he is too impatient to be a consistently good player and you have to catch him in the right mood.
At least I'm back in my barracks now, never have I been so glad to see the place! I have been put on bed rest for another two weeks and then light duties for three whole months minimum. None of my superiors have asked to speak with me, it is hard to know if that's a good or bad thing. Although they are always forthcoming with any complaints about my performance.
I've had a look at my fresh set of scars. Some shrapnel and repeated surgeries have left a number of round marks on my lower abdomen, not that anyone will see them apart from the medical personnel and myself. Still I find them slightly... displeasing. Perhaps it is just because it is a reminder of my own failure. You will be amused to hear they are making me use a cane as well, something about giving my lower body extra support. I don't think anyone would say I look distinguished though, I think I mainly look tired.
I've been told I'm not allowed to exert myself in any way, as my body has been through quite a trauma. Also, they have told me I have to see the base councillor because talking about my experiences while captured can help me to get over them more quickly. Load of damned nonsense really. I have done some research into the effects of interrogation and I am sure I will experience some of them, but I don't really need to be discussing it with some stranger sitting on a trendy chair trying to "put me at my ease".
I tried explaining I am a private man and that I do not wish to discuss what happened to me, but they will not sign me as fit for active duty until I have "made the effort to come to terms with it". It was all I could do not to swear at them, but I did settle for a scowl.
How are things at home? I've been quite concerned about you and Gen, I thought about you a lot while I was locked up. The first thing I did when I returned was get the pictures for Odile and write him a brief letter apologising for missing his birthday. I do hope they arrive soon.
Please let me know.
Malavai
From: Agilo, Kairoth
Subject: Thank the Emperor!
Dear Mal,
First, I sat Odile down and explained that sometimes serving officers have to disappear without much explanation and that it is always for the good of the Empire. He was, yes, disappointed, but he also said that he understood that your duties came first. I was very proud of him being so mature about it. I let him know when I got your mail and he went into transports of delight, so he's really looking forward to it. I didn't tell him about being injured, just that you were on an assignment. I decided the injury he didn't need to know about.
I'm so glad you're all right, I know it's part of the job but I worry. You're my best friend and the idea of losing you, well... I can't bear the thought. You're like a brother to me, Mal and I love you. Yes I know you're not comfortable with such emotions, but this time I feel the need to tell you. I worried and fretted the whole time you were in the tank. It's the worst thing about this distance, I can't even just come by and see you, make sure they're looking after you properly. So, anyway, deal with it - I love you.
I know you don't like the idea of "talking to some stranger" but they can help, honestly. Yes you're incredibly private, perhaps a bit too private and that in itself can have a negative effect on your mental health. Talking about what happened while you were detained is important. They made me go because of my leg, after Druckenwell and like you I thought it would be a waste of time, but it really wasn't. The guy I saw had been injured himself, knew what I was going through and I could talk to him about stuff I was too scared to tell Gen.
Give it a go before dismissing it completely. Private or not, they're right. Interrogation... oh Mal, I can't even imagine what you went through, but sometimes it keeps me awake at night. Consider this being my version of "have you seen someone about your leg"? *evil grin*
I bet you do look distinguished with a cane, more so than me in all likelihood, and you have the rather stuck up attitude to match! Just think, it might be a lady magnet, not that you'd notice of course! Promise me you'll take it easy, huh? Get the rest they want you to - don't overdo things (as you are known to do)? Don't make me threaten, because I will!
Gen... I don't know exactly. She seems a little better, she's less distant with me and we're talking now. We actually had sex last night for the first time since this started, and this morning she was humming to herself in the kitchen while she made tea. So perhaps things are improving; I live in hope. Really I just want her to be happy, I love her more each day we are together. I feel so lucky to have her in my life.
I mean what I said about the counselling and looking after yourself, Mal. Don't make me tell you how much you mean to me again, I can see you blushing from here!
Love ya,
Kai
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