Chapter IX
Muscle and Blood
"Gethishelmetoff"
Daybreak. Head lying in a pool of weak acid. The sloshing liquid was the only thing he heard besides the ringing in his ears.
"Thesealisontightholdon"
Numb to the cold. Image of murdered children burned into retinas. Only smell was a bog of bodily fluids.
"Hangonbutch"
Seals broke. Air rushed in. Liquid spilled out.
"It's open"
Searing flash of light. Snow blindness.
"Is he okay?"
Don't blink.
He stared into the noon sun, bleaching his eyes white. Each blink only brought the image back, as though it were tattooed on his eyelids.
Keep your eyes open.
"Butch? Talk to me man."
"He needs water! Get him some water!
Who was speaking? Immaterial. Don't blink.
"Here."
Splash of freezing liquid, cleansing the filth from his head. Shock to the nervous system. His muscles convulsed. He blinked; gasped for air. Fell ass-first on the powder.
Sergeant Versio was off to the side, taking in the air.
Her brother, off to the other side, finally received word from Kelleon. "They got the last of them! It's over!"
Butch steadied his breathing as the water dripped off his head. The roar of the gunship's engines faded in from the distance.
"You hear that, buddy? It's over! We won!"
"Neppy…" For the first time in hours, clean air rushed into his lungs like a divine wind. "It's never bloody over."
The return trip lacked the conspicuous silence of its predecessor. Men from different units exchanged stories, cigarras, and curios. A combat engineer from the 9th swapped two captured blasters for a holoprojector. A marksman from the 212th parted with a broken lightsaber fixture in exchange for 60 credits. Technically, the Empire forbade this kind of looting. In practice, it's never been enforced.
Rori sat at the edge of the gunship, feet dangling over the side, searching his kit bag for 'spacer's little helper.' He'd felt a sweat coming on, and it was better to get ahead of it now instead of facing full withdrawal later.
"...this past weekend, when Governor Tarkin spoke rather candidly about the future of the Advanced Weapons Program…" Someone near the back had a HoloNet newscast playing on his datapad. A few of the men made crude remarks about the anchorwoman.
"These… last few years…" Tarkin's voice could be heard under ambient noise and static, as though it were recorded in some sort of factory, "I believe have shown all Imperial citizens the value of peace, and the imperative to maintain it. What we are building is just that. Not a weapon of war, but an instrument of peace and stability."
The anchorwoman asked a followup question, "But it is a weapon, Governor?"
"It's hardly a weapon if it's never fired."
"Senator Mothma has harshly crit-"
"Turn that shit off, I can't stand that bitch," bellowed a lone voice in the crowd.
The thin tube appeared at the bottom of Rori's bag… right next to a crystal he didn't remember taking. A green, semi-fluorescent crystal no bigger than his thumb. He held it to his eye, trying to gauge its quality. While slightly cloudy, the gem was still clear enough that he could see all the way through at any angle.
"Hey boys, there goes Able," one man said.
Stashing the crystal back in his bag, Rori looked around for the man who saved his life back at the river. One by one, the men stood at the other end of the gunship, half-heartedly saluting at the ground.
Pulling himself to his feet, Rori nudged to the front of the group. On the ground, all that could be seen was a series of mid-sized cargo haulers taking a random assortment of items back from the caverns. "Able's driving one of those?" He asked.
A private to his left gave him a sideways glance. "You didn't hear?"
Rori looked closer. "Hear what?"
A small pile of white armor in the back of a hauler answered his question. Each armor piece was relatively intact, but stained a crusty shade of red. All that remained of Able.
"Booby trap in the final stretch of cave. Major made him take point. Poor bastard walked right into it."
Were one to keep score; that's two men who gave their lives for Rori.
"Ye mean ye never did jetpack trainin'?" Butch sat on the edge of the last gunship in line, his helmet tucked in his kit bag. The cold seldom bothered him. He hadn't bothered to adjust his heater in several hours.
Iden paced about, keeping her mind occupied. "It wasn't mandatory until after I graduated. Not enough of them to go around."
"Yah, but what if we's shot down or somn? Ye need 'a know how 'a thing works."
"I'll learn eventually. I'll jump into the advanced course when I go for spec ops training."
Butch sighed and rose to his feet, grabbing a small jetpack from the ship's emergency stash. He held it in front of Iden, pointing to a sensor on the back. "This'n turns on at a specific al'itude and veloci'y. You don' even gotta press a bu'n."
Iden curiously grabbed the pack, trying to untangle its web of straps and harnesses.
"Hey, careful with that shit." The pilot called back. "You assholes break it, you buy it. Sick and tired of requesting new ones from L-Corps."
"I'll be careful," Iden reassured him.
"You'll be dead if I catch you joyriding that thing."
Believing she'd found the shoulder strap, she swung the pack around her arm, letting it hang around her back. It immediately started buzzing, refusing to interface with her armor. "The hell?" She felt at her back, trying to look for a switch.
Butch chuckled, softly reaching for an asymetrical padded strap awkwardly digging into her neck. "It's upside down," he corrected.
She blushed, sheepishly undoing the straps with an awkward grin.
"Fin'ly found a thing Ms. Bloody Perfect can't do." He returned the pack to its hook at the back of the ship.
"I'll learn fast when it counts," she challenged. "I always do."
He let out a quick chuckle. "Sure ye will, love."
Air condensed around the sides of the glass, but for five little fingerprints obscured by heavy gloves.
"An uncompromised success, I hear," said a pompous little digitized voice in the corner of the command center. "Excellent work, Colonel."
Thire grabbed the glass and brought it to his lips once more. The translucent liquid within swirled alluringly, leaving a warm print on his upper lip. "That would mean something if it wasn't coming from you, Kahdah."
The glass clanked back on his desk.
"You're content to tilt at turbines." Kahdah's hologram sat before a counter, digging a spoon into a bowl of Colo Roe; a bourgeois delicacy made from the eggs of a sea monster. "Yes, the system failed. Now what?"
"Once I'm back on Coruscant, I plead my case to Governor Tarkin. You'll swing yet." Thire delivered this threat with the cordial, monotone politesse of a nobleman.
"Now you're learning," the hologram praised. "But, say he won't hear your plea. He has too much on his plate, or, heaven forbid, doesn't give a damn. I would love to see you try to play politics."
Another sip of brandy. "Well, what is army life if not 'applied politics?'"
T5-68 entered the room just as the hologram disconnected. "Master," the droid intoned, "They're ready for you."
Thire downed his brandy, grabbed his helmet from the desk. "Then let's not keep them waiting."
"The pilots all testify that the Rebels went down fighting," Ullen pressed. "It is to be expected from common terrorists, I'm afraid."
A new painting hung in the administrator's already decadent office; an impressionist piece from Raxulon, depicting the final session of the Confederate Senate. Negative space in the painting's right half alluded to Count Dooku's absence, as he had been killed the prior month.
Lottlief sat on the other side of the desk, casually admiring the painting. "Administrator, we've fought the ORLF before. We've been fighting them for decades now. This isn't like them. They're bold and they're brutal, but they're not suicidal."
Ullen topped off the General's glass of scotch. Another, untouched glass sat two feet away, by an empty chair reserved for the Colonel. "Who's to say, General? The mind of a terrorist is not ours to understand."
A door swung open at the back of the office. The Colonel's hazy silhouette walked inside, backed by a blinding flash of daylight reflected off a sheet of snow. His face was red as a giant star, but his poise was steady. Immaculately so.
Ullen turned to face him. "So good of you to join us, Colonel."
Thire nodded, closed the door, and slowly walked over to the empty seat.
A look of concern grazed Lottlief's face. "Everything okay, Colonel?"
The old clone simply slid into his empty chair, clearing his throat. "Nothing to be concerned about, gentlemen. Continue." Noticing the scotch in front of him, he allowed himself a brief sip.
Iden stepped off the gunship. Her legs stopped shaking as they touched terra firma. A few more men jumped off beside her before the engines roared back up again, nearly deafening her as flakes of snow scattered over her back. The spaceport had little civilian traffic at this hour, but for technicians dealing with poorly maintained gunships. Everyone else had armor.
Butch snorted, and spit something out into the snowfield. "Be seein' ye," he commented, dismissively.
Iden tried to casually brush herself off, thinking about what she had in mind. "Actually, wait…"
He stopped, about faced on his right heel, clearly frustrated. "What now?"
"There's something I want to check out later. Something we saw in the tunnels that wasn't right."
Butch mulled it over for a few seconds. "Ye mean the minin' lasers." He paced a few steps in her direction. "I thoa' them tunnels felt familiar."
She nodded. "There might be a saboteur in the mines. Someone selling equipment on the black market."
"So go t' Thire. Or Ullen. Ye'll get time off fer a job well done."
"No." She shot down his idea without hesitation. "If we have platoons crawling around the mines, it'll only make things worse. Some things need a more… unofficial approach."
He crossed his arms. "Roight…" He looked at her skeptically. "An' what's me part in this 'ere mess?"
"If things get hairy, I'll need backup…" Another thought crossed her mind. "And-"
"An' a witness fer ye court martial."
"Just some help getting my story straight."
He reshuffled his feet, exhaling. "I got places t' be. Tell ye' what. Meet me outside the mines an hour before sundown. Things should be slowin' down by then."
"Why so late?"
"Ullen don' like troopers pokin' around at peak hours. We stick out too much," he explained. "But if we go durin' a shift change, we just walk roight through the gate like we belong."
Iden mulled it over. "We wouldn't even need a disguise. Who would question two troopers on the elevator with a hundred other people?"
"Now ye get it." He reached into his kit bag, retrieving his helmet. "If it was me, though…" He slipped it over his head, turning away from her. "I'd save the bloody 'assle and take the easy way." He walked off, vanishing into a crowd wearing identical armor.
Rori gripped the crystal in his hand, trying to tune out the bustle of the busy city street. He recalled the old man's words:
'Follow my song.'
The death stick hit his bloodstream. His senses jolted. The effect wasn't as pronounced as before, but it was enough. The world slowed to a leisurely pace. Each sound took on a distinct feeling; a unique flavor. Each insult between two angry bar patrons. Each crying child, looking for his mother. Each old speeder engine, sparking desperately as it struggled to move cargo. Each… strained note of an exotic instrument. He'd found it.
The music led him eastward, through a busy wet market. Caged beasts hissed as he walked by; every beat crisply audible amidst the gritty thud of butcher knives against solid bone. He tuned it all out in favor of the music. It grew louder with each step.
A beastmaster walked beside him, leading a tame Dathog on a chain. The beast locked step with Rori, sniffing at his leg. It inhaled deeply; a sound like wind rushing into a soggy cavern, followed by a rough, suspicious grumble.
He looked down for but a moment, noting the beast; its muzzle chained shut, frosted air condensing as it left the Dathog's nose.
It emanated a low growl, wagging its stumped tail, its footsteps still perfectly in sync with Rori's.
Their paths diverged near the edge of the market. The strained notes led him down an empty alleyway.
A door slammed shut as he turned the corner. In the corner of his eye, he caught a blue, feminine hand pulling it closed. An open wound split her palm. Specks of blood were caught under her fingernails.
Three rodians bolted out the other end of the alley, one carrying a bloodied vibroknife, and clad in a safety vest. Scraps of torn clothing were left on the ground, barely a flake of snow touching them.
Keep moving… The strained notes seemed to form clear words in his head. You will know your place…
More riddles. Rori clenched his fist in frustration, but kept walking. He wanted to know what this 'Jedi' was doing here, if not helping people in need.
The music grew louder with each step, as though only feet away. Up ahead, a small corner between two slacks, covered by a thin layer of moldy cloth. Sticking out from underneath, the tip of the old man's instrument.
The old man did not react when Rori pulled back the cloth. He simply kept playing, his legs crossed as before. Rori silently crossed his legs and sat across from him, listening to the music. He studied the old man's face, noting no fewer than nine horns on his head, two of which had grown long and brittle; and two smaller ones nearly hidden beneath his ragged blindfold. Neat rows of tiny bumps snaked across his wrinkled visage. He was, notably, missing any facial tattoos common to Iridonians. Perhaps they would not have shown up well on his unusually dark skin, or perhaps the Jedi simply did not allow them.
Abruptly, the man stopped playing, taking note of his surroundings. Forgive me, his 'voice' wormed through Rori's conscious mind, I tend to forget where I am.
Rori answered curtly, "It's quite alright, old man."
Before I answer your questions… have you brought what I asked for?
Rori produced the green crystal, seemingly glowing brighter than it had before. "Is this what you wanted?"
The old man held out a hand. Spectral fingers poked at Rori's palm, as though ghosts were touching the crystal. He kept his hand outstretched, as it left his palm and levitated an inch above. There it floated, weightless, drifting and turning for lack of gravity, as the old man remotely studied its form, tensing his muscles under the mental strain.
Finally, it fell back down, caught in the private's hand, as the old man relaxed once more.
It will do.
Another damn riddle. Rori offered the crystal to the other, who simply shook his head.
You must keep it, for now.
He sighed and placed it back in his kit bag. "What happened to that woman?" he asked bluntly, pre-empting the next riddle.
The old man turned his head in the direction of the slammed door. I am sure you have already figured that out. A bloodstained scrap of clothing blew past, as he spoke. Such crimes are not uncommon here.
"She was raped. Just say it."
Such disrespect.
"And you were here when it happened. Why didn't you do anything?"
Under his breath, the old man let out a brief wheeze, then slowly extended his hand towards Rori's clenched fist. You'll find words like 'here' are quite… As their hands met, the former phased through without physically touching the latter, like a simple hologram. …Subjective.
The young man's scowl faded to a look of bewilderment, as he watched his own hand phase through one which did not exist. Occupying the same point in space… or none at all.
No more can I change the world; than a freighter haul a sun.
"Have you given thought to my request, Colonel?" The administrator turned to Thire. "Have you found a bodyguard for my son?"
Thire fixed his posture, realizing he had fallen into a slouch. He had nearly forgotten about Ullen's son. "With all due respect, we've had larger problems on our minds."
"Of course, of course. But now that those problems are dealt with, perhaps the issue may be revisited."
"You don't seem to understand. The situation isn't resolved, it just moved. The partisans are still out there." The Colonel took another sip of the scotch; the General eyeing him uncomfortably. "We still need our team at full strength for the next round of fighting, not to mention all the infrastructure work that's still ongoing." His head swayed slightly as he spoke.
"I understand, Colonel." Ullen cleared his throat. "However, one measly soldier could hardly make a difference in a unit of thousands. What about that abrasive fellow, with the accent? I am sure he could…"
Thire waved his hand dismissively, and took another sip. "Butch has more important things to do. If you want to keep your son safe, you should get him offworld." Another sip. "Ilum isn't the place for-"
"Haven't you had enough?" The General's voice cut through the stalemate.
Thire turned to look him in the eye, incredulity dripping from his sweat-soaked brow. "Pardon me, General?"
"That's your third glass! And lord knows how much you had before this meeting!"
Ullen observed the silence that followed.
Thire mouthed words that never seemed to come out, the glass still in his hand. "I…" He broke eye contact, trying to forget the inappropriate grin plastered on his face. "I'll have you know I'm completely sober. And it's none of your damn business either way!"
Lottlief stared in bewilderment, suppressing the harshest of words.
"Now, if that's cleared up," Thire finally put the glass back on the desk, "We can…"
The General rose to his feet and buttoned his jacket, making for the door. "If the administrator wants a single lousy bodyguard, give him one." He opened the front door, letting in a gusty draft. "And next time… show a little professionalism." The door slammed behind him, leaving Thire and Ullen alone.
A datapad clicked on, drawing Thire's attention to the desk… and a simple video taken from a camera in the wall. "...And it's none of your damn business either way!"
Ullen kept a neutral expression on his wrinkled visage. "You mentioned a 'Butch?'"
A slow ballad played on the holographic display. "I will take my life into my…" The words were hard to hear, partly due to the low quality of the system, and partly due to the ambient noise of the bustling, open air market.
Iden sat at the bar, the top half of her armor replaced by a dress jacket, padded for warmth. She sipped a small juri juice out of the only clean glass in the house, letting her mind clear before sundown. The drink's smell, vaguely fruity with a bitter tone, brought her back to her childhood. Her father would serve it to guests, often homemade. She had always wanted to try a sip back then. As an adult, she found it quite unimpressive.
The bartender, a green Twi'lek with a strong Ryloth accent, asked if she wanted anything else. Her response, or lack thereof, hinted that he should leave her be.
The song changed tune, or perhaps changed to a different song altogether. It was difficult to tell. The new, louder beat accompanied the sound of a man pulling up a seat next to her.
Iden briefly returned to the present day. "I'm not looking for companionship right now," she scoffed, taking another sip of the mediocre drink.
"I underssssssstand." His massive blue fist placed a small sidearm on the bar, bloodstains on its black frame.
Iden jostled to life. Looking up, she caught the profile of a large, blue Twi'lek gulping a drink. The liquid spilled out from a hole in his chest, dripping from his clothes and into the snow beneath.
It was the man she had shot in the caves.
"You…" She tripped over her own tongue. "You were…"
"Sssssstill am," he clarified. More liquid dripped off his jacket, as he stared forward, never showing her the left half of his face. "And what a way to go, at that."
She paused and measured her next words. "You are here for revenge. A soul for a soul."
He cleared his throat and wiped his jaw with a napkin. "Your sssssssoul is not mine to take." The napkin crumpled as he placed it next to his gun. It was similarly soaked dark red. "But all things in due time."
"Then what are you doing here?"
"You have much on your mind; need ssssssshoulder to cry on."
The image of his body flashed before her eyes. "And what would you know of that?"
"Educated guessssssssss." A slight grin formed on his face, as he gulped down another drink, leaked down the hole in his chest. "Your guilt over shooting a man on the toilet?"
His words failed to elicit a reaction. The music changed once again, this time to a simple song of fools and carefree devils.
"Or…" he wiped his face once more, bloodying another napkin, although no blood could be seen on his face. "Perhaps something that happened… after?"
She turned away, sipping her juri juice. "I don't want to talk about it."
"I ssssstruck a nerve…"
"No, it's…"
"Tell me. You'll FEEL better." A threatening undercurrent flowed with his words, although no malice carried in his tone. "Much troubles you about today's events. My life is but a footnote."
She sighed loudly, allowing a tear to fall from her eye. "I thought I was used to it. I've been through it hundreds of times. I've seen more death than any woman should." Behind them, the world turned as usual, as people haggled in the market stalls. "But never like this."
"I think I understand."
"No, you don't," she barked. Her eyes welled up worse than before. "You don't understand. There were children in that cave… executed by…" She refused to say the next word. "By…"
"By ssssssssomeone you know," the specter surmised.
"Damn it," she spat under her breath. "Damn it."
"You feel it is your duty to sssssay sssssomething… and yet… if you are wrong…"
"You were there," she realized. "You worked with them. You have to know why there were kids in that cave."
The spirit paused, downing another drink. The bartender cleaned glasses in the back, never looking at them. "I hardly talk of mysssssself," he admitted. "Even in life."
"You have to know. Please. I need to know."
"The answers to life's questions do not come from dead men on bar stools, Iden. Perhapsssss I have already said too much." He turned away from her, rising from his seat.
Iden reached out to stop him, placing her hand on his shoulder. "Wait…"
He grumbled under his breath, saying nothing.
"I'm… sorry. I shouldn't have shot you. You weren't a threat."
The man calmly removed her hand from his shoulder. "I wouldn't worry about that. I was a sssssssspice runner before I joined. Killed many more people for far worse reasons. In practicality, it was you or me." He started to walk away. "The question is: Why ssssshould it be you?"
Iden felt a pressure on her shoulder, softly pushing her back, jostling her awake.
"Miss?" The bartender's voice.
She opened her eyes. She had fallen asleep with her head cradled in her folded arms. Her eyes stung. Teardrops stained her cheeks. The Twi'lek was gone.
The barkeep asked once more "Miss, the sun's going down. We're closing soon. You need to leave."
Wiping her face, Iden fished for her credits. "How much do I…" She noticed a warm, moist fluid in her kit bag. Pulling her hand out, she noticed her glove had been covered in fresh blood. Yet she had no wound. It could not have been hers.
She turned her head to the bar, and the bloodstained napkin bunched up in the ashtray.
Lipstick stained the filter of the cheap cigarette. Stellar blue #4. Ashes fell upon the woman's bare blue bosom, as she exhaled the warm smoke into the poorly heated room. Her lekku flexed instinctually, pressed against a stiff pillow separating her from the rotting prefab wall.
Mold grew along the upper corners of the room, discouraging the frost that gathered in the lower half. A single window, barred, faced the outside world. The floorboards strained and creaked under the slightest footstep.
"Time's up, baby," she droned, dragging the cigarette. "Happens to the best of us." Her breasts sagged to the side as she opened up a datapad to read the evening news.
Butch sat up beside her; stark naked and somehow sweating despite the cold. "Not to me," he breathed.
She ignored him as he slid his pants back on and poured a glass of water from a pitcher on the nightstand. He gulped it down greedily, downing half the pitcher in seconds.
She looked over in bewilderment. "How the hell are you warm? I'm freezin' my tits off here."
He tossed her a thin garment. "Then cover up." Still shirtless, he slid open the door to the rest of the compound.
A modern brothel on a backwater world; a low-tech shithole built from aging prefabs. The heating ducts and water pipes had frozen over decades ago, and the wiring was either rotted or stolen, leaving gaping holes in the already poorly-insulated walls. Whores and patrons cavorted in the ill-lit sitting room before taking their business behind unpowered doors.
Butch stood behind a banister on the second floor. He leaned forward, lighting a cigarette he swiped from the room. Below, the scene played out as it always had.
The prostitutes: all Twi'lek. Women in need of money, even as their husbands worked brutal shifts in the mines.
The patrons: all human (but not all male). Off duty stormtroopers, looking for a place to spend their pay.
The proprietor, until recently, had been a Rodian. Following Thire's reparation plan, a local Twi'lek businessman had taken control.
"Butch!" A familiar voice called to him from below.
Butch turned to face the voice: a lone, disheveled Imperial in an officer's dress uniform.
Kelleon sat before a table in the corner of the foyer, sipping on Corellian Ale.
"Fancy meeting you here," the Major barbed.
Butch pretended not to hear him.
"Come down, come down! We have so much to talk about."
Butch scoffed. "'Ardly the place, Major. 'Ardly the time, neither."
"Just get down here, soldier," the Major chuckled to himself. "Or I'll have you on probation for whoring unprotected."
Out of options, Butch slipped his shirt on and walked down the nearest flight of stairs. Iden would just have to wait a little longer.
"I don't get many opportunities to talk with a fellow core-worlder," Kelleon continued. "When I heard your accent, I simply had to have a chat."
"All due respect, Cor's a big world. Don't think we's from the same areas."
"Senate district, upper city," Kelleon offered. "You?"
"Arse End industrial. Level 1512." Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a Twi'lek woman knelt under the Major's table, likely being paid extra for the trouble. "Friend'a yours?"
"Just letting off a little steam. I'm sure you can relate." He quickly pivoted the subject. "Yes, I thought I heard an industrial slur in your speech. Tell me, I don't suppose you worked for…"
"Let's cut the crap, shall we?" Butch interrupted. "The kids in the bloody cave. Did you kill 'em or not?"
Kelleon held a shocked, indignant grin on his face. "The… what?"
Butch did not repeat himself.
The Major cleared his throat, and dismissed his company. She crawled out from under the table with a look of shame on her face, and walked back to her room.
"Take a seat, Butch." He pulled up a nearby chair.
Slowly, Butch obliged, figuring the Major would rather not blurt out such sensitive topics in the open.
"The answer…" Kelleon searched for the right words, his expression now firmly on the indignant side, hiding a deeper anger. "Is no. It's that simple. We ran in, pursuing the rebels, and we found them like that. To hazard a guess, the gas must have got them."
"Gas that you threw."
"And how was I to know those subsentients kept hostages in the very next room?"
"Not for me 'a question ye mo'ives, just ye reaction," Butch pressed, "Awful jubilant fer a man what just 'accidentally' killed kids."
"I don't even know that for sure!" Kelleon defended. "Maybe those rebel bastards killed them when they realized they were no longer of use. Or maybe it was some sort of ritual suicide."
Butch nodded along, skeptically. "And the blast marks on they 'eads. Suppose the gas did that too."
"If you are accusing me of anything, you best bring damn good evidence." Kelleon scowled at the other, threatening him implicitly. "But that's not what you're doing, is it?"
Butch lightly chuckled, unphased. "Course not, guv. Just makin' conversation, is all." A sarcastic tone dripped onto his words. Deep enough to imply something; light enough to deny everything.
"Excellent." The Major leaned back and sipped his ale. "Do be off now. I have a headache."
Unsatisfied with his answer, Butch turned and left. It was a long walk to the mines.
"Are you in any pain, Corporal?" The medical droid asked, routinely.
Johan slowly turned his head. A thick cast covered half his body, up to the disfigured shoulderblade that once housed his left arm. Light bounced around the sterile, white walls of the infirmary, forcing him to squint to see the droid. "Some," he wheezed, careful not to further damage anything.
The droid acknowledged him. "I can administer 2 CCs of Ixe-"
"No," Johan interrupted. "No more loopy juice. Just Trophezine will be fine."
"Sir, Trophezine is a children's painkiller, not rated for your condition."
He forced a smile, as each muscle resisted any movement, fighting back with indescribable pain. "It'll… do fine, 2-1B." His words carried no voice, as though spoken by wind rushing through a canyon. He took deep breaths after each sentence.
The droid resigned. "As you wish, Corporal. I'll inform the pediatric wing at once." Its wheels whirred to life as it headed to the next bed in line. "By the way, Corporal, you have a visitor."
Johan craned his neck to try and see behind the curtain on his right, with no luck. His vision started to blur, as a helmetless trooper emerged from the corner, carrying a small box.
"Rise and shine, you glorious son of a bitch." It was definitely Spinner's voice. "Something came for you on the last ship."
Using his one arm, Johan tried to sit up, giving up after a few good pushes. "For me?" He wheezed.
Spinner placed the small box in Johan's remaining hand, opening it to reveal a fancy medal. "Yeah, command sent you an Order of Glory. 'For grievous wounds suffered in the line of duty.' What do ya think?"
Johan took another heavy breath. "I think I'm lucky to go home… with one arm intact."
Spinner nodded, leaving the box on the equipment stand beside the bed. "Not everyone was so lucky."
"Damn." Johan looked away, staring at the wall for several seconds, lost in thought. Lost in regret. "You know… I always hated the heat… back on Felucia. Always complained… about how I couldn't sleep." He took another deep breath before continuing. "And the humidity… God damn… But Gomen? He didn't mind. He grew up on Corellia. He always wanted a break… from the cold."
Spinner listened silently, mourning their fallen comrade.
Johan shakily reached his arm to grab a paper cup full of warm water, raising it up in toast. "To Gomen."
"To Gomen," Spinner reciprocated. "Bastard's gotta be in a better place than this."
With great effort, Johan gradually brought the cup to his lips and drank the water inside.
"If you wanna make him happy," Spinner offered, "You should learn to ski."
Johan chuckled, then wheezed, then winced as the pain flared up once more.
The siren blared a low tone, signaling the end of a shift.
Iden stood a hundred meters back, looking on as the sun set behind the gated mine. Thousands had already lined up in the cold to start the next shift. Their clothes were warm, but tattered and insufficient. The Rodians, in particular, had it bad, due to their cold blood. Workers shifted around and huddled together for warmth.
Iden was only a few meters away from the line, posing as a guard, feeling immensely guilty in her heated armor. Where the hell is he? She thought. My fault for picking a bad wingman.
"Get back, wait your turn." An exhausted corporate guard ushered the crowd back, his voice echoing through the otherwise empty snowfield.
A light breeze turned to quick gusts, forcing the miners even closer together.
"I said get back. The lift's not even here yet."
A few of the workers started arguing with him in Huttese. Iden didn't understand a word.
"I don't make the schedules, pal. It'll get here when it gets here."
Suddenly, she heard a gruff voice to her right, humming and singing a work song.
"Oi was born one mornin' it was drizzlin' rain…"
"Butch!" She recognized him immediately. He was in full uniform, for a change, clean and ready. "I thought you weren't gonna show."
"Almost di'nt, love." He walked up beside her as the two marched to the gate. "Ran into our mutual friend, Kelleon."
"And?"
"Bastard's 'iding somethin'. Can't be sure what, though."
Workers looked on as two armored soldiers marched to the front of the line, averting their eyes in fear of reprisal.
"You think he killed those people on purpose?" She asked.
"Again, not sure," he surmised. "Me gut says it's somethin' else though."
They heard the roaring gears of the lift as they approached the gate. It was almost time. A guard slowly stepped in front of them with his hand out. "What's your business here?" He asked, tiredly.
Iden stepped up. "We've heard reports of unionizing," she lied, "We have orders to do a sweep of the lower levels, just to make sure nobody's planning a strike."
The guard sighed. "Damn, that must be Malachi again." He turned back to another guard in the booth. "Hey, B, room for two more?"
'B' shouted back, "Yeah, sure, it's a light day anyway."
The lift reached its apex. Hundreds of tired souls, shivering and standing in place, waited patiently as the gate automatically opened with a loud buzz.
"Remember," the guard yelled, directing the crowd, "Collect your scrip at the administration office by 6 PM tomorrow. And bring your datacard. No datacard, no pay."
The guard moved out of the way. Butch and Iden strolled aboard the massive metallic platform, alongside countless other souls.
"Repurposed cargo lift," Butch noted. "Never built 'a carry people."
The lift filled up quickly as workers packed in like nerfs. Men stood shoulder to shoulder, maximizing every available inch of the wide platform. Before long, not a single one had enough room to sit down.
"That's it," The guard said, closing the gate. "The rest of you, better luck next time. Go home and try again in 6 hours."
Iden tried to look at how much of the crowd was left outside; her view being blocked by an unusually large Rodian.
"Same shit, diffr'nt world," Butch bemoaned, as the lift began its slow, arduous descent. "So we's breaking stroikes now, eh love?"
"Couldn't risk it," She answered, "If that guard knew the saboteur, he could have compromised us."
"Yeah, I get." He grumbled under his breath. "Just a bad taste in me mouth, is all."
"Personal history?" She inquired, trying to pass the time.
The machinery creaked, shaking the lift. Everyone was used to it, by this point.
"Me old man made artillery shells durin' the war. One day, boss comes in, says they all gotta work overtime for the next six months. No extra pay, neither. This was around… around the time of the Ryloth campaign."
"That's horrible."
"So 'e grabs a few mates. They calls a stroike, see? Demand shor'er hours and be'er pay. The very next day, the Coruscant Guard shows up." Butch scoffed in veiled rage. "Bloody cunts."
Iden listened intently. "What happened to your dad?"
The lift shook once more, likely caused by a controlled explosion several levels above. A few pebbles rained down on the crowd. Nobody even bothered to flinch.
"Well 'e survived, let's leave it at that, love."
There was that word again, she thought. "Why do you keep calling me that?" She wasn't sure whether to be confused or repulsed.
He chuckled. "Don't fla'er yeself, love. It's just somethin' we says down there."
"Down there?"
At the side of the lift, a vista opened up, giving them a clear view of the largest manmade trench in the galaxy: one that stretched across the entire equator of the planet, and only got deeper with each passing day.
"The Arse End," he clarified. "The parts of Coruscant ye don't see in 'olos."
The last rays of the setting sun still shined bright between the canyon's two vast walls, hundreds of miles apart. The thick ice and slush at the bottom lit up like broad daylight; while the cold, metallic exterior of the opposite wall loomed over them like a great monolith.
Butch continued, "So deep beneath the planet's durasteel shell that I never saw a single ray of sunlight 'till I was drafted."
Corporate security checkpoints were built periodically into the walls themselves, with the flat, open ground being watched by a network of laser turrets above.
"Vardos was no picnic either," she related.
"Is it now? Y'ever see a man get stabbed for 2 credits by some alien bastard, and just left to bleed out on the soddin' street? Y'ever see kids get cholera 'cause they was warming they 'ands on sewage pipes? What about 53 families crushed by falling debris from a battle they di'nt even know was 'appening?"
A tinge of guilt ran through her head. "Sorry, I didn't mean it like that."
"That's the Arse End, love. We lives dif'rent; we talks dif'rent."
She didn't have a response ready. Instead, she silently leaned against the guard rail, taking a small amount of pressure off her feet. It was still a long way down.
Rori sat in near silence, contemplating his surroundings. The drug was wearing off, severely limiting his sight. Distant details that had once been clear, slowly blurred to nonexistence.
The old man's voice came back. It is worth considering whether these things you see are real at all, or a figment of your drug-addled imagination.
Rori squinted his eyes up at a large, metallic sign above a vacant shop. "There's a snowfeather bird perching atop that sign," He stated, confidently. "It's made a nest from discarded fabric. It's tending its young."
You have seen this?
"I did. When my eyes were better. It has a wounded wing. Tiny drip of blood from its uppermost feather. A single drop landed in the snow."
The old man relaxed his mind, letting the Force be his eyes. Much life in this place. To locate a single, small lifeform… difficult. He narrowed the field, focusing away from lifeforms too large, too small, too far away, too engaged in menial tasks to feel the love of their young.
"What do you see?"
The old man grumbled, and shook his head. He had narrowed the field, until nothing remained. The nest you see, was abandoned days ago.
Rori instinctually clenched his fist. He knew he had seen it. The old man must have been
Wrong? His voice echoed through Rori's head.
"It isn't just the Ixetol. I can see these things. I can feel them. A bit like… How you can."
A gust of wind blew through the alley. The tie on the man's blindfold pointed due east, flowing gracefully on a bed of air.
You do not feel the force. The voice spoke bluntly. Do not mistake your place in its plan for anything more.
Rori refocused. That word flipped a switch in his head. "And what plan is this?"
Some men are simply in the right place, at the right time. You are one such man. Your life, whether you know it or not, has a deeper meaning.
"And… why me? What is my place in all this?"
The voice fell silent. The old man did not react to his words.
"Are you telling me that I'm more important than anyone else here?"
It took several, long seconds for the man to break his silence. Your… survival… may be.
"And why is that?" The soldier demanded
Perhaps… I have said too much.
"Gomen, Able, Johan, are they not important? What about Iden, is she not important to you?"
The wind intensified into a blizzard. Thick fog and raging snow obscured the old man from view. When you are ready, you will hear my song again.
Rori rose to his feet in protest. "I asked you a question, goddamnit! What is this plan?"
Farewell, Versio. The old man, and all his trappings, faded into the aether, as though he had never been. Sentients rushed inside to avoid the cold, while Rori stood alone, shivering, shouting at ghosts.
The wind quickly turned to a blizzard; likely to last all night. The machinery was, of course, well insulated against the cold, but the people riding it weren't so fortunate.
Iden shifted her stance, trying to stretch her legs. The lift had been moving for the last 20 minutes, and showed no sign of stopping any time soon. The other workers gave her room, not trying to make enemies with the Empire.
Butch took note. "Need a quick wee?" He joked.
"It's not that. I'm fine." She steadied herself, trying to change the topic.
The gears turned quickly in Butch's head. "Oh, I get."
Don't blurt it out, she thought, fruitlessly.
"Fem'nin troubles. Nu'n 'a be ashamed of."
She stared at the vista outside, distracting herself from the embarrassment. "If you must know," she whispered, "I ran out of painkillers before I transferred, and some moron sent my prescription to my old posting."
"Yer no' gonna start, uh…"
"God, no!" She protested. "Can we just drop it? We have bigger things to worry about!"
"Roight, just relax a minute, love." Butch stood next to her on the railing. "Everyone got problems, and certainly 'alf the bloody galaxy got that problem."
"I know." She sighed. "It's just…"
"Y'ain't gotta be perfect all the time, Sarge. Ye can just be… 'yuman."
Iden let herself relax, feelings washing over her like a stone in the sea. "'Human' doesn't get you promoted."
"Who bloody cares? Do ye' time, get ye' points, and sod back off to Vardon, or wherever the 'ell ye' from."
She hid her frustration, doing her best to stop from fidgeting. The most she allowed herself was a tap of her right foot to the rhythm of the shaking platform. "There's nothing for me on Vardos. This is my career. I wasn't drafted."
"I can think 'a safer careers," Butch countered.
"It's not about that. You don't understand."
"Then 'elp me understand."
Finally, the platform ground to a screeching halt. The workers let out a sigh of relief as the gate to the mine slid open. All of a sudden, the lift felt a lot less crowded.
Iden checked her weapon and started walking with the crowd. "Some other time, perhaps. We've got work to do."
Butch sighed and followed suit. "Yea. Right behind ye."
Iden stepped over the small gap between the lift and the mine. She felt a small amount of ground give beneath her feet, steadied herself, as the loose rocks tumbled down the side of the wall.
"Y'alright?" Butch asked.
She turned back at him and tried to lighten the mood. "Moind the gap, love," she chided, imitating his gruff, gravelly voice, before continuing on.
"Very funny." Butch approached the gap and peered downward. Betwixt the hard metal and solid rock laid a seemingly infinite chasm; about one foot wide and black as a starless night. Out of curiosity, he flipped his flashlight on, expecting to find the skeleton of a long-dead miner. No such thing materialized, just a long-severed arm caught in in the machinery below, slowly putrefying where even maggots dared not grow.
"You coming?" Came the voice from ahead.
Butch peaked up to see the Sergeant standing ahead, waiting to join a crowd of miners. "Yeh, comin'." He leapt over the gap, safely landing on the other side.
Although a thin layer of ice stuck to the floor, the mines were noticeably more bearable than the outside world. A few cheap fusion furnaces were daisy-chained along the cavern wall, their effects amplifying the deeper one walked, until a comfortable temperature was reached about a mile in.
Iden took slightly longer strides, enjoying the opportunity to stretch her legs after the long ride. The path branched out into neighboring shafts, drilled by the roar of distant mining droids. Along the center, an electrified rail periodically carried carts of K-ore to the surface.
As for the miners themselves, each one checked out a mining laser from the quartermaster, with the expectation that it be returned at the end of the shift. They were there for precision work. The droids dug, the miners searched, using the lasers to cut out veins of K-ore from the surrounding rock.
"You there, empty your pockets." Across the way, a corporate guard hassled a scrawny Rodian miner at random. These sort of checks were necessary to make sure nobody stole any ore to sell on the black market.
The Rodian quickly stopped, took his vest off and pulled out every pocket on his person.
The guard watched in amusement, satisfied that the cowering bug wasn't hiding anything. "Alright, pick up your things and move along."
Iden flagged the guard down, the latter crossed through the crowd to talk to her.
"Haven't seen Imps down here in a while," he opened, "We're doing our best, but sometimes a little piece slips out. How about you tell your boss-"
"Relax, we're not here about K-ore." Iden interrupted him. "We caught some hooligans playing with mining lasers topside; was wondering if you've had any problems with missing equipment."
A shifty Rodian slinked away the moment she mentioned mining lasers. Butch silently wondered how long he'd been listening.
The guard rubbed his chin. "Mining lasers? No, I don't think so. Sometimes a sonic charge or two, but you know how hard it is to keep track of those things."
"Where's your QM? We should have a chat."
The guard pointed further into the shaft. "Caged room on the right side. Can't miss it."
"That'll do. As you were." Iden and Butch walked past the guard, letting him get back to his duty.
Butch waited until he was out of earshot before murmuring to Iden. "Thought we was breakin' stroikes."
"That story was to get us in. This one is to point us in the right direction."
"If we ain't keep our lies straight, it'll come back to bite us."
"You worry too much," she reassured him, "A lie is a lie. Who cares?"