by Claudia Gray
Once again, Thane replayed those few incredible minutes in his mind—the one and only time he’d been able to hold Ciena in his arms and kiss her. She had said, We’ll be together again. I don’t know where or when.
She wouldn’t have said that if she thought they’d both remain in the Imperial Navy, where they could find each other through any database. Surely she, too, wanted out.
But wanting out and getting out were two different things. What exactly was he supposed to do if he abandoned his post? He would immediately become a wanted criminal. A low-priority criminal, maybe—especially with the rebels out there as a more dangerous threat—but he’d still be at risk of being thrown in the brig the first time an Imperial officer performed a scan and realized he was a deserter. Plus Ciena would find it incredibly hard to break her promise to serve the Empire. She believed in both oaths and honor as sacred. What happened when those oaths and her honor were at odds?
I guess we have to wait, he thought tiredly. Do our five years. Try to get assigned to the same station or ship for a while. Maybe put down this damned rebellion and avenge Jude, before our tours of duty are up. Then we can resign and walk away.
And after that…Thane didn’t know. They wouldn’t return to Jelucan; that much was certain. But it was a big galaxy. The possibilities were endless. All they had to do was search for their future together.
He sipped his drink and daydreamed about this night as a scene from one of the holos. Now he was a swaggering spice pirate, all ego and charm. Ciena could slink in dressed like one of those classic femme fatales—in a deep-red robe that clung to her body—and whisper to him that she needed help from a man who was afraid of nothing.
“That’s me,” he whispered to the Ciena in his mind. He imagined kissing her again, and the next daydreams lasted him until he had paid for his drink, left the club, and returned to his bunk.
Thane’s five-year plan fell apart eight days later, when he flew over the Lower-Sea Province.
He did a few dramatic swoops and dives for the best effect. The distinctive scream of a TIE fighter’s engines would echo in the canyons. No one who heard it could doubt that the Empire remained strong and omnipresent throughout the galaxy. By the time he landed to meet with the local garrison and grab his midday meal, Thane was feeling fairly pleased with himself.
But as he walked toward the local HQ, his smile faded.
A line of workers trudged along the trail leading up from the mine crevasse. In most of the spice mines Thane had seen up until then, droids and lesser automatons served as the main labor force. There, however, the miners were all sentient beings. He even recognized their species: a pale reptilian people called the Bodach’i. Their planet had continually resisted Imperial regulations—everyone knew that, as the Bodach’i had been open in their defiance—but some months before, it had been announced that order was restored and new sanctions levied.
Thane had imagined that “sanctions” meant fines or trading penalties. He had not realized it meant slavery.
The Bodach’i wore restraint collars and wristlets. On their own, the restraints were no more than heavy and cumbersome; however, any deviation from the programmed tasks or paths would result in electric shocks or even metal spurs jabbing into the wearer’s flesh.
I thought those restraints were for violent criminals, not for…regular people, Thane said to himself, dazed, as he walked slowly along the border of the Imperial outpost. Beyond, the Bodach’i staggered under their burdens, unable to stop and rest. They were monitored by Imperial stormtroopers who stood many meters apart along the line that seemed to stretch into infinity. A few townspeople watched, either in silent fear or complete apathy. Thane couldn’t tell the difference.
Nausea tightened his throat and belly as he saw the Bodach’i struggling. Most of them weren’t even fit laborers. There were youngling Bodach’i there, hardly big enough to carry the burdens they’d been given. Elders, too, their scales gone dusty with age.
This was wrong. Worse than wrong—evil. If the Bodach’i had defied the Emperor, sanctions might be appropriate, but not this. Nothing could justify punishing an entire race this way.
Enslaving them.
Why doesn’t someone help these people? Thane wondered as he scanned the blank expressions of the locals. Their collars could be unfastened during the night, their escapes covered up.…
Then it hit him.
Nobody helped the Bodach’i because these people all feared the Empire. And when Thane had flown overhead, showing off his TIE fighter and letting the populace hear its engines scream, he had made them even more afraid.
The crushing weight of that truth settled on him, and for a moment Thane felt as if he could hardly breathe.
One of the local children had begun jeering at the Bodach’i. “That’s what you get! You think you can push the Emperor around? Showed you!” One of the stormtroopers nodded in approval, then patted the child’s head.
That boy could be no more than seven or eight years old—the age Thane was when he’d decided to join the Imperial fleet. That was how evil magnified itself: it took root in the young and grew along with them. Each generation provided the next level of abuse.
We’re teaching children to approve of slavery. We’re teaching them cruelty is a virtue.
But the worst part was—Thane had been that kid. He’d sat in the pilot’s seat of a shuttle and felt proud. Felt big. All because he might be part of the Empire someday. He’d followed the path that led from there, and where had it taken him? Now he flew ships only to frighten people, in the name of an Empire that slaughtered entire worlds. If he could go back, would he have the strength to choose a different path?
Do I have the strength to do that now?
Another stormtrooper cuffed one of the Bodach’i, who staggered to the side. She had lost many scales and her tail dragged along the sand, even though the rough terrain had to have nicked and bruised it countless times by then. The creature’s weakness lanced Thane through, especially because there was nothing he could do. Absolutely nothing. Not against an entire garrison of stormtroopers. He had to just stand there and watch, and know his part in the evil he beheld.
That night he paid the exorbitant amount of credits it took to buy a holonet message. If Ciena didn’t get the signal in time, or wasn’t free to respond, he’d just have to try again the next day—but to Thane’s relief, she signed in almost immediately. He took his seat in the dark holo-booth, felt the warm beams of light scanning his face and body—
—and Ciena materialized before him.
Her hologram was nearly life-size. The soft blue light caught every facet of her—the curls half-loosed and falling down her back, her full lips, the way she smiled to see him. “I wasn’t expecting this,” she said, her voice only slightly blurred by the transmission. She wore uniform trousers but had stripped down to her singlet, exposing her arms and shoulders. “I can’t believe you sprang for the holonet—but I’m so glad you did! It’s so good to see you.”
“Even better to see you.” The sight of her now had lost none of the power of that first moment he’d glimpsed her on the Devastator. Thane still felt just as grateful and humbled at the mere fact she was alive. “I needed to talk. I didn’t wake you up, did I?”
“No. My shift just ended, and my roommate’s out.”
One word of that struck him as odd. “Roommate, singular?”
Ciena’s grin beamed at him through the darkened holo-recording booth. “You’re talking to Lieutenant Commander Ree, as of yesterday.”
“That’s amazing.” As little as either of them cared about advancement at a time like this, Thane could still appreciate what the promotion meant to Ciena. It was proof she’d done her duty, and brilliantly. “It’s not surprising, though. Not for someone as good as you are.”
Yet that made Ciena’s face fall. “It’s not only about my performance. Not even mostly about that. I got promoted because the Empire lost so many people on the Death Star.”
Of course. The station had been hosting many of the top officials of the fleet and their staffs. Now there was a power vacuum at the top. “Everything has changed,” he said, carefully.
Ciena nodded. One strap of her singlet slipped off her shoulder, and the illusion of the hologram was so strong that Thane wanted to lean forward and nudge it back into place—or maybe nudge the other one off, too. But he had to stay focused. He had to think. Holonet messages like these wouldn’t be directly monitored, but there were programs to scour what they said and look for suspicious words or phrases.
So Thane couldn’t come out and say exactly what he was thinking. Neither could she. But maybe they could make each other understand.
Ciena sat on the edge of her bunk, drinking in the sight of Thane’s hologram in front of her. In the darkness she could almost pretend he was really there.
“Are you all right?” she asked, speaking as softly as she could, right into the holo-receiver. “As happy as I am to talk with you, I know you wouldn’t have surprised me like this for no reason.”
Thane’s face was etched in golden light, only a shade lighter than his red-tinged hair. In it she could read the deepest concern and sorrow. “It’s hard to know how to go on after a tragedy like this,” he said.
Again Ciena thought of Jude, and she had to blink back tears. “I can’t get it out of my head, either. It’s like the explosion plays over and over in my mind, and I want to save them but I can’t. I just…can’t.”
“Do you feel like we have to wait and see what happens with this war?” Thane said, his eyes searching hers so intensely that it was like he truly was there with her. “Or does this change how we go from here?”
Her heart ached to think of him systems away, trying in vain to imagine the right strategy that would give them a quick victory and prevent further bloodshed. Those daydreams were only natural, but that was all they could ever be: dreams.
“We can’t just stand aside and let such things happen,” Ciena reminded him. “Not when we have the power to make a difference. Whatever we have to do—however much we have to sacrifice—then we’ll face that as it comes. Together.”
“Together,” Thane repeated, and his smile then was so sad that she could feel his vulnerability, and hers, as surely and painfully as any wound.
Ciena reached out to touch the hand of the hologram; Thane responded, and the flickering light of his fingers passed slightly through her real hand. “I miss you,” she said once more. The words were so inadequate; nothing she could possibly say would communicate what she felt.
“It won’t be long before we’re together again,” Thane promised, so confidently that she had to believe him. In fact, he seemed so sure that Ciena wondered if he’d already received his next orders—whether he knew something she didn’t.
Thane looked down at her hand, carved of flickering blue light, reaching toward and through him.
“I hope you’re right,” Ciena said, her voice echoing slightly within the booth. “I wish it would only be a few days. No—as long as I’m wishing, I wish you were with me right now.”
“Me too.” The meter began to blink, signaling that their time was almost up. Thane wanted to stuff more credits into it and buy another few minutes—but they’d said all they could, and now more than ever, he needed to save his money for more important things. “Gotta go. I’m sorry the call’s so short, Ciena—”
“It’s all right! I’m so glad I got to see you.” Ciena kissed her own fingertips, then held them out until they seemed to brush his lips; Thane imagined he could feel the energy of the beams, electric and warm. “Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” he said in the last instant before her image blinked out.
As he walked from the holo-booth back to his barracks, Thane kept replaying their conversation in his head, marveling at how they’d managed to say everything and nothing. Ciena had agreed with him about the tragedy of Alderaan and felt the same desperate, futile longing to save the lost. More than that, she’d agreed they couldn’t just hang around in Imperial service, doing what they were told. They had to take action immediately.
Thane had already known what his path must be, but now that he knew Ciena was with him, nothing could hold him back.
The next day, he completed his morning flight pattern as usual, then managed to switch to a night flight instead of his usual afternoon run. He used those afternoon hours to withdraw as many credits as possible from his account, trade them in for spice, and then trade the spice in for unmarked credits. Thane used the money to buy civilian clothes—a dark blue jacket, black pants and boots, and a gray shirt that would look at home on any world in the galaxy.
Then and only then did he go to the spaceport and find an independent freighter.
“I want to get to the nearest Hub world,” Thane said, trying to sound as confident and cocksure as the characters in those holos from long ago. “That’s all you need to know. Ask no questions and you get two-thirds of the fee up front, one-third at landing.”
The reptilian Falleen pilot laughed. “Silly human. I don’t ask questions anyway. You ready to go? We blast off within the hour.”
For one moment Thane hesitated, thinking of Ciena. Would she know where to find him?
Of course she will. She might even have left the Empire before I did, and got there before me. We’re both heading in the same direction. Nothing in the galaxy can stop us.
“Yeah,” Thane said. “I’m ready.”
As Ciena lay in her bunk a few nights later, she whispered, “Do you think we should do something for Nash?”
“Ughhhh.” Berisse’s voice was hoarse from sleep. “You do realize this is the middle of my down shift, right?”
“Sorry. I’m just worried about him, that’s all. It’s like Nash is sleepwalking through his duties. Only half alive.”
“Sounds about right, after what happened.” Berisse leaned over the edge of her top bunk; her long black hair streamed around her upside-down face. “You’re thinking about Nash mostly because it’s the only thing that keeps you from thinking about Thane, aren’t you?”
“It isn’t!” Ciena rolled over on one side, flipping back her gray blanket so she could gesture for emphasis. “I’ve hardly been daydreaming on my shifts—they even let me handle auxiliary navigation yesterday.”
“I didn’t mean on the job. Put you at your duty station and you’re flawless. It’s only every other waking moment that you’re dedicated to Thane.”
“You’re just teasing me because I wouldn’t stop talking about his holo the other night.”
“Exactly. So shut up and let me sleep.” Berisse’s face vanished, and above Ciena heard the rustle of blankets and mattress.
Still, Berisse wouldn’t be asleep again yet. “We really do have to do something for Nash. I meant that. He’s hurting terribly and won’t admit it.”
“He’s doing about as well as can be expected. Nash is picking up extra shifts—keeping busy. Best thing for him.”
Probably that was true. “Still, we could figure out other ways to fill his time. Maybe invite him to work out in the gym someday, play grav-ball, that kind of thing.”
“Sure. Give it a try,” Berisse mumbled. By then she was deeply drowsy, barely conscious. No doubt she had no idea what Ciena had even said.
Grav-ball. The suggestion was so trivial it embarrassed Ciena; that was no consolation for the loss of a world. Then again, what was? Nash would have to rebuild his life day by day, even hour by hour. For now, as a friend, all Ciena could do was help fill some of those hours.
She rolled over and clutched her pillow as she tried to settle down. But she remained worried about Nash, miffed that Berisse had accused her of thinking about nothing but Thane—
—and happy to keep thinking about Thane.
That was the time to think of him, though. No duty, no distractions, only the memory of the extraordinary holo-message from a few days before. Ciena smiled to herself as she thought of the way they
’d said so much in so few words. Thane had agreed with her about sticking to their duty, concentrating on fighting the war to the best of their ability, and finding ways to be together again as often as their service would allow.
She fell asleep amid a vision that was half hope, half dream—Thane transferred to the Devastator as a TIE pilot, flying alongside Lord Vader himself, coming back to her at the end of every shift. That dream suffused her entire night, which was one reason why the news the next morning came as such a wretched shock.
“There has to be a mistake,” Ciena said, staring at Nash. “You got the names wrong.”
“I was his roommate for three years. Trust me, I know his name.” Nash even turned the tablet around so she could see for herself. They stood outside the commissary; nobody was around to overhear except a few groggy pilots staggering in to get their breakfast and caf. “Lieutenant Thane Kyrell, designation A-V-five-four-seven, deserted duty as of three Kerev Doi days ago.”
She clutched at the sleeve of Nash’s uniform. “He wouldn’t desert. His ship crashed—or he’s been taken prisoner by some local roughs, something like that.”
“You’d think his superiors would have checked that out. But perhaps you’re right. It’s not like Thane to run.” Nash stepped closer to her, lowered his voice. “I didn’t tell you this to frighten you. One of the ISB officers questioned me this morning about Thane’s loyalties, political beliefs, all the rest. I was able to assure them that Thane is no rebel, but I can tell they’re not satisfied.”
Ciena understood now. They would question her next.
So she walked straight to the office of the senior ISB officer aboard, Captain Ronnadam, and had herself announced. She stood in front of him at attention as she said, “I’ve come to volunteer what information I have about Lieutenant Kyrell, sir.”
“Our vagabond on Kerev Doi. Or once on Kerev Doi.” Ronnadam squinted at her. “Do you think he’s a traitor or merely a deserter?”
“He is no traitor,” she answered with as much force as she dared. It was important that the general understand they were on the same side—all three of them. “Thane—Lieutenant Kyrell has repeatedly described the rebels as terrorists, sir. In our last communication, he expressed his deep sorrow and anguish about the destruction of the Death Star.”
