Moving Target
Moving Target
Disclaimers in Chapter 1.
Feedback welcomed by reviewing or by emailing the author at jennet_2@yahoo.com
Please be aware that this chapter is rated "R" for adult situations.
Moving Target
Chapter 14
The repair shop was small, constructed of duracrete blocks that had once been painted white. Its single story was capped by a flat roof of drastically faded red alloy. Left of the sliver of space allocated for the office were two garage bays, one filled to the ceiling with a monstrous collection of clutter. To compensate for the unusable bay, a metal awning had been erected off the far side of the shop.
A speeder was parked beneath its cover, access panels gaping open on all sides. Selkin slid the truck to a stop just shy of the open-air workspace and powered down. A vrelt's nest of power cables laced the awning's ceiling, dangling down here and there with sockets and connectors. One cable led to a work luma clipped to the speeder's doorframe, its beam focused brightly on the vehicle's side and on the man seated awkwardly beside it. He had one arm buried to the shoulder in the speeder's innards, his head twisted to peer into the square opening.
Anlia took a deep breath and got out of the truck. The man ignored her approach, his attention fixed on the speeder's guts.
"Excuse me."
"Go to the office to schedule an appointment."
The ground seemed to tilt beneath her feet. That voice... his voice...
"Tryss?" she managed to rasp. "Tryss Bernd?"
There wasn't even a millisecond's pause in the sounds of his tinkering. "Nope," he replied evenly. "Not me."
"I'm Josa Tollin's sister."
The man extracted his arm and turned to her. "Good for you. I'm still not any Tryss."
She looked down into eyes of a bright, piercing blue that she couldn't forget. She'd seen them wincing with regret late one terrible night as a damp, squalling bundle was handed over while her father railed in angry, frightened whispers. She shook her head. "You're Tryss," she insisted hoarsely. "Josa and Darl worked for you. You brought us their baby..."
He shook his head, nothing but polite denial in his expression. "Sorry, miss, you must be confusing me with someone else. Never heard of those people." His gaze flicked over her shoulder and his eyes tightened, just for an instant.
Selkin, sensing a difference in the rehearsed script, had exited the truck. He joined Anlia from behind, his hands falling to clasp her shoulders. A faint frown crossed his face.
The man rose stiffly, using the speeder's side to pull himself up. Subtly easing a step back, he slid one hand inside the open front of his coveralls, a turn of his shoulder half-shielding the motion.
Selkin instantly shifted in front of Anlia, tucking her behind his hip without taking his eyes off the other man. Big, good-looking in a rough sort of way, shabby around the edges in threadbare clothing and worn, oil-stained boots, he stood before them with a quiet watchfulness that was unnerving.
Anlia broke the tense standoff. "He's why I came looking for you. Have you been watching the newsnets, Tryss?"
Something flickered behind the mechanic's eyes. "Nicobar," he said in a cool tone, his hand sliding back out and falling to his side. "Name's Nicobar. You say you're having trouble with your truck?"
"No," Anlia started, confused. Selkin gestured slightly, and she subsided. Nodding, he crossed back to the driver's side, reached in, and popped the engine cover release. The big man-- Nicobar? Tryss?-- came out from beneath the awning, a slight hitch in his gait, and folded open the cover. Selkin joined him at the hood and both men leaned over the engine compartment.
Anlia steadied herself against the truck's fender. It was Tryss, she was sure of it. His hair was greying now, and not so much curly as wavy; instead of being clean-shaven, several days' growth of scruffy, grizzled whiskers covered his chin and throat. He looked bulkier, as if his middle had softened and slumped. He'd picked up a limp.
But she recognized him. It didn't matter that he called himself by another name, he was the Rebel cell organizer Josa had assisted. She pushed forward, to insist he stop playing games and help them.
"Here's your problem," the mechanic was saying loudly. He detached a converter plug and showed it to Selkin, who nodded thoughtfully. Anlia opened her mouth, and Tryss fixed her with a gimlet glare. The words shrivelled in her mouth.
"See here? The charge plate's corroded. Clean that off, wipe the contact wires with a little degreaser, she'll run sweet as syrup. My place is at 410 Bank Street," he added, low, with no change of inflection.
Anlia's heart leapt. She kept silent as Tryss scuffed the metal base of the ceralloy cylinder with an abrasive pad, then leaned into the engine again, a clean rag in his hand. "Go there, park off street behind the building, wait for me." He raised his voice again. "Now I'll just pop this back in... Start 'er up, young man, see if she runs better now."
Selkin obliged, giving a thumbs-up as the engine fired, running no differently than before.
"That'll get you on your way," Tryss announced, wiping his hands on another bit of rag. "It'll be ten, for the labor."
Anlia fumbled a 10-credit coin from her pocket and laid it in the man's large, black-creased palm. "Th-thank you," she stammered.
He nodded. "Sorry I wasn't who you were looking for," he said. "Thank you for choosing Diski's Quality Repairs."
He turned back to the speeder waiting beneath the awning. Selkin tapped the windscreen, jolting Anlia from her abstracted daze. She climbed back in the passenger seat and Selkin put the truck into reverse.
The mechanic didn't give them another glance as they pulled away, merely lowered himself carefully to the ground to resume working. Selkin nudged her knee, and handed her the datapad.
You did it! You found him! I'll kiss you later.
She smiled shakily. "I wasn't sure what was going on for a few minutes. He just about convinced me I was mistaken."
Positive sign-- he's good. Find Bank Street on the map, would you please?
~~~~~
Bank Street wasn't far from Tryss's workplace, in an old, tree-shaded neighborhood paralleling the river. High dikes reinforced the riverbank; food warehouses, most of them vacant, lined that side of the street. Smaller buildings faced them from the opposite side.
"There." Anlia pointed. "That's 410, the one with the benches out front."
Selkin slowed to a crawl. Number 410 was a small restaurant, billing itself as serving 'Fine Wine and Seafood'. On either side were a boutique and a dress shop, and then a laundry center. An alley cut through the block beside the laundry.
He pulled over to the curb just short of the alley.
You drive. I'll go first. Any trouble, TAKE OFF. Promise?
"I-I... all right. Yes." She grabbed his arm. "But be careful."
He got out, and she took his place behind the controls. Selkin walked down the alley, alert to any danger, one hand held out behind him to stay Anlia. At the end of the alley, he paused, peering around the corner for long moments-- and then he stepped around it and out of sight.
"Selkin!" Anlia gasped. She lurched the truck into motion, the repulsor field bumping and juddering along the curb. All promises to wait had vanished from her mind.
The Rebel stepped back into view, shaking his head in exasperation. Heart pounding, she braked.
"I'm sorry. I couldn't wait. I got scared you'd... "
He covered his lips with his finger, shushing her. Then he waved her on, and she steered around the rear corner of the building, into a parking area behind the block of stores. It was wide enough for two rows of speeders, and Selkin pointed to an empty spot. She parked, swallowing hard to ease the dryness of her throat.
Selkin roamed the perimeter of the lot, scouting the back doors of the shops (locked), the trash bins (full), and the other speeders (empty). The back of the lot was bounded by a line of garages; he checked each one, but they too were locked down tightly. Several had rickety staircases leading to second floors, but the windows were all tightly covered or painted out. Finally he returned to the truck.
Scoot over so I can drive if there's trouble.
"You think there will be?"
I'd rather err on the side of overcaution. Have you seen any movement in the upper floors? They look like offices, or apartments.
"No, but there're lights on in the second floor end one."
They sat, nerves singing with tension, and waited.
Someone came out the restaurant's rear door and emptied a bucket into the trash bin. When the door had closed again, thin shadows appeared, slinking around the foot of the bin-- stray meers, nosing around to get at the refuse. Later, the lights in the second floor office went out, and one by one, several people in business attire exited, crossed the lot, got into vehicles, and left.
Finally a speeder turned into the lot, pulling all the way to the back near one of the two-story garages. Selkin sat up, eyes intent on the driver.
Anlia recognized the shape of the man's broad shoulders as soon as he disembarked, even though he'd removed the coveralls. "That's Tryss," she confirmed breathlessly.
The man didn't glance their way, but he did give his head a little jerk toward the nearest staircase. After retrieving a toolcase from the cargo boot, he went up and inside.
Selkin squeezed her arm. Be careful. Stay alert. If I push you, RUN.
"It's Tryss. He led Josa's cell."
He's an unknown. Stay sharp.
Quietly they crossed the parking lot and climbed the staircase. Selkin moved slowly, pressed close to the wall, one hand behind him to press Anlia in as well. His eyes scanned the area non-stop.
The door at the top was closed. From the last step, Selkin stretched over and laid his hand on the control pad. The unlocked door slid open with a siblilant swish.
For a second, nothing happened. He poised there, head cocked, listening. Then, from inside a voice growled, "Come in."
Selkin waited for a 10-count, then leaped up the last step onto the small square landing. He pivoted around the doorframe, ducking low and to the right. He ended up in a defensive crouch in the nearest corner, shoulder blades braced in the right angle.
"Relax. Where's the girl?"
Tryss/Nicobar was seated midway across the room, aiming a blaster straight at Selkin. The Rebel straightened up slowly, hands open and away from his body.
"I'm here."
Selkin closed his eyes briefly-- Anlia simply walked heedlessly in the door, straight into the line of fire. She gave a startled gasp as she noticed the weapon, and then she was being shoved unceremoniously behind Selkin.
He stepped forward, arms wide, shielding the girl. The other man looked ever-so-slightly bemused by her incautious entry, and the barrel of the blaster notched down a degree.
"Shut the door." Tryss paused until it slid closed. "Weapons. On the table. Slowly."
Selkin spread his hands, palms out. He shook his head.
"I only have this," Anlia broke in from behind him. "I left the rifle home with Dad." She detached her utility knife from her belt and stretched over to lay it down.
"Comlinks?"
"That, too. Didn't want him comming me and yelling."
Something like exasperation crossed the big man's face. "You're either real confident liars, or real unprepared fugitives. Not sure which is worse."
"But don't you remember me at all, Tryss?" Anlia sidled out from behind Selkin. "You made it sound like you'd help me if I ever needed it."
"You, I might recognize. Him? No."
"He's a Rebel, escaped from penal colony 8625, and needing to get back to the Alliance," she told him proudly.
"I'd rather hear it in his words."
"That's the problem-- you can't."
Tryss studied them both for a long minute-- the girl, damp, mud-spattered to the knees, hair a rain-matted tangle about her shoulders; and her companion with his ill-fitting clothes bagging around his too-thin frame, weaponless in a city of enemies.
He motioned Anlia to step aside, away from the Rebel. When she was out of arm's reach, he eased over, blaster still aimed unerringly at the center of Selkin's chest, and gave him a thorough one-handed pat-down. The search turned up only Anlia's datapad clipped to his waistband, which Tryss laid on the nearby table.
Anlia watched the examination, a tickle of uncertainty springing up in her stomach. Tryss no longer looked soft or slumping, she realized; he looked hard, and distinctly unfriendly.
"All right-- sit. For the record, there's a jammer somewhere in this room; if you're wired, you can't transmit. You, Bellin-- over there."
"I knew you remembered me," Anlia said. She took the chair indicated, against the wall to Tryss's left. The words were a valiant attempt at bravado-- she was rather dismayed that they had been greeted with suspicion and a blaster. She'd expected, actually, praise and admiration for producing a fugitive of the Empire.
Tryss reclaimed his own chair, the blaster no longer pointed at his guests, but still cradled comfortably in his hand. "Right. Let's start with why I can't hear the story of this miraculous escape from the brelet's mouth."
"They did something terrible to him during interrogation. It left him unable to speak. It wiped his memory, too; though that's starting to come back."
"Torture?" Tryss shifted his gaze to Selkin.
The Rebel nodded. He raised one hand and tapped his forehead, then straightened two fingers and twisted them slowly against his temple, like a vibroblade against bone.
"Mental?" Tryss received another nod. "Mind-twisting techniques. We've been getting some nasty rumors filtering in from outside. There's something new cropping up, dirtier than the Empire's usual methods, we suspect." He paused. "I'll want to know more about that later. Now tell me this-- why haven't they run you down yet? Every body processed into that hellhole gets tagged with a tracker."
"Show him, Selkin," Anlia said quietly.
He unfastened the frayed cuff of his tunic and pushed the sleeve high up his right arm. Swinging his arm outward, he displayed the livid scar to the former cell leader.
Tryss leaned forward with a little whistle. "You have help, or you do that yourself?"
Myself. Selkin tapped his chest. He reached slowly and deliberately for the datapad. Understanding dawned in the other man's eyes, and he allowed the Rebel to pick it up and key in a line of text.
They made the mistake of assigning me to the glassworks.
The very faintest of smiles ghosted across Tryss's lips. "They do tend to underestimate one's hunger for freedom, no matter the cost." He settled back in his chair, gestured at the datapad. "From the top, then. Every detail-- fill the screen, then I'll read and ask questions. Clear?"
Selkin nodded. He took a deep breath, hunched his shoulders to loosen them, and flexed his hands. He began to tap silently at the keytiles.
Tryss shifted his gaze to Anlia. "You believe him." It was more a statement than a question.
"Yes."
"Blind faith, or realistically?"
She bit back a sharp retort. "If Selkin's faking, it's the most convincing, error-free performance in the history of acting," she said firmly. "He hasn't done the tiniest thing to make me suspect he isn't what he appears to be-- an escaped Rebel prisoner, who was tortured into amnesia and silence."
Tryss gave a brief nod. Selkin had reached the bottom of the screen; he passed the datapad over.
One afternoon, I looked up and it registered that the holocam on my workhouse was a fake. Noticing that little detail woke me up-- before that I was 'walking dead'. A 'sleeper'. Nearly catatonic, with no memory of who I'd been or why I was a prisoner.
Plotting escape came as naturally as breathing...
One single-spaced datascreen at a time, Selkin laid out his story. Tryss asked questions; Selkin, and sometimes Anlia, provided details. He wanted every snippet of information, the datapad sometimes changing hands a dozen times while he grilled the Rebel.
And a grilling it was. After an hour, Anlia asked for a drink; Tryss waved her toward the galley kitchen and told her to help herself. She brought Selkin a cup of water, and although he wasn't speaking, he drank thirstily. The room, already dim due to the tightly covered windows, began to darken perceptibly.
At last Anlia stirred. "Do you believe him yet?" she demanded. She could tell from the questions Tryss was firing off that Selkin's entire known history had been related, and the man was just digging for minutiae now.
He let his gaze settle on her. "Yes, as a matter of fact. Forgive my curiosity-- no one has ever successfully escaped 8625 before. The particulars could prove useful."
"But what happens next? Can you help us? Do you know a way to get Selkin off-world?"
The other man hitched his chair sideways so he could face them both at once. He rasped his hand over his chin. "Maybe. With some work-- and a healthy dose of luck." He leaned forward. "Let me ask you something. How much are you in this for? Are you shuttling an escapee to the next station-- me-- and then you're done? Are you making sure I'll take him before you cut out for home?"
Anlia rose from her chair. Her chest felt tight. She tried to answer Tryss directly, but found her eyes seeking Selkin's instead. "I will stay as long as I can be of help. I don't know what I can do-- but if you tell me, I'll do it. I won't leave until you tell me to."
Selkin's gaze was warm on hers. You're a brave girl, Anlee. I won't forget this.
Tryss slapped his thighs and stood up. "Right. We'll have to move fast. I'll need to talk to a couple of my people first, but I've got a few ideas to work on." He held out his hand to Selkin, who stood slowly to take it. "Welcome back to the Alliance to Restore the Republic, sir. We'll do our best to get you home."
~~~~~
Tryss ladled out bowls full of something involving beans, cheese, and a layer of oil floating overtop the simmering mess. He set the pot back on the cooker and sat, pulling his dinner close to his chest with one hand and reeling in the datapad with the other. Eyes fixed on its screen, he ate mechanically as he read.
Anlia picked at the spice-heavy, greasy meal. Beside her, Selkin cautiously spooned up small bites, watching the other man read. He'd opened his file of recovered memories to the cell leader, who was clearly intrigued.
Tryss's spoon scraped bottom. Surprised, he looked up from the text screen, then pushed aside the empty bowl.
"Pilot, unless I miss my guess," he said. He handed the datapad back to Selkin and eyed him speculatively. "A 'smooth, metallic moon' and 'forest celebration' makes me suspect you were at Endor," he continued softly, deliberately.
"...were at Endor and therefore can be considered one of the terrorists directly responsible for the Emperor's murder." The woman's laser eye drilled the center of his sweat-drenched forehead. Her bloodless lips quirked into a humorless smile, and one hand, cool and dry, caressed his cheek. His head was banded in place, preventing his instinct to flinch away. "We're about to have so much fun, Captain."
Endor.
A hollow opened beneath him, quicksand sides pulling him under. Holos cycloned across his mind's eye: sitting in the briefing room, studying a rotating blue holograph, head tipping sideways to catch the murmer of the man beside him; dressing in the ready room, no sound but the zip and click of fasteners and buckles; that cool, almost fatalistic calmness pooling in his belly and spreading out to his limbs as he strode to his starfighter; the utter familiarity of the power-up sequence beneath his gloved fingers...
"Did you truly fly on the side of the terrorists, Captain? Or were you perhaps flying as a defender against the Emperor's betrayers? Does it not feel right for you to be piloting a craft of the glorious Empire?"
The drums were still pounding when he reached groundside, and fires gilded the night. He stumbled down the last fern-choked slope and stepped over a mossy log, and someone let out a whooping yell that could only have come from a Corellian throat. He was grabbed and spun 'round into a back-thumping hug...
"It's all right, it's all right. You're safe, I've got you. It's all right..."
He lay on the floor, cradled in Anlia's arms, his head on her breast. His arms were around her, his hands bumping up and down on her back in a desperate hug.
"The hell? He all right?" Tryss crouched beside them, face creased in a worried frown.
Anlia's head snapped up. "Don't do that!" she snarled. "They used his own memories against him-- when they come back to him, they hurt. Do you understand?"
"I do now." Tryss spoke directly to the Rebel. "I'm sorry. I won't spring anything on you again."
Selkin couldn't nod-- he barely heard the older man. He was breathless with shock at the rent in his mind where the transparisteel talon had raked. Through it he could see her face as clearly as if she stood at Tryss's shoulder.
She'd wanted his memories-- and he'd denied her. She'd wanted him to talk-- and he'd denied her that, too.
She had been very, very annoyed.
"Give him the datapad."
"What?"
"The datapad. Put it in his hand."
The tiles were smooth beneath his fingertips. Words filled the screen, words that described her, and the contoured slab that rose and lowered, tilted and spun, steel-mesh bands clamping his body down tight. The jointed apparatus that unfolded itself above him and kissed his temple like a giant, blood-sucking insect, pressing until starbursts bloomed in his vision. The icy rush of chemicals that flooded his veins.
Tryss slid the datapad from his slackening hand. Selkin felt the grip of his calloused palm on his forearm.
"You want a hand, Bellin?"
"Please." She bent her head long enough to swipe tears from her face, and then they were struggling to rise, Tryss taking most of the weight with an arm beneath Selkin's back. They bore him over to a couch and let him sink into the cushions.
Selkin drew a deep breath into his lungs. I remember her, he tried to say.
His voice didn't work. He felt sharp disappointment. He understood now the reason his voice had frozen-- so why hadn't it unstuck?
Tryss was reading the text Selkin had just spilled out. His face didn't give away much, but the Rebel thought he saw a brief jolt of... maybe recognition? He pushed himself up against the cushions, caught the other man's eye.
What is it? He nodded at the datapad and cocked his head questioningly.
"Nothing. It's a grim description."
That's shast. Selkin snapped his fingers for the device.
You recognize her?
The other man hesitated just long enough for Selkin's suspicions to be confirmed. "Maybe."
Who is she?
But he shook his head. "No. One bombshell a night is enough. Besides, I'm not certain, and I imagine guessing would do more harm than good." He turned to Anlia. "Look here-- I think you should bunk here tonight. You bring any luggage with you? Let's go down and get it then, and you can settle in for the night."
When they returned, Tryss nodded toward a partitioned-off corner in the back of the small apartment. "Bellin, you can have the bedroom; I'll be heading out shortly, so I'll just take the floor when I get back. Flyboy can have the couch."
Anlia went to Selkin, propped wearily on Tryss's threadbare couch. Shifting her bundles to one arm, she took his hand and gave it a squeeze. When he focused on her, she urged him upright. And when he stood beside her, his arm tucked in hers, she shot Tryss a challenging look.
The older man wasn't fazed. "So it's that way, is it? Fine, I'll take the couch if there's anything left of the night when I'm done. There's clean sheets in the chest under the window." Turning aside, he began clearing the table of the dinner things.
Arms linked, Anlia and Selkin ducked through the curtained doorway into the darkened bedroom. Narrow bands of light along the ceiling showed where the walls didn't quite meet. There was no luma panel on the thin pressboard wall; Selkin slipped free and felt his way across the small space to a tabletop luma.
A double bed took up most of the room. At its foot on the back wall was a single square window, tacked over with canvas. The "chest" below it-- a heavy dairy crate likely liberated from the nearby restaurant-- held a modest collection of clothes and linens. There were no other decorations or comforts.
Anlia set the bags down and dropped to the bed. She held out her arms.
Selkin allowed himself to be drawn down. Eyes closed, he felt the soft stroke of her fingers tracing his forehead. "Are you all right?" she whispered.
He nodded. The light touch felt good; his head didn't hurt exactly, but felt as one did after a serious injury-- too shocked in the first seconds to register pain. He realized he was tensing himself in anticipation of the avalanche to come.
"You're winning, you know," she whispered, her fingers twining in his hair. "You're beating her, by being stronger than what she did to you."
It was a comforting thought. Slowly he relaxed into her embrace as the minutes clicked by and no accompanying pain rushed in to fill the block of clear memory in his mind. Spooned together, they lay on Tryss's bed and listened to the domestic sounds of washing up.
Footsteps crossed the uncarpeted floor; there was a whisper of cloth as the doorway drape was whisked aside. Selkin had heard him coming, but Anlia startled, half-closed eyes flying open as she jerked upright.
"Your pardon." Tryss nodded down at them. "I'm off to make contact with a couple allies, get an exit plan blocked out. It would be extremely helpful if you'd stay inside, and out of sight. I don't expect any visitors, but if someone comes to the door, don't answer it."
Selkin nodded, and Anlia said, "All right."
The older man reached behind his back and pulled a small, heavy-looking blaster from his waistband. He put it into Selkin's hand. "Fully charged," he said quietly. "Enough power to get you through a small firefight. When I return, I'll give the codeword 'roamer'-- if I don't, or if I say anything else first, be ready to start shooting." He saw the question rising on Anlia's lips and held up a hand to forestall her. "The stairs are sensor-rigged; one monitor's here, behind the headboard. It chimes when anyone crosses the fourth stair. You'll hear it even if you fall asleep."
He'd been holding a plain, dark jacket over one arm; now he shook it out and pulled it on. After shrugging it in place on his shoulders, the big man transformed indefinably-- his shoulders slumped, his middle sagged. His whole stance morphed from one of toughness-- both physical and mental-- to the doughiness of an out-of-shape middle-aged man.
"Try to get some rest. I expect things will move pretty quickly once we get going."
He let the curtain drop; they heard him cross the room, his footsteps much heavier than a moment before. The door closed behind him and several beats later a clear chime sounded behind the bed.
Selkin placed the blaster carefully on the box that served as a bedside table. By silent accord, they rose and made up the bed with clean sheets; Anlia carried the stripped linens out to the couch and folded them over the cushions.
There was a small refresher unit behind the kitchen-- it was all of one piece, a form-molded plastoid chamber that had been slotted in and linked to the existing plumbing. She washed up, changed from her clammy, wrinkled clothes, and hung them to dry on the various extruded hooks and bars in the cubicle.
Selkin lay on his back on the near side of the bed, eyes closed, arms at his sides. She crept onto the mattress from the foot of the bed, crawling carefully to not disturb him. Just as carefully, she eased down flat.
Her feet were freezing. She was scared. Her old familiar life was upended.
She didn't recognize herself.
Selkin rolled up onto his side and laid his hand on her stomach.
"I thought you were asleep!"
He shook his head. He wished he had his voice, and could pull her close in the darkness to whisper his thoughts into her ear.
He'd half expected a part-time vigilante, someone who rode out with a speederfull of buddies on dark nights to lob homemade incendiaries through recruiting office windows, or empty blasters into Imperial motorpools while shouting anti-Empire rhetoric. He'd expected to be passed from sympathizer to sympathizer like an inconvenient package until, eventually, he found a way off-world.
He had not expected Tryss to be a man who exuded the professionalism of a seasoned infiltrator, who had allies in place and ideas on the fly.
He was gratifyingly encouraged-- but it also meant his time remaining on Akrit'tar was dwindling rapidly.
That was the primary objective, after all.
And yet... he was likely to be spirited away at a moment's notice.
Her skin was warm through the thin cloth of her tunic. Selkin slid his hand lower, seeking the garment's hem, and heard her breath catch.
"I don't think we should."
He found the tunic's edge and dipped beneath it, skimming his palm up the curve of her waist.
"He might come back any minute."
We'll hear him. He hitched closer, lips finding the juncture of neck and shoulder where her skin was soft and sensitive.
"I don't think..."
She broke off in a gasp. Selkin smoothed his hand over her ribcage to cup one breast; her back arched. He caught her chin between thumb and forefinger and turned her face to his kiss.
For all her protests, her mouth softened instantly beneath his. When he knelt above her, she raised her arms so he could draw the tunic up and over her head, and then pulled him close. Skin slid deliciously against bare skin, chasing shivers of pleasure down arms and spines.
He had to roll aside to peel off their remaining clothes. When he moved back to her, her eyes glittered moistly in the scant light filtered by the door curtain.
She understood, then. That this might be their last--
"Oh! Selkin! That's so... "
Shhh. He cut off her spellbound whisper with another kiss. When their lips broke apart so he could raise up on his arms, she was too breathless for words.
He rocked her in silence; and in silence she clung and twisted beneath him.
In silence they shared these stolen moments, perhaps the final ones granted them. Their breathing reached a crescendo, paused... and broke down into ragged gasps.
He held her to his side, pretending he didn't feel the slow drip of tears against his chest.
We should get dressed. Lazily, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and was rewarded with the nuzzle of lips against his neck. Should get dressed, then catch a few hours sleep...
Her hand was roaming over his chest, down his belly... and lower. He sighed, feeling his bones melt in response. Anlia's hand kept moving in a sleepy caress.
In a minute, then. We'll get dressed in a minute.
And in silence, the minutes slipped away.
~~~to be continued
On to Chapter 15
What is it with having a chapter ready to post & Tire-Boy? Yesterday he tripped out the slider, fell onto the (lit) grill and burned his hand, and shattered a dinner plate all over the cement porch and garden, as well as knocking over the bikes & plant containers, breaking one. He's a ****ing menace. I'm waiting for the other 2 shoes to drop, since these exercises in grace usually happen in threes.
Anyway, here's some Tycho. It'll probably be the last installment until after Ep.III day.
Disclaimers in Chapter 1.
Feedback welcomed by reviewing or by emailing the author at jennet_2@yahoo.com
Please be aware that this chapter is rated "R" for adult situations.
Moving Target
Chapter 14
The repair shop was small, constructed of duracrete blocks that had once been painted white. Its single story was capped by a flat roof of drastically faded red alloy. Left of the sliver of space allocated for the office were two garage bays, one filled to the ceiling with a monstrous collection of clutter. To compensate for the unusable bay, a metal awning had been erected off the far side of the shop.
A speeder was parked beneath its cover, access panels gaping open on all sides. Selkin slid the truck to a stop just shy of the open-air workspace and powered down. A vrelt's nest of power cables laced the awning's ceiling, dangling down here and there with sockets and connectors. One cable led to a work luma clipped to the speeder's doorframe, its beam focused brightly on the vehicle's side and on the man seated awkwardly beside it. He had one arm buried to the shoulder in the speeder's innards, his head twisted to peer into the square opening.
Anlia took a deep breath and got out of the truck. The man ignored her approach, his attention fixed on the speeder's guts.
"Excuse me."
"Go to the office to schedule an appointment."
The ground seemed to tilt beneath her feet. That voice... his voice...
"Tryss?" she managed to rasp. "Tryss Bernd?"
There wasn't even a millisecond's pause in the sounds of his tinkering. "Nope," he replied evenly. "Not me."
"I'm Josa Tollin's sister."
The man extracted his arm and turned to her. "Good for you. I'm still not any Tryss."
She looked down into eyes of a bright, piercing blue that she couldn't forget. She'd seen them wincing with regret late one terrible night as a damp, squalling bundle was handed over while her father railed in angry, frightened whispers. She shook her head. "You're Tryss," she insisted hoarsely. "Josa and Darl worked for you. You brought us their baby..."
He shook his head, nothing but polite denial in his expression. "Sorry, miss, you must be confusing me with someone else. Never heard of those people." His gaze flicked over her shoulder and his eyes tightened, just for an instant.
Selkin, sensing a difference in the rehearsed script, had exited the truck. He joined Anlia from behind, his hands falling to clasp her shoulders. A faint frown crossed his face.
The man rose stiffly, using the speeder's side to pull himself up. Subtly easing a step back, he slid one hand inside the open front of his coveralls, a turn of his shoulder half-shielding the motion.
Selkin instantly shifted in front of Anlia, tucking her behind his hip without taking his eyes off the other man. Big, good-looking in a rough sort of way, shabby around the edges in threadbare clothing and worn, oil-stained boots, he stood before them with a quiet watchfulness that was unnerving.
Anlia broke the tense standoff. "He's why I came looking for you. Have you been watching the newsnets, Tryss?"
Something flickered behind the mechanic's eyes. "Nicobar," he said in a cool tone, his hand sliding back out and falling to his side. "Name's Nicobar. You say you're having trouble with your truck?"
"No," Anlia started, confused. Selkin gestured slightly, and she subsided. Nodding, he crossed back to the driver's side, reached in, and popped the engine cover release. The big man-- Nicobar? Tryss?-- came out from beneath the awning, a slight hitch in his gait, and folded open the cover. Selkin joined him at the hood and both men leaned over the engine compartment.
Anlia steadied herself against the truck's fender. It was Tryss, she was sure of it. His hair was greying now, and not so much curly as wavy; instead of being clean-shaven, several days' growth of scruffy, grizzled whiskers covered his chin and throat. He looked bulkier, as if his middle had softened and slumped. He'd picked up a limp.
But she recognized him. It didn't matter that he called himself by another name, he was the Rebel cell organizer Josa had assisted. She pushed forward, to insist he stop playing games and help them.
"Here's your problem," the mechanic was saying loudly. He detached a converter plug and showed it to Selkin, who nodded thoughtfully. Anlia opened her mouth, and Tryss fixed her with a gimlet glare. The words shrivelled in her mouth.
"See here? The charge plate's corroded. Clean that off, wipe the contact wires with a little degreaser, she'll run sweet as syrup. My place is at 410 Bank Street," he added, low, with no change of inflection.
Anlia's heart leapt. She kept silent as Tryss scuffed the metal base of the ceralloy cylinder with an abrasive pad, then leaned into the engine again, a clean rag in his hand. "Go there, park off street behind the building, wait for me." He raised his voice again. "Now I'll just pop this back in... Start 'er up, young man, see if she runs better now."
Selkin obliged, giving a thumbs-up as the engine fired, running no differently than before.
"That'll get you on your way," Tryss announced, wiping his hands on another bit of rag. "It'll be ten, for the labor."
Anlia fumbled a 10-credit coin from her pocket and laid it in the man's large, black-creased palm. "Th-thank you," she stammered.
He nodded. "Sorry I wasn't who you were looking for," he said. "Thank you for choosing Diski's Quality Repairs."
He turned back to the speeder waiting beneath the awning. Selkin tapped the windscreen, jolting Anlia from her abstracted daze. She climbed back in the passenger seat and Selkin put the truck into reverse.
The mechanic didn't give them another glance as they pulled away, merely lowered himself carefully to the ground to resume working. Selkin nudged her knee, and handed her the datapad.
You did it! You found him! I'll kiss you later.
She smiled shakily. "I wasn't sure what was going on for a few minutes. He just about convinced me I was mistaken."
Positive sign-- he's good. Find Bank Street on the map, would you please?
~~~~~
Bank Street wasn't far from Tryss's workplace, in an old, tree-shaded neighborhood paralleling the river. High dikes reinforced the riverbank; food warehouses, most of them vacant, lined that side of the street. Smaller buildings faced them from the opposite side.
"There." Anlia pointed. "That's 410, the one with the benches out front."
Selkin slowed to a crawl. Number 410 was a small restaurant, billing itself as serving 'Fine Wine and Seafood'. On either side were a boutique and a dress shop, and then a laundry center. An alley cut through the block beside the laundry.
He pulled over to the curb just short of the alley.
You drive. I'll go first. Any trouble, TAKE OFF. Promise?
"I-I... all right. Yes." She grabbed his arm. "But be careful."
He got out, and she took his place behind the controls. Selkin walked down the alley, alert to any danger, one hand held out behind him to stay Anlia. At the end of the alley, he paused, peering around the corner for long moments-- and then he stepped around it and out of sight.
"Selkin!" Anlia gasped. She lurched the truck into motion, the repulsor field bumping and juddering along the curb. All promises to wait had vanished from her mind.
The Rebel stepped back into view, shaking his head in exasperation. Heart pounding, she braked.
"I'm sorry. I couldn't wait. I got scared you'd... "
He covered his lips with his finger, shushing her. Then he waved her on, and she steered around the rear corner of the building, into a parking area behind the block of stores. It was wide enough for two rows of speeders, and Selkin pointed to an empty spot. She parked, swallowing hard to ease the dryness of her throat.
Selkin roamed the perimeter of the lot, scouting the back doors of the shops (locked), the trash bins (full), and the other speeders (empty). The back of the lot was bounded by a line of garages; he checked each one, but they too were locked down tightly. Several had rickety staircases leading to second floors, but the windows were all tightly covered or painted out. Finally he returned to the truck.
Scoot over so I can drive if there's trouble.
"You think there will be?"
I'd rather err on the side of overcaution. Have you seen any movement in the upper floors? They look like offices, or apartments.
"No, but there're lights on in the second floor end one."
They sat, nerves singing with tension, and waited.
Someone came out the restaurant's rear door and emptied a bucket into the trash bin. When the door had closed again, thin shadows appeared, slinking around the foot of the bin-- stray meers, nosing around to get at the refuse. Later, the lights in the second floor office went out, and one by one, several people in business attire exited, crossed the lot, got into vehicles, and left.
Finally a speeder turned into the lot, pulling all the way to the back near one of the two-story garages. Selkin sat up, eyes intent on the driver.
Anlia recognized the shape of the man's broad shoulders as soon as he disembarked, even though he'd removed the coveralls. "That's Tryss," she confirmed breathlessly.
The man didn't glance their way, but he did give his head a little jerk toward the nearest staircase. After retrieving a toolcase from the cargo boot, he went up and inside.
Selkin squeezed her arm. Be careful. Stay alert. If I push you, RUN.
"It's Tryss. He led Josa's cell."
He's an unknown. Stay sharp.
Quietly they crossed the parking lot and climbed the staircase. Selkin moved slowly, pressed close to the wall, one hand behind him to press Anlia in as well. His eyes scanned the area non-stop.
The door at the top was closed. From the last step, Selkin stretched over and laid his hand on the control pad. The unlocked door slid open with a siblilant swish.
For a second, nothing happened. He poised there, head cocked, listening. Then, from inside a voice growled, "Come in."
Selkin waited for a 10-count, then leaped up the last step onto the small square landing. He pivoted around the doorframe, ducking low and to the right. He ended up in a defensive crouch in the nearest corner, shoulder blades braced in the right angle.
"Relax. Where's the girl?"
Tryss/Nicobar was seated midway across the room, aiming a blaster straight at Selkin. The Rebel straightened up slowly, hands open and away from his body.
"I'm here."
Selkin closed his eyes briefly-- Anlia simply walked heedlessly in the door, straight into the line of fire. She gave a startled gasp as she noticed the weapon, and then she was being shoved unceremoniously behind Selkin.
He stepped forward, arms wide, shielding the girl. The other man looked ever-so-slightly bemused by her incautious entry, and the barrel of the blaster notched down a degree.
"Shut the door." Tryss paused until it slid closed. "Weapons. On the table. Slowly."
Selkin spread his hands, palms out. He shook his head.
"I only have this," Anlia broke in from behind him. "I left the rifle home with Dad." She detached her utility knife from her belt and stretched over to lay it down.
"Comlinks?"
"That, too. Didn't want him comming me and yelling."
Something like exasperation crossed the big man's face. "You're either real confident liars, or real unprepared fugitives. Not sure which is worse."
"But don't you remember me at all, Tryss?" Anlia sidled out from behind Selkin. "You made it sound like you'd help me if I ever needed it."
"You, I might recognize. Him? No."
"He's a Rebel, escaped from penal colony 8625, and needing to get back to the Alliance," she told him proudly.
"I'd rather hear it in his words."
"That's the problem-- you can't."
Tryss studied them both for a long minute-- the girl, damp, mud-spattered to the knees, hair a rain-matted tangle about her shoulders; and her companion with his ill-fitting clothes bagging around his too-thin frame, weaponless in a city of enemies.
He motioned Anlia to step aside, away from the Rebel. When she was out of arm's reach, he eased over, blaster still aimed unerringly at the center of Selkin's chest, and gave him a thorough one-handed pat-down. The search turned up only Anlia's datapad clipped to his waistband, which Tryss laid on the nearby table.
Anlia watched the examination, a tickle of uncertainty springing up in her stomach. Tryss no longer looked soft or slumping, she realized; he looked hard, and distinctly unfriendly.
"All right-- sit. For the record, there's a jammer somewhere in this room; if you're wired, you can't transmit. You, Bellin-- over there."
"I knew you remembered me," Anlia said. She took the chair indicated, against the wall to Tryss's left. The words were a valiant attempt at bravado-- she was rather dismayed that they had been greeted with suspicion and a blaster. She'd expected, actually, praise and admiration for producing a fugitive of the Empire.
Tryss reclaimed his own chair, the blaster no longer pointed at his guests, but still cradled comfortably in his hand. "Right. Let's start with why I can't hear the story of this miraculous escape from the brelet's mouth."
"They did something terrible to him during interrogation. It left him unable to speak. It wiped his memory, too; though that's starting to come back."
"Torture?" Tryss shifted his gaze to Selkin.
The Rebel nodded. He raised one hand and tapped his forehead, then straightened two fingers and twisted them slowly against his temple, like a vibroblade against bone.
"Mental?" Tryss received another nod. "Mind-twisting techniques. We've been getting some nasty rumors filtering in from outside. There's something new cropping up, dirtier than the Empire's usual methods, we suspect." He paused. "I'll want to know more about that later. Now tell me this-- why haven't they run you down yet? Every body processed into that hellhole gets tagged with a tracker."
"Show him, Selkin," Anlia said quietly.
He unfastened the frayed cuff of his tunic and pushed the sleeve high up his right arm. Swinging his arm outward, he displayed the livid scar to the former cell leader.
Tryss leaned forward with a little whistle. "You have help, or you do that yourself?"
Myself. Selkin tapped his chest. He reached slowly and deliberately for the datapad. Understanding dawned in the other man's eyes, and he allowed the Rebel to pick it up and key in a line of text.
They made the mistake of assigning me to the glassworks.
The very faintest of smiles ghosted across Tryss's lips. "They do tend to underestimate one's hunger for freedom, no matter the cost." He settled back in his chair, gestured at the datapad. "From the top, then. Every detail-- fill the screen, then I'll read and ask questions. Clear?"
Selkin nodded. He took a deep breath, hunched his shoulders to loosen them, and flexed his hands. He began to tap silently at the keytiles.
Tryss shifted his gaze to Anlia. "You believe him." It was more a statement than a question.
"Yes."
"Blind faith, or realistically?"
She bit back a sharp retort. "If Selkin's faking, it's the most convincing, error-free performance in the history of acting," she said firmly. "He hasn't done the tiniest thing to make me suspect he isn't what he appears to be-- an escaped Rebel prisoner, who was tortured into amnesia and silence."
Tryss gave a brief nod. Selkin had reached the bottom of the screen; he passed the datapad over.
One afternoon, I looked up and it registered that the holocam on my workhouse was a fake. Noticing that little detail woke me up-- before that I was 'walking dead'. A 'sleeper'. Nearly catatonic, with no memory of who I'd been or why I was a prisoner.
Plotting escape came as naturally as breathing...
One single-spaced datascreen at a time, Selkin laid out his story. Tryss asked questions; Selkin, and sometimes Anlia, provided details. He wanted every snippet of information, the datapad sometimes changing hands a dozen times while he grilled the Rebel.
And a grilling it was. After an hour, Anlia asked for a drink; Tryss waved her toward the galley kitchen and told her to help herself. She brought Selkin a cup of water, and although he wasn't speaking, he drank thirstily. The room, already dim due to the tightly covered windows, began to darken perceptibly.
At last Anlia stirred. "Do you believe him yet?" she demanded. She could tell from the questions Tryss was firing off that Selkin's entire known history had been related, and the man was just digging for minutiae now.
He let his gaze settle on her. "Yes, as a matter of fact. Forgive my curiosity-- no one has ever successfully escaped 8625 before. The particulars could prove useful."
"But what happens next? Can you help us? Do you know a way to get Selkin off-world?"
The other man hitched his chair sideways so he could face them both at once. He rasped his hand over his chin. "Maybe. With some work-- and a healthy dose of luck." He leaned forward. "Let me ask you something. How much are you in this for? Are you shuttling an escapee to the next station-- me-- and then you're done? Are you making sure I'll take him before you cut out for home?"
Anlia rose from her chair. Her chest felt tight. She tried to answer Tryss directly, but found her eyes seeking Selkin's instead. "I will stay as long as I can be of help. I don't know what I can do-- but if you tell me, I'll do it. I won't leave until you tell me to."
Selkin's gaze was warm on hers. You're a brave girl, Anlee. I won't forget this.
Tryss slapped his thighs and stood up. "Right. We'll have to move fast. I'll need to talk to a couple of my people first, but I've got a few ideas to work on." He held out his hand to Selkin, who stood slowly to take it. "Welcome back to the Alliance to Restore the Republic, sir. We'll do our best to get you home."
~~~~~
Tryss ladled out bowls full of something involving beans, cheese, and a layer of oil floating overtop the simmering mess. He set the pot back on the cooker and sat, pulling his dinner close to his chest with one hand and reeling in the datapad with the other. Eyes fixed on its screen, he ate mechanically as he read.
Anlia picked at the spice-heavy, greasy meal. Beside her, Selkin cautiously spooned up small bites, watching the other man read. He'd opened his file of recovered memories to the cell leader, who was clearly intrigued.
Tryss's spoon scraped bottom. Surprised, he looked up from the text screen, then pushed aside the empty bowl.
"Pilot, unless I miss my guess," he said. He handed the datapad back to Selkin and eyed him speculatively. "A 'smooth, metallic moon' and 'forest celebration' makes me suspect you were at Endor," he continued softly, deliberately.
"...were at Endor and therefore can be considered one of the terrorists directly responsible for the Emperor's murder." The woman's laser eye drilled the center of his sweat-drenched forehead. Her bloodless lips quirked into a humorless smile, and one hand, cool and dry, caressed his cheek. His head was banded in place, preventing his instinct to flinch away. "We're about to have so much fun, Captain."
Endor.
A hollow opened beneath him, quicksand sides pulling him under. Holos cycloned across his mind's eye: sitting in the briefing room, studying a rotating blue holograph, head tipping sideways to catch the murmer of the man beside him; dressing in the ready room, no sound but the zip and click of fasteners and buckles; that cool, almost fatalistic calmness pooling in his belly and spreading out to his limbs as he strode to his starfighter; the utter familiarity of the power-up sequence beneath his gloved fingers...
"Did you truly fly on the side of the terrorists, Captain? Or were you perhaps flying as a defender against the Emperor's betrayers? Does it not feel right for you to be piloting a craft of the glorious Empire?"
The drums were still pounding when he reached groundside, and fires gilded the night. He stumbled down the last fern-choked slope and stepped over a mossy log, and someone let out a whooping yell that could only have come from a Corellian throat. He was grabbed and spun 'round into a back-thumping hug...
"It's all right, it's all right. You're safe, I've got you. It's all right..."
He lay on the floor, cradled in Anlia's arms, his head on her breast. His arms were around her, his hands bumping up and down on her back in a desperate hug.
"The hell? He all right?" Tryss crouched beside them, face creased in a worried frown.
Anlia's head snapped up. "Don't do that!" she snarled. "They used his own memories against him-- when they come back to him, they hurt. Do you understand?"
"I do now." Tryss spoke directly to the Rebel. "I'm sorry. I won't spring anything on you again."
Selkin couldn't nod-- he barely heard the older man. He was breathless with shock at the rent in his mind where the transparisteel talon had raked. Through it he could see her face as clearly as if she stood at Tryss's shoulder.
She'd wanted his memories-- and he'd denied her. She'd wanted him to talk-- and he'd denied her that, too.
She had been very, very annoyed.
"Give him the datapad."
"What?"
"The datapad. Put it in his hand."
The tiles were smooth beneath his fingertips. Words filled the screen, words that described her, and the contoured slab that rose and lowered, tilted and spun, steel-mesh bands clamping his body down tight. The jointed apparatus that unfolded itself above him and kissed his temple like a giant, blood-sucking insect, pressing until starbursts bloomed in his vision. The icy rush of chemicals that flooded his veins.
Tryss slid the datapad from his slackening hand. Selkin felt the grip of his calloused palm on his forearm.
"You want a hand, Bellin?"
"Please." She bent her head long enough to swipe tears from her face, and then they were struggling to rise, Tryss taking most of the weight with an arm beneath Selkin's back. They bore him over to a couch and let him sink into the cushions.
Selkin drew a deep breath into his lungs. I remember her, he tried to say.
His voice didn't work. He felt sharp disappointment. He understood now the reason his voice had frozen-- so why hadn't it unstuck?
Tryss was reading the text Selkin had just spilled out. His face didn't give away much, but the Rebel thought he saw a brief jolt of... maybe recognition? He pushed himself up against the cushions, caught the other man's eye.
What is it? He nodded at the datapad and cocked his head questioningly.
"Nothing. It's a grim description."
That's shast. Selkin snapped his fingers for the device.
You recognize her?
The other man hesitated just long enough for Selkin's suspicions to be confirmed. "Maybe."
Who is she?
But he shook his head. "No. One bombshell a night is enough. Besides, I'm not certain, and I imagine guessing would do more harm than good." He turned to Anlia. "Look here-- I think you should bunk here tonight. You bring any luggage with you? Let's go down and get it then, and you can settle in for the night."
When they returned, Tryss nodded toward a partitioned-off corner in the back of the small apartment. "Bellin, you can have the bedroom; I'll be heading out shortly, so I'll just take the floor when I get back. Flyboy can have the couch."
Anlia went to Selkin, propped wearily on Tryss's threadbare couch. Shifting her bundles to one arm, she took his hand and gave it a squeeze. When he focused on her, she urged him upright. And when he stood beside her, his arm tucked in hers, she shot Tryss a challenging look.
The older man wasn't fazed. "So it's that way, is it? Fine, I'll take the couch if there's anything left of the night when I'm done. There's clean sheets in the chest under the window." Turning aside, he began clearing the table of the dinner things.
Arms linked, Anlia and Selkin ducked through the curtained doorway into the darkened bedroom. Narrow bands of light along the ceiling showed where the walls didn't quite meet. There was no luma panel on the thin pressboard wall; Selkin slipped free and felt his way across the small space to a tabletop luma.
A double bed took up most of the room. At its foot on the back wall was a single square window, tacked over with canvas. The "chest" below it-- a heavy dairy crate likely liberated from the nearby restaurant-- held a modest collection of clothes and linens. There were no other decorations or comforts.
Anlia set the bags down and dropped to the bed. She held out her arms.
Selkin allowed himself to be drawn down. Eyes closed, he felt the soft stroke of her fingers tracing his forehead. "Are you all right?" she whispered.
He nodded. The light touch felt good; his head didn't hurt exactly, but felt as one did after a serious injury-- too shocked in the first seconds to register pain. He realized he was tensing himself in anticipation of the avalanche to come.
"You're winning, you know," she whispered, her fingers twining in his hair. "You're beating her, by being stronger than what she did to you."
It was a comforting thought. Slowly he relaxed into her embrace as the minutes clicked by and no accompanying pain rushed in to fill the block of clear memory in his mind. Spooned together, they lay on Tryss's bed and listened to the domestic sounds of washing up.
Footsteps crossed the uncarpeted floor; there was a whisper of cloth as the doorway drape was whisked aside. Selkin had heard him coming, but Anlia startled, half-closed eyes flying open as she jerked upright.
"Your pardon." Tryss nodded down at them. "I'm off to make contact with a couple allies, get an exit plan blocked out. It would be extremely helpful if you'd stay inside, and out of sight. I don't expect any visitors, but if someone comes to the door, don't answer it."
Selkin nodded, and Anlia said, "All right."
The older man reached behind his back and pulled a small, heavy-looking blaster from his waistband. He put it into Selkin's hand. "Fully charged," he said quietly. "Enough power to get you through a small firefight. When I return, I'll give the codeword 'roamer'-- if I don't, or if I say anything else first, be ready to start shooting." He saw the question rising on Anlia's lips and held up a hand to forestall her. "The stairs are sensor-rigged; one monitor's here, behind the headboard. It chimes when anyone crosses the fourth stair. You'll hear it even if you fall asleep."
He'd been holding a plain, dark jacket over one arm; now he shook it out and pulled it on. After shrugging it in place on his shoulders, the big man transformed indefinably-- his shoulders slumped, his middle sagged. His whole stance morphed from one of toughness-- both physical and mental-- to the doughiness of an out-of-shape middle-aged man.
"Try to get some rest. I expect things will move pretty quickly once we get going."
He let the curtain drop; they heard him cross the room, his footsteps much heavier than a moment before. The door closed behind him and several beats later a clear chime sounded behind the bed.
Selkin placed the blaster carefully on the box that served as a bedside table. By silent accord, they rose and made up the bed with clean sheets; Anlia carried the stripped linens out to the couch and folded them over the cushions.
There was a small refresher unit behind the kitchen-- it was all of one piece, a form-molded plastoid chamber that had been slotted in and linked to the existing plumbing. She washed up, changed from her clammy, wrinkled clothes, and hung them to dry on the various extruded hooks and bars in the cubicle.
Selkin lay on his back on the near side of the bed, eyes closed, arms at his sides. She crept onto the mattress from the foot of the bed, crawling carefully to not disturb him. Just as carefully, she eased down flat.
Her feet were freezing. She was scared. Her old familiar life was upended.
She didn't recognize herself.
Selkin rolled up onto his side and laid his hand on her stomach.
"I thought you were asleep!"
He shook his head. He wished he had his voice, and could pull her close in the darkness to whisper his thoughts into her ear.
He'd half expected a part-time vigilante, someone who rode out with a speederfull of buddies on dark nights to lob homemade incendiaries through recruiting office windows, or empty blasters into Imperial motorpools while shouting anti-Empire rhetoric. He'd expected to be passed from sympathizer to sympathizer like an inconvenient package until, eventually, he found a way off-world.
He had not expected Tryss to be a man who exuded the professionalism of a seasoned infiltrator, who had allies in place and ideas on the fly.
He was gratifyingly encouraged-- but it also meant his time remaining on Akrit'tar was dwindling rapidly.
That was the primary objective, after all.
And yet... he was likely to be spirited away at a moment's notice.
Her skin was warm through the thin cloth of her tunic. Selkin slid his hand lower, seeking the garment's hem, and heard her breath catch.
"I don't think we should."
He found the tunic's edge and dipped beneath it, skimming his palm up the curve of her waist.
"He might come back any minute."
We'll hear him. He hitched closer, lips finding the juncture of neck and shoulder where her skin was soft and sensitive.
"I don't think..."
She broke off in a gasp. Selkin smoothed his hand over her ribcage to cup one breast; her back arched. He caught her chin between thumb and forefinger and turned her face to his kiss.
For all her protests, her mouth softened instantly beneath his. When he knelt above her, she raised her arms so he could draw the tunic up and over her head, and then pulled him close. Skin slid deliciously against bare skin, chasing shivers of pleasure down arms and spines.
He had to roll aside to peel off their remaining clothes. When he moved back to her, her eyes glittered moistly in the scant light filtered by the door curtain.
She understood, then. That this might be their last--
"Oh! Selkin! That's so... "
Shhh. He cut off her spellbound whisper with another kiss. When their lips broke apart so he could raise up on his arms, she was too breathless for words.
He rocked her in silence; and in silence she clung and twisted beneath him.
In silence they shared these stolen moments, perhaps the final ones granted them. Their breathing reached a crescendo, paused... and broke down into ragged gasps.
He held her to his side, pretending he didn't feel the slow drip of tears against his chest.
We should get dressed. Lazily, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and was rewarded with the nuzzle of lips against his neck. Should get dressed, then catch a few hours sleep...
Her hand was roaming over his chest, down his belly... and lower. He sighed, feeling his bones melt in response. Anlia's hand kept moving in a sleepy caress.
In a minute, then. We'll get dressed in a minute.
And in silence, the minutes slipped away.
~~~to be continued
On to Chapter 15
What is it with having a chapter ready to post & Tire-Boy? Yesterday he tripped out the slider, fell onto the (lit) grill and burned his hand, and shattered a dinner plate all over the cement porch and garden, as well as knocking over the bikes & plant containers, breaking one. He's a ****ing menace. I'm waiting for the other 2 shoes to drop, since these exercises in grace usually happen in threes.
Anyway, here's some Tycho. It'll probably be the last installment until after Ep.III day.