Project Boussh: He Who Keeps You By Durandir *I think I'm in trouble...in fact, I'm quite certain...* Her eyes snapped open suddenly and Becki found herself lost in the disorienting feeling that comes with awakening in a strange place. It took her several moments to recall what had happened, and then the disorientation gave way to simple confusion. "I can't be dead," she whispered, "because this can't possibly be heaven." A quick glance about the room as she carefully sat up confirmed the unlikelihood of it being any such place. Especially when she noted the heavy iron grillwork on the room's only window and the matching door of intricately cut grating opposite it. "Looks somewhat Baroque. Great, that's all I need right now-Death By Frills," she announced to the silence surrounding her. "Who on earth designed such a thing anyway? If the door's made of bars I assume this is some sort of prison. So why make it so decorative?" No answer met her queries; not that she had expected any, but it was reassuring somehow to find that her voice still worked. She got up from the uncomfortable little cot on which she had been sleeping and went about investigating the contents of the room. What she saw puzzled her. While the barred window and door seemed to indicate a prison, the room itself was luxuriously decorated-though, in keeping with the grillwork, everything seemed inspired by Baroque flights of fancy and love of irregularity. Taken together, the effect was rather garish. There was a rug woven with elaborate scenes of flora and fauna in bright colors, a table of some dark wood carved with intricate designs-and bolted to the floor, which seemed to strengthen the prison theory-a chair similarly carved and bolted, and a marble bookcase. The latter particularly surprised her. "Why books in a prison cell? Especially if the prisoner's a lit student? Obviously they don't know who I am. Or were expecting someone else. Or weren't expecting to use this as a jail cell at all." She went to see what books the case had to offer. "How curious!" she frowned, running a finger along the spines: /Evidence as to Man's Place in Nature/, /Utopia/, /Descent of Man/, /Mein Kampf/, /Thus Spake Zarathustra/, /The Prince/, /Die Fröhliche Wissenschaft/, /Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud/, /The Birth of Tragedy/, /Beyond Good and Evil/, /Origin of Species/. "A lot of Darwin and Nietsche there. What I wouldn't give for /That Hideous Strength/ or /Starfighters of Adumar/ just now..." She settled instead for /Utopia/ as one of the few works on the shelf she didn't find thoroughly distasteful. And later, perhaps, the Macchiavelli...he could be entertaining, at least. But her mind was too busy now to read. After a while she found herself studying the patterns of the window's grillwork; the designs seemed to depict a ship of some sort. She could just make out the word "Beagle" on its side. She went to look out the window-not an easy task getting past those designs-and gasped when she saw the sheer face of the building beneath her, a building of ancient stone, plummeting miles to end in a rocky seacoast. She tried to look up and to the sides, but the grillwork made it difficult to get a good view. "How high up I am! Some sort of tower? Or maybe just a really, really tall building. Can't tell from here." She stared straight out the window for several minutes then, remembering what had happened and wondering how she had got to this place, trying to make sense of what she saw, and thinking of the mission to find Quiara. "Last thing I remember," she mused aloud, "is being shot by stormtroopers. But this place doesn't seem anything like an Imperial prison. Although I suppose I really don't have much experience of Imperial prisons to judge by," she reminded herself with a weak smile. "But if I'm not being held by Imps, then who?" "I believe I can answer that," a voice broke into her reflections. Becki gasped and spun around to face the speaker. Just outside the elaborate door stood a middle-aged man in an equally elaborate uniform, something that reminded her vaguely of old /Get Smart/ episodes with the king of...what was he supposed to have been the king of, anyway? Some imagined country she couldn't remember, a parody of /Prisoner of Zenda/... no matter. But this man's uniform was the same frilly sort of affair, belts and sashes and cords and tassels and more pins and medals than she cared to count. It suited the décor of her unprisonly prison cell perfectly. "Who are you?" she asked. "Your jailer," he answered smoothly, "and if you don't mind, my dear, I'll be the one asking the questions here. To begin with-who are *you*?" "Do you normally arrest people you can't identify?" she replied with a laugh. "Now, dear lady," he frowned, "I believe I asked you to leave the questioning to me, yes? However, in this case I don't mind telling you that your arrest was not in my plans. This was merely because we were unaware of your involvement with a certain group-I am sure, my dear, you know to which group I am referring." He smiled, and her stomach knotted up with fear at the intimations behind that smile. "My troops were instructed to apprehend the parties involved in that group, which has been skirting perilously close to uncovering certain bits of information I would prefer to leave hidden. It seems that they decided one prisoner would suffice, rather than risk their lives against the others of the group, who had already dispatched two squads of my men." *So Kell and Runt and Tyria must have gotten away safely*, Becki thought. Frowning to hide her relief, she answered. "That's stormtroopers for you. But what's the deal with the stormies, anyway? You don't look like much of an Imperial." Ignoring her except for a haughty glare when she once again dared to question him, he continued, "As a member, though formerly unknown, of that group, you may be useful to us. Therefore the troopers have been spared the degree of punishment their actions might otherwise have earned them. I expect the rest of your group will come looking for you sooner or later, and when they do, I shall have them all." His smile this time was one of pure malice. "However, that is of no concern to you at the moment. So I ask again: Who, my dear, are you?" "What do you want," she asked, "name, rank, and serial number? Because I haven't any serial number, unless you want my file number at the Career Center, nor any rank except that I'm a senior, and as for my name-I'm called Durandir," she said, recalling an old code name by which she was known among the AFWers. "I'm a student, that's all. A literature student. And you have very odd taste in books." She gestured at the bookcase. "Ah, you have found those, I see," he smiled. "Odd taste? You might try reading them. You might learn to think otherwise. And you'll certainly have time enough for it. In between interrogation sessions." "I'll take that into consideration," she answered flatly, her stomach knotting again at the mention of interrogation. *If only their methods in that can be as un-Imperial as their interior decorating...* "Do that," he said. "Now, then, since you do not seem inclined to be cooperative, I'll leave you to yourself for a while and leave it to my interrogators to extract the information I seek. A pleasure making your acquaintance, Miss Durandir," he bowed mockingly and turned to leave. "Wait," she called, and he glanced back impatiently. "What is it?" "You never answered any of my questions. Will you at least tell me who you are? Besides being my jailer?" He laughed, a menacing, mocking laugh. "Why not? I am Eugor Atner, Dictator of Mendellia, soon to be Dictator of all Terra. Goodbye, dear lady." Then he was gone, and she was left staring wildly out the grating of the door, replaying the brief conversation in her mind and wondering what she was to do. She ran back over to the window and stared likewise out at the sea and sky. Where was she? Was America beyond that sea? Would she see the X-wings out this window, eventually, when they came for her? She hoped they would come for her. Yet Atner seemed to hope for it too-what did he have planned for her friends? At last she dropped with a sigh onto the bed and sat staring into space for several minutes. She could see no way out of this mess. She was roused from her reverie by the one sound she least expected to hear in this place: the familiar sound of a "meow." Her eyes grew wide as she looked toward the sound. There, outside the door where Eugor Atner had stood just recently, was a huge orange cat. "Macavity!" she cried, then dropped to a whisper in fear of being overheard: "Cavver, kitty, what on earth are you doing here? Oh, come here, you old fleabag!" The cat complied readily, squeezing through the ironwork of the door as easily as a greased pig through a farmboy's eager hands. With a graceful leap, he landed in her lap purring and pushed his nose into her chin. "Oh, Cavver," she smiled, stroking him as surprise gave way to delight, "however did you get here? You never cease to amaze me, Macavity." Macavity purred, pleased with himself for having so pleased his person. She petted him and cuddled him for a while, taking comfort in the warm familiar presence, idly wondering over the mystery of this cat and his odd ability to turn up where least expected. "So here we are, Macavity," she sighed, "you and me, stuck in this bizarre place, who knows where, and who knows what they'll do to us. Or at least me-I'm sure you'll manage to disappear before anyone else could spot you. Meanwhile, who knows how the mission is going. I wonder if they'll be able to find us. I don't even know where we are. No, maybe I do-Atner said he's dictator of Mendellia, didn't he? Perhaps this is Mendellia, then. Wherever that is." Suddenly an idea struck her; she sat up straight and held the cat at arm's length. Macavity, startled by the sudden movement, stopped purring and looked back at her quizzically. "Mac!" she whispered. "I wonder?-No-It couldn't work-but then-you did slip right through that door. And you found me, heaven only knows how. Perhaps..." She shifted onto her knees and knelt there on the bed, staring intently at the orange tomcat. "Macavity," she said solemnly, "go find Runt." Macavity looked back at her, holding his head to one side as if in question. "Go find Runt," she repeated. "Runt, your friend. The furry one. He's probably still a little blue, too, unless I've been out of it so many days that the dye's had time to fade. Remember Runt?" Macavity started purring again, still watching her as intently as she watched him. "Please, Mac? Go find Runt and bring him back." Suddenly the cat's ears pricked up; Macavity turned to face the window, then the door, his sense alert, his muscles taut. And then, in a flash of orange fur, he disappeared from her room into the hallways beyond the door's grating. She dropped back onto the bed. "I must be crazy. Sending a cat out to find help, as if he were Lassie or something...he's just a cat." But then there came to mind all those times when she had found it difficult to reconcile his odd ways with being "just a cat," and she allowed herself to hope beyond hope that it could work. "After all," she sighed, "if he was able to find me, and I've no idea how he could do that, he ought to be able to find Runt. All the cats seemed to know him by smell, almost... if he's anywhere near, Cavver will surely find him." And with another sigh, she picked up the /Utopia/ and lost herself in nowhere-land.