Project Boussh: Epilogue: Trouble On Backorder by Brad Corletti It was a mistake to come, Brad realised now, realised that he'd known it was a mistake all along, but he'd come along anyway, even though his rational and irrational minds had screamed at him not to. It wasn't because of the scenery, which was charming in a King Arthur kind of way, or because of the music, which he found irritatingly ancient and nearly impossible to stand. It wasn't the food, commandeered from Mendellian kitchens and heaped in great piles by man and Ewok alike with no regard for the vital seperation of sweet from savoury. No, it was the woman walking into the courtyard that was the cause of his trouble. The woman he had shot out of the sky and landed as a wounded prisoner aboard an enemy warship. No matter how he tried to spin it, he always came up with the same message. The road to Hell is paved with good intentions. If ever there was a test for that expression, this was it. He hadn't intended any harm - had in fact worked with Dorset's interests in mind. But the facts are the facts, aren't they? And wouldn't she hate him for it? He slammed down the last of his Idaho potato vodka and intercepted her. If this was going to blow up in his face, best to get it out of the way while the night was young. It's amazing how the most irrelevant thoughts can cross your mind when you're moving across a sparsely packed dance floor. He remembered that Coruscant natives in the New Republic armed forces often felt unsure around those from other worlds, and realised that but for the pavillion, and the modest castle walls, they were under the open air - a novel experience for a Coruscant native, no doubt. But then, Dorset had had long years to grow accustomed to the thought of worlds where the dirt was as familiar to the feet as the tread of droid-manufactured duracrete. She spotted him, and smoothly shifted course to meet his attack head on. He could feel sighting lasers bouncing off his skin, retinal readouts feeding her targetting data; range, wind speed, air density, water vapour. He almost smiled, imagining himself starting an early turn, bleeding off airspeed, maneuvering to gain himself an advantage in the coming ground-bound dogfight. He stopped walking and simply stood before her, stripped of the acutrements of his ego. His B-wing destroyed long ago. His droid army a shambles. His Imperial uniform consigned to the incinerator. He had only himself now. Bathed in the fire of battle, forged in the furnace of death, tempered by the slightest touch of the Force. Standing tall, resolute, and completely lost for words. -- It wasn't a time for words. That much was certain. Words are constructs, social creations. They exist as a convenient short hand for the expression of ideas and feelings. Sometimes the feelings are so potent that to speak them in words cheapens them, dooms them to the duration of a single soundwave, echoing briefly until they weaken and dissolve. Dorset's gaze was unwavering. She was no meek wallflower. Dorset grew up on most populous planet in the galaxy, were competition was thickest. No child of nobilty nor priveledge, Dorset had found within herself the desire to fly, to free herself from the confines of the duracrete prison that was Coruscant. To do that she'd enlisted in the military, no easy thing in the best of times, but she'd enlisted during a time of war and emerged from her training with the coveted post of fighter pilot, the single most sought-after position in any military. Almost he faltered. Almost he surrendered to the temptation. She was strong, but was he? Time to seize the initiative. Brad withdrew a shiny silver CD single from a pocket and casually threw it at Mike. The CD flew smoothly through the air and into Mike's waiting hand, as he deftly caught it. The CD had a note attached, which said simply "Play this now or every BLR in the universe will hunt you down whereever you go." Mike smiled and laughed, but when he looked over at Brad to share the joke he saw the expression on Brad's face. The smile disappeared and he mutely put the CD in. Out with the old, in with the new. The BPM shoots forward. Treble vanishes and is replaced by the sharp snaps of fast percussion. A few thumps from deep, bouncy bass. Brad thumps his feet for a few, then begins to move, working his way into the track from the ground up, his eyes locked on Dorset's the entire time. Dorset follows suit. A male vocalist, his voice brutal, dares to marr the sound: "Pointed at your temple, pointed-pointed at your temple. Pointed at your temple, with th' intent to kill." Dorset recoils. This isn't right. This is trampling on sensitive ground, reminding her of one of the gravest of his wrongs. Brad anticipates this and reaches out to her, moving all the while. The dam breaks, and the song begins. Synths climb mountains of colour while the percussion keeps the track moving forwards, keeps the dancers moving. The music is now uplifting and emotional, not the cold music of the intro. Dorset relaxes, and allows herself to fall back into the rythym. A female voice answers the call, responding to the pain of the first: "Open your eyes. See all the love in me. I've got enough for ever. Don't be afraid. Take all you need from me. And we'll be strong together..." For the next four minutes, the two become one, in spirit if not in mind. "And we'll be strong together... And we'll be strong together..." -- When the track had finished, and Mike had returned to his regularly scheduled playlist, Dorset and Brad talked, the last traces of the music slowly echoing from their minds. "You know why I-" he began. "No," she interrupted. "I mean yes, but not now. You have no idea how I feel. Do you know why I joined the New Republic?" "Truth, Honour, and the Coruscant Way?" "Because I despise the Empire with every shred of my being. Palpatine's policies ran so counter to everything I have ever stood for that I left the civilian life to become a warrior to fight it." "Laying your life on the line for somebody else is the most noble thing anyone can do." "Noble. When I look at you, I see the uniform. Do you truly think the Imperial way of life is something you can discard with but a thought? Do you think it didn't leave its mark on you? How long were you a part of the most evil thing Humanity has ever done?" Brad looked away. "Too long." "Why did you give it up?" "For you. Partly." "For me. If you had any respect for me, you'd know what a mistake that was to say. Being anti-Imperial isn't a fashion trend. It defines us. For you to abandon it simply to impress me is simply a reflection on how shallow you really are." "I said partly. There's blood on my hands." "That's right," she said, closing in for the kill. "How will you ever wash it clean?" The words were delivered with a cold finality, that spoke of things to come, unkept promises, accounts to be settled: "There's only one way." "Dorset, I never meant to hurt you. I tried to keep you out of it, but you wouldn't have any of it... I never meant to hurt you." "You had a funny way of showing it." "I did the best with what I had to work with. It all went wrong when I shot you with the ion cannon. Bad intelligence. There's a conflict in the canon. Some reports state that ion cannons ignore shields. Some say they're worse for anti-shield work than blasters. I thought - gambled - that you'd have no trouble taking a few ion bursts." "And then you sent me to the _Admonitor_." "Only place that I knew had bacta." "And then you held a gun to my head." "It was on stun!" -- "You saved me, Dorset." She looked away. Brad thought he saw her blushing, but in the current lighting, it was hard to tell. "I mean it, Dorset. You were the rope that saved me from the Empire's abyss. A beacon of light in the darkness." He reached out and gently turned her face back to his, holding her face in his hands. "I owe you a tremendous debt, and I have no idea how to repay it. You gave me the strength I needed to walk the true path." Dorset pulled his hands away. "No, Brad, it's not going to work like that." "What?" "You betrayed me and everything I stand for. I'm never going to be able to forget that," she stood, and began walking away, her voice carrying in the tranquil evening air. "I'm grateful that you saved my life, of course, but I'm also aware that you were the one who put it at risk in the first place. When I look at you, all I can see is another Imperial. Goodbye." As he watched her go, his heart sinking, Brad sighed. Dorset, believing others mistrusted her due to her Coruscant upbringing, had held herself to the highest standards of loyalty, and she had taken them to heart. He simply didn't make the grade. Some people forgive, others forget. Dorset, it seemed, could do neither. Nobody's perfect. Not even the woman he loves. Oh, SHIT. --------------------------------- The escape pod docked with a barely muffled clang. The crewers onboard shoved and pushed at each other, bouncing around the cramped confines in their desire to be among the first to leave the fetid, stinking air of the pod for the fresh air of their rescuers' vessel. The pod hatch hissed open and the crewers fought their way through it. The New Republic marines contented themselves with surrounding the Imperial evacuees. Davin Porsek unbelted himself from the pod and kicked up towards the hatch, floating easily in the zero gravity. As he drifted through the hatch, gravity began to pull him gently 'down' to his left, so he twirled to adjust and landed on his feet. When the last of the refugees emerged from the hatch, the senior NCO of the welcoming party gave them a typical speech - that they would be feed and cleaned and then transferred immediately to their cells in the _Lusankya_'s detention centre, and anyone who didn't like it was free to go back in the pod - and then ordered them rounded up and led off. Davin Porsek became the grey man. Unlike some of his less intelligent colleagues, he did not attempt to attack his captors, nor did he fall all over himself trying to win their sympathy. The key to survival as a prisoner of war is to become unnoticed. Soon, he would escape, and then he would make the Rebels pay for the death of Grand Admiral Thrawn. After all, how long could they possibly hold the son of a Chiss?