Ships In The Night by Josh Nolan ------- Okay, maybe try on your left side. Any better? Yeah, that's a bit better. Pillow's a bit unused over here, a bit more cradling to the head. Right, deep breaths now. Deep, and slow. Bloody hell, this isn't working either. Try on the back? Just throw out the limbs, the bed's big enough. This just feels stupid. I'm too smegging awake. I gave up, finally, and sat on the edge of my bed, staring at nothing much in particular in my dark room. What the hell was I supposed to have made of today? That I had the potential to be more screwed-up than I was? Well, that's reassuring. I'd only nearly killed someone I... like... after all. I just wasn't a mindless robot. Yet. I flicked a glance over to where Dis was recharging, or doing whatever it was he did at night, and sighed. Maybe he could help me sort out my head, but I figured he would probably prefer to gloat over my faulty programming or whatever. Not for the first time, I wished I'd never so much as seen an Ewok. I said, "Lights," and closed my eyes tightly as the lights flicked on full- brightness. I gradually flickered my eyes open as they adjusted - painfully and slowly - and looked at my room. A carpet, desk, bed - apart from the hoverstool, the holoprojector instead of a TV, and the R2 unit sitting in the corner, it could almost be a Terran hotel room. I felt suddenly, unbearably, homesick. Some irrational part of my mind tried screaming at me that hoverstools *weren't allowed*, that I couldn't possibly be *on another planet*, and it was *all a trick*. I stood up, filled with the urge to just leave and go home, but I knew there was no way I was going to be able to walk home. I didn't even know which direction home was, or how many lightyears I'd have to travel to get there. I found myself longing for the simplicity of incandescent lightbulbs, of computers that weren't self-aware, of cathode-ray screens, of being locked on one planet. One familiar planet, with wildlife and plants that were known and identifiable. Admittedly, where I came from a lot of wildlife was dangerous, but it was a known danger. I just wanted to be back on Earth, despite all its flaws. Douglas Adams once wrote that an organism, when stressed, sends out a telepathic signal that relates just how far it is from its place of birth. I wondered how strong mine was right now. Most of all, though, I wanted to wake up to find this had all been some kind of dream. That I was still in control of myself, that I hadn't hurt Syl, that everything was still all right. But I looked at my hands, and felt homesick again. My left hand was the same it had always been. Hair on the back, a few scars here and there on the knuckles and joints, that scar on my palm from where I'd carved a chunk out with a really sharp pencil nearly fifteen years ago, the skin aged and wrinkled from time in the sun and from washing dishes barehanded. But my right hand... It was just as hairy, but the skin was smooth and new. The scars I'd had on it - the one on the back of my hand, the big one on the wrist, the variety on my knuckles - all gone. Wiped out over a year ago by an AT-ST and some bacta patches, of all things. The massive scar on my elbow, earned from tripping over my own feet while running on bitumen - gone. The faint scar on my forearm from some kid doing a pinch-and-punch with too- long fingernails - gone. In its way, the unblemished skin was as much a scar as any of those. And it served as a reminder that I wasn't able to go back. Gaining a scar wasn't anywhere near as permanent as losing one. And none of this made me feel the least bit more sleepy. There was nothing for it. I'd have to work it off. I scrabbled on the floor for my inmate fatigues, donned them and headed out the door for the gymnasium. ******** I guess I figured I'd follow the signs. But an important fact had failed to occur to me. I can't read Aurebesh. I'd apparently picked the time of night when the fewest staff were in the corridors, so I was forced to try and navigate using the Force. Since I have about as much Force-sensitivity as your average housebrick, I got very solidly lost. I knew I was somewhere on my floor, but that's about all. Finally, I stumbled across an orderly. Unfortunately, it was literally. I'm not sure how I did it - I know he'd been crouched by a low wall-panel, tinkering with something when I blundered around the corner and straight over him. What I don't get was how I hadn't picked up any hint he was there. Tinkering with electronics should make a certain amount of noise, right? I was just preoccupied, I guess. I was on my feet before he was, and my hand was halfway to his throat before I was able to identify what happened as an accident, not an ambush. I was able to turn the motion fairly seamlessly into offering a hand to help him up. "Sorry about that, mate," I said, trying to slow my racing heartbeat, hoping he wouldn't realise how close he'd come to having a very bad day. He grabbed my hand and I pulled him to his feet. "No harm done," he said, his grin a little false. Maybe he'd figured it out. "Weird time to be out and about," he said once he had his balance back, wiping his hands on his coveralls. I shrugged. "Couldn't sleep. I was wondering if you knew where the gym was?" "Just follow the signs," he said, frowning in puzzlement, gradually inching crabwise, apparently trying to get more firmly in between me and the panel. "I would, but, I, uh, can't read Aurebesh." I took a wide sidestep around him, trying to see what he was apparently trying to conceal. It didn't help me much - just lights, wires and other stuff, and a few tools holding bits in place. "You can't read?" I glanced back at him, and he was looking back at me, genuinely startled. "I can read, just not Aurebesh," I replied, a little miffed. "So... you can't read the labels on those databoards there, right?" I glanced back at the electronic detritus, found the labels he was talking about, and sure enough, I couldn't read them. "Nope, not a word." He visibly relaxed, then put on a face of concern. "Well, maybe we should get some education programs uploaded for you. Tell me your name, and I'll get on it when I'm done here." He nodded at the panel. "Routine maintenance." I held out my hand. "Josh. Josh Nolan." He shook it, a little frantically. "Firth. Firth Walkeem." I released his hand a moment before he released mine, and I waited for the directions. Instead, Firth knelt back down at the panel, peering inside. I cleared my throat. His face flicked back at me a little quickly. "You're still here?" "I need directions to the gym?" "Oh, right! Head back the way you came, take the... second left, and follow the si... er... take a right, then the third left, and you should be able to find it from there. Okay?" I nodded. "Okay." He turned back to his work, and I headed off in the direction he'd pointed me. While I walked, I wondered why Firth had been acting the way he had. Probably, he'd just heard of me. ********* I thought I'd found the gym. That didn't explain why there was a soldier outside it. He wasn't armed, or at least not lethally. A standard, orderly-issue stunner was at his belt, and he was leaning on the wall by what I thought was the gym, idly spooling through a datapad. But there had to be some reason he was there, rather, than, say, in his barracks, or even in the gym itself. Not seeing what else I could do, I approached him. He looked up at me as I approached, and quickly stowed the datapad in one of his many pockets. "Hey there," he said, "Can I help you?" "I was wanting to use the gym - is this it?" "Yeah, man, this is it. Wouldn't go in there right now, though, if I were you." "Why not? It's the middle of the night, right?" "Yeah." He looked away, and I suddenly got the impression he was uneasy talking to a patient. Probably reasonable - I was nuts, after all. He went on, "They got a patient doing some physical therapy in there, and she's a reeeal firebrand. Take my advice and steer clear." "Is that what you're doing out here?" I asked. He grinned, with only a hint of smugness. "I won the sabacc pot, so I got to stand on door detail. Best duty win in months." I leaned on the wall opposite him, settling in. "So who is she?" He shrugged. "Some NRI hotshot. Sent here direct from Cracken. I hear she stabbed herself or something. Dangerous as hell, by all accounts, and they reckon pretty unstable." He shook his head. "I hate psycho duty. At least with the prisoners, if they jump you, you're allowed to hurt 'em, you know? A guy once even killed one that tried it, and he just got a slap on the wrist at the court-martial. Some patients need a good slapping, but the docs whine like ya wouldn't believe." He looked back at me, and apparently suddenly remembered who he was talking to. "Doesn't happen very often, y'know, but... some..." He gestured at the gym door with his head. "Safer with her drugged to the eyeballs, if ya ask me." "Fair enough," I said, not knowing what else to say to that. "Do you know when they'll be finished?" He snorted. "Maybe the Force knows, but I don't see no Jedi round here. They've been there 'bout an hour and a half, though, so maybe soon." He regarded me a bit closer. "Hey, you're that new guy, ain'tcha?" "Well, yeah, I guess. Don't know of anyone newer." "Is it true you done killed a Wookiee with your bare hands?" I boggled at him. "I what? Is he dead? Kelcho was only stunned, he can't be dead!" My heart began beating faster, and I flashed back yet again, smashing that bloody rock into Syl's head... "Whoah! Whoah there, son. Hold on." I snapped back to reality, and the soldier was holding his hands out placatingly. "Kelcho ain't dead. He's fine. Just I hear you took him on barehanded and fought him to a standstill, and him angry at you, too. Ain't many who aren't Wookiees that can do that. Some talk was you'd been up against a Wookiee before and done killed *that* Wookiee stone dead." "Uh... no. Nope, never killed a Wookiee in my life, that I know of. I guess you could say I wrestled a Wookiee before, but that was kind of consensual, like." I blinked - something in the soldier's drawl was contagious. "And what, you learned how to beat 'im?" I felt my face shift slightly in embarrassment, and the soldier caught it. "Ohhhh," he said, "I do believe it was a situation that wasn't about winnin' or losin', am I right?" I nodded slightly, and he grinned. "Hoo-eee," he said, shaking his head, "you got some balls, son, let me tell you that." "Yeah, she seemed to think so, too," I said, before I could stop myself. His grin widened. "So tell me," he asked, the grin still plastered on his face, "How does one go about beddin' a Wookiee? Seems to me the approach might be a little risky, what with her tearin' your arms outta their sockets if you put a foot wrong." "Well, my method was to get blindingly drunk and coincidentally wake up with her the next morning - so I obviously stumbled across some secret technique I was too drunk to remember later." I coughed. "Though, uh, I'd apparently acquitted myself well enough that she stuck around and wanted more." He shook his head and began to laugh. "So how..." he began, before laughing again. He started again. "So how do Wookiees compare to the less furry female folk?" I could feel my ears going red, but there was nothing for it. I shrugged, and said, "Wouldn't know. Never had a chance to sample." He stared at me, obviously amazed. "So you're telling me... you lost your cherry to a Wookiee?" He seemed dumbstruck. I nodded, and he began to laugh in disbelief, until he reined it in. "Waitaminute," he said, "You're in patient fatigues and I'm supposed to believe that you boinked a Wookiee?" His shoulders began to shake. "Nice try," he managed, before erupting into gales of laughter. It was quite a sight. He went quite obviously weak at the knees; he turned to the wall, resting his face on his forearm; he sucked in huge lungfuls of air every time the laughter began to slacken off. In the midst, I caught words like "Wookiee", "nearly got me", and "that's a good one". When he finally had control of himself, he turned back to me, wiping tears out of his eyes. "You spin one heck of a good story, son," he said, massaging his ribs, shaking his head in disbelief. I was about to reply when his hand suddenly shot to his ear. "Hold on. They're coming out. It might be wise to get out of the way." I took his advice, ducking into a nearby alcove, leaning out slightly to see if I could sight this Hannibal Lecter of the stars. The first people out were the orderlies, their stunners in their hands rather than at their belts. The soldier I'd been speaking to took up position behind them. There was a short delay, and then the patient emerged. She was walking proudly, unbound, in patient's fatigues. Her black hair ran down her back, and she moved with confidence and grace. ********* [i] "Is she dangerous?" Becki asks. I look at the picture on the laptop, the one Brad had enhanced. (I'd asked him an innocuous question, and he took it the worst possible way. Of course.) "Lethal," Mike replies. He grabs the orange juice out of my hand - he's had a rough day - and continues, "I sparred with Shalla, and so did several of you guys. I doubt, I truly doubt, Shalla would stand the slightest chance against this woman. And that scares me. Whether she's involved in our mission or not, if you see her, steer clear." I stare at the photos some more, committing the face to memory. If she is an enemy, I plan to put a bullet between her eyes before she can act against us. [/i] ********** It was her. The one who Mike had seen fight in that Paris bar brawl. The one who he said fought like a Noghri. She was here. I froze, moving only my eyes as she walked past. Suddenly, she looked up, and our eyes met. Hatred and anger ruled her face, but for a moment, something replaced them. And then the moment was over. She glared at me a second or so longer, then she turned back to the task of walking, and was gone. The rest of her escort - her doctor and two more soldiers - continued past, but I barely saw them. The look I'd seen on her face wasn't surprise at finding a watcher. It wasn't disdain for the lurking crazy person. It was something far more disturbing. It was recognition.