“Kill him.”
“No!” he screams.
They drag him and throw him to the floor in front of her. He drops to his knees, eyes puffy and pleading. Ruddy hair hangs down like strings, some of it torn off, leaving bloody patches. An Imperial-issued mark-17 pistol is in her hand, pointed at his head.
“I’m not the traitor. I swear!”
“He’s lying,” someone says. The room spins. Watcher 17 is behind her, arms folded, glaring down contemptuously. Colors swirl around her head. Why are there so many colors?
“Please.” His eyes never leave her face. “You know me. We trained together. Remember? Savis Breams. On Hutta. We served on Ord Mantell. I didn’t do it!”
“Shut up!” a guard says, kicking him in the side. The crack of ribs.
Watcher 17 shakes her head. “A liability. He’s the last one. Kill him.”
Lights. Colors. So many blinding lights. [i]The colors…?[/i] Numbers mix with them, spinning. Calculations upon overlapping calculations. They are closing in, narrowing.
She hesitates. She looks at the Chiss woman with the gun and starts to speak. Watcher 17 cuts her off. “I said kill him. Or your status is forfeit.”
There is an error. No. Something isn’t right. Her head is throbbing like a drum.
Anything for the mission…
The gun flickers in her hand. It shoots.
His head jerks back at an odd angle, plasma shooting through his brain. He crumples to the floor.
Watcher 17 snaps her fingers and men run up, saluting. “Get this cleaned up.”
She looks at the Chiss woman. “I want the autopsy within the hour.” The Watcher’s face melts. All the troops melt until they are puddles on the floor. Puddles of black goo. And the corpse. Breams. Words echo in her mind.
… a waste… really… It’s a familiar voice.
She finds JRI inscribed on his femur. But that’s not what they think. Not what they are looking for. Better they don’t know.
“No!” he screams.
They drag him and throw him to the floor in front of her. He drops to his knees, eyes puffy and pleading. Ruddy hair hangs down like strings, some of it torn off, leaving bloody patches. An Imperial-issued mark-17 pistol is in her hand, pointed at his head.
“I’m not the traitor. I swear!”
“He’s lying,” someone says. The room spins. Watcher 17 is behind her, arms folded, glaring down contemptuously. Colors swirl around her head. Why are there so many colors?
“Please.” His eyes never leave her face. “You know me. We trained together. Remember? Savis Breams. On Hutta. We served on Ord Mantell. I didn’t do it!”
“Shut up!” a guard says, kicking him in the side. The crack of ribs.
Watcher 17 shakes her head. “A liability. He’s the last one. Kill him.”
Lights. Colors. So many blinding lights. [i]The colors…?[/i] Numbers mix with them, spinning. Calculations upon overlapping calculations. They are closing in, narrowing.
She hesitates. She looks at the Chiss woman with the gun and starts to speak. Watcher 17 cuts her off. “I said kill him. Or your status is forfeit.”
There is an error. No. Something isn’t right. Her head is throbbing like a drum.
Anything for the mission…
The gun flickers in her hand. It shoots.
His head jerks back at an odd angle, plasma shooting through his brain. He crumples to the floor.
Watcher 17 snaps her fingers and men run up, saluting. “Get this cleaned up.”
She looks at the Chiss woman. “I want the autopsy within the hour.” The Watcher’s face melts. All the troops melt until they are puddles on the floor. Puddles of black goo. And the corpse. Breams. Words echo in her mind.
… a waste… really… It’s a familiar voice.
She finds JRI inscribed on his femur. But that’s not what they think. Not what they are looking for. Better they don’t know.