A jumble of shapes and colors. Flashes of light. Stinging pain. Corridors. Corridors with metallic doors, rusted. She walks through a maze of them blindly, not really seeing. There are whispers within. She cannot find them. Wait… is that it?
Her hand pushes a door, revealing a white plane. She stumbles out toward the sound, though the whiteness hurts. It’s a familiar sound. Jairo’s voice. Remember. An echo in her mind. The voice comes into focus, faint.
– out who they are.
How?
Getting inside organizations. Earning their trust. Following the trails to the source.
How many?
As many as possible.
Where do I start?
Intelligence
And after?
We’ll get you into the right places.
Silence
How long do I have?
… As long as you can stay sane…
A face hovers in front of hers, comes into focus. Shoulder-length red hair, a few freckles. Sharp sunlight stabs into her head.
She groans, squinting. “Breams?”
“Close one, eh?” He helps her up. She shakes her head. It’s still fuzzy. Ord Mantell. Of course. She looks him over as he hastily shoulders a dusty pack, then scans the terrain. Separatist beach head was being overrun.
“Grenade?”
“Aye, sir.” Heavy infantry is pouring out over the baked rocks, sealing off the bridge.
She notes it, then glares. “Lose the ‘sir.’ I’m not ranked with the separatists.”
He hesitates. “Right.”
The wind picks up gusting dirt into her eyes. She rubs her nose and touches her pocket. Data chip still there. Smell of corpses and sweat on the wind. Burned fuses.
“Intelligence send you?”
“You could say that.” He grins, putting a finger to his lips in mock seriousness. “Sent to find ya. Transferred to your unit, sir... ah…” His face turns red. Unless that’s the blaster fire. She feels a stab of pain. Blaster fire throws up rock chips just over their heads. They dive to the dirt instinctively.
“Let’s go,” he says. “Before we become cannon fodder, eh?”
She frowns as they dodge the incoming fire, ears ringing. Someone else in her unit? Flashes of light around them. Burning shrapnel tears through clothes. She ignores the pain. They reach a cleft, panting.
He won’t last two weeks. Maybe Intelligence wants him dead.
“I hope you like blisters,” she says.
Her voice distorts into something maddeningly deep. He laughs hoarsely. River gushing. The cleft melts. Everything melts. The planet becomes a sun – unbelievably bright pain. The image fractures and is gone.
Her hand pushes a door, revealing a white plane. She stumbles out toward the sound, though the whiteness hurts. It’s a familiar sound. Jairo’s voice. Remember. An echo in her mind. The voice comes into focus, faint.
– out who they are.
How?
Getting inside organizations. Earning their trust. Following the trails to the source.
How many?
As many as possible.
Where do I start?
Intelligence
And after?
We’ll get you into the right places.
Silence
How long do I have?
… As long as you can stay sane…
A face hovers in front of hers, comes into focus. Shoulder-length red hair, a few freckles. Sharp sunlight stabs into her head.
She groans, squinting. “Breams?”
“Close one, eh?” He helps her up. She shakes her head. It’s still fuzzy. Ord Mantell. Of course. She looks him over as he hastily shoulders a dusty pack, then scans the terrain. Separatist beach head was being overrun.
“Grenade?”
“Aye, sir.” Heavy infantry is pouring out over the baked rocks, sealing off the bridge.
She notes it, then glares. “Lose the ‘sir.’ I’m not ranked with the separatists.”
He hesitates. “Right.”
The wind picks up gusting dirt into her eyes. She rubs her nose and touches her pocket. Data chip still there. Smell of corpses and sweat on the wind. Burned fuses.
“Intelligence send you?”
“You could say that.” He grins, putting a finger to his lips in mock seriousness. “Sent to find ya. Transferred to your unit, sir... ah…” His face turns red. Unless that’s the blaster fire. She feels a stab of pain. Blaster fire throws up rock chips just over their heads. They dive to the dirt instinctively.
“Let’s go,” he says. “Before we become cannon fodder, eh?”
She frowns as they dodge the incoming fire, ears ringing. Someone else in her unit? Flashes of light around them. Burning shrapnel tears through clothes. She ignores the pain. They reach a cleft, panting.
He won’t last two weeks. Maybe Intelligence wants him dead.
“I hope you like blisters,” she says.
Her voice distorts into something maddeningly deep. He laughs hoarsely. River gushing. The cleft melts. Everything melts. The planet becomes a sun – unbelievably bright pain. The image fractures and is gone.