Blurry brown shapes spin around and around like a rotating centrifuge. The smell of acrid smoke and burned flesh.
The spinning slows. Jagged shapes coalesce into rock formations. Rock? Or is that metal… Burned. Everything smells burned. The ground shakes as the image finally stands still, though blurring with each tremor.
Headache. Ow. These stupid lines and numbers.
She is standing over a young tech, fingers moving rapidly, elbow jerking. Her eyes are set, wild and one side of her cheek is scored by shrapnel, oozing blood and clear fluid.
He is screaming.
She wields scissors the size of her arm, cutting mangled armor from his chest. Wait. What are those? It doesn’t matter. Scissors. Everyone carries them. They cut. Other shouts and groans, far off. Bodies. Her feet slip.
She curses under her breath, throwing pieces of shrapnel to the side, working quickly to sew a few arteries closed before he bleeds out. The ground shakes and his head smashes against the side of the rock wall. The field is never good for surgery.
Her breathing is labored. She sneezes, a cloud of dust lifting off the rock face, sticking to the man’s sweaty brow like freckles.
The sky is black. No purple. No… no, it’s red. Red, up to her arms, smeared over her tattered guerilla issued ablative vest.
The man seizes her by the collar, flecks of dust and dirty ooze running down his neck, soaking his hair. “Don’t let me die!”
She curses again and snaps at him. “Breams, hold still!”
Her red eyes are fierce, yet dulled with a concentration that brooks no nonsense. Something smells like a gas leak ... must move soon. High ground advantage. Is that ozone?
She stitches shut the artery with a jerk.
Humming. Buzzing? She turns and freezes, mind uncomprehending.
There’s a man coming up the narrow gulley in tanned fatigues, green lightsaber extended. He carves a winding path through the narrow space. Charred and melted rock drip from the places he cut.
Their eyes meet.
She is holding a blaster, pointed at his face in one hand, sewing gut in the other. She doesn’t recall drawing it. Blasters are like that. Instinct. They flow like water.
Several dead men are lying at her feet in various stages of carnage and attempted surgery, dripping blood. It is running down the channel, pooling darkly in a hollow by the intruder’s boots.
He glances at it, then up at her. “What happened?” His voice is quiet, but authoritative. He turns off his blade.
She blinks, still struggling to comprehend, still pointing the blaster. So much sound and noise. She glances down at the tech. He is groaning, breathing raggedly. Most of the blood loss is stopping. She feels a stitch of relief.
“Slaughtered,” she says, between gritted teeth. “Whole squads…#329-51-” she stops convulsively. “Fifty-seven men. Mines. The charges. Unit 78A, personnel unassigned… report was wrong.” She stops speaking, not even sure what she has just said.
He stares back, looking tired, a sympathy in his eyes. No. Yes. “I won’t harm you,” he says, inching closer, hands held out before him. She stiffens with suspicion, tracking his heart with the blaster. Her hand does not shake.
Those knots at his shoulder… rank. This man is a high rank. His clothes are torn. Dusty. She should shoot him. Why is he here?
He stops in front of her barrel. A bead of sweat falls from her forehead, her vision going in and out of focus. Why doesn’t she shoot and get it over with?
He looks her in the eye. “Let me see him. I can heal.”
The ground shakes. She pivots with it, never breaking his gaze. It is said that one can read a man’s intent in his eyes, if you stare long enough. Jairo. She can’t find murder in them.
She shakes her head, a ray of clarity wavering into her mind. What does it matter? Could she kill him? …
She sighs.
… Maybe… probably not.
Numbly, she lowers her blaster.
He steps past her and inspects his wounds.
“He’s in shock,” he mutters. Putting a hand on his chest, he closes his eyes.
Now is the time to strike. He isn’t watching. He is going to kill Breams! But – his face. It glows. Calm. Serene. The glaciers of Csilla flash across her mind, then are gone, replaced with blinding heat and pain.
She looks down. He stops glowing and opens his eyes. Breams is breathing easier. More evenly. She stares at him venomously, just in case.
“He’ll live,” he says. “He’s in a healing trance.” He points west, eyes searching the skies. “You’re about two clicks east of the separatist border. Stick to the ravines. You won’t be seen.”
She stares at him, mouth working. Finally, “You’re the enemy,” she says. “Why?”
His eyes seem sad. She sees in them war. Pain. A long history of death. “Wounded men are not my enemy,” he says. “Jedi seek life. The good of all…” he hesitates, a shadow crossing his features. “At least… we should.” He turns away.
His image slips into darkness like a memory too hard to hold. Rushing fills her ears. Senses haze. She falls down into a pit of black nothing. Down. Down. Rushing wind. She falls faster. The wind stops. She can’t breathe. Are those screams?
Her consciousness fades out.
The spinning slows. Jagged shapes coalesce into rock formations. Rock? Or is that metal… Burned. Everything smells burned. The ground shakes as the image finally stands still, though blurring with each tremor.
Headache. Ow. These stupid lines and numbers.
She is standing over a young tech, fingers moving rapidly, elbow jerking. Her eyes are set, wild and one side of her cheek is scored by shrapnel, oozing blood and clear fluid.
He is screaming.
She wields scissors the size of her arm, cutting mangled armor from his chest. Wait. What are those? It doesn’t matter. Scissors. Everyone carries them. They cut. Other shouts and groans, far off. Bodies. Her feet slip.
She curses under her breath, throwing pieces of shrapnel to the side, working quickly to sew a few arteries closed before he bleeds out. The ground shakes and his head smashes against the side of the rock wall. The field is never good for surgery.
Her breathing is labored. She sneezes, a cloud of dust lifting off the rock face, sticking to the man’s sweaty brow like freckles.
The sky is black. No purple. No… no, it’s red. Red, up to her arms, smeared over her tattered guerilla issued ablative vest.
The man seizes her by the collar, flecks of dust and dirty ooze running down his neck, soaking his hair. “Don’t let me die!”
She curses again and snaps at him. “Breams, hold still!”
Her red eyes are fierce, yet dulled with a concentration that brooks no nonsense. Something smells like a gas leak ... must move soon. High ground advantage. Is that ozone?
She stitches shut the artery with a jerk.
Humming. Buzzing? She turns and freezes, mind uncomprehending.
There’s a man coming up the narrow gulley in tanned fatigues, green lightsaber extended. He carves a winding path through the narrow space. Charred and melted rock drip from the places he cut.
Their eyes meet.
She is holding a blaster, pointed at his face in one hand, sewing gut in the other. She doesn’t recall drawing it. Blasters are like that. Instinct. They flow like water.
Several dead men are lying at her feet in various stages of carnage and attempted surgery, dripping blood. It is running down the channel, pooling darkly in a hollow by the intruder’s boots.
He glances at it, then up at her. “What happened?” His voice is quiet, but authoritative. He turns off his blade.
She blinks, still struggling to comprehend, still pointing the blaster. So much sound and noise. She glances down at the tech. He is groaning, breathing raggedly. Most of the blood loss is stopping. She feels a stitch of relief.
“Slaughtered,” she says, between gritted teeth. “Whole squads…#329-51-” she stops convulsively. “Fifty-seven men. Mines. The charges. Unit 78A, personnel unassigned… report was wrong.” She stops speaking, not even sure what she has just said.
He stares back, looking tired, a sympathy in his eyes. No. Yes. “I won’t harm you,” he says, inching closer, hands held out before him. She stiffens with suspicion, tracking his heart with the blaster. Her hand does not shake.
Those knots at his shoulder… rank. This man is a high rank. His clothes are torn. Dusty. She should shoot him. Why is he here?
He stops in front of her barrel. A bead of sweat falls from her forehead, her vision going in and out of focus. Why doesn’t she shoot and get it over with?
He looks her in the eye. “Let me see him. I can heal.”
The ground shakes. She pivots with it, never breaking his gaze. It is said that one can read a man’s intent in his eyes, if you stare long enough. Jairo. She can’t find murder in them.
She shakes her head, a ray of clarity wavering into her mind. What does it matter? Could she kill him? …
She sighs.
… Maybe… probably not.
Numbly, she lowers her blaster.
He steps past her and inspects his wounds.
“He’s in shock,” he mutters. Putting a hand on his chest, he closes his eyes.
Now is the time to strike. He isn’t watching. He is going to kill Breams! But – his face. It glows. Calm. Serene. The glaciers of Csilla flash across her mind, then are gone, replaced with blinding heat and pain.
She looks down. He stops glowing and opens his eyes. Breams is breathing easier. More evenly. She stares at him venomously, just in case.
“He’ll live,” he says. “He’s in a healing trance.” He points west, eyes searching the skies. “You’re about two clicks east of the separatist border. Stick to the ravines. You won’t be seen.”
She stares at him, mouth working. Finally, “You’re the enemy,” she says. “Why?”
His eyes seem sad. She sees in them war. Pain. A long history of death. “Wounded men are not my enemy,” he says. “Jedi seek life. The good of all…” he hesitates, a shadow crossing his features. “At least… we should.” He turns away.
His image slips into darkness like a memory too hard to hold. Rushing fills her ears. Senses haze. She falls down into a pit of black nothing. Down. Down. Rushing wind. She falls faster. The wind stops. She can’t breathe. Are those screams?
Her consciousness fades out.