And it turns out she can't. After being universally rejected by various aid groups because of her lack of experience, Zahara makes the decision to go to work for the Empire, which her family reluctantly accepts-at least it's a known entity-but in a capacity that leaves her parents speechless, stupefied, and outraged. No daughter of theirs is going to work on an Imperial prison barge. The indignity of it is beyond all scale.
Yet here I am, Zahara thought now, queen of her own miniature kingdom after all, duchess of the empty bunks and our lady of the perpetual stomachache. Involuntary lust-object of a hundred emotionally frustrated prison guards and deprived stormtroopers. Dispenser of medicine, charged with keeping the inmates of the Imperial Prison Barge Purge alive long enough to be permanently detained on some remote prison moon.
The irony, of course, was that in a standard week's time, or whenever they finally arrived at their destination, she would be going back to her father and mother-if not exactly hat-in-hand, then close enough. Her mother would sniff and scowl, her brother would jeer, but her father would throw his arms around his little girl and after the acceptable amount of time had passed, her penance would be complete and she would be welcomed back into the fold. And her time aboard the barge would become what they'd thought it would be all along, an adventure in her youth, a charming dinner anecdote for diplomats. You'll never believe how our little girl decided to spend her youth.
Looking through the medbay again, Zahara felt a thin tremor of uncertainty steal over her and willed it away. But like most aspects of her personality, it didn't go without a fight.
Instead, unbidden, the image of Von Longo floated back up into her memory, the man's bloody face trying to talk to her through the ventilator, clutching her hand in both of his, asking to see his boys one last time. Begging her to bring them to him so that he could speak to them in private. Moments later, the cloud of heavy menace emerged behind her back and she turned to sec Jareth Sartoris, close enough that she could actually smell his skin, speaking through thin lips that hardly seemed to move.
Paying your respects, Doctor?
Longo had died later that day, and Zahara Cody decided that she had flown her last voyage with the Purge and the Empire. The next step would be contacting her parents and letting them know she was coming home. Luxurious clothing and fine crystal had never been her first choice, but at least she'd be able to sleep at night. And in the evenings she would sit down to dinner with the wealthy and proud and forget about what had happened with Von Longo and Jareth Sartoris.
Is this really what you want?
Zahara shook it off. In any case, she'd always assumed she'd have lots of time to think about it before the barge got where it was going.
Plenty of time to make up her mind.
Except now the engines had stopped-had been stopped for over an hour.
From across the infirmary, another voice, one of the other inmates, cried out, "Hey, Doc-are we there yet?"
This time, Zahara didn't answer.
Chapter 5
Word
Jareth Sartoris made his way down the narrow gangway outside the guards' quarters, massaging his temples as he walked. He had a headache, nothing new there, but this one was something special, a vise grip across his temporal lobes that made him feel like he'd been gassed with some kind of low-grade neurotoxin in his sleep. The greasy smear of breakfast down the back of his throat hadn't helped.
He'd been awake even before the warden's summons came through. After working third shift last night, he'd toppled into his bunk early this morning and lapsed into restless unconsciousness, but two hours later the abrupt silence had awakened him, the feeling of his tightly coiled world spinning off its axis. They were seven standard days out. So why had the engines fallen silent? Sartoris had gotten dressed, grabbed some lukewarm caf and a reheated bantha patty from the mess, and headed down the hall toward the warden's office, hoping to build up enough mindless momentum to keep him going as far as he needed.
To his right the turbolift doors opened. Three other guards- Vesek, Austin, and some pompadoured newbie-came out, falling into step behind him. They had to walk single-file to fit comfortably down the hall. Sartoris didn't break stride or even glance back at them.
"Me and the guys, Cap," Austin's voice piped up, after a respectful pause, "we were, you know, wondering if you could shed a little light on what's going on."
Sartoris shook his head, still not looking back. "What's that?"
"I heard we blew out both thrusters completely," Vesek put in. "Word is we're just sitting here somewhere outside the Unknown Regions, waiting for a tow."
Austin sniggered. "Barge full of stranded convicts, I'm sure we're top priority for the Empire."
"Stang," Vesek said. "Maybe they'll just decide to leave us drifting out here, right?"
"Ask the rook." Austin poked the pompadoured guard walking in front of him. "Hey, Armitage, you think they'll rescue us?" He sniggered, not waiting for the kid to respond. "He'd probably like it. Suits his artistic temperament, right, Armitage?"
The newbie just ignored him and kept walking.
"How long did you spend on your hair this morning, rook? You hoping Dr. Cody's taken an interest?"
"All right." Sartoris snapped a glance up at them. "Belay that noise, understand?"
Nobody spoke the rest of the way to the warden's office.
* * *
Kloth's office had been tricked out to look larger than it actually was- light colors, holomurals, and a colossal rectilinear viewscreen facing out the star-strewn expanse-but Sartoris had always found the effect paradoxically oppressive. Some time ago, he'd noticed a blown voxel in the corner of the desert landscape above Kloth's desk, a missed stitch in the digital fabric. Ever since then, something about the secondhand technology seemed to be pushing in on him, and now his eyes always felt as if they were being tricked, lulled into a false sense of openness.
"First the bad news," Kloth said. He was standing in his usual position, hands clasped behind his back, looking out the viewscreen. "Our thrusters are seriously damaged-probably beyond repair. And as I'm sure you know, we're still seven standard days out from our destination."
One of the other guards, the rookie probably, let out a nearly inaudible groan. Sartoris only heard it because he was standing next to him.
"However," the warden continued. "There is a positive side."
Kloth turned slowly to face them. Upon first glance, his face was the usual blunt bureaucratic hatchet, slightly curved and angular upper lip, gray-rimmed eyes, and bluish silver bags of freshly shaven cheeks. Only after spending a certain amount of time with the man did you come to know the soft thing residing within that calculated outer shell, a spineless, gelatinous creature that exuded nothing so much as the tremulous anxiety of being drawn out and exposed.
"It seems the navicomputer has identified an Imperial vessel," Kloth said, "a Star Destroyer actually, within this same system. While our attempts to make contact have met with no reply, we do have enough power to make our approach."
He paused here, apparently in anticipation of applause or at least a round of relieved sighs, but Sartoris and the others just looked at him.