The Planet of Stopgaps, Slaves, and Other Ashes (Part 1)
“It’s gone,” Kurt gasped into the bony shoulder lending him support.
The name was new and with it came a christening of pain. It was the eve of Lifeday, and it was raining in the empty 3 AM city.
“I’m sorry,” the effeminate murmur said, its words a small inkling of its owners frantic comprehension of the Pureblood’s pain.
“My people are dying, Elly. They’re dying and the-- the Empire doesn’t ca--”
“Shhh--” Kurt was hugged closer, his mouth choked on the fabric of the thin tunic.
“Dayn’t sey that,” came the low whisper against the shell of his ear.
Kurt nodded, he nodded and swallowed his tears.
The Ziost orbital station was serene, but not because it was uninhabited. The Imperials that lived in the darkness were quiet, watchful behind eyes, Wax couldn’t make out except for the whites. Two guards lined the doorway but made no motion as the Captain stepped through. The doors of the airlock open behind him. Wax watched the lights flicker as his heavy treads sunk into the hard floor. Grit crunched underfoot. A panel bulb was knocked askew by some long unfinished repair that had stopped half way.
Wax ground his heel into the floor, so that it crunched. The motion unsettled some of the finer particles. They sparkled in the light in a way that pricked pins into his lit eyes. Ground glass. Peculiar. The small turbulence settled onto a long dead mouse droid. Out of his periphery Wax had assumed it was another pile of ash.
The Lord’s heavy footfalls matched his. He stood aside deferentially as she stopped just in front of him, her head raised and her bearings smart though none of the poise hid the powerful way she threw her husk behind her movements rather than controlling it. The gold threadings in her straight plait gleamed in the starlight. She stood only at the Massassi’s shoulder yet rivaled him in thickness.
“Is this it?” she asked in her deep tone that held a natural command.
Wax, had he been a lesser man, would’ve been compelled to answer, but he wasn’t. His cool gazed rested on her wide back. “Yes, Lord Morkhala,” he said evenly.
She inhaled with purpose and the otherwise soft mouth pressed into a grimmer line.
“This station isn’t strategic and only exists to establish credential clearance. Its capability is reduced to the essentials.”
It was a kinder way of calling Ziost dead with so many words. They didn’t stop in the throat the way that dead did. Wax had spent years pretending that Ziost had never existed. Lest words of mourning attract the cold gray suits of Imperial Intelligence. But, though he’d only reacquainted himself with its existence a day prior, that he would see it, didn’t hit him until now. It floated out the window just out of peripheral sight.
Lord Morkhala didn’t say anything. She continued onward toward a small transport half-swallowed in shadow. The metal clap of her armored boots stirred up clouds of dust along the way. Wax followed in her wake. When he met the eyes of his fellow Imperials in white, he was reminded of the rifle on his back. He quickened his stride.
Wax barely noticed the Darth until they were upon him. He was a jagged black outline against the shuttle. It was only the slight gleam of metal that gave him away. Wax placed a foot down in a heavy iteration of a bow to indicate to the Lord that she was nearly upon him. She stopped precisely on Wax’s marking. Just a few steps away from the man in the raised helm. Blue lekku fell from the lifted horns at the back.
Wax bowed at the waist. His straight bridged nose parallel to the floor without shifting a gelled lock of his hair. “Darth Voorzijn, I am Captain Wax.” He resurfaced and planted one foot down to straighten into a parade rest. “We are the contacts sent by Darth Prognatus.”
