Sitting on a broken step stool, Tabraile woke up as his elbows slid from his thighs. He sat abruptly upright and blinked rapidly to soothe his tired eyes. Exhaustion plagued him while he kept vigil at Anayera's bedside. As he wiped the back of his hand across his face with a yawn, he felt a subtle squeeze at his knee.  

"You're awake," he said with a laugh.

"You weren't," she whispered. "I didn't want to disturb you. You needed to rest after everything I've put you through."

"Don't you worry about me. Strong like bull. Rancor bull." Tabraile flexed his biceps and playfully beat his chest. He grinned at her laughter, which was cut short by a violent coughing fit. "Have some water." The Socorran cradled her head in his arm and helped her drink from the emergency ration bottle. "Easy. Take it slow."

"Where are we?"

"Greleus 9, a moon in the Hagos Cluster. In what's left of an abandoned Resistance base."

"An abandoned Rebel base?" She looked around at the dilapidated medical bay. "How did you know to bring us here?"

"I was part of the flight squadron that destroyed it," he said. "Then I was assigned here for the clean-up." Tabraile walked over to the oblong window and activated the blind. "Watch your eyes. Greleus has a white sun. Every window or viewport is shielded from the heat and glare.

The transparisteel glass opened onto a craggy, crater-pocked landscape of ruined buildings beneath a cloudless sky. Greleus 9 was a desolate world with nothing more to offer than isolation. "See that observation tower?" Tabraile asked, pointing to a slender structure that cast a prominent shadow over the mountainous terrain. "That's an atmospheric elevator. It's connected to a satellite in orbit above the planet. The Rebels used it to launch weather balloons."

Anayera squinted against the glare. "Weather balloons?"

"Layman's term for spycraft," he said, adjusting the blind. "When you get high enough, gravity is no longer a factor, and you don't need engines to launch your gear and equipment." Chuckling as he gazed at the tower, he leaned on the dusty window pane. "Yates and I used to take rides inside the tube. It pulls an easy 4G's. We'd make bets who would throw up or pass out first before getting to the top."

"You've led an interesting life, Captain Marric Tabraile."

"I certainly thought so," Tabraile said, "until I met you."

Anayera winced, grasping at her lower torso.

"Deep breaths," he whispered, holding her other hand. "Try to stay calm."

"How bad is it?" She stared at the bandage covering the wound.

"You're bleeding internally. Even if this facility were fully functional, I would need to find you some professional help."

"We can't go back, Tabraile," she said. "We're well beyond a court-martial now."

"We're not going back to Omman. We're going to Talus."

"Talus? In the Core Systems. You weren't a very good smuggler, were you?"

He pretended to be wounded and slumped over her legs. "Talus is a small world, backwater, even for the Core Systems. It has Imperial installations: forward outposts, field hospitals, and—"

"And it's suicide to just walk into any of those bases and not expect to be detained. I made quite a mess on Omman."

"It takes weeks for updated info from the Empire to reach those outposts. Trust me. We'll check you into a field hospital for a few days, and then we bail."

"To where? Where can we possibly be safe from my uncle?"

"We'll go wherever you want," he insisted. "Even to your father."

"My father!" Anayera laughed to cover a sob and shook her head.

"You're his daughter, Ana. Surely he'd take you in—"

"My father is a Rebellion general, Tabraile. The last person he wants to see is his daughter, a murderous Imperial lackey." Tears streamed down her face. "I've got enemies on all sides. There's no place I can safely call home."

"Do you trust me?" he whispered.

"The last time you asked me to trust you, you ended up in a pit with a venomous stinger sticking out of your chest." She glanced at him and could not help but laugh at his pouting face. Anayera wiped away her tears. "May I ask you a personal question?"

He shrugged. "Sure."

"The scars on your back? I don't mean to pry, but I can't get them out of my head."

Tabraile pursed his lips into a thin line. "I graduated in the top 1% of my class at the Imperial Naval Academy, dragging Yates behind me. Admiral Derin's son graduated in the bottom 1%, but he was made a flight commander, and Yates and I were assigned to him."

"The son of an admiral. Sounds familiar."

"Life was good. The best living accommodations on Omman. Top of the line fighter craft. Cutting-edge tech. Anything we wanted, we had. The Admiral treated us as if we were all his sons." He stared into the reflective fabric of the thermal blanket. "And then we were dispatched to escort an Imperial frigate. Resistance fighters came out of nowhere and attacked. Problem is, they didn't fight like Resistance fighters."

"There's a difference?"

"Civilians. Rebels don't kill civilians, not intentionally." He watched her face closely for a reaction. "Every organization has its nut jobs, but these zealots were definitely not with the Alliance. They started dive-bombing nearby freighters and other space traffic to create hazards that would prevent the frigate from reaching its orbital berth. I had a gut feeling they were holding back, waiting for reinforcements to come. Captain Derin couldn't connect that. Because the civilian ships being destroyed weren't Imperial, he ordered us to back off and escort the frigate. Attacking only if the frigate was attacked."

"But you broke formation?"

Tabraile chuckled. "By the time those reinforcements arrived, Yates and I had dispatched their friends. We put them down. Hard. Saved a lot of lives. The frigate commander put our names in for a commendation."

"And Derin's son?"

"Humiliated. After receiving the commendations, Yates and I were promptly demoted from fighters to cargo transports. But Admiral Derin wasn't satisfied. He had me flogged in front of the entire garrison and then thrown in the brig with no medical treatment."

"That explains the scars." Anayera laid her hand on his thigh.

"Derin said the scars would be a reminder of my place. I spent the next six weeks clinging to life in an Imperial prison." Tabraile shook the memory from his mind as a hail of whistling and beeping interrupted them. "It's okay, RK-O. She's awake." He watched the droid roll up to the makeshift cot. "Message? What message?"

A holo sputtered from the droid's tiny projector and then materialized into the imposing figure of Lord Jyaard. Anayera tightened her grip on Tabraile's hand in fear.

"You've done worse," Jyaard said. "After hearing the initial reports, I cannot say I blame you. You were always a sensitive child, which made your training problematic. But running away isn't like you at all. I've gotten reports that your father is looking for you. Possibly seeking retribution for what you did to his agents. Come home, Anayera. Come home where I can protect you." The hologram dissolved as the message ended, leaving behind a chill in the room.

Tabraile flexed his hand to alleviate the numbness in his fingertips. "He's baiting you."

"My uncle never approved of my mother's marriage to my father. But they were in love, and he couldn't do anything about it. Until the Empire came to our sector. When my father chose to fight for the Resistance, Jyaard came and took my mother and me away. Said it was for her safety."

"How old were you?"

"Three. At first, he wanted nothing to do with me, but as I got older, he said I had a gift and began training me. When my mother realized what he was doing, she tried to escape off-world. My uncle tried to reason with her. They argued." Anayera sighed. "I never saw her again.

"Fifteen years later, I discovered that he had her committed in an asylum. That's what he meant by safety. I went there to hear her side of the story. But whatever he had done that day had broken her. She didn't speak ... had to be fed through a tube ... never left her room ... didn't answer when I called her name. She died in that horrible place. I blamed myself for not working hard enough to appease my uncle." Anayera pulled up her sleeves to reveal the long scars on her wrists.

"You tried to kill yourself?"

"My uncle saved me and never let me forget it."

"That's why you were trying to prove your loyalty to him?"

"Every time he looks at me, he sees my father," Anayera said. "It's why he will never be satisfied."

Tabraile cupped her chin in his hand and forced her to look at him. "We all carry lashes given to us by someone we trusted. The scars don't make us less. They make us more because they tell the story of our survival."

"So what are we going to do?"

"Break formation and head to Talus," he said with a mischievous grin. "Steering clear of the only Imperial outpost there, we head straight to the field hospital to get you patched up. Then we take one last ride in our shuttle to a town a few clicks away called Kor Bha'lir."

"Kor Bha'lir? That can't be a coincidence."

"I don't believe in coincidence," he said. "We ditch the shuttle in Kor Bha'lir, making a few credits to add to your Parlak winnings, and then we hire a tramp freighter to wherever you want to go."

Anayera took his hand in both of hers and squeezed it. "Wherever you are, that's where I want to be, Tabraile."

"Then it's settled," he said, patting her thigh. "We're outlaws."

RK-O9 whistled excitedly and then the notes faded into a melancholy tune.

"No, no, that means you, too, buddy," Tabraile said. "We're outlaws together."

An alarm klaxon blared. It echoed through the dilapidated corridors and abandoned rooms of the base. Tabraile's hand went to his blaster.

"What's that?" Anayera asked.

"Long-distance proximity alert," he replied. "I don't care for surprises. RK-O, patch in and check to see what's headed this way. Might just be spice runners looking for a quiet place to lie low." He listened intently to the droid's report. "Rebel ships?"

"My father."

"Unless they're desperate, the Alliance would never reclaim a base that's been compromised," Tabraile countered

"It's him," Anayera insisted. "He must be tracking me somehow."

"How long, RK-O? Twelve hours? All I need is five minutes. Go back to the shuttle and prep for lift off. We're headed to Talus. I already punched in the astrogation coordinates. Move, buddy. I don't want to be part of the welcome committee." As the droid scurried ahead of them through the ruins of the medical wing, Tabraile heard the rustling of the thermal blankets. "No, you don't," he scolded as Anayera tried to sit up and swing her feet out of the cot.

"Tabraile, I can walk."

"No time to argue, Lady Vannre." Wrapping her in the blanket, Tabraile scooped her up in his arms and hurried to the remnants of the adjoining docking bay.

Wings retracted, the Lambda-class shuttle sat on the berth with the rear hatch deployed. "What do you mean you found something and you're removing it?" Tabraile asked, annoyed by the droid's incessant babbling over the comlink. He hesitated on the ramp.

"A restraining bolt?" Anayera whispered. "Can you do that to a shuttle?"

"I got a bad feeling about this." Tabraile retreated from the ship and set her down on a loading skiff near an inner bulkhead. "RK-O? RK-O, respond!"

The droid's high-pitched squeal prompted him to sprint into the shuttle. In the act of removing a small, metallic device, the mouse droid was paralyzed in a blue, ionized discharge emitted by the mechanism. The electrical energy spread rapidly across the shuttle and compromised its essential flight network. Sparks erupted from instrumentation panels. Black smoke roiled from access pads as small fires broke out. Alarms sounded as the ionization consumed every onboard system.

Tabraile yanked the incapacitated droid free of the device, tucked it under his arm, and ran for the docking bay as the first explosions rocked the shuttle's cockpit. Leaping to escape the blast concussion, he was blown out of the hatch. He landed on his shoulder and winced, his ears ringing from the detonation of the engines.

"A bomb?" Anayera cried in horror, covering herself as fiery debris rained down around them.

"A recon-transmitter—bounty hunters use them," Tabraile groaned, coughing over the ionized smoke in his lungs. "When installed on a ship, they're programmed to pinpoint a target's location and send out a homing beacon. If the target attempts to leave, the device ionizes the controls. When RK-O tried to remove it ... Boom! Someone wanted to make sure this was a one-way trip."

"Guess we know how my father tracked us," Anayera said, "but how did he get aboard the shuttle?"

"RK-O tried to warn me," Tabraile said, his head still spinning. "We were expecting someone to check out the landing sensors. A tech came aboard but was acting suspicious. When RK-O9 asked for a work order. The tech claimed he had the wrong ship and left."

Anayera ran her fingers over the droid's scuffed exterior, but saw no signs of life. "Is he alright?"

Tabraile picked up the droid and gave it a firm shake. The exterior lights on the droid's chassis winked on, intermittently flashing. The whirring of its restored systems was lost beneath the angry racket of beeps and whistles and accusatory squeals.

"I know. I know. I should have listened to you," Tabraile said. "But she was hurt, and we were in trouble. I was a little preoccupied at the time." Accepting the droid's stern admonishment, he closed his eyes and laid back on the duracrete floor. "I know. You told me. I should have listened." Tabraile sat up, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "I'm listening now, but I don't hear you telling me how we're going to get off this planet."