Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [124]
How could a being with any conscience remain politically neutral after such an event?
He took another swig from his glass. It was certainly enough to drive any sane being to drink.
Teela and Vil sat at a table, drinks before them, but neither bothered to pick up their glasses. They didn’t speak.
She watched Vil stare moodily into his glass. He was a pilot, he was trained for war, he risked his life in fights—but even so, the destruction of Despayre had shaken him. Badly.
Teela was beyond shaken. She was appalled. Horrified. She could have been on that world—she had been on that world, and if not for an ability the Empire had decided it needed, she would have still been down there when Despayre was shattered.
She’d had nothing to do with the weapons aspect of building the station. She designed and built housing and recreation and living space. And she’d had no real choice, had she? After all, she was still a prisoner.
Right?
Her inner self could have a fine old time saying I told you so along about now, she knew. Instead, it was uncharacteristically silent.
58
THE HARD HEART CANTINA, DECK 69, DEATH STAR
Uli sat at the bar next to a humanoid with unbelievably bright green eyes, and thought about cantinas he had frequented during his time in the military. Some had been fun, some merely places to get lit; some had been dens of comrades-in-thrall—doctors, nurses, techs, all dragooned and forced to serve in a war that they all detested. The beings who had to patch up the wounded or cover the dead they couldn’t save were generally less enthusiastic over the glory of war than most. After a thousand young people pass under your knife, torn and battered by the effects of blasters or shrapnel, it got old, and it made you weary to your depths. War was as stupid and antisurvivalist an action as a species could undertake, and if Uli could suddenly be made some kind of god, as his first act he would erase the knowledge and memory and ability to make war from the universe.
Now the Empire had a planet buster—and here he was, on the blasted thing. How much worse could things get?
“Hey, Doc.”
Uli looked to his left and saw a sergeant arrive at the bar. It took a couple of seconds to place the man—he was a patient. The guy with the bad dreams and the midi-chlorians.
“Sergeant Stihl. How are you sleeping?”
“Truth is, hardly at all. Recently got worse. A lot worse.” He sat on the stool.
“I understand. Pills didn’t help?”
“Not really.”
“Sorry.”
“Me, too. I—” He stopped and looked past Uli at the green-eyed fellow on Uli’s right. “Celot Ratua Dil?”
Has to be a Zelosian, with those eyes, Uli thought. One of the rare chlorophyllians in the galaxy. And he and the sarge obviously knew each other.
The plant man turned and stared, and Uli saw panic well briefly in those eyes. But then they resumed their slightly cynical outlook. “Well, blast,” he said. “You changed your shift, didn’t you, Stihl? I should’ve checked.” He shook his head, shrugged, and grinned. “Oh, well.”
“What are you doing here?” the sergeant asked. No sound of hostility that Uli could tell; nevertheless, he was starting to feel acutely uncomfortable sitting between them.
“Having a drink,” Celot Ratua Dil said. “Wishing I were back on my homeworld. Things weren’t so bad there, in retrospect. I could have had a pretty good life at home, but, no, I wanted to travel and see the galaxy. Stupid choice.”
The tender drifted over, and Uli noticed that her right hand was under the bar, out of sight. He was feeling very uncomfortable now.
The tender, a Twi’lek, looked familiar, too. Where had he seen her? Ah, yes … just picture