Star Wars_ Shatterpoint - Matthew Woodring Stover [20]
Was this what broke Depa?
He shook that thought out of his skull. He drove his attention into his visual field, focusing on cataloging the smallest detail of his prison.
Until he could see for himself, he told himself solidly, he owed her the presumption of innocence. Such doubts were unworthy of her. And of him.
But they kept creeping back, no matter how hard he stared at the mildew-eaten paint on the wall.
... I know you think I've gone mad. I haven't. What's happened to me is worse.
... I've gone sane...
He knew her. He knew her. To the marrow of her bones. Her most secret heart. Her cherished dreams and faintest, foggiest hopes. She could not be involved in massacres of civilians. Of children.
... nothing is more dangerous than a Jedi who's finally sane...
She couldn't.
But as seconds swelled to hours, the certainty in his head went hollow, then desperate. Like he was trying to talk himself into something he knew was wrong.
He felt the door behind him open. A damp breeze licked the back of his neck. Footsteps entered and clicked to one side, and he twisted to look: they belonged to a smallish human male, comfortably plump, wearing militia khakis that were improbably well starched, considering the heat and the damp. The man carried a snap-rim case covered in tanned animal hide. He brushed a wave of end-dampened hair the color of aluminum away from dark eyes, and offered Mace a pleasant smile. "No, please." He waved a hand toward the door. "Feel free to have a look."
Twisting farther, Mace could see down the corridor behind his binder chair. At the far end stood a pair of steady-looking militiamen with blaster rifles aimed at his face.
Mace frowned. An unusual position for guards.
"Is this clear enough?" The man moved around Mace to the table, never crossing their line of fire, and opened his animal-hide bag. "I'm told you have a bit of a concussion. Let's not make it fatal, shall we?"
The Force showed him a dozen places on that soft body where a single blow would maim or kill. This man was no warrior. But energy spidered outward from him in all directions: an important man. Mace found no direct threat in him, only a cheery pragmatism.
"Not talkative? Don't blame you. Well. My name's Geptun. I'm chief of security for the capital district. My friends call me Lorz. You can call me Colonel Geptun." He waited, still wearing that indifferently pleasant smile. After a few seconds, he sighed. "Well. We know who I am. And we know who you're not."
He flipped open the lid of Mace's identikit. "You're not Kinsal Trappano.
I'm guessing not Corellian, either. Interesting history you don't have.
Smuggler. Small-time pirate. Gunrunner. Et cetera and so forth." He settled into the wooden chair, laced his fingers together, and propped his hands on his belly. He watched Mace with that pleasant smile.
Silently. Waiting for him to say something.
Mace could have kept him waiting for days. Without Jedi training, no human truly understands what patience is. But Depa was out there.
Somewhere. Doing something. The longer it took him to reach her, the more of it she might do. He decided to talk.
A small victory for him, Mace thought. No loss for me.
"What am I charged with?"
"That depends. What have you done?"
"Officially."
Geptun shrugged. "Nothing's been filed. Yet."
"Then why am I being held?"
"We're interrogating you."
Mace raised an eyebrow.
"Oh, yes. We are." Geptun winked. "We are indeed. I'm a terrific interrogator."
"You haven't even asked me a question."
Geptun smiled like a sleepy vine cat. "Questions are inefficient. In your case, futile."
"You must be good indeed," Mace said, "to have figured that out without even asking one."
By way of reply, Geptun reached into the animal-skin case and pulled out Mace's lightsaber.
The glow rod shell had been stripped away. Traces of adhesive showed black against the metal.