Star Wars_ The New Rebellion - Kristine Kathryn Rusch [106]
The flames went out.
He closed his eyes.
That was close.
The crackling of the nearby fires kept him focused. A bang resounded from far away, as part of the X-wing collapsed.
No one had come to gawk at the explosion. No one had come to put out the fire.
No one had come to help him.
His readings had been right, then. Pydyr was nearly empty.
He opened his eyes, and assessed the damage. His left ankle was broken and swollen to twice its size. Ever since his experience on the Eye of Palpatine, his left leg had been weak, vulnerable to too much pressure. His knee ached also, but that felt like a sympathetic injury.
He had a lot of bruises. Too many to count, too many even to allow himself to feel. He didn’t want to think about the possibilities of internal injuries. His left hand was slightly burned—he must have touched the flames with his real hand—and his back felt raw. He was thirsty, a bad sign.
But while Pydyr’s population was gone, its buildings weren’t. He would probably be able to find water.
Maybe he would find some burn cream, too, something to ease the pain in his back and his hand.
Still no one had arrived. The flames burned on in the odd light, the sparks swarming like tiny bugs. He had to get away from here. The flames were spreading, had already spread to the building he had landed against.
The emptiness bothered him. He patted his side for his lightsaber, and found it, slightly scorched, but fine.
The artificial skin had burned off his right hand, revealing the mechanical workings. He balled his hand into a fist and braced himself on his knuckles as he rose. The strength in his arm would help him for the moment. He would need a crutch of some kind, but for now, he could limp.
He braced himself on the nearest building and hobbled away from the flames. His thirst was growing. He made himself ignore it, as best he could.
The emptiness appalled him more than the crash did. He assumed some of that was shock. Yet, there was an eerieness here that he had only felt a few times before. This street was meant to have life in it. These buildings were meant to house families, to hold laughter and conversation and warmth. The street should be full of voices, of vendors, of people going about their business. He should smell alien cuisine, unusual perfume, even unfamiliar garbage.
Instead, the only smell was smoke from his destroyed X-wing, the only sound the snap of flames, and his own ragged breathing.
He ducked into an archway, and leaned against the column. It too was made of mudbrick and decorated with tiny stones. He leaned his forehead on them. Spots danced in front of his eyes. He didn’t know the proper burn treatments. He’d always had Artoo for information, the medical pak for emergencies, and a whole battery of medical personnel on the inhabited planets.
Here he had no one.
Except himself.
Even on the Eye of Palpatine, he had had Callista.
He pushed thoughts of her from his mind. He couldn’t afford to think of her, especially not now.
He caught his breath and went inside the building. The smoke hadn’t gotten here yet, and the only acrid scent came from his own clothing.
He was in an entry, filled with brown carved tile. The walls were covered with frescoes, mostly of a humanoid people with oval faces and almond eyes; long, flowing arms; and small mouths that didn’t seem to smile. Yet their entire demeanor radiated joy. Wooden chairs stood in the hall. They were covered with dust.
A stand near the door held walking sticks and canes. He pulled one out and leaned on it, thankful that it could take some of his weight.
He had to find a source of water. He was getting dizzy. His back throbbed. He rounded a corner, walking carefully on the long red rugs that covered the flooring.