The Children of the Stars

The Girl in the Box

Before, there was nothing. Not even the cold penetrated her slumber. But the cold was next, not quite burning— she would not have awakened until it was bearable, that was the design of cryogenic cases.

It was like stumbling into fog, as strangers lifted her out of the box, insisting on touching her— but she couldn't quite get the words out.

Besides, when she awoke on the strange world, surrounded by strangers, she had a feeling she should keep her mouth shut.

As she walked to the ship of the Chume'doro, the Hapan royal guards, she remembered, it had started to come back to her, why she should not speak to anyone, not if she could help it.

Luckily for her, her voice was not needed at first anyway.

The medics were not concerned with her identity when they shined flashlights in her eyes, examined her skin and hair, made her run a short pace or tested her reflexes.

All of them were sharper than she remembered.

Her limbs were ever-so-slightly longer, too, more scars accumulated on them than before she went to sleep.

Not that the medics or doctors paid much attention to those. They were faded, healed. Not their problem.

No, their job was to make sure there weren't any negative side-effects to her time spent frozen in a box. And that was fine by her.

However, she did not appreciate what was about to come next.

A nurse, a young man in a pastel uniform, handed her a silk blue robe with detailed embroidery— plain by Hapan standards, she knew that much— and asked her to follow him down the corridor, and onto the lift.

They were leaving the part of the hospital that dealt with physical health.

Now it was time for a psychologist, an interrogator of sorts.

She supposed it was her fault. She refused to speak— because of the things that were so dearly important. But that was a worrying sign to the Hapan doctors.

After all, as the nurse explained, sometimes neurological problems could come from improper procedure, or if she was left in the ice for far too long.

Force, he sounded like Threepio, droning on and on.

And normally she liked Threepio. It just wasn't comforting to have him drone on and on, oblivious to her rising panic.

No, stay calm. She clenched her palms. She could do this— she could lie, or just answer enough to assure them that she was sane— well, sane enough to walk free.

She couldn't reveal her name though.

No one could know that Nellith Skywalker had survived the Second Purge of the Jedi Order.

After all, she shouldn't have survived.

The male nurse pressed a panel to open a sliding frosted duroglass door. The office was as gaudy as any ordinary Hapan's could be.

There were jewels in the lantern on the desk, after all, and the rug was embroidered with gold thread, Nellith was certain of that.

A chair was pulled away from the desk— large and cushy, a deep plush scarlet. Nellith easily sank into the depths of the chair, holding the ends of her robe more tightly around her.

Running around in only what could be described as a bra and shorts was not exactly pleasant, after all.

She resisted the urge to pull her knees up to her chest, put her feet on the chair or on the desk itself.