Dynasty

iii. THE FAULTLESS

iii.
THE FAULTLESS

✶

"I know that what I am is
clouded, refractory, partial."
—Jeanette Winterson, Gut Symmetries

Two rotations later, Fallon found herself wedged in the corner of the "leisure space" of the Faultless, a pathetically tiny square of metal that in actuality, functioned as the waystation between the cockpit above and the escape pod to the left. The Faultless was a diplomatic starship, though Fallon had decided the moment she stepped foot in it that if the craft had arrived on Planet Fallon, attempting to effectuate diplomacy, she would have first laughed, then taken offence, and then declared war. And contrary to its name, the Faultless was indeed full of faults, its greatest offender being the way its walls—both interior and exterior—shook and shuddered like a leaf in the wind.

Considering they were in open space, the one place where there shouldn't be any wind, it was vaguely concerning.

Furthermore, the walls emitted a low, incessant hum that drilled a hole into the back of Fallon's head, sending a whining pain up her neck to the base of her skull. The ship pre-dated the war by at least half of Fallon's lifetime, so she couldn't say she was surprised at the state of it. Still, she had hoped for more when Kil knocked at her door, informing her of their latest assignment. The girl had been excited at first: she and Kil were a perfect team, a working unit. She loved to watch him come alive on the battlefield, where he shed the rounded corners of his self-imposed confinements and became the general that Separatist armies feared. Then, she had learned that Nadya was accompanying them.

(She had deflated a little as the words left Kil's lips. Yes, Nadya had an uncanny habit of being the pin pricked to someone else's balloon, but that wasn't the reason Fallon felt uncomfortable. She couldn't place it.)

As if on cue, the hatch to the cockpit swung open and Nadya came climbing down the ladder, cloaks draped over her forearm, her braid whipping against the back of her neck. Nadya had spent the majority of their time aboard pacing the "leisure space" like an animal starved, content with carving the soles of her shoes into the Faultless' floor. Gloved hands twisted like chains behind her back, she had passed Fallon about a dozen times, rust-red brows knit together.

Nadya was indomitable: there was no other word that Fallon could use to describe her that did her justice. Intimidation incarnate, she stood tall, almost as tall as Chrysaor, and she was striking. Every inch of her face exuded a concussive kind of beauty—the beauty of an infallible battle plan, of the sharpened edge of a ritual blade—that did well to subdue those who questioned her ability (or her intent.) All she had to do was flash that vulpine smile, and all unbelievers would be stunned, silenced. Granted, there weren't many who dared doubt her these days: the prodigal daughter of the Order had risen through the ranks, earning the respect of almost every superior she encountered. To speak ill of her was to spew heresy. Nadya didn't care whether people liked her or not—the Order isn't a popularity contest, Kryze—but she hated to be questioned, and challenged any and all scepticism with her vicious intellect and razor-sharp tongue, wicking away all uncertainties with her broad shoulders and lioness gaze.

She was the most prepared for the Trials out of all her Mandalorian peers. Fallon had heard the whispers that likened Nadya to the nascent Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker, the youngest padawan to have ever passed the Trials. Having seen them fight side by side, Fallon could understand the comparison: both were fuelled by palpable aggression, expressed in the savage strike of a lightsabre and the incendiary glower directed at everyone and no one as their masters reined them in for discipline. Fallon didn't know Anakin well enough to understand why he barely had to touch the surface of his anger to ignite the gasoline in his bloodstream, why the trigger for his temper was barely a hair's width, but she knew Nadya.