Dynasty

v. WINTER PT. I

v.
WINTER PT. I

✶

"Half truths / peeling like blisters of history"
— Gerald Vizenor, When the Light of the World
Was Subdued, Our Songs Came Through

Knives, Hitch, and the other survivors were waiting for them in the mess hall. Fallon could recall the layout of the base from her research on the way over—from what she understood of it, its first few levels were a labyrinthine collection of prefab amenities. Armouries, living quarters, medical bays and storage spaces, all set into Jalid's crust at different levels, attached to passages that sloped up and down like they had a mind of their own. The Kyber mine itself was only accessible by elevators that travelled even further, deeper, towards Jalid's core. Even then, one would only reach the mouth of one of many caverns: even more exploration was required before the crystals were even visible.

It was nothing like the caves on Ilum. Then again, Fallon supposed, Ilum was a planet of collective sentimentality. Of aeons-old rituals, of practices arcane and intended to be indecipherable to any non-Jedi entity. Jalid, however, was a business operation.

Fallon's eyes took a moment to adjust to the light that flooded her as she entered the hall; although dimmed, it was still harsh and sterile. She glanced around, the natural curiosity developed when she was younger having habituated into exact and almost-eidetic observation.

The mess hall was thin and capsule-like, its longest side lined with a row of entryways. They met the ceiling where they curved at the top, hanging like gums over teeth, leading down throat-like hallways and corners, all lit by flickering fluorescent overheads. In one corner of the room, someone had brought supplies from the medical bay to set up a temporary first-aid station, and moved the metal tables to section off the area. A clone was pressing cloth-wrapped ice to the injuries of a Jali woman, trying his best to salvage the mess of her arm, the skin that had melted like wax. Fallon could see bone.

On the other side of the chambers were the survivors, Jali and clone alike. One of the troopers Fallon hadn't recognised was passing out vacuum-sealed ration packs, while Hitch offered around his combat knife to cut the plastic open.

Fallon made her way over to them, weaving through metal tables and sparsely-seated Jali. Someone pressed an already-open ration pack into her hands.

          "Is everyone here okay?" Fallon asked. In periphery, she saw Nadya and Kil lingering by the entryway. Nadya fixed her dark eyes to her floor, while Kil spoke to her quietly, his expression like stone, his beard like silk. Childlike curiosity sprouted thorns in Fallon's chest, snagging on her heart and lungs, piercing her veins—what she'd give to hear what Kil had to say.

But his expression, a punishment set in skin, cold and callous in the creases of his face, placated Fallon well enough; Nadya recoiled at whatever it was Kil had to say, and turned away to lick her wounds.

Hitch's voice forced Fallon back into focus. "If they're here, then yes, sir." Finding everyone fed, or at least well on their way, the clone sheathed his knife.

          "If you hadn't arrived when you did, we'd be dead." Knives was seated behind Hitch. He tore his ration in half and offered the larger piece to his fellow clone, who took it gratefully. The light beat down on Knives, illuminating the crooked scar that ran from his temple to his chin, the reason for his namesake. A civilian on a Separatist-occupied planet had taken a slice at him, thinking him the enemy; unlike most of the injuries sustained by his brothers, the wound was easy to manage. There was no grafting, as would be required by a burn, no amputation as one would need with an unsalvageable limb. Just sutures, just a single thread to stitch him back together. "Thank you, sir."