Chapter Text
32 BBY
On the Edge of Wild Space
It was, Qymaen decided, a strange comfort having L-3PX around.
From the moment he set foot back on San Hill’s luxurious starship, clutching his belongings against his bony ribs, shaking slightly from the enormity of what he had committed to do by taking this first step, the protocol droid was by his side, prattling on in slightly stilted Kaleesh that was nevertheless welcome to Qymaen’s ears. It grounded him as they strolled past floor-to-ceiling viewports that gazed out at a mural of stars, crossing paths with patrolling squads of those spindly security droids and the bustling organic crew as they prepared to depart Kalee’s orbit, its members comprised of both pale Muun and a brown-skinned species of alien with which Qymaen was not familiar. He’d been on plenty of starships before, of course, throughout the Huk War; this was different, in every respect, and each reminder of his paradigm shift threatened to overwhelm him.
If not for L-3PX.
“And this wing contains quarters for the living beings aboard this ship, crew and passengers alike. Your room is just down this hallway—ah, and Mr. Hill’s is right here. We won’t be stopping in, I’m afraid. He would like to extend his apologies for not being here to greet and orient you himself, but he is going to be quite occupied working from his quarters for much of the duration of the voyage back to Muunilinst. He is a busy man who does not travel offworld often,” the droid added, with an almost confidential lilt. “You were a worthy exception, it would seem.”
Qymaen cared less about what was being said than he relished hearing his tongue, but when the protocol droid’s droning words turned to focus on him, some of the unnerving tension released his chest. “I’m honored,” he said, genuinely so.
“I am sure he will arrange a meeting with you before we reach our destination. Now,” the droid continued, “it will take approximately 750 standard hours for the Prudence to reach the planet Muunilinst, barring any unforeseen delays or variables. The hyperspace journey itself takes only half a day at most, but, as you may or may not be aware, there are no official hyperspace...er, roads close to Kalee. It will take time to travel to the nearest route at Delephr, which is itself difficult to navigate.”
“I take it the owner of this ship isn’t comfortable going into hyperspace without one of these roads?” asked Qymaen dryly.
L-3PX sounded aghast. “Well! It isn’t at all safe. Without the proper calculations or—” the droid slipped into Basic, and Qymaen wrinkled his nose in distaste “—oh, there isn’t a good translation for that, is there?” The droid struggled to find one, regardless. “Hyperspace...wave...lantern-signals…”
“Traders used to deliver supplies to our planet on a regular basis,” Qymaen said, unimpressed. “Do you think they wasted weeks at a time in normal space? We Kaleesh are not so familiar with hyperspace technology; what’s your excuse?”
L-3PX truly did possess quite an advanced vocabulator, and it emulated a disdainful sniff. “Chairman Hill will not risk his private ship on smugglers’ back-alley shortcuts.”
Qymaen rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to argue more—there was something to be said for the passing amusement of derisive complaints, particularly when the droid was so responsive to it all—but the protocol droid quickly tottered forward and pressed its hand to a panel on the wall.
“These are your quarters, Mr. Grievous,” it declared, drawing a vague squirm from Qymaen. It was still jarring to hear that name dropped so effortlessly and thoughtlessly amid all the familiar Kaleesh. “The cooler is stocked with food that you may prepare here, but there is also a small cafeteria for organics that you will have access to. The refresher is behind this door, back here. Ah, and there is a gift from Mr. Hill on your bed—‘to educate yourself and help pass the time’, he said.”
Qymaen followed L-3PX into his room and placed his bag and rifle case on the floor before dutifully taking it all in. When his attention was directed to the bed, he retrieved the object that had been placed on his pillow and turned it inquisitively over in his hands. It appeared to be a datapad—a sight nicer than the old, outdated tech Kalee had ever managed to get ahold of. “Thank San Hill for me,” he told the droid, somewhat bemused by the present but pleased by its seeming value.
“A Galactic Basic language learning course has already been installed on that device,” L-3PX clarified. “I will leave you to get situated. I’ll return in an hour or so to fetch you for a few more organizational processes. Please wait and rest here until that time.” With that, the silvery droid stepped over the threshold and the door slid shut in its wake, swallowing all and any external bustle.
Left alone, Qymaen set the datapad aside and moved to the small viewport on the far wall, gazing out into space. He confessed he appreciated San Hill’s ship for the smoothness of its flight, even if on the surface it was gaudier than Levantis’ old tusk rings. Not quite the size of a K’tahak-class gunship, but much bigger than the Masdaría, he found he was far less aware of its motion even as he stared at distant stars and watched them crawl through his field of vision. Just as well. He had enough to deal with over the next month to worry about stumbling around space-drunk and sick out of his senses.
Satisfied that he could move about his quarters without any threat to his equilibrium, he began exploring the room in earnest. The amenities were not dissimilar to those he’d encountered on the Yam’rii gunships, though far more suited to his size—more like what he’d endured in captivity aboard the Equity, but with the welcome inclusion of a kitchenette. He turned the tap on and off in the sink, impressed by the responsive pressure and temperature of the water. One set of cupboards was stacked with much finer tableware than the clay plates and cups he was accustomed to, and he took care not to drop them as he examined them in appreciation. Another cupboard offered an assortment of packaged rations in colorful containers and bags, though stamped all over with the unintelligible glyphs of the offworlders, much to his dismay. His stomach whined at the thought of this food being for him.
He opened the cooler and flinched at the blast of frigid air, but immediately overcame his confusion and investigated its improbably frozen contents with fascination. It was much more effective than a Kaleesh ice box, which had never done much to combat the oppressive heat of the Ausez Steppes. Even though he couldn’t read the symbols printed on the containers, he had to see if the food within was frozen all the way through, so he picked a package at random and pried off its lid with a hiss. Something solid and blue met his mystified gaze. Whatever the substance was, it packed the container clear to its brim. He pressed a finger into the blue surface, which yielded and melted around his own self-generated heat. The cooler, cold as it was, carried as little scent as a Grendaju snowstorm, but a new smell drifted up from the blue stuff as it melted under his probing fingertips. Not an unpleasant smell.
Finding a utensil in a drawer, he managed to scoop up a resistant little morsel of the food, and touched it to his tentative tongue.
And so it was that Qymaen ate an entire carton of Bantha milk ice cream, an experience that left him shivering, sticky and rather regretful by the end of it. It was the most he’d eaten in one sitting since San Hill had made his offer; he’d barely touched the food the Muun had sent him home with, electing instead to disperse it between his family and the other households of Irikuum. Now , there was no need for frugality, no one to share with, no one who needed food more than he did. The kushlal taste of the blue food—so much more intense and delightful than the fruit on Kalee!—was almost worth the stomachache, but he could have done without the periodic sensation of icicles stabbing their way through the roof of his mouth into his skull. He still couldn’t bring himself to stop until the food was gone, despite a wave of fresh nausea that had nothing to do with the motion of the starship.
His discomfort brought him to the bed, soft and synthetic. He favored his old hides and furs over blankets, but he supposed, rather bitterly, that offworlders would find such a preference as undesirable as his kakmusme. While he lay there, waiting for his stomach to settle, he lifted the datapad over his head and mashed at it until it winked on. A jaunty tune greeted him.
“Welcome to your Beginner’s Basic Learning Course,” exclaimed a voice that carried slightly more inflection than the security droids. “According to your profile, you have—rudimentary knowledge of spoken Basic—and—no knowledge of the Aurebesh alphabet. Is that correct? Please respond with ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”
Every word would be in Basic. Qymaen stared blankly at the screen. “Yes or no,” he repeated, fairly certain, at least, that the voice had asked him to say that.
“I’m sorry, your response does not compute! Please try again.”
“Stupid technology,” he muttered in Kaleesh, setting that particular headache aside for the time being.
Once the worst of his queasy fullness passed, Qymaen promptly flouted the droid’s instructions and wandered out of his quarters. He couldn’t resist. There was so much to take in, and for now he preferred to occupy himself with exploration than to hole up alone in a room with nothing but his nerves and the pressing hiss of doubt in the back of his skull for company.
One thing became instantly apparent: never before had he felt so inconsequential.
Among the Kaleesh, there was rarely a place he could go where he was not recognized and revered. Even when the Jedi apprehended him and dragged him aboard the Equity for their forced negotiations, he had been treated as someone of importance—an important prisoner, perhaps, but they still knew him as the leader of his kolkpravis and the representative of his people.
The crew of the Prudence surely knew that they had traveled to Kalee for the purpose of picking him up and bringing him back to Muunilinst, but to them, he was merely a passenger...and one who kept getting in the way, at that. As he padded up and down the ship corridors, he encountered a number of crewmates who nearly bowled him over in their haste to get on with their business, and he found himself on the receiving end of several unfriendly, exasperated glances. One of the brown-skinned aliens even grabbed him by both shoulders and steered him out of a doorway he was inadvertently blocking before ducking inside, leaving Qymaen to fume in the hall. He tracked down a squad of security droids and demanded they show him to the bridge—having spent so much time on the Namireen’s bridge, he was curious to see this one—but none of them spoke Kaleesh, and he lacked the Basic words to explain what he wanted. The droids just stared at him blankly and made unhelpful nasal sounds until he gave up and stormed off, returning to his quarters in a considerably fouler mood than he left them.
He didn’t mope for long before L-3PX reappeared and escorted him to the medbay for a mandatory examination. Given his last experience with a medical droid, Qymaen was not enthusiastic about this development, and expressed his displeasure repeatedly preceding and during the exam. It didn’t help that this one seemed to find a lot more wrong with him than did the previous droid. His only solace was that the medical droid had also been programmed to speak with almost the same level of competent Kaleesh as L-3PX, and was much milder in its demeanor. That didn’t stop the protocol droid from fretting like an overbearing mother.
“We have your medical data from the last time you were examined, on the Equity,” explained a rather agitated L-3PX. “Assuming that is the baseline for a healthy, adult Kaleesh male, you are currently in terrible condition.”
“I can’t imagine why that would be,” said Qymaen wearily from where he perched on the examination table, “after all the starvation.”
There was a pause as the two droids exchanged a few sentences in Basic.
“I believe you are employing sarcasm?” inquired the protocol droid.
“If you aren’t,” said the medical droid, “I would be happy to explain the effects of nutrient deficiency to you.”
“Yes, I was being sarcastic. Obviously I know what’s wrong with me. I just need to eat. It should be easy enough now that I’m on this ship,” he added, thinking of his well-stocked larder.
“There is no doubt you must recover a great deal of weight and muscle mass. But to introduce too much food at once to your starved body could have detrimental effects to your health, with potentially fatal consequences.”
“Excuse me?” Qymaen croaked. “Did you say fatal?”
The medical droid defaulted to Basic. “Excessive refeeding may cause such dramatic shifts to your metabolism and chemical balances that it comes at a severe risk of neurological symptoms and possibly even cardiac arrest.”
L-3PX hastily translated, “If you eat too much too quickly, it creates problems in your body that could lead to seizures or cause your heart to stop.”
Suddenly his sweet memory of the blue frozen cream he’d eaten took on a sinister bent. Qymaen couldn’t keep the horror from his voice as he stared between both droids. “How much is too much?”
“For the first week of recovery you are only to consume no more than half of your energy requirements.”
“What does that mean?! What requirements?”
“Oh dear, you seem inordinately distressed. Is something the matter?”
It took another panicked minute for Qymaen to describe his meal of “frozen blue food”, whereupon the droids politely suggested he not consume much else for the rest of the day. The medical droid then set about detailing a meal plan for weight and nutrient recovery to be followed for the ensuing week (after which point a more complete diet would be authorized to meet full energy requirements), and additionally prescribed a number of supplemental vitamins, a foreign concept to the suspicious Kaleesh.
“So it’s medicine. But I’m not ill.”
“Malnutrition might as well be an illness, for all the damage it has done. These are simply more of the nutrients and minerals you consume when you eat food, but in a different form.”
“But once I’m eating enough food, I’ll have these nutrients and minerals anyway. I don’t need medicine.”
L-3PX mimicked the sound of a slightly impatient sigh. “Suffice it to say, it will speed the recovery process. Please just trust the doctor and take the vitamins.”
Qymaen became even more recalcitrant when the medical droid inspected his chest, trying to listen to his lungs and vainly requesting that he remain still for the examination. “I don’t want your bacta up my nose,” he snapped as he wriggled under the cold metal digits of the doctor, steeled to fling himself off the examination table and flee the chamber if necessary. “It—it’s stupid, it doesn’t help at all.”
“There appears to be scar tissue inside your lungs, so you are indeed correct: bacta cannot get rid of such things. But please hold still so I can obtain a more accurate reading of your chest cavity. I must see if anything has changed since your last scan.”
Qymaen swore a bit, but allowed the exam to proceed. He realized part of his reluctance during this particular portion of the medical droid’s evaluation stemmed directly from his prior experience—not because of the rudely administered bacta spray, but by the needle and the forced unconsciousness that had immediately followed. He suspected the Banking Clan did not intend to implant him with a tracking device as his former captors had, but dread lingered like a bitter aftertaste, irrational and unshakeable. Neither did it sit well with him that these medical assessments felt like an intentionally critical enumeration of his faults and weaknesses. Still, he took a deep breath and held it when he was told to, then coughed feebly when he released it.
“Hm. There is old damage that has affected your airways, but it is a secondary concern at this time, as it doesn’t appear to have worsened since the last time you were examined. Do you know what caused this damage, for our records?”
Qymaen pressed a palm over the too-familiar twinge between his ribs, attempting to take slow, steadying breaths, as if that would wash the pain away. “An old illness,” he said at last, with no real conviction. “I-I guess it still bothers me from time to time. But it happened years ago. I’m not sick now.”
The medical droid made a note on its own datapad. “The illness is gone but the damage remains. If you are experiencing significant discomfort, I can recommend the periodic application of an expectorant—that is, a bacta-based spray that helps loosen—”
“I said no bacta spray!” The very thought of it summoned the phantom burn of his nasal passages and lungs, and he reflexively bucked his way off the exam table and landed on his feet halfway to the door, which failed to open for him.
“Oh, please do settle down!” L-3PX implored. “It’s only a recommendation; you will not be forced to undergo any treatment you don’t agree to.”
“This humiliation is over, then?” Qymaen jabbed a finger at the unmoving door. “I can leave?”
The protocol droid sighed again and consulted the doctor for another minute in cryptic Basic. “You’re free to go for now,” it said at last. “And while I gather you have an aversion to the medical setting, I must impress upon you the importance of monitoring your health during the course of our voyage to Muunilinst, and beyond while you are in the employ of the IGBC. Do you understand? The doctor is going to need to check in on your recovery at regular intervals—perhaps daily. If you’re going to raise a fuss every time…”
A growl rumbled in Qymaen’s throat and escaped through bared teeth, but he tossed his hands in the air in surrender. “Fine! I’ll do what I must! I’ll eat my requirements, I’ll take these vitamins, I’ll see the doctor every day. But nothing will happen without my permission, do you understand? My body will not be meddled with, inside or out, without my knowing it. No medicine to make me sleep. No technology under my skin. None of it.”
“We’ll respect your wishes within the parameters of our programming,” replied the medical droid, holding out a container of the prescribed supplements, which Qymaen snatched and held close, stifling a few residual coughs.
“You have nothing to fear,” added L-3PX.
“Pah. I fear nothing.”
“Of course not. Do you require an escort back to your quarters, or do you remember the way?”
“I’ll figure it out,” Qymaen muttered as the door finally slid open to blessed freedom. He stalked out into the corridor, wondering if he had perhaps overestimated the consolation L-3PX and the medical droid brought him with their use of Kaleesh: now, there was someone who could nag him.
—
Perhaps it was the avid anticipation of reaching Muunilinst—and all that entailed, from landing on a new planet and immersing himself in an alien culture to starting his new job—but Qymaen hadn’t imagined spending weeks aboard a lavish star cruiser would be quite so dull.
As a passenger, he was not expected to assist the crew with any menial responsibilities around the ship, and his lack of conversance in Basic impeded him from befriending anyone, besides. He spent the first few days taking his meals in the cafeteria, but for as beloved as the former Khagan had found himself among his own people, as a subject of wonder and admiration, he had to confess that under ordinary circumstances he was not especially...naturally... sociable. What began as an attempt to listen in on conversations and pick up on Basic vernacular turned into an assault on his senses he’d sooner avoid, leading him to retreat to his room for the majority of the voyage to prepare his meals and study Basic in solitude. He might have made an exception for San Hill, had he received an invitation to meet and converse with him, but the Muun, too, had vanished into his quarters and never showed his face elsewhere on the ship. L-3PX assured him Mr. Hill was quite busy; it was nothing personal, not at all, perish the thought!
And yet it was difficult not to feel abandoned when he passed his days holed up in his personal quarters, alone, with only the occasional visit from the protocol droid and the daily trek to the medbay to break up the monotonous cycle of staring at the screen of his datapad, sleeping in his strange, squashy bed and eating more food than he could have imagined possible.
Oh, gods, so much food.
He'd been hungry for years—starving, more recently, emaciated and debilitated, his body cannibalizing itself to survive. He knew hunger. But to be hungry when there was nothing to eat was an altogether different experience than to deal with his hunger now that he had unrestricted access to what might as well have been an endless supply of food (or rather, it became unrestricted once he survived his first week of refeeding without the fatal consequences he’d been warned about).
Now, he couldn’t stop eating. He ate until he ached, well past fullness, so much he feared he was harming himself, and yet he couldn’t seem to moderate his ravenous intake. According to the medical droid and L-3PX, this was not unusual.
“When an organic creature has consumed limited quantities of energy for a considerable length of time, the body often attempts to make up for the loss when it is able to. In your current state of malnourishment, the amount you will need to consume will likely feel excessive.”
“Rest assured that it is not! Please don’t be dissuaded from eating what you must to recover. You are doing very well!”
But, beneath the desperate gratification of filling his stomach, guilt lurked. There had been too many seasons of rationing, of setting aside only a negligible amount of food for himself that his ever-dwindling family might have enough. Now here he sat on a beautiful, decadent starship, stuffing himself sick for hours on end, while his people surely still suffered. It was difficult to remind himself that soon Kalee would have access to offworld trade, food and resources once more. It was even more difficult to concede that he was also starving, that he would need to become healthy again if he wanted to be of any use while serving the Banking Clan, that the droids were right in praising and assuring him.
Yet still the guilt gnawed away, and whenever haunted imaginings of skeletal children threatened to drag his mind and mood spiraling, he prepared himself a cup of Nulahu’s soothing tea blend, which did as much to settle his soul as it did his overtaxed stomach.
It also reminded him how much he already missed his home.
To combat his loneliness, he composed messages to his Izvoshra and his family—mentally, at first, until he pestered L-3PX to show him how to turn on the recording feature on his datapad independently from the language course. He recorded and deleted several messages, running the gamut from stilted and reserved to overly emotional and miserable, until eventually he landed on a sincere, measured delivery in which he recounted his experiences aboard the starship and expressed his sasiga with as much composure as he could muster. He wasn’t certain how such a message would be sent back to Kalee just yet, as his datapad didn’t seem to possess the capacity for long-distance transmission, but it comforted him to have prepared for the occasion.
He showed off a little Basic in his messages, as well. He liked to think he was making good progress, but there were so many nonsensical rules surrounding the syllables he memorized and mimicked, and more than anything else the glyphs—Aurebesh, he had to keep reminding himself—gave him a considerable amount of trouble. Thankfully, whenever he struggled to find the right words, he could enlist the help of L-3PX, who could instantly provide both the Basic word and its approximate translated definition whenever asked. Qymaen learned a number of more unusual words this way, ones that did not come up in his fundamental lessons. Some of them he shared with his family in his messages.
Others were more personal.
“What exactly does sahuldeem mean to you?” he asked the protocol droid one day.
L-3PX seemed particularly puzzled by this question. “Why, that is your name, isn’t it? ‘Grievous’—it describes a terrible pain—a heart full of sorrow—or to inflict suffering. An interesting word. It could be interpreted a number of ways, and context is important, but I do believe ‘grievous’ is the single best analogue. Are there any other words you would like interpreted?”
Qymaen hesitated. “Masdaría?”
“‘Martyr’. A great sacrifice for a cause. A victim, one who suffers for one's beliefs.”
Now he couldn’t stop, even though his chest ached and his voice escaped in a rasp. “Kummar.”
“A ‘demon’, or a ‘nightmare’. An evil, frightening, terrible being or experience.”
“Sheelal da Sheemash.”
L-3PX tilted its head, processing. “I believe there is cultural significance to this phrase? But literally, it translates to ‘one who has dreams’ and ‘dream twin’. Er. Or is that ‘dream mate’? Mash by itself refers to the moon, and if I’m not mistaken it is called a companion to the sun—a twin or a mate, then, yes, that sounds correct.”
Qymaen’s throat felt like it was closing, choked with tears he refused to spill. “Aladurmash.”
“Ah, well, that’s easier, now. ‘Twin soul’ or ‘soulmate’. A rather lovely if primitive conceit, the belief that every organic being shares their ‘soul’ with another somewhere in the universe, which are meant to be united.” There was a beat as the protocol droid’s processors picked up on an emotional and behavioral shift. “I’m detecting unprecedented distress. Are you quite all right?”
“I’m fine,” Qymaen lied. “Thank you. That’s enough Basic. You can go.”
He should have known better than to dredge up old ghosts—to remind himself of what he had lost, of what he had been reduced to. Such wretched sentiment did nothing for his nerves, and left him more vulnerable to the darkness. It found him, most often when the world offered no distractions, such as when he lay in bed and waited for sleep to claim him. Doubt stole into the corners of his mind and rooted around until it stirred up echoes of the cruel voices that had so recently tormented him.
This was a mistake.
What are you doing here? What were you thinking?
You still have no proof that anything San Hill has promised will come to pass.
Fool. He’s taking you to the Republic. To the Jedi. Your trial. Imprisonment. Execution.
Did you think you deserved better? Absolution? A chance to undo the damage?
No. It was your fault it all fell apart.
Hope is a dream. Failure is your legacy.
Even if San Hill keeps his word, what then? You serve the Banking Clan for the rest of your days?
You’ll fail at that, too.
Whenever this happened, Qymaen would haul himself out of bed for more tea and a revisitation of the technique Nulahu had taught him to combat his own treacherous mind. She wasn’t there to guide him, so he suspected it wasn’t as effective as it could have been, but still he tried, taking deep breaths and steering his thoughts with a firm hand.
Stop it.
That’s not helpful.
Don’t look back. You have to move forward to make change possible.
Things will change for Kalee. You made the right choice. There’s still hope.
Do you really think you made the wrong decision, or are you just afraid?
There’s nothing to be scared of, you stupid coward.
No, that wasn’t right.
Breathe in.
What are you afraid of?
Not afraid. Angry.
You have no control here. Your fate and the fate of Kalee is in someone else’s hands. You have to trust. Believe.
Submit.
And you hate this as much as you hate the ones who made you suffer.
Yet what choice do you have?
Do it for Kalee.
Breathe out.
But often by the time he teetered on the edge of tenuous, distorted equilibrium, Nulahu’s drowsy herbal blend dragged him back to too-soft sheets and pillows and dulled the voices enough that he fell into dreamless sleep.
Even now, with a flicker of pathetic hope guiding him like a torch through the smothering darkness, he could not—would not—dream.
—
On the final day of the Prudence’s journey, Qymaen went about his usual routine, following up his breakfast with an adaptation of the old exercises Ronderu had required of him all those years ago during his initial Lig combat training, doing what he could within the confines of his quarters.
Starvation had left him even skinnier than he’d been at seventeen years of age, and though over the course of a month of full meals aboard San Hill’s yacht he’d managed to gain back some flesh, it was a negligible improvement. He still felt maddeningly frail , and so, in the interest of regaining his prior strength—and to combat the rather disappointing condition of his newly recovered weight—he had reinstituted his old training regimen. He had lost and regained mass before, back during his terrible bout of wet lung, but the changes he faced now were far more dramatic. The medical droid had assured him uneven weight distribution was a perfectly normal part of the recovery process; it would stabilize over the course of time. Qymaen would sooner stabilize things as quickly as possible. Just as a warrior was not meant to be bony and weak, neither was he meant to be soft and weak.
After exercising, he typically curled up on his bed with his datapad and his Basic lessons. Reading did not come easily to Qymaen, and he spent a disproportionate amount of time struggling with visual comprehension compared with his audio-based lessons. Speaking the letters and words aloud helped a bit, at least.
“Senth,” he mumbled from where he nested in a mass of pillows, datapad propped on his knees as he squinted at the screen. “Sun. Ss...sky. Star. Spah—spahk...spahss…?”
A voice abruptly crackled over the intraship comm system. “Approaching the Delephr Beacon. Preparing to enter hyperspace. We will be making the jump to lightspeed in thirty seconds.”
Qymaen glanced up inquisitively, but decided to dismiss the announcement. He didn’t understand a number of those words, let alone the fact that it was a warning. He did, however, recognize one term, and complacently corrected himself. “Space. Hy-per-space.”
“Jumping to lightspeed in three—two—one.”
Inertial compensators mitigated what would otherwise be a lethal jolt as the Prudence accelerated and lurched into a hyperspace lane, but the crew and passengers still braced themselves for the g-forces at work. Qymaen did not. With a yelp, he rolled against the back wall of his room, dropping his datapad. Staggering slightly, he clambered off his bed and caught sight of the viewport...and gaped. Streaks of starlight blurred from the pseudomotion of the jump before warping into a swirling blue vortex of oscillating lights and shadows, no less disorienting—or nauseating.
Clapping a hand over his mouth, Qymaen managed to stumble into the tiny facilities before reacquainting himself with his breakfast.
A few minutes later, L-3PX admitted itself into Qymaen’s quarters, toddling over to the refresher door and poking its head in when the Kaleesh was nowhere to be found out in the main room. “Mr. Grievous?”
“Ugghhff. Go away.”
The protocol droid didn’t bat a photoreceptor at the sight of Qymaen draped over the vacc-tube, his russet face ghastly pale. “Chairman Hill wondered if you might have some trouble acclimating to hyperspace. He has invited you to meet with him for the time being and distract you while you adjust.”
Qymaen coughed a bit. “A distraction. Yes, good idea. I...I’ll just...give me a minute.”
L-3PX escorted woozy Qymaen through the corridors and back to the room where he and San Hill had first met. There they found the lanky Muun folded into a chair at the now-empty table, enjoying a beverage in a gilt-edged chalice that sooner belonged overflowing with offerings on the shrine of a venerated Khan than casually lifted to one’s lips.
“I thought you might feel a bit poorly after all that,” greeted Hill wryly, waving them in and gesturing to a chair. “Sit down, Grievous. I’ve had the viewport shuttered so you don’t have to look outside.”
Qymaen gratefully sank into the chair. Taking into account his nausea and the risk of opening his mouth more than necessary, he decided to practice Basic, keeping such things to a minimum. If there was one small consolation during this meeting, it was his realization that he no longer needed to rely as heavily on L-3PX’s translations to understand San Hill. “Thank.”
“It should pass soon. How unwell you feel, that is. I’m afraid we’ll be in hyperspace for several hours yet. But I’m certain you’ll adjust.”
Somewhat sheepish, Qymaen confessed, “When Grievous fly…” He made a spilling motion from his mouth to the floor with both hands, punctuating it with the appropriate sound (and, thankfully, nothing more). “Blehh.”
San Hill’s brow crumpled in amusement. “Well, it’s perfectly natural. If you’re a primitive species, with your feet planted on the ground your entire life and no access to such technologies—who wouldn’t react in such a way?”
Qymaen’s own attempt at levity burned away in a flare of irritation. L-3PX had offered a tactful translation, but he could interpret San Hill’s tone, and he didn’t care for the Chairman’s insinuation. Thinking of all the times his Izvoshra had traveled in starships without the slightest trouble, he retorted, “Many.”
“Sorry?” San Hill didn’t seem to catch his meaning.
“No thing,” he muttered, dismissing the droid’s query for clarification and shaking his head. No need to belabor the point. As soon as he shook his head, however, a swirl of vertigo flipped his stomach upside-down and dropped his forehead into his waiting hands. He swallowed a groan and closed his eyes against the sensation. “San Hill speak now? You,” he amended, belatedly recalling his pronoun lessons. Stupid pronouns. Stupid Basic. “You speak now.”
“Indeed. I thought you might appreciate something to keep your mind off lightspeed sickness, and I wanted to brief you on what to expect when we arrive on Muunilinst, anyway.” He settled back comfortably in his chair, a stark contrast to Qymaen’s pathetic hunch. “The IGBC’s headquarters are located in the capital city of Harnaidan. Once we have passed through High Port, we will stop there first to draw up your contract and take care of some of the more tedious minutiae—putting you in the system, setting up the Kalee account, introducing you to Captain Tost, having you fitted for a uniform, ordering you the technology you’ll need, so on and so forth. You had expressed that you would like one of your ships from Kalee to be brought with you and used during your service to us. I will have to see about sending some droids to pick it up. For the next several months, however, I expect all of your work will be conducted onworld.”
Qymaen was not fully listening, his fingers massaging his temples, his eyes closed. “Mm.”
San Hill pursed his thin lips a bit before continuing. “Once we’ve finished at the headquarters, you will be taken to your apartment. I took the liberty of having it furnished and stocked for you ahead of time. You will have the night to rest and acclimate, and then tomorrow morning I will have an agent sent to walk you through a standard collection. He’s an adept collections agent; he’ll train you well. Do defer to him, especially in matters of communication, given your linguistic shortcomings at the moment. If you’d like a translator, we can arrange to have one acquired for you. Of course, I prefer that our agents be fluent in Basic if their biology allows it.”
Qymaen blinked to attention at that, and gestured over his shoulder quizzically. “Droid speak?”
“That is my personal protocol droid, and an expensive one. We can expense you a simple vocoder mask.”
Qymaen turned fully to regard the protocol droid, touching his lower face with a questioning look. “He refers to a mask that alters my speech?” he asked, reverting to Kaleesh.
“Yes,” replied L-3PX in kind. “It would electronically translate your words to Basic, but you would still hear Basic, not Kaleesh.”
“Then it is pointless for what I need,” said Qymaen with a withering sneer. “And I was told to leave my own mask behind. Why should I wear his?” He twisted in his chair and shook his head firmly at San Hill. “No mask.”
“Suit yourself,” replied the Muun, unfazed. “I’m sure you will learn Basic in no time with the use of my little gift, anyway. Have you been studying?”
“Yes. Thank. Thank you.”
“And aren’t you feeling better now that you haven’t been thinking about hyperspace for the past couple of minutes?”
Qymaen hesitated before answering, expression dark and wary. Perhaps it was because he understood more Basic, but he was beginning to get a clearer read on San Hill’s endless, oozing condescension. “Yes.”
“Excellent. Then I believe we are done here. I hope you won’t feel too overwhelmed by Muunilinst. A little culture shock is to be expected, but as long as you keep your head down and focus on your job, everything should be fine.” With a dismissing flick of his wrist, he turned back to his drink. “I’ll see you in a few hours, my friend. Try and get some rest.”
Friend. He suspected it would not sound the same coming from him if he called San Hill his friend; something about the way the Chairman couched the word distanced him from the Kaleesh rather than it conveyed any hint of camaraderie. An empty epithet. Qymaen clenched his jaw against a squirming scowl, clamping it in place. “Thank for speak, San Hill.”
“Oh, and mind where you are when we come out of hyperspace. The sensation will likely be as disagreeable then as it was going in. Wouldn’t want you to…” San Hill spiraled his hand in the air, a sad, downward arc. “Blehh.”