Chapter Text
There are a number of things that, throughout her career, Dedra Meero has never taken lightly. Punctuality. Attention to detail. Precision, effort, and adherence to regulations.
In being three hours late to meet her for their nightly investigative session, Syril Karn has spat in the face of every one.
She’d been quietly aghast when she’d reached the mark of one hour past their agreed-upon time. By the second, she’d muttered a string of insults to herself. By the third, anger lent everything her gaze landed on a tinge of red. What does he think he’s doing? What does he think he’s playing at, keeping me waiting? He should know better — should know she could discard him swiftly and without a second thought. She could peel the wrapper from him and toss him in the recycler just as she would any other bit of refuse.
Three hours late.
Appalling.
Reaching for her comlink, she sorts through her exhaustion-fogged brain for a string of words that’d appear innocuous to anyone but him. They’re not even meant to be doing this, what they’re doing. She’s meant to have left it all alone after Ferrix, and he most certainly isn’t meant to be joining her in hunting down the men who’d crippled both of their careers. But he’d proven useful as both a data transferrer and, as needed, a spy. As such, it’s only reasonable to keep him around. Later than she should, and more often than any sane person would recommend. Regardless, their need for secrecy forces her to choose her words with surgical precision.
He doesn’t answer, and she draws in a burning breath. “I was expecting you,” she says, all but exhaling a column of smoke. “I’m disappointed.” She hangs up.
The second line, surely, will get to him. Throughout their year of collaboration, she’s come to understand Syril cannot stand falling short of expectations: his supervisor’s, the Empire’s, hers. The moment he hears her message, he’ll drop whatever it is he’s deemed so important and come scampering to her side, a pet called from across a dwelling. She’s counting on it.
Her confidence enables her to return to her work with a slight smirk tugging at her lips, and as she tracks flight paths and matches them against records of rebel activity, she starts to draft up his evisceration. It’s a good thing you’re not a supervisor: Major Partagaz would never tolerate your tardiness. That’s good enough, but it’ll sink in better if she twists the dagger. If she leaves him with a scar. If you’re not taking this seriously, I have no use for you.
That’ll do, she decides. Now, all she needs to do is wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Five hours past the time they were meant to meet, she’s still heard nothing from him. The buzzer at her door has not rung. Her comlink remains mute. She’ll concede this is unusual behavior for Syril — generally he’s at least five minutes early, not five hours late. And today, of all days: he’d been meant to give her a datacard with information about a riot at a faraway prison. No matter, she tells herself, scowling at her comlink with a flutter of… something, in her stomach. He’ll respond. He always does.
When she wakes up the next morning on her couch, her datapad still in her hand, her uniform still on, and her hair dangling from its once-orderly bun, she hasn’t received any new messages. A pit forms in her stomach.
Something isn’t right.
Irate as she is with him for it, she knows it hadn’t been like Syril to miss their session. Even more uncharacteristic is his ignoring her message. In all the time they’ve known each other, he’s never ignored her. When she’s called for him, he’s always come. Early morning or dead of night, he’d put his entire existence on hold to scramble to her doorstep. Why, suddenly, has he done otherwise?
Suspicion and dread tangle in her chest, tightening it. Taking a breath, she reminds herself not to overreact. On several occasions, Syril’s made mention of his mother. Perhaps she’s taken ill. Perhaps he’s taken ill, and he’d been unable to access his comlink — although there, again, she hesitates. She doubts Syril would ever let something so rote and surmountable as sickness keep him from working to catch Cassian Andor.
Part of her aches to call him again. To see whether he might answer, this time. To see whether something had gone wrong with her first transmission. With effort, she silences it. It won’t do to seem desperate, which she is not. He’ll either contact her or he won’t. In either case, she needn’t worry. His connection to her is untraceable. No one could uncover her investigation from his side. Even in the absolute worst-case scenario, she’s gleaned so much information from him that in the next few weeks, she’d likely be able to proceed alone. She does, however, need that datacard, which means, for the moment, she still needs him. Standing up from the couch, her bones creaking and cracking, she sighs.
It's probably nothing.
And yet the nothingness teethes at her as she sits behind her desk in her office at the ISB. It scrapes its molars against her bones. It pokes and plucks at her muscles as she taps her fingers against her cheek, her datapad screen swimming in and out of focus. Mid-day, and he still hasn’t breathed a word to her. Why would he believe himself of high enough status to ignore her? Is that what’s happened, or has a more sinister fate befallen him? If the latter were the case, should she, for the sake of the investigation, intervene? Who would bother with Syril Karn, anyway?
He can’t be of significant enough import to the rebels for them to expend resources on eliminating him. Unless this is an attempt to get to her through him, but — again, why bother? She’s not publicized her connection to him. As far as most of the galaxy knows, they’re strangers. Even Heert would only believe she’d interrogated him once, and then they’d gone their separate ways. No one knows about Ferrix. No one knows about the nights they’ve spent together, trading intelligence and theories, working in complete harmony. Axis has eyes everywhere, but surely even he wouldn’t be so omnipresent as to —
She takes a breath.
Her gaze flits to her personal-use comlink, which she’d stashed in her briefcase on her way out the door. She’s missed no messages. Drumming her fingers against the flat, polished surface of her desk, she wedges her thoughts into the gaps between taps. Grits her teeth.
Enough.
She won’t use her personal device for this. Her ISB comlink will do. All she requires is a code, which she finds and, with twitching fingers, dials. As static hisses at her over the establishing connection, it occurs to her that she hasn’t plotted out what she’ll say — and the connection solidifies before she has a chance.
A bored-sounding male voice dribbles forth from the other end of the line. “Bureau of Standards inquiry line,” it drones. “How may I direct your call?”
Dedra’s pulse quickens. “This is ISB Supervisor Dedra Meero,” she introduces herself. Her comlink code will have shown on the other end, so there’s no use in concealing her identity. “I have a question about fuel distribution in my sectors. I need to speak with Syril Karn.”
The voice no longer sounds bored: it now strains itself with tremulous professionalism. “I see,” it says. “I’ll have to transfer you to a floor supervisor. Our employees don’t have comms at their desks. But the supervisor should be able to get Mr. Karn on the line for you.”
“See to it that he does.”
A quiver in the voice. “Yes. Right away, ma’am. Right away.” A pause. “And thank you for contacting the Bureau of Standards. We… appreciate your call.”
For a few seconds, the line goes quiet. Dedra almost wonders whether she’s been hung up on, and then a smattering of off-key orchestral music drifts, pungent and nauseating, from the other end. “Your inquiry is important to us,” a disembodied voice claims. “Please wait for the next available operator.”
“This is a waste of time,” Dedra mutters to no one in particular.
After what feels like an eon on hold, the other end of the line rustles with intent. “Flob,” a new, nasally voice announces. Dedra frowns. Is Flob his first name? His surname? Shouldn’t his introduction have been more proper, if he knows he’s speaking with a member of the ISB? She flicks the thoughts from her mind like flicking away pesky bugs. It hardly matters.
“I’m ISB Supervisor Dedra Meero,” she says, infusing her voice with as much superiority as her fried nerves can channel. “There’s been an issue regarding fuel distribution in my sector. I need to speak with Syril Karn.”
“Mr. Karn hasn’t shown today,” Flob answers, and Dedra goes cold.
“Do you know when he’ll return?”
“Difficult to say,” Flob says. “He didn’t file a leisure request. Much more of this, though, and we’ll have to dismiss him. We have rules about these things.”
“I understand.” Her heart has crawled its way up her throat. “And you were given no reason for his absence?”
“None,” Flob answers. “However, if you’d like to speak to a different member of his division, I’m sure someone else could assist y—”
Having gotten everything she needed from that conversation, Dedra hangs up. She clutches her comlink in a white-knuckled, shaky hand. None. That’s as unlike Syril as failing to show for their meeting. Lowly as it is, he’s always taken his job at the Bureau of Standards seriously. For him not only to miss a day of work, but to do so without calling in and adhering to the requirements of his organization… something is wrong, and perhaps grievously so.
More importantly, she doesn’t have that kriffing datacard.
***
She doesn’t sleep well that night, and she’s barely functional for morning briefing. All the while, she ponders. If she goes to him, he’ll view it as a sign of caring — as some form of wordless admission that it matters to her what happens to him. And then he’ll ramble about it, and he’ll give her a look that makes her feel as if he can read every thought in her head, and she’ll wish the rebels had pulled her limb from limb on Ferrix.
By about midday, she’s arrived at a decision. It’s her only reasonable path, given how her thoughts have congealed around this particular matter. She’ll do what needs to be done, and then she’ll let the topic go. Stars only know she has far more salient matters to which she should attend.
So, after checking her schedule, she tells Heert she’s leaving for an hour or two. She doesn’t offer him an explanation, and he doesn’t ask. Which is ideal, she thinks, because how would she explain it? Using the fuel distribution excuse with the Bureau of Standards is one thing; they aren’t likely to look into it without her present. Heert, however, has access to her files. He’d know there’s no issue, and immediately, he’d be suspicious.
Thankfully, he doesn’t inquire.
Dedra takes public transport to the Bureau of Standards headquarters. The reception attendants gape at her as if she’s come from a different world. In some ways, she has.
“I’m Supervisor Dedra Meero, and I need to speak with Flob,” Dedra says to a bespectacled man behind a desk, who stares up at her like a bug staring up at a shoe.
The man clears his throat. “I, um, I think—” he presses a few keys, then scans his monitor with jerky, widened eyes— “he’s in a meeting, but—”
“This is an ISB matter,” Dedra says, cutting the attendant off before he can waste any more of her time. “I’ll talk to him now.”
“Yes, ma'am,” the attendant says, springing up from his desk with an expression bordering on terror. The sight of it fills Dedra’s chest with satisfied warmth: he knows exactly who she is, and exactly what she does. In situations like these, it is of immeasurable benefit when her reputation precedes her.
“I’ll get him for you,” the attendant adds. “It should only be a moment.” He then scurries up a staircase, trips, catches himself, and careens through a set of double-doors.
When the attendant returns five minutes later, there’s another man — slouchy, greasy-haired, with a general appearance of exhausted resignation — by his side. He, too, regards Dedra with an air of trepidation, and he walks toward her as if each step might send him tumbling down through the tile. “Supervisor Meero,” Flob says, “this is a surprise. How can I assist you?”
At least he’s straightforward. “We spoke yesterday, over comms,” Dedra says. “I need to have a look around Syril Karn’s station.”
“Of course,” Flob says; if he’s inconvenienced by her request, he doesn’t show it. The wrinkles in his uniform deepen as he shifts his shoulders. “Right this way.”
Dedra follows him into a gray chamber crammed with cubicles. Each looks the same as the last, each sterile, bland, and uninspiring. From those fenced-in containers of boredom, heads snap up. Spines stiffen. Fingers freeze on keyboards.
“Here we are,” Flob says, coming to a sudden stop in front of a cubicle identical to the rest — except this one, Dedra notes, is uninhabited. This must be Syril’s. It’s so offensively bland that Dedra wonders how he manages to distinguish it from the rest. Has he ever mistaken his workspace for someone else’s? Climbed into the wrong cubicle at the start of his day? At least she has her own office. Here, one’s work and working habits are eternally on display.
“You’ve heard nothing from him?” Dedra asks Flob.
“Not since two days ago,” Flob says. “Unusual, I’ll admit.”
Dedra gives a hum of acknowledgement. She, too, knows this is out of the ordinary for Syril. Really, she knows more than she should, and more than the handbook would permit. Really, she shouldn’t even be here. I’ll get the datacard, and I’ll go.
“I’ll have a look,” Dedra tells Flob, her tone an order for him to leave.
Flob nods. “Take as long as you need. But supervisor—” she turns to look at him directly, and he flinches — “we have other staff who could provide similar information. I don’t believe you need Mr. Karn…”
Dedra shoots Flob a look that could peel paint off a wall. “That will be all.”
“Right,” Flob says. “If you have any questions, let me know. I’ll be about, walking the floors.”
Dedra can think of nothing she’d rather do less than spending minutes in her all-too-short day hunting down Flob in an endless sea of cubicles. When she keeps silent, Flob appears to correctly determine that he is being dismissed. He shuffles away, his posture hunched, his uniform ill-fitting and wrinkled at the seams. Dedra wonders what motivates a man like that. It certainly isn’t a desire for advancement.
Pushing her bewilderment at Flob’s existence aside, she refocuses on the reason she’s come. She steps into Syril’s cubicle with her blood churning and sweat beading at the lines on her palms. The ISB is aware of the Bureau of Standards, naturally, but knowing of it as another Imperial branch is one thing, while descending into a drab, spineless workspace is another. She peers around the open-walled, dimly lit cubicle as if it’s her first glimpse into a different universe. Everything at his station is polished to gleaming, which hardly surprises her. She sees her reflection on his desk and in his monitors as clearly as she’d see it in her refresher mirror. She can’t locate a single scuff or scratch on his drawers, nor any dried-up crumbs between the keys of his keyboards. If she didn’t know better, she’d assume no one had ever worked here. Because she knows Syril, she knows the truth is the opposite. He takes such pride in his work — his useless, menial work — that he takes meticulous care of anything associated with it.
It's then that the moronic nature of her quest smacks her at full force. She can search his station and rifle through the files on his machine, but she doubts she’ll find what she needs. A man who scrubs his cubicle clean at the end of every day is far too careful to leave a datacard bursting with illegitimately copied information lying about. Swallowing hard, she chokes down a sigh. More likely than not, Syril took the datacard home with him on the night he’d not shown up for their meeting, and, more likely than not, it’s sitting in his apartment. Either that, or he’s taken it and run, intent on shredding her career to pieces. But if that had been his purpose in falling off of the planet, wouldn’t he have done it already? Wouldn’t she have heard about it already? Been challenged already? Dull pain stabs at the base of her skull. Her heartbeat thunders. You shouldn’t have come here.
If she’s wasting her time, though, she decides she might as well do it properly. She takes a seat in his chair, and types on his keys, and sorts through the data she’s able to access on his machine. She opens his drawers, and skims through the nondescript and neatly organized knick-knacks populating the spaces, and inspects every inch of the space with the same care as he cleans it. Of course, she fails her mission. Her mission had been condemned to failure from the start. Syril would never risk his position — and her confidence — by being so thoughtless.
Unfortunately, his attention to detail has doomed her.
When she takes a deep breath, the air leaks with the scent of rainwater-soaked earth and vanilla. It’s Syril’s cologne, driven into the threads of his chair from days and days of sitting in the same position, wearing the same uniform, and preparing for work with the same routines. Her head spinning, she closes her eyes and breathes again; allows herself to wander in the foggy forests of memory. It smells like Ferrix. But not, she thinks, like the terror of it; not the panic, not the screaming, flailing, and clinging to life by her breaking fingernails. It smells like safety. It smells like evaporating pretense and melted-down daggers. It smells like blue deep enough to drown in. It smells like failure, and bewilderment, and ashes, and black-sky nights sitting beside each other on her couch, and the focused crease between his brows when he’s lost himself in thought, and the waves that form in his hair when the gel starts to relinquish its grip, and his mouth, and —
She opens her eyes. Stands. Pushes the chair in with shaky hands, and shakes her head. The stupor clears.
Well, this has been useless. Irritated with herself, Syril, and the whole of the Bureau of Standards, Dedra turns and starts to make her way out of the cubicle. As she does, her gaze falls on a detail she’d missed: a black mug, half-filled with cold caf. Odd. She hadn’t taken Syril for a caf drinker, although she supposes if she didn’t have access to stim pills, she might drink it herself. More than likely, the Bureau of Standards doesn’t have the funding to distribute stims to lower-level workers.
The mug sits abandoned at the corner of his desk, lonely, placed at the center of a metal coaster. Frowning, Dedra picks up the mug, and then the coaster, but she finds nothing lurking beneath either. She even tilts the liquid around in the mug, but no datacard lurks at the bottom of the drink. Of course not. Her stomach a knot of displeasure, she drops the mug back onto the shining metal and prepares herself for a night of catching up on everything she’d missed at work.
“Sorry,” a new voice — feminine, smooth, paired with a waft of floral perfume — announces. Dedra glances up to find herself being peered in at by a pair of anxious-looking green eyes. “I, um, I don’t mean to intrude, it’s just—that’s mine. I forgot I left it over here.”
Dedra scowls. The woman standing before her is, from what Dedra’s able to glimpse through the gaps in the paneling, as unremarkable and drab as everything else in the Bureau of Standards. She wears the same soot-colored uniform as the rest of her co-workers, albeit tailored to fit her form. The pallor of her skin all but blends perfectly with the white lights that glow atop every work station. Her hair color coordinates with her boots and tie, but a tinge of red seeps through at the roots. Sloppy. All in all, she’s not particularly memorable: nothing in this place is.
Dedra inclines her head in the direction of the mug, and the timid woman reaches down and plucks it off of Syril’s coaster. As she withdraws her hand, Dedra takes note of the tremors in her fingers and the rigidity of her spine. When the woman pulls the mug in, she clutches it as though it’s an invaluable historical artifact. Unusual care, Dedra thinks, for a common item.
“Thank you,” the woman says in a whisper. She practically runs back to her cubicle.
Odd. Dedra would be tempted to view such behavior as suspicious, but the Bureau of Standards is a strange, unprofessional place filled with strange, unprofessional people. She doubts there’s merit in looking into their motives, or at least, not without reason. Rather than speculating, she skims over the last few places where she’d thought she might find the datacard — empty, of course — and then she stands, straightens her coat and uniform, and prepares to leave with more questions than she’d had at the start.
As she steps out of Syril’s workspace and onto the walkway, Dedra makes an observation. She’s being watched.
The woman sitting at the cubicle next to Syril’s meets her eyes for a second, and then wrenches her gaze back to her monitors.
As luck would have it, Flob is completing another lap around the room. “Did you find what you needed?” he asks.
“You mentioned other employees who could assist me,” Dedra says, starting to piece together a plan. “Who did you have in mind?”
The corners of Flob’s mouth turn down in surprise. “We have several analysts at or above his level,” he stammers, words sliding from his lips in a stream of spittle and bewilderment. “Mr. Tagaya, who’s been with us for fifteen years, has access to the same cases as Mr. Karn—” Flob gestures toward a gray-haired man seated down the row from Syril’s station — “Mr. Hellivalo, who often works on sector-specific issues—” Flob tilts his hand toward a thin man whose skin is as sallow and gray as the chair in which he's seated— “and Ms. Renfrant, the newest member of our team. She’s been doing contract work for us recently, but she’s proven herself quite effective. We’re likely to hire her full-time at the end of her probationary period.”
As Flob points her out, the woman who’d taken the mug from Syril’s desk seems to shrink in her seat. Her eyes dart to briefly meet Dedra’s, and then back to her monitors. Flob would see nothing amiss. An employee a bit on edge, perhaps, when greeted with the sight of an ISB supervisor.
To Dedra’s trained eye, however, a series of tells emerge. The woman’s shrunken posture. The guilty flush of her pale skin. How loudly she slams her fingers against her keyboards, as if to shout out to everyone in the space that she is working and doesn’t want to be interrupted. Her strange behavior when she’d come to claim the coffee cup. You know something about what’s happened to him, Dedra thinks. And you are going to tell me what it is.
Dedra’s eyes narrow. Her fingers twitch at her sides, and a familiar buzz surfaces at the back of her skull. The enticing itch of a challenge.
“Ms. Renfrant will do.”