Faces in the Passageway 5b/?

by Meredith Bronwen Mallory

True to Doctor Antilles' word, Vader had no difficulty finding a dossier on Yalith Minborne in the records of Imperial Intelligence and Security. The reach of Palpatine's gnarled hand was long, and getting longer-- the Emperor had created the IIS very shortly after seizing power, structuring it to be completely independent of police and bureaucracy, centralized on the capital planet-city alone. The danger of rabble rousers and separatists was no lost on Vader; even before he'd glimpsed the fiery orb of Mustafar, sparkling like sunlight on blood, he had known that the galaxy must succumb to the order it seemed to determined to reject. Deep in the back of his skull, a memory lingered, glimpsed over the scratchy holofeed in Qui Gon's quarters. The Queen of Naboo, face white as sand-bleached bone, saying that the Republic no longer functioned, that she held no allegiance to a body that would discuss her people's suffering in committee. The powder, paint and guilt of Padme's office had veiled her from him then, but her words had moved him, mirroring the pain of the handmaiden who'd soothed his fears in the coldness of space. It wasn't until Naboo that he understood her doubleness, how her true self flickered like a nereid under the frozen sea. All the strength in her lithe form had gone into attempting to fix the lumbering, failing government, but her dedication alone could not cut through the lashings of deceit, lying everywhere, a sickly seaweed waiting for prey. With his own hand, he had fixed what she so longed to mend, resorted order and power to the hands of someone wise enough to shoulder their weight. And she had not lived to see its fruition.

("You did not allow her to live." Always Obiwan's voice, like the stale air of a tomb that would not dissipate, leaving long practice the only reason anger did not rise in Vader along with his mentor's echo. No, rage came later, as the image of Padme's prone form rose to the surface of his mind. Her face, so pale, expression pained even in the darkness of her sleep. Bruises rising, such a strange shade of violet, around her neck.

And, later still, skin peeling with heat, hair alive with embers and ash, as she lay dying in the antiseptic snow. He'd held her while the houses around them caught the blaze, bathing everything in jaundiced light. She had struggled to speak, then, and in the pale column of her throat he'd seen that the shadows of those bruises lingered, faint but discernible.

He did not know what she had been trying to say-- her voice was lost on the same wind that spread the fire.

"She would have understood," Vader told himself, even as the instrument panels in the chamber quaked and quivered. "In time, she would have seen that I was right-- I would have made her more than a Queen." With great effort, he reigned in the dark manifestation of his pain before it did any permanent damage. The anger had no target-- it lashed out blindly at the senselessness of her death and had, on more than one occasion, been like a knife in his own respirator.

As if it could name the culprit, even if he himself could not.)

But the IIS did not just keep files on suspected rebels, or the myriad underground social and political parties that had hatched from the Republic's corpse. There were records too, on meek academics and artisans, on mothers who had participated in the Food Riots on Malestare and Dantooine. To the remnants of a boy who'd spent his life internally resisting the ways he'd professed outwardly to follow, this seemed superfluous. Palpatine longed to warp and rifle through every heart and mind, but Vader was much more pragmatic. What did it matter what people felt in the silence of their own minds, as long as they dared not move against the stability the Empire imposed?

One of Vader's many black service droids interrupted his reverie, trundling forward with several data cubes in its spindle-like hands. Vader took them, movements etched with an odd anticipation as he examined their contents. The reader's screen pulled up another image of Yalith, this one much more solemn-- the required picture for every Imperial Minor's ID. Here it was the set of her lips truly betrayed Padme; the regal set of her chin. For a moment, Vader was taken aback, as he felt the muscle in his jaw draw up. It was only after some thought that he realized he was smiling-- just a small quirk of the mouth, but one so unpracticed it felt utterly alien. This girl was Padme. She needed only the pale powder and red paint to look the very image of the Queen he'd stared at so bashfully during the Liberation Parade.

Beneath the image was a long list of minor offenses-- attempts to purchase banned books, requests for access to historical documents deemed unsuitable for the general public. She had also been involved in a short-lived student group concerned with the power invested in territorial governors, and several of her teachers delicately called her not outright rebellious, but at the very least 'subversive'. Among the connected documents was a copy of a handwritten essay criticizing over centralization, claiming that the Emperor's refusal to delegate certain powers lead to suffering in the Outer Rim. With the penmanship was more angular than Padme's had been, there was something in the graceful execution that was powerfully familiar. A lifetime ago, there had been more than one occasion when he'd let himself into Padme's apartment, only to find her bent over some speech or petition, desk littered with references and palm smudged with purple-black Nubian ink.

Superfluous or no, the dossier was informative, listing Yalith's address, as well as the exact department in which her father worked. With a casual brush of the Force, Vader summoned another droid to him, and began to dictate its precise instructions.

By the time the lift opened on the floor below her own apartment, all the comfort of Yalith's irritation had faded, leaving only a wry, self-mocking smile on her face. Arguing with Genea was like arguing with a brick wall-- it consumed energy that would be much more useful elsewhere. And yet, though Yalith compromised more often than not, she could not completely keep herself from crossing the older woman. A snatch of poetry drifted through her mind, all the more disconcerting because she could not recall reading it.

"I will not be silent/ even as the avalanche consumes / I shall scream-- I do not bend / even to forces they would call unstoppable."

In the recesses of a memory that felt far too recent, Yalith glimpsed an image of her mother, blue-black hair and light eyes framed by Koe's copper light.

"My brave little soldier," Musei Minborne had remarked on more than one occasion. "You'd fight a whole war by yourself." Biting her lip, the young girl closed her eyes, though against the present or the past she did not know. Her mother had died, body curdling, shortly before her father had taken them to Coruscant. An accident they called it-- some new substance, untested by mass-manufactured in the same building as her mother's lab. One cracked canister and the entire complex had to be evacuated, everyone heaving a sigh of relief when it seemed no one had been harmed. How bitter that same relief tasted later, when colorless white blotches began to cover her mother's back, making each vein as easily seen as a specimen through glass. There'd been very little time between that first outbreak and the burnished metal coffin that carried Mother away-- in between, her rain-straight locks came out with slightest brush of the comb, and tears of blood stained her pillow. Sometimes, Yalith dreamed of another woman called 'mother', but always in her heart, there was a place solely for Musei, who'd carried her infant body against her breast, and soothed Yalith's tears when nightmares drew her into a maelstrom of someone else's life. It was only later that Yalith realized just how bad things had gotten after her mother's death, as if someone had cut a delicate cord, and left her adrift in a violent sea.

Swallowing hard, Yalith moved her hand in the quick Koean ritual for the dead-- hand to heart, to rib, and then forehead, lifting up a silent prayer for her mother's soul. This completed, Yalith rounded the corner to Hisae's apartment, glancing briefly down at the flower-shaped face of her chrono. Her lips quirked a little-- the fight with Genea had made her early. She had scarcely come to a stop when the door of 402-J opened, allowing her friend to storm through. Hisae was racking a hand through her bob of ebony hair, smock and uniform jacket buttoned askew. A young man followed her out, and his hand on her shoulder so startled her that she dropped her bag.

"Today must be the day for dramatic exits," Yalith said sympathetically, bending down to help Hisae gather her things. The other girl's smile was brief but grateful; she held open her bag so Yalith could slip several already abused text-readers inside.

"You too, huh?" Hisae raised an eyebrow, square jaw set in annoyance.

"I'm an ungrateful, seditious, un-pious daughter," the other girl said dryly.

"Ooh," Hisae said, adopting suitably impressed expression. "I'm a spoiled brat who's not fit to carry the semi-aristocratic blood of our family, and who should have been born a boy if only to save her mother from the hideous embarrassment."

"What happened?" Yalith asked as they both climbed to their feet.

A deep tenor broke into their conversation; "Little Hibi here asked mother if she could take an Astronavigation during the holiday period." More than a little startled, Yalith turned her attention to the young man she had forgotten entirely, staring first at the black and gray uniform of the Imperial Flight Academy, and finally at his face. For several moments, she waited for his features to make sense-- it was only when he smiled, something of a smirk really, that she recognized him. "My lords," she exclaimed, "Phetyr, is that you?"

Hisae's older brother nodded, doffing his cap as he bowed to both girls. "Hard to believe, huh?"

"That's one way to put it," Yalith said numbly, trying to reconcile the clean-cut image of officer in training with the long haired scamp who used to tease Hisae, and occasionally took both girls on expeditions to the District Gardens. "It's been ages."

"Three years," Phetyr said, ruffling Hisae's hair. She batted at his hand with annoyance. Her brother paid her no mind, his gaze lingering on Yalith.

"I almost didn't recognize you," Yalith laughed at herself. "It was that nickname-- Hibi. You're the only one who could call Hisae that and live to see another sunrise."

"He may not, this time," Hisae grumbled, "honestly, Phe, I'm not five!"

"I'm not the only one who's changed," Phetyr murmured. "You've certainly grown, my lady." He took her hand, though Yalith managed to turn the action into a shake, instead of the kiss he seemed to intend. A chill snake of discomfort wound its way down her spine, so that she held herself stiffly.

("So have you, my lady. Grown more beautiful, I mean." Earnest eyes, so truthful but embarrassed, the eyes of a boy she'd known in the body of a stranger. "For a senator, I mean." And the heat of her blush, under his reverent gaze, was still very real.)

Yalith's cheeks remained pale and bloodless under Phetyr's scrutiny, because it simply wasn't the same.

"The Astronavigation class?" Yalith asked, turning helplessly towards Hisae. "Isn't this the last year they're allowing girls to participate?"

"Yes!" Hisae said smacking her fist in her palm. "I didn't even ask mother-- I was just saying to Phe that I wanted to take it, and she was all up in arms about what a waste of time and money it was, how I should be focusing on becoming more cultured, how she couldn't figure out why-- if I was going to insist on behaving this way-- she couldn't have had two sons." The last part was said bitterly, with a sour but resigned twist to Hisae's lips.

Yalith reached out and put a hand on her friend's shoulder. "If it makes you feel better, I like you much better as a girl."

"Should have been born earlier," Phetyr said indulgently. "Nowadays, you girls don't have to worry about such things. Everything is becoming much more civilized."

"Is that so?" Yalith asked, utterly without inflection.

"It's not that I have to or not," Hisae said, clearly irked, "it's that I want to. I want to fly and learn marksmanship. For Sith's sake, Phetyr, I've always been a better shot than you."

"Well," he said-- and it seemed to Yalith that his brotherly smile was somehow smug, "If women were meant to be in the army, the Emperor would have allowed it, don't you think. The Emperor's wisdom prevails." Hisae's sunlight-emerald gaze flashed over at Yalith-- the other girl held it and said nothing, hand fisted in her skirt. "Well, don't everyone rush to agree with me at once," Phetyr laughed, and his joviality didn't quite ring true.

"Who can add to a statement like that?" Yalith murmured.

"Look," Phetyr continued, suddenly seemingly uncomfortable under Yalith's stormy gaze. "I have some papers I need to run up to the Life Administration Office-- I go back to the Academy half past twelfth bell tonight, but I'll be back beforehand for dinner." He clapped Hisae on the back, before saying, "Feel free to join us, eh, Yalith?"

"We'll have to see," Yalith compromised, "I'm never certain what my nurses will and won't allow."

"Well, you two stay out of trouble," he advised. "Keep your noses clean, and all that."

"Clean enough to eat off of," Yalith said with a smile she didn't quite feel.

Quite suddenly, Phetyr winked, his smile more than friendly. "Don't tempt me." Fighting strongly to keep the distaste off her face, Yalith didn't see Hisae's quick movement-- only its result. Though her brother was at least a head taller than she, Hisae was lithe, with honest energy and the element of surprise. Her fist hit Phetyr square in the arm-- not hard enough to be called malicious, but certainly not playful-- and he actually stumbled, clearly taken aback.

"Just stop," Hisae said darkly, quickly linking arms with Yalith. Feeling her relief as a physical sensation, the other girl did not resist-- they moved together down the hallway, ignoring Phetyr's calls.

"I'm so sorry," Hisae said once they were safely in the lift. "Really, Yali, I am."

"It's alright," Yalith assured her. "Don't worry about it."

The other girl sighed, gaze drifting past the glass lift walls. "I was so excited that he was coming home, you know? I was really looking forward to it. And at first things were pretty great. Like old times." She laughed a little, but it was not a happy sound, "I know I'm never gonna get to be a pilot or a marksman, not now, but when he was telling me about the training, it felt a little like I was there." Yalith squeezed her friend's hand, encouragingly. "It's funny," the other girl shrugged, "I mean, I'm the one who wants to be a soldier, but you, Yali-- you're the one who's really strong."

"Hisae, I'm not--"

"No, you are." The darker girl looked her friend in the eye. "I know I yell at you sometimes for being so critical of the Empire-- I don't always do it 'cause I disagree with you. Sometimes, a lot of the time, I do it 'cause I'm scared."

"You think I'm not?" Yalith asked, reaching up to brush a lock of Hisae's hair behind her ear. "Hisae, I'm scared all the time."

"I know-- or, lately, I've started noticing," Hisae admitted, "but you don't let it matter. You don't let it stop you." She looked away, "Phetyr's changed so much-- the more I talked to him, the more I realized it. He treats me like I can't do anything for myself. It's as if I'm not a real person. He's still my brother and I'll always love him, but..." she shivered, "I'm not all that sure I like him, anymore."

"I'm so sorry, Hisae," Yalith murmured, groping for words. "I wish there was something I could do." Hisae nodded curtly, clearly trying to keep her tears at bay, and Yalith allowed a comfortable silence to descend as they made their way out of the building. It wasn't until they were all the way at the other end of the street that Hisae spoke, so quietly it first seemed at one with the stillness.

"Are you okay?" she asked, studying Yalith closely. "When I saw you yesterday..."

"Yeah," Yalith pursed her lips. "I'm... I'm not sure. Still standing, I guess."

"Want to tell me about it?" Hisae offered with a sweep of her arm, "I cry on your shoulder, you cry on mine?"

"Thank you," the other girl said sincerely. She glanced around the busy walkway. "Not here."

"No," Hisae agreed, grabbing for Yalith's chrono and glancing at the display. "We have a half an hour before the train. I guess that says something for dramatic exits. Come on, let's get some redburst cakes-- my treat!"