Memory Two
The other day ago Rogue had found a second memory crystal, tucked up as the weight in a glider made of folded paper. This time he'd managed to only touch it by the rings, giving him enough time to consider. He'd known that the price just might be bad enough to keep him from working, so he'd held off. The Scavenger's Yard would function with or without him, but at the stables, Chinook had finally realized that her first rider wasn't coming back. If she hadn't had someone else to focus on, there would have been problems further along the line; she was too young to take these things as stoically as a more experienced beast like Windmere. Griffins could have great affection for their riders and handlers, but most of the grooms were nervous enough around her that there were only three people who could qualify, and Rogue was one of them. And besides, the hummingbird had finally allowed him close enough to touch without flinching, and he'd wanted to follow up on that.
In all, he'd been busy. Not busy enough to forget what he was carrying the entire time in the same reinforced inner pocket as that little slugthrower revolver he'd bought, though. Just the awareness that it was there seemed to burn through his clothes and into his skin. He'd tried to keep from speculating on it, had kept his thoughts on what he was doing, but in those few idle moments the possibilities had itched at him. It just hadn't been the right time.
The time was now. Rogue had enough saved up for the rent, Chinook was over that hurdle for now, and he knew he had to give the hummingbird a little space. He'd gone to the stables, one of the horse barns, in the largest indoor space - the corral where the horses were trained and exercised whenever the weather was too bad to let them be taken outside. The horse barns weren't much like where the griffins were kept - the little birds nesting and chattering up in the rafters wouldn't have dared live there, and the smell was entirely different. But it was unused for now, and he liked the feeling of being in a vaulted space, of a quiet that was broken only by those little birds.
Rogue fished the crystal up out of his jacket and carefully unwrapped the paper he'd put around it, feeling faintly ridiculous. He held it gingerly by the rings, this time not bothering to damp down the rush of nervous anticipation, and reached in to touch the stone. The world went black.
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The world stayed black, but he could feel his body and knew instantly that he was dressed in a flightsuit and flying in the cockpit of a snubfighter, exactly like the one he'd flown in his first dream. The ones he called pointers, since he couldn't remember the true name. He would have figured it out quickly enough even if he'd been limited to hearing, he thought - the very distinctive sound of the pointer's engines filled the narrow cockpit of the fighter.
He knew the insides of these craft, knew them well enough that just by touch and by the memory of what controls were where, he knew what he was doing. He hadn't forgotten what it was like to fly a pointer, these awesomely maneuverable, responsive fighters. Never stopped wishing he could fly in one again. It was like coming home, with the bittersweet edge that came from knowing he couldn't stay and didn't really know what was going on.
Rogue felt himself pulling back on the stick, leveling out of a shallow dive and easing back on the throttle, slowing. He knew what he was doing, he could feel his eyes flicking here and there, but he couldn't see. Where was this? What was he trying to do? The cockpit sealed off all outside sound; he knew that the fighter's computer would both make noise in response to what was going on out there, but that didn't tell him where he was flying or what he was up against. Though, by the way he was maneuvering, he suspected that he was compensating for atmospheric drag.
He heard himself order, "Mynock, make sure you're getting a solid tracking feed on that airspeeder." There was something different about his voice. A much subtler difference than in the last memory.
From behind him Mynock sang out a series of shrill notes. He couldn't be sure, but it sounded like an affirmative. Rogue felt his eyes flick to where he knew the sensor monitor was, then forwards again, through the viewscreen and the HUD.
Probably in response to what he'd seen, he rolled the pointer so that it stood on its right wing, dove, and rolled again about two seconds later, once more flying with the pointer's belly down. By that, he knew he was in a gravity well. The fact that he was chasing an airspeeder seemed to say that too, but he knew that despite the name, airspeeders weren't limited to atmosphere.
"Mynock, plot all his routes from here to the target," he ordered.
Mynock shrieked in the same general key that he imagined the wind howling off the ship sounded like, and Rogue found himself having to suppress annoyance. Noisy thing.
Hands sure and steady on the controls, Rogue wove his pointer, sometimes violently, along a course. He knew that his maneuvering would have been this tight whether he was dodging enemy fire or obstacles, but Mynock wasn't screaming, so he probably wasn't being shot at.
The droid - he was almost sure that Mynock was a droid - hooted. He felt himself glance down at the sensor board.
"Slower, Mynock, I'm flying here too." A moment passed while he read something, flicked his eyes forward again, and brought them back, the whole time still maneuvering. He felt himself nod in satisfaction and slow the pointer down.
"Give me the lowest route you can find, Mynock." He banked starboard, chopped his speed to nothing, brought up something that wasn't the main engines, they whined subliminally - and hovered. Barely feathered the throttle, drifted forwards a bit, glanced at the monitor, watched something outside of the canopy - and smiled.
He took a hand off the stick for long enough to switch something on the control board - firing control, yes, something to do with the turbolasers. He could picture the control board, picture what he was doing, but he didn't remember what this did. As he did this he accelerated, and there was a series of slight tremors and low-key notes from the computer, like something was firing at him but not doing any damage. His hands moved on the stick as he tracked something that was trying to evade him; if his reactions were any indication, it juked left and right and was losing altitude. Rogue fired.
The cockpit seal kept out sound, but the computer relayed it in for him - there was an explosion. He adjusted his aim minutely, fired again. There was another explosion, this one with a different quality to it. For an instant he felt heat on his skin and Mynock gave a shrill, rising scream. Rogue kept a light but steady hand on the stick and rode out the shockwave, hearing the pings of debris hitting his shields.
He felt himself smile, a much less predatory expression than last time. "See that, Mynock? That mission wasn't so tough."
Mynock gave him a quavering sort of bray that sounded vaguely triumphant. Rogue felt himself shake his head and reach for where he knew the comm switch was.
"Rogue Leader here. The bomb is gone. Report." He sounded different in this memory. Crisper, maybe.
"Three here, Lead," a woman said in similar tones, though accented and much tenser. "We are over the Manarai Mountain district and have big anomalies out to the southwest. I have TIEs coming in, at least one wing."
Rogue hauled the stick back and jammed the throttle to full, standing on his tail and rocketing his pointer straight up. He was pressed back a little into the seat, but the compensator kept it from being too bad. "I copy, Three. On my way. Confirm thirty-six TIEs, Three."
"Confirm thirty-six, Lead, eyeballs and squints. They're coming this way and there's something else out there," Three said. Now she sounded distinctly shaken. "My sensors aren't picking it up at all well."
"Standby, Three." Rogue reached for the comm switch again, did... something. Hit some buttons, twisted a dial. "Antilles here. What's down to the southwest?"
Antilles! Three syllables, and this time it didn't slip out of his memory as soon as he heard it. He had to force himself not to focus on that, to keep listening.
"Palace district control here, Rogue Leader." This was a new voice, gruffer but also tense. "We're not sure. Civilian side is reporting groundquakes and massive destruction. We're just turning a satellite in that direction. Data coming up - I'll give you the raw feed."
"I copy, control." He felt himself look back at the point where he knew his sensor monitor was. Mynock produced a low, mournful whistle as he sucked in a breath. "That can't be," he said distantly, his voice a little higher as if from shock. "It just can't be."
"You're getting what we're getting, Rogue Leader." The voice was grim.
Rogue Leader flicked something on the comm unit. "Three and Four, get back here. Now." He'd gotten control back - now he sounded tense and very unhappy, but set.
"What's out there, Lead?"
Rogue Leader shivered. "It's something that shouldn't be there, Three. IFF beacons report it's a Super Star Destroyer that goes by the name Lusankya."
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The memory faded out, and his sight returned to him. For a moment he did nothing but blink in the dimness of the barn, tracking the little birds as they flitted down to pick through scattered horse feed and droppings, breathing in the not-exactly-fragrance of the horses.
"Antilles," he said at last. Very slowly, as if tasting the name. It was a common name, he knew - shout it in a crowded spaceport and he was guaranteed to have five or ten people answering. But that wasn't bad, was it? He hadn't really expected to be a Starkiller or a Darklighter, had he? No. And unlike Roat, it felt right. No shock of revelation, no, but it felt comfortable somehow. This was him.
"Antilles." This time he tried to say it with the sort of professional crispness he'd said it with in the memory. Didn't work quite right; he sounded too self-conscious. He tried a few more times, and there was always something wrong. There'd been something to the Antilles in the memory that was missing to the one here. Was it confidence? He was plenty confident, but in part that was an act.
One question answered, several new ones taking its place. Rogue Antilles shook his head, reflexively licked his lips - and sighed at what he saw out of the corner of his eye. He ventured out of the corral into a tack room where he knew there was a mirror, stood before it, and opened his mouth, not surprised at what he saw.
"The things I have to put up with," he muttered.
[Taken from "The Krytos Trap". His punishment is to have a lavender tongue for four days.]
In all, he'd been busy. Not busy enough to forget what he was carrying the entire time in the same reinforced inner pocket as that little slugthrower revolver he'd bought, though. Just the awareness that it was there seemed to burn through his clothes and into his skin. He'd tried to keep from speculating on it, had kept his thoughts on what he was doing, but in those few idle moments the possibilities had itched at him. It just hadn't been the right time.
The time was now. Rogue had enough saved up for the rent, Chinook was over that hurdle for now, and he knew he had to give the hummingbird a little space. He'd gone to the stables, one of the horse barns, in the largest indoor space - the corral where the horses were trained and exercised whenever the weather was too bad to let them be taken outside. The horse barns weren't much like where the griffins were kept - the little birds nesting and chattering up in the rafters wouldn't have dared live there, and the smell was entirely different. But it was unused for now, and he liked the feeling of being in a vaulted space, of a quiet that was broken only by those little birds.
Rogue fished the crystal up out of his jacket and carefully unwrapped the paper he'd put around it, feeling faintly ridiculous. He held it gingerly by the rings, this time not bothering to damp down the rush of nervous anticipation, and reached in to touch the stone. The world went black.
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The world stayed black, but he could feel his body and knew instantly that he was dressed in a flightsuit and flying in the cockpit of a snubfighter, exactly like the one he'd flown in his first dream. The ones he called pointers, since he couldn't remember the true name. He would have figured it out quickly enough even if he'd been limited to hearing, he thought - the very distinctive sound of the pointer's engines filled the narrow cockpit of the fighter.
He knew the insides of these craft, knew them well enough that just by touch and by the memory of what controls were where, he knew what he was doing. He hadn't forgotten what it was like to fly a pointer, these awesomely maneuverable, responsive fighters. Never stopped wishing he could fly in one again. It was like coming home, with the bittersweet edge that came from knowing he couldn't stay and didn't really know what was going on.
Rogue felt himself pulling back on the stick, leveling out of a shallow dive and easing back on the throttle, slowing. He knew what he was doing, he could feel his eyes flicking here and there, but he couldn't see. Where was this? What was he trying to do? The cockpit sealed off all outside sound; he knew that the fighter's computer would both make noise in response to what was going on out there, but that didn't tell him where he was flying or what he was up against. Though, by the way he was maneuvering, he suspected that he was compensating for atmospheric drag.
He heard himself order, "Mynock, make sure you're getting a solid tracking feed on that airspeeder." There was something different about his voice. A much subtler difference than in the last memory.
From behind him Mynock sang out a series of shrill notes. He couldn't be sure, but it sounded like an affirmative. Rogue felt his eyes flick to where he knew the sensor monitor was, then forwards again, through the viewscreen and the HUD.
Probably in response to what he'd seen, he rolled the pointer so that it stood on its right wing, dove, and rolled again about two seconds later, once more flying with the pointer's belly down. By that, he knew he was in a gravity well. The fact that he was chasing an airspeeder seemed to say that too, but he knew that despite the name, airspeeders weren't limited to atmosphere.
"Mynock, plot all his routes from here to the target," he ordered.
Mynock shrieked in the same general key that he imagined the wind howling off the ship sounded like, and Rogue found himself having to suppress annoyance. Noisy thing.
Hands sure and steady on the controls, Rogue wove his pointer, sometimes violently, along a course. He knew that his maneuvering would have been this tight whether he was dodging enemy fire or obstacles, but Mynock wasn't screaming, so he probably wasn't being shot at.
The droid - he was almost sure that Mynock was a droid - hooted. He felt himself glance down at the sensor board.
"Slower, Mynock, I'm flying here too." A moment passed while he read something, flicked his eyes forward again, and brought them back, the whole time still maneuvering. He felt himself nod in satisfaction and slow the pointer down.
"Give me the lowest route you can find, Mynock." He banked starboard, chopped his speed to nothing, brought up something that wasn't the main engines, they whined subliminally - and hovered. Barely feathered the throttle, drifted forwards a bit, glanced at the monitor, watched something outside of the canopy - and smiled.
He took a hand off the stick for long enough to switch something on the control board - firing control, yes, something to do with the turbolasers. He could picture the control board, picture what he was doing, but he didn't remember what this did. As he did this he accelerated, and there was a series of slight tremors and low-key notes from the computer, like something was firing at him but not doing any damage. His hands moved on the stick as he tracked something that was trying to evade him; if his reactions were any indication, it juked left and right and was losing altitude. Rogue fired.
The cockpit seal kept out sound, but the computer relayed it in for him - there was an explosion. He adjusted his aim minutely, fired again. There was another explosion, this one with a different quality to it. For an instant he felt heat on his skin and Mynock gave a shrill, rising scream. Rogue kept a light but steady hand on the stick and rode out the shockwave, hearing the pings of debris hitting his shields.
He felt himself smile, a much less predatory expression than last time. "See that, Mynock? That mission wasn't so tough."
Mynock gave him a quavering sort of bray that sounded vaguely triumphant. Rogue felt himself shake his head and reach for where he knew the comm switch was.
"Rogue Leader here. The bomb is gone. Report." He sounded different in this memory. Crisper, maybe.
"Three here, Lead," a woman said in similar tones, though accented and much tenser. "We are over the Manarai Mountain district and have big anomalies out to the southwest. I have TIEs coming in, at least one wing."
Rogue hauled the stick back and jammed the throttle to full, standing on his tail and rocketing his pointer straight up. He was pressed back a little into the seat, but the compensator kept it from being too bad. "I copy, Three. On my way. Confirm thirty-six TIEs, Three."
"Confirm thirty-six, Lead, eyeballs and squints. They're coming this way and there's something else out there," Three said. Now she sounded distinctly shaken. "My sensors aren't picking it up at all well."
"Standby, Three." Rogue reached for the comm switch again, did... something. Hit some buttons, twisted a dial. "Antilles here. What's down to the southwest?"
Antilles! Three syllables, and this time it didn't slip out of his memory as soon as he heard it. He had to force himself not to focus on that, to keep listening.
"Palace district control here, Rogue Leader." This was a new voice, gruffer but also tense. "We're not sure. Civilian side is reporting groundquakes and massive destruction. We're just turning a satellite in that direction. Data coming up - I'll give you the raw feed."
"I copy, control." He felt himself look back at the point where he knew his sensor monitor was. Mynock produced a low, mournful whistle as he sucked in a breath. "That can't be," he said distantly, his voice a little higher as if from shock. "It just can't be."
"You're getting what we're getting, Rogue Leader." The voice was grim.
Rogue Leader flicked something on the comm unit. "Three and Four, get back here. Now." He'd gotten control back - now he sounded tense and very unhappy, but set.
"What's out there, Lead?"
Rogue Leader shivered. "It's something that shouldn't be there, Three. IFF beacons report it's a Super Star Destroyer that goes by the name Lusankya."
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The memory faded out, and his sight returned to him. For a moment he did nothing but blink in the dimness of the barn, tracking the little birds as they flitted down to pick through scattered horse feed and droppings, breathing in the not-exactly-fragrance of the horses.
"Antilles," he said at last. Very slowly, as if tasting the name. It was a common name, he knew - shout it in a crowded spaceport and he was guaranteed to have five or ten people answering. But that wasn't bad, was it? He hadn't really expected to be a Starkiller or a Darklighter, had he? No. And unlike Roat, it felt right. No shock of revelation, no, but it felt comfortable somehow. This was him.
"Antilles." This time he tried to say it with the sort of professional crispness he'd said it with in the memory. Didn't work quite right; he sounded too self-conscious. He tried a few more times, and there was always something wrong. There'd been something to the Antilles in the memory that was missing to the one here. Was it confidence? He was plenty confident, but in part that was an act.
One question answered, several new ones taking its place. Rogue Antilles shook his head, reflexively licked his lips - and sighed at what he saw out of the corner of his eye. He ventured out of the corral into a tack room where he knew there was a mirror, stood before it, and opened his mouth, not surprised at what he saw.
"The things I have to put up with," he muttered.
[Taken from "The Krytos Trap". His punishment is to have a lavender tongue for four days.]