Lyra

You’re lying in bed staring at the wall with another untouched breakfast in front of you when Doujo bursts in cheerfully and throws something white at you. "Put on these pants," he says conspiratorially, "I’ve come to bust you out of the joint."

It’s easier to do it than argue, so you pull them on over your shorts and stand ready.

"How’s the arm? Want a sling?"

You shrug.

"Yes, OK, I should probably have thought of that, but we’re not going to bother G’noa-Fan." He looks down. "And shoes. Someone better prepared would have thought of shoes. Well, you can’t expect me to be spontaneous and prepared."

You smile. "I’m glad for the pants."

"Hey, one point for me. Or not," he adds with a grin. "Let’s go." Your machine starts beeping, but Doujo takes your hand and after a quick glance into the outer chamber of sick bay, leads you out into the hall. "Healer G’noa-Fan has the idea that my Master has a headache, but he’s actually in the shower where he won’t hear the call bell. Funny how these misunderstandings can happen. Let’s duck into the observation lounge. You like to see the stars?"

You nod. There they are again, so soothing. But something has been puzzling you. "How did you find me on Ruy?"

"Ears. Lots of ears."

"Spies, you mean?"

"Some spies, some probes, some bugs. Ears."

"Who was talking about me?"

"Moroc’s men. Finding an escapee, especially if she’s the Invisible Woman, takes a lot of chatter. They had found you through their spies, but we happened to be closer than Moroc. We knew we were just ahead of him. We almost abducted you that night at Galgiet’s, but we wanted to avoid that and thought we could protect you by following you."

"How did you get me back from him?"

"Preparedness. Moroc locked you in the trunk of an aircar just before Ridan arrived. He had left me to follow you and was checking in with our ship. But Moroc was smart – there were five aircars and without being able to sense you, Ridan didn’t know which to follow. However, I had slipped a transponder onto your shirt in Galgiet’s, so once Ridan fired up the receiver, he was able to track you to Moroc’s cargo ship."

"Did… did he kill Moroc?"

He hesitates, working his jaw back and forth. "No. Brainwashing takes time and Moroc had left you with the technician and some guards. You were only about a day into it when Ridan broke in." He sees the worry in your lowered eyes. He reaches out and raises your chin. "Hey… Lyra. I don’t want you to worry about him. You’re with us now. You’re going to be all right." You look in his eyes and nod. He pulls you to him and holds you. "Let’s talk about something else. I’ve been meaning to ask you. You play… what do you call that instrument?"

"A piano. Well, that was a synthesizer. They don’t make pianos around here. I had a synthesizer modified to be more like a piano. Or, Ha-Boara did."

He digests that thoughtfully. "That was nice of him."

You redden, glad he can’t see your face.

"Did you like working there?" he continues, turning to face out the window again.

"It was OK. I had worked off most of the piano. It was almost mine. I hated to leave it. I sure miss it."

"Maybe you can have another made."

"I probably will someday, but oh, it was really expensive. I don’t know how I’d pay for it again. Ha-Boara… uh… let me work it off."

"Yes, so you said. Very accommodating. Did Ha-Boara own just the one bar?"

"No, he was a mine boss. But they like to put their fingers in all the pies – food, housing, entertainment. Why make a little profit when you can make a lot?"

"You must have had to play a lot of shows to pay off the piano."

"Yeah… well… he had me do some other jobs, too."

"Oh?" he laughs, "You play piano, you bounce unruly customers. What else do you do?"

"I would rather not say."

"Ohhhh," he says, making a face. "Ha-Boara, huh? Isn’t he kind of old for you?"

"Not that!" you say, making the same face. "It couldn’t be that. Not many people know this, but Ha-Boara isn’t human. He had some modifications made, and I would really like to change this subject."

"Let’s try this one: Nice dinner last night, huh?"

You smile, then pull back to narrow your eyes at him and ask, "Trek. What kind of game is that?"

He looks at you and grins, then answers thoughtfully. "Trek is a very special game. For many, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime event. Others seem to find its variations of play endlessly fascinating."

"I thought the scoring was kind of fun."

"I like that part, too," he chuckles.

"But I still don’t understand why the rules can’t be better explained."

"Hmm, yes. That is a drawback."

"Didn’t you say Jedi never lie?"

He is surprised. "Yes. That’s true."

"What are the real rules for Trek?"

He opens his mouth, but for once is speechless. He slowly turns red. "I can’t."

"Why not?"

"I’d have to kill you."

"I think I know what the rules are."

He looks out the window with a noncommittal, "Hmm."

"I think Trek’s very simple rules are that whatever the dealer says, goes. I think that the values depend, not on room temperature, as you led me to assume, but your temperature. In short, I suspect that Trek is a game invented to take advantage of certain unwitting segments of the population. Am I close?"

"Is that star Algora? I always get it mixed up with beta Danae."

"I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ I’m actually impressed. On my planet we had drinking games, but this was a new one to me."

He turns to you. "You mean you’re not mad?"

"All’s well that ends well."

He wiggles his eyebrows, "Want to play again?"

You turn to look out the window. "Playing Trek when everyone knows the rules seems sort of pointless."

He puts his arm around your shoulders and joins you in watching the stars go by. "Yeah, that’s the problem with it."

**

You have been sitting in the lounge for quite some time when Ridan strides in. He smiles at you. "Good morning, little one." You nod shyly, then close your eyes as your body remembers your night together. "Doujo, there is an upset Healer frantically searching the ship for his charge. If the joke is over, perhaps it is time you returned her?"

"Yes, Master. Sorry, Master."

Ridan watches you leave the lounge and go down the hall towards sick bay. Doujo is holding your arm as though bringing in a prisoner. "You’re not going to try to pin this on me, are you?" you ask, indicating his grip.

He relaxes his hand and gives a grim smile. "No, I’ll face the music."

When he has settled you into your bed again, you take hold of his arm. "Thanks. I needed that. I can’t just sit here. In another hour I’m going to be a zombie again. Isn’t there anything for me to do on board?"

He leans in and smiles, "I don’t know. What are you good at?"

But sadly, the conversation ends there with the entrance of an angry Healer.

It has been an especially boring afternoon. Sick bay is unprepared for stay-a-beds such as yourself, lounging around long after they are well enough to leave. With so few people on board, they all seem to have plenty to do and no time to amuse you. There are entertainment consoles onboard, but they are fixed in place, elsewhere. The best they can offer you is a datapad which includes a spreadsheet and a dictionary, with which you whiled away about 10 minutes. So when you hear a sharp sound in the outer room, along with concern you feel an element of relief that something, anything, is happening. Then a stranger is there.

"Are you the pilot?" you ask.

But instead of answering you, he crosses the room, grabs hold of your arm, and as he breathes, "Hiya, Sammi," in your ear you feel the sting of a needle on your neck. As the room fades, you look in horror on your attacker, because no one has called you that in a year, and that was the voice of Moroc.