Star Wars: Dead Man's Hand

Dead Man's Hand

 Standing defiantly in the malevolent surge of energy, he reveled in the chaos of the maelstrom. The darkness shrieked and lashed at him like a malignant typhoon. It flayed his skin, drove the breath from his lungs, deafened and blinded him with its torrential magnificence. This was the power of the dark side of the Force.

Yes, there was pain. A great deal of it. What better way to remind a man that he was alive, that he existed, than by elevating his mind through fear to give purpose to the body. Daemen Irath embraced that darkness, in all its majesty, its cruelty, and its glory, for he was a Sith.

Head pounding, he awoke to a faint shrieking of a different, but no less malevolent, kind. The agonizing pressure behind his eyes forced a resurgence of recent memories. Having lost a contest of prowess with an Alliance combat carrier, he managed to escape into the upper atmosphere of Hoth. Despite warnings of the storm ravaging the planet, he descended directly into the worst of it.

As a former TIE pilot, he had flown missions in challenging storms before, but none so relentless as the merciless storm shrouds of Hoth. With its retractable wings frozen in place and ionized controls, the Lambda-class Imperial shuttle stood little chance. The last image Daemen remembered was the shuttle's viewport as his face accelerated into the reinforced glass.

"Soelle!"

Soaked with sweat, Daemen sat bolt upright, a decision he regretted. Blood surged into his head, threatening to split his skull. Nearly losing consciousness, he fell backwards where he laid, but she caught him in her arms, gently laying his head back down on a makeshift pillow.

"You shouldn't move around just yet. You've been unconscious for three hours," Soelle whispered. He felt her dabbing at his face with a soft cloth. "I was beginning to worry."

Daemen groaned, taking solace in the darkness behind his closed lids. He reached out for her, and she took his hand. "You're shivering. Are you hurt?" he asked, opening his eyes. The cushion beneath his head was her winter parka.

"Better than you," she replied.

He rolled his head to the side and listened as the winds of Hoth buffeted the ship's battered hull. Pressing a hand against the interior wall, he sat up with her help. The metal beneath his fingers was ice cold, enough to raise bumps on his skin, even beneath three layers of cold-weather gear. "Guess I should have listened to Gomi when he was giving that weather report. What's our status?"

"Winds are clocking at 150 kilometers per hour with 50 kilometer wind shears. We won't discuss the wind chill." Soelle caressed his cheeks and head horns with the back of her fingers, looking for signs of fever. "Main engines are dead. Life support is failing. Environmental controls failed about an hour ago." She shivered, teeth chattering, as the cold circulated through the stale air around them.

Daemen cradled his forehead in his hand, resting his elbows on his thighs. "And yet, you're still smiling."

"Being on the run, outnumbered, under fire, with the odds all against me? That's normal. Being with you? That's what matters."

Unfolding the parka, he draped it over her shoulders. "I'm going to get you out of this. Both of you."

She was two-months pregnant, and despite all of his objections, the wily basebuster had forced her way onto the mission. Daemen had not protested too strongly because he enjoyed her company. For better or worse, she was his anchor in the maelstrom, allowing him to delve ever deeper into the darkness. Her presence was his conduit back.

"He's awake!" Avari cried from the flight corridor leading to the cockpit. "About time, Daemen. Napping while the rest of us figure out how to save our choobies. No thanks to you. Again."