Bid Against the Thunder || ONC 2020

Chapter 4 - Far From Home

 Three entire decks of the Invictus were dedicated to the whim and arrogance of one man, Lord Rainier Jyaard. The top deck boasted a separate bridge built for a contingency where the main command deck might be destroyed. Living quarters, dining halls, and training facilities comprised the second deck. Beneath it, the third had a private hangar, an armory, and separate barracks accommodations for the detachment of stormtroopers who served the Sith's enormous ego. 

A solemn, macabre darkness permeated every corner and crevice of the massive corridors, which were decorated with black tapestries, velvet drapes, and ancient arms from long-ago battles. Tabraile felt as if he were attending a formal funeral ceremony for a high-ranking officer, only the man these decorations belonged to was very much alive.

"This is as far as I go," Yates said, three paces from the elevator. He waved his hand at Tabraile before he could protest. "Tabraile, please. No more adventures. Especially not here. The stakes are too high." He held a hand to his stomach. The faint odor of his fear followed him into the hallway. "You'd do well to head my warning this time." He turned to a pair of stormtroopers patrolling the hallway. "Your designations?"

"JT-2029," said the first.

"ML-7793," said the second.

"Take Captain Tabraile to Lord Jyaard's chambers."

"Sir!" The stormtroopers stood at attention with their weapons at the ready.

Yates turned to Tabraile, his eyes clouded with regret. "Goodbye, Tabraile," he said, extending his hand.

Tabraile shook it reluctantly. It was taboo among Socorrans to say goodbye, and Yates knew that. "You say that as if the nails were already in the coffin."

Yates mustered a thin, veiled smile. "For one of us, they might be." He did a curt about-face and returned to the lift.

Lost in his thoughts, Tabraile followed a stride behind the stormtroopers. If what Yates said was true, Lady Vannre was in trouble, and so was he. He shrugged off any concern for himself. He was used to being in the spotlight for all the wrong reasons and was willing to shoulder whatever burdens came with it.

He was not so certain about her. She seemed fragile, frayed at the edges, barely keeping herself together. Despair was a madman's false refuge. He understood too well what it was like to be one step from the precipice.

That realization brought him out of his dark thoughts. He found himself walking alone in an unfamiliar corridor of the Invictus. Tabraile looked back over his shoulder. The two stormtroopers charged with escorting him were standing still, three paces behind. They wavered like frightened dewbacks at the edge of a river.

"His chamber's right there," JT-2029 said, retreating down the corridor from where they come.

"Good luck." ML-7793 quickly fell in step with his companion.

A ventilation shaft blew ice, cold air down on him. Tabraile could see the wispy fog of his breath as he stared into a glass barrier that separated the hall from a training room with various weapons mounted on the walls and grass mats on the floor. He stared at the gash in his forehead. Though it was healing rapidly due to the bacta treatment, the skin was slightly puckered. A purplish bruise was raised beneath his left eye, a residual effect of the trauma. It burned when he touched it, his fingertips cold against the feverish skin.

Left alone in the wing, Tabraile felt terribly exposed in the hallway. Through controlled breathing, he tried to make himself small in the enormity of the annex by vacating his mind and deliberately suppressing the fear that gripped his heart. He heard voices coming from an opened doorway and made his way toward them.