The pilot was awake. He was lying half-reclined, propping himself up with a pillow, and sculpting something. The doctor's appearance distracted him from this activity.
"I don't even know what to say," he seemed stronger than before she left. "If I say 'yes,' you'll think I'm complaining about a lack of attention. If I say 'no,' you'll think I'm hinting at excessive care..."
He was smiling, but his gaze remained serious.
"I wanted to talk to you."
"When one contemplates it so profoundly, it means 'no,' Mr. Tardi. And apparently, my absence is more beneficial to you than all my IV drips combined," she parried with a weak smile. "I also need to talk to you."
She looked with interest at what he had been doing in her absence.
"But after you, Mr. Tardi."
A little bird was being assembled in the pilot's fingers, ready to take flight. Not the most skillful work, but the bird didn't look scared – rather cheerful.
"Then sit next to me, and let's talk about what's good for me, Eny," he invited the girl.
Eny sat down next to him with quiet despair. Her fingers touched the plastic bird that HIS hands had touched. He's an artist... Another virtue for which one can... admire.
"Unused pieces should be sealed tightly, or they'll dry out irreversibly," she said quietly. She had four chances not to return today. To crash in a speeder, to get into a shootout with vagrants and die, to simply fly away and not return. And to turn him over to the Imperials. She would never do that... Even if... And now to see him every day...
She jumped up.
"Mr. Tardi, you talk, and I'll set up the IV drip... If you don't mind, of course."
"Don't rush," the pilot asked, carefully putting the remaining plastic into a bag. "I wanted to talk about what you saw today when you took my blood. You understood what you were dealing with, right?"
Eny sat down next to him, turned away, and nodded.
"Yes..." she said with difficulty. "I had such a patient in my practice. True, I didn't know what IT was then... But I found out later..."
"Judging by the dreams you've been having, it wasn't a pleasant experience," his rough plastic fingers touched her hand. "I'm sorry... I can only say that I have no intention of harming you. But interacting with me might be dangerous for you. I must warn you about that."
"Very dangerous..." Eny smirked crookedly, holding the sensation of his touch in her mind. "And how should I react to this, Mr. Tardi? Get up and leave? And you'll let me go with this knowledge? Why are you telling me this?" she blurted out with unexpected heat.
"Would it have been better if I had used you in the dark? I've already let you go with this knowledge, Eny," the pilot reminded her. "You understood who I am. I saw it. I made a mistake... You shouldn't have been let go without escort, then you wouldn't have been harmed."
"It was a confluence of circumstances. I'm not a maiden from an institute for noble girls, Mr. Tardi," Eny said, trying to speak calmly. "You have absolutely no reason to take the blame for my recklessness. And also..." she took a breath. "You took a great risk by letting me go. Not because I could betray you. I couldn't," her gray eyes looked open and direct. "But you couldn't have known that. I, in turn, want to reciprocate your trust... " she paused and said quietly. "My name is Pola Carrada... " it was so unusual to say it with her lips, which had almost forgotten this combination of sounds. "And this is my answer to all your warnings. I accept everything."
The pilot nodded slowly.
"I cannot reciprocate – my name will be a death sentence for you if we are found after all," he replied quietly. "Then you will at least have some chances... You can honestly and sincerely say that you didn't know who you were working with. A forced interrogation will confirm this... Now, about the other side of your safety... While I'm sick, don't approach me if you're angry, in despair... I won't be able to control my instincts. It won't harm you, but the more I receive such emotions, the... darker I will become myself. I don't want that, Eny."
"Did I ask for your name, Mr. Tardi? You warned me that much would remain a secret. And I understand everything. As for my chances of survival if the Empire finds us," her smirk was quite grim. "They were already close to zero before..."
A suffocating silence hung in the room.
"Can I ask you something, Mr. Tardi?" Eny suddenly looked at the pilot with a smile.
"You can ask," the pilot placed the bird on the table next to the cot to dry. "I can't guarantee that I'll be able to fulfill the request."
"Then I won't," Eny looked away from the bird with regret and stood up. "I have to get back to my direct duties," she said calmly. "Concussions never pass without a trace," she gave herself a disheartening diagnosis. "I've talked a lot here. I forgot my subordination."
"I understand everything, Mr. Tardi. There, by the door... I felt it. It was strange," she said, inserting the needle into his vein. "I don't want you to become Dark because of me... I'll try to be more careful," she finished softly. "I'm sorry."
"You have nothing to apologize for," the pilot closed his eyes. Tardi. The lost one. It's just a nickname that will never become a name. He'll think about what he'll be called later. "What did you want to ask me?"
"I wanted to ask you to give me the bird, Mr. Tardi," Eny said, adjusting the drip rate on the remote. "To hold it in my hands when I start thinking about the one flying at an unreachable height..."
"That's not an impossible request," the pilot replied. "Do you want me to paint it or leave it as is?"
"Thank you. Leave it as is," Eny asked. "Mr. Tardi, tell me, what do you prefer, the smell of the steppe or the smell of forests? Unfortunately, I only have these left. But they combine perfectly with oxygen and the sounds of nature." The girl held two hermetically sealed balls in her hands.
"Sit down," the pilot asked. He hadn't forgotten that he had offended her with something and was now carefully choosing his words. "I'm very grateful for your care for me... Eny."
Her real name still didn't sound. But he made it clear that he remembered it.
"Scents and sounds are wonderful. But they don't give me strength. You'll just waste them. Strength..." the word was spoken. "Strength recognizes no substitutes. I could get back on my feet very quickly. What I need is in the air. Just reach out and take it... A little life from this one, from that one... I don't want to do that. And I don't know how to do it any other way yet. My first mentor was Dark. And I don't want to become like him... So, tell me instead... Something good."
Eny slowly placed the balls on the table.
"Yes, Mr. Tardi, I understand that you can't draw Strength from this, I just wanted to make your stay on Nar Shaddaa more bearable," Eny looked at him with undisguised tenderness. She sat down next to him. "And I really want to help you... And to tell you something good..." Eny paused for a second. In recent years, little could be called good. And this was not suitable for telling. "I'll tell you this," Eny smiled. "Will my trip to Corellia do? I don't know where you were born, but for me, a resident of... " she hesitated for a second, it was so hard to tell the truth, which she had hidden even from herself. "...the capital, a trip to Corellia was happiness."
"It will do," Tardi nodded. "And save the scents... For the ship."
"At 16, my parents gave me a gift," Eny smiled, looking somewhere past the pilot. "Two weeks on Corellia... Two weeks of plein air by the ocean, breathing fresh sea air, Bela Vistal, Coronet... It was a fairy tale." Eny spoke with inspiration; she wanted Tardi to see everything through the eyes of an enthusiastic 16-year-old girl, to hear and feel as she did... The roar of the ocean, the cries of birds that Pola had never seen in real life, the fine water mist on her skin and her watercolor, and the gust of wind tearing the drawing away and carrying it somewhere... And the horror mixed with delight when the waves rocked her, carrying her far away... And her dance on the white stone veranda, against the backdrop of hills. Almost mirror-like tiles under her feet, and it seemed like you were flying, not touching them with your feet... And the applause of a boy emerging from behind a column, his smile... His gray-green, slightly slanted eyes... Evening Bela-Vistal, the sunset sky, the sleepy silence of the streets, the warm wind playing with strands of hair, the quiet joy inside because tomorrow would be a new day, museums, conversations about the high and beautiful, youthful maximalism, arguments, walks in the parks. And the spray of fountains... And happy laughter... And poems on the veranda that he would read to her... And friends with whom, of course, you would never part...
Tardi listened, his eyes closed. She also draws, who would have thought... Strength is capable of jokes...
Pola told the story well – he saw what she wanted to convey to him. He saw through the eyes of a person who believed only once in his life. Believed... To lose both trust and faith, and the will to live.
He didn't remember how it happened. A charred gap gaped in his memory, broken threads still smoldered.
The black abyss was being covered by a silver web woven by a voice. Was it an illusion?
The pilot opened his eyes, blinking in surprise.
This doesn't happen.
Or?
Eny looked at Tardi with otherworldly eyes, in which the blue sky of Corellia still rippled.
"Of course, I left with sadness, but I believed I would return. There was so much happiness that I didn't even cry when parting with friends... It lasted for the entire return journey and for a whole month afterward..." Eny smiled at Tardi. Memories still lit up her eyes. "Did this fit the category of 'something good,' Mr. Tardi?"
Strength flowed through the trace in his memory, freely, without causing pain, without taking away others' feelings, without leaving behind a gray haze of indifference.
"How long will this happiness, which you so generously shared with me, last?"
"More than enough," the pilot replied, suddenly understanding what he would be called in that other life. Which begins right now. "Nick. Call me Nick. Nikolaus Viyar."
That's what the cold wind of his homeland called him. It brought snow or rain. But then spring would begin...
"Nikolaus Viyar," Eny repeated slowly, as if touching the name with soft lips and listening to the sensations within herself. "What a beautiful name... It suits you very well, Nick... Mr. Tardi," she corrected herself, and to hide her embarrassment, she asked, "Are you an artist, Mr. Tardi? Because I always carry paper and paints with me, hoping that someday I'll have time... If you want... After all, nothing perhaps brings such joy as creativity..."
"No," the pilot shook his head.
"Not anymore..."
There, in the void, his painting remained. The last thing he painted. He wouldn't pick up a brush again – he couldn't. The charred darkness would always stand between him and the canvas.
"But I sculpt a little. They say I'm even pretty good."
"Wonderful, Mr. Tardi," said Eny, carefully placing the bird in her palm. "It looks alive," she examined it, holding her breath, as if it could take flight from her palm... "And will you pose for me sometime? Not now... When we're far from here..." Eny asked timidly. "I really want to paint you, Mr. Tardi."
The bird landed on the table, and Eny stood up. The solution was slowly coming to an end.
He wanted to know how she saw him. But...
"Nick," he reminded her. "I would very much like to agree, Eny. But... My face is too well-known to some, and Strength loves to joke... If one of them sees your drawing, I'm afraid to even think what will happen to you then. Maybe someday. Later. But not now. It's too dangerous. For you."
"And for you, Nick... And that's what matters most to me," she said quietly. "So yes, later... Someday... When circumstances change. When nothing threatens you. I'll just wait and hope."
She wanted to say something else, but a signal from the datapad interrupted her. It was time to turn off the IV drip. Eny pulled out the micro-needle and pressed a napkin with an antibacterial agent on the bend where a bluish vein protruded.
"Nick, you rest for now. I need to visit Jetro, wake him up, after all," she smiled, looking at the pilot and then lowering her eyes back into her case, from which a sachet of synthetic skin for bandaging appeared. "And then we have a continuation of the program. And oxygen... I'll make you some oxygen fresh today. Do you agree, Nick?"
"I'm not a doctor, Eny," the pilot reminded her again. "I've already agreed to you treating me. Do what you think is necessary."
"Mr. Nikolaus, actually, I was just asking about the fresh," her eyes were laughing. "I don't know which drink you prefer. Just don't say 'Virren Aged.' It's only permissible for Carduan fever."
"Well, and I was hoping so," he muttered, closing his laughing eyes. "By the way. Does your second patient happen to have this very fever? Then we could use it for prophylaxis..."
"I wouldn't count on that, Mr. Nikolaus," Eny shook her head with a smile. "I think he's developed a lifelong immunity to it," with these words, holding an antiseptic in one hand and synthetic skin and antibacterial agent in the other, Eny left Tardi's room, glancing back one last time.
"Pola, I think you're precisely confirming an old proverb in a dead language. What can't be hidden there, except a cough?" she asked herself sarcastically.
Nemo left the shelter through the fire exit, under the cover of a stealth generator. The car was in place and, what was even more pleasing, in the same condition. Starting the engine, he carefully lifted his behemoth into the air and, making a smooth turn, merged into the traffic flow, finally beginning a deep break-in of his "working" steed.
He didn't take risks on the highway, knowing the habits of local drivers, and for starters, he simply studied the car's reaction speed, its acceleration characteristics. On the last stretch, he couldn't resist and, swerving, broke out of the stream.
Onlookers could see the minivan speeding down and then disappearing between two buildings.
An hour later, Nemo, somewhat tired but happy, landed in a paid parking lot not far from Karvo's office and, taking out his datapad, began to gather information about his competitor.
The competitor's name was short: Eugene. There was almost no information about him online. He started taking orders relatively recently, with no information on their completion. There were mentions from other intermediaries that the guy was very rash and wouldn't last long.
A good start. In essence, this was what Nemo needed: a person who wouldn't last long and was rude enough to be betrayed with his guts. Closing the car, he strode briskly to visit Eugene.
The dozing guard was not in place. Instead, a zabrak sat there, leaning his muscular arms on the counter. He followed Nemo with an attentive gaze but didn't stop him.
Going up one floor above Jiro's office, he found Eugene's office and confidently knocked on the door.
"Not locked," a deep voice boomed from behind the door.
Throwing the door open, Nemo confidently entered, beginning to survey the office.
"Are you Eugene?" the young man asked, slightly louder and more brazen than usual.
There was no desk in the office. There was no furniture at all, apart from a few chairs. Eugene turned out to be a solidly built brute, who could more easily be mistaken for a brutish mercenary than a broker.
"I am Eugene," the "wardrobe" boomed, rising from a miserably creaking chair to meet the newcomer. "What business do you have?"
"I want to sell a cargo," the contractor began without preamble, "mostly jewelry."
The broker's round face showed some doubt – apparently, the guest's appearance didn't quite fit with the jewelry trade in his imagination.
"Do you have samples with you?" he asked curtly.
"You'll get samples later," Nemo said, a little sharply, "my predecessor ran into a shrapnel mine. How much do you want for brokerage?"
"I take ten percent..." Eugene squinted, examining the guest, walked around the room, and stopped a couple of steps from Nemo. "But it depends on the cargo. Yours, it seems, is marked..."
"I'll give you fifteen," the contractor offered, "no further questions."
"Who was the previous owner?" Eugene ignored the increased offer.
"A Duros, name of Jethro," he said with obvious reluctance, "who the cargo belonged to before that is none of my business."
Without further ado, the broker lunged at him, ducking and trying to knock him off his feet. He covered the two steps separating them instantly. His right fist flew to the bridge of Nemo's nose, his left to the solar plexus, and to these, Eugene added an attempt to break Nemo's knee with a kick.
Nemo dodged in a half-crouch, and when he straightened up, Eugene's open right flank was right in front of him. The first blow landed on the liver, the second on the attacker's left shoulder.
The burly man grunted dully – and slumped, folding in half. He didn't quite make it to the door – he managed to turn his fall into a roll and immediately sprang into a fighting stance, but he had noticeably paled and was gasping for air.
Nemo didn't waste time, jumped back, and drew his blaster.
"On your knees," he said coldly, ready to fire at any moment.