The door to room 21 slid open, letting Eni in.
"Mr. Nikolaus, I'm back, and I don't think there's any fever there at all," she said with a restrained smile. "And how are you? Did you rest?" Her eyes shone involuntarily as she looked at Viylar.
"Thanks to your care – wonderfully," Nik was already sitting, propped up by a pillow, and was sculpting something again. The artist's long fingers lovingly smoothed the sharp curve of the neck. His sharp gaze from under his brows was inquisitive and lively. "I hope the colleague is playing Dejarik... Otherwise, I can't drink with him or fly..."
"I'd be very surprised if he wasn't playing," Eni replied with a laugh. "And something tells me that playing with Jethro is more trouble than it's worth. He'll strip you bare."
The girl came closer, watching what was emerging from under his strong fingers. "The injections can wait," she thought. "The fact that he's coming alive, thanks to his favorite activity, is incomparably more valuable than any medicine, no matter how effective." Besides, she loved watching him sculpt, how the ice in his eyes melted. Even if only for a little while...
The still shapeless piece of plastic in his confident fingers didn't resemble anything yet, but in the unevenness of the mass, the bend of a wing and a neck – strong, with long, prominent muscles – began to appear. The as-yet-unknown winged beast was looking somewhere deep into the piece of plastic.
"For some reason, I believe you..." Nik looked up at her for a moment, tearing himself away from his work. "Nemo has very peculiar friends."
He believes her... Even just hearing such words from Viylar, regardless of what he meant, was unexpected. Even if it only concerned Jethro. It seemed that those firmly defined lips didn't know such words. So, they did? Her eyelashes still twitched slightly.
Eni shrugged.
"What difference does it make who our friends are," she said quietly. "As long as they remain our friends always. And when everything is against us. You know," Eni chuckled. "Where close people, it would seem, turn away, such guys suddenly believe and help. At least, you always know what to expect from them," Eni finished with a smile. "But you believe in friends..." Eni thought, "And when you were suspected of connections with the Alliance, those you worked with, studied with, simply pretended you never existed..."
"Sometimes we are unpredictable," Nik replied, turning his gaze back to his work. "But the names we choose can tell a lot about us... Have you thought about what they'll call the doctor who will leave this hospitable moon with us?"
"No, Mr. Nikolaus, I had other things to think about," something flashed in Eni's eyes, and the gray surface became calm again. "And what will they call the doctor?" she asked with a smile.
The pilot picked at the plastic with his fingernail, and an uneven lump turned into a squinting eye.
A dragon's eye.
"Where I was born, the winds always blow..." Nik's voice was calm, measured. Soft. "Each of them has a name... The one that comes from the west brings cold, snow, or rain. His name is Viylar. From the east, from the scorching desert, comes Shergi, who brings hot summer. The grasses become dry and brittle, they resemble a woman's light hair, flowing in the wind... When I look at you, I think you resemble this wind. Impetuous and hot..."
Eni was about to lean in and admire the dragon up close when she heard his words.
Her heart skipped a beat for a moment. It fluttered like a wounded bird, fell... And where it had been before, it became so hot that in a second, she truly felt like that wind.
"Shergi, Sher..." she whispered, listening to the sound. "...Lonely," she said, the name that suddenly came from outside. "Shergi Lonely..."
The east wind. The west wind. Poems read in childhood suddenly came to mind.
"...The West is the West, the East is the East," she quoted, smiling with only her lips. "And they shall never meet?" she looked up at Viylar with eyes that were not smiling at all. The end of the phrase was questioning.
"On the Smugglers' Moon, they recite ancient poetry..." diamond facets sparkled in his green eyes. "Who would have thought..."
The doctor turned out to be full of surprises. And he liked that. Deceptive fragility – and recklessness. Pearls of ancient classics – and pursuit by the Empire...
"You should remember how this poem ends, Sher... But there is no East and no West – what are tribe, homeland, kin, if the strong stand shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the earth?"
He changed the last lines. Face to face, he stood... with whom? The black abyss within stirred, extinguishing the echo of memory.
He didn't need confrontation.
His green eyes looked attentively and intently, waiting for an answer.
"Yes," she held his gaze. "Let it end that way," Eni lowered her eyes and walked to the window. "And they swore a brotherly oath on salt and sour bread..."
"And they swore a brotherly oath, making a wide cut in the turf, on the blade, and on the hilt of the knife, and on the name of the god of wonders..." he said to her back. "Do you know the name of this god, Sher?"
"And you, Mr. Viylar, what would you swear by?" she turned, her silhouette darkening against the dim window. Where the desert wind blew, her heart beat rhythmically again, but perhaps a little too fast. He was already calling her Sher... Should she get used to thinking of herself that way?
"Nothing," the answer didn't hesitate for a moment. The pilot stood up, and the light from the window more sharply outlined his prominent cheekbones. The dragon in his hand spread its wings, as if breaking free from its stone prison, or perhaps looking back at someone: "Are you with me?"
"The wind's loyalty cannot be guaranteed by any oath. Only by its own will... if the wind suddenly had a will. I have nothing to swear by, Sher. I have nothing left. Except myself."
"Nik... be careful..." her first impulse was to rush to him to support him. "Hot and impetuous..." She restrained herself.
"Nik, who will you give this winged wonder to?" she asked quietly and, after a slight pause, added: "Nikolaus, I can't bring you a 'brotherly oath' either. You can swear by anything, but these are just words carried by the wind," a faint smile flickered on her lips. "And for one more reason..."
"But I am with you and for you. No matter what happens. You should understand that by now," she looked at him tiredly. "Here's the last thing you don't know, probably. Although, for someone of your profession, there's usually no secret about it. I am a lieutenant in the Imperial Medical Service. And it turns out that I had nothing either. But now – I do."
"I guessed," the pilot nodded, walking over and standing beside her. Outside the window, the buildings of "little Coruscant" loomed. Another trick of the eye: the windows were actually screens, you couldn't escape through them. Not even into the Force. "Already when you didn't pass by... Civilians burn out faster."
The little dragon landed on the windowsill with a quiet thud.
"Dragons choose for themselves those with whom they will share the same sky, Sher... That name really suits you."
"Hot and impetuous... I haven't noticed that in myself," the girl thought. "Perhaps this heat was always in me, he just brought it out... And I definitely have a concussion... 25th degree!"
"I don't even know, Mr. Viylar, how that sounds coming from you," she chuckled. "Just a statement of fact, or disapproval? But if it's disapproval," her eyes flashed in the shadow of the window, "then lie down, Nik. I'll give you a shot," she lightly touched the dragon's wing with the outside of her index finger. "Lie down, Nik..."
The pilot raised his hands in a playful gesture of surrender.
"Lately, everyone is trying to poke holes in me," he complained, heading for the cot. "My character must be flawed... I'm lying down, how can I refuse when a pretty girl invites me... um..."
"Mr. Nik," Sher said slowly, almost syllable by syllable... "You're almost recovered, aren't you? No, you've just gotten out of hand," she said very affectionately. "Now I understand where all those holes in you come from... I'll show you how hot I am... I'll add one more! And pray it's not a blaster, but a injector!" But don't expect it to be painless... she promised with a sweet smile.
"I surrender!" the pilot reminded her, obediently getting into bed. "Torturing prisoners is cruel and contrary to the principles of humanism! No dancers, and injections under threat of execution... Where have I landed?!"
The patient's distress was accompanied by a barely perceptible feeling... of touch. It instilled confidence that the girl would not be offended here. And would not be offended.
"Ha," the girl said, "you can tell the Imperial interrogators about the principles of humanism..." she plunged the micro-needle into Viylar's thigh with delight. "They can listen, I can't..." she blew on the injector as if it were a smoking barrel. "And dancers are also not allowed, Mr. Viylar. Like this," she teased him.
"I understand," Nik informed her, stoically enduring the procedure. "This is such a progressive rehabilitation method. Survivors escape even through simulated windows on monitors and then perform miracles of heroism, just to avoid falling into caring hands again..."
He was spouting sarcastic, cheerful nonsense and was surprised to listen to himself. This fun, completely sincere – where did it come from? From her story? From his own soul?
"You've relaxed too much. It won't be easy to pull yourself together again..."
The risk was worth these moments of carefree fun.
The man with the name of the cold west wind knew this with absolute certainty.
"No, what are you talking about, Mr. Viylar, I have an individual method for everyone," the girl smiled vengefully. "We can't miss such an opportunity – to get back at you for your whole organization!"
"Like waves in the ocean," Sher thought. "It's so scary and joyful to glide on them, and they carry you further and further... No, we're just fooling around," she argued with herself. "And the shore is still nearby..."
For the first time since that search in Nemo's room, the pilot dared to touch the Force. It was dangerous to do so here – the atmosphere of Nar Shaddaa was polluted in every sense. But the joy he felt now was like a pure spring. A key gushing from the bottom and dispelling the swamp mud.
A hot spring. They used to treat illnesses with such things.
The touch was cautious. Don't scare. Don't make him recoil, unconsciously close his shield.
"What are you doing?! Have you forgotten how it ended..."
What?
Memory was silent.
"This is dangerous. For her, first and foremost..."
And it was safe for her here, of course... A crooked smile touched her lips.
The Force brought him here. The Force brought her here. The Force pushed them together. Everything else depended only on what they would do with it. The burn inside ached. Wounds that are beginning to heal hurt like this.
"So young and beautiful," Nik sighed. "And already so vengeful..."
He turned his head, looking at her askance.
"Do you have any strong thread in your first-aid kit?"
"To sew someone's mouth shut?" she asked quietly, still not taking her eyes off him. "I can even guess who..." a smirk flickered on her lips. It would be timely. It's scary to even think what else she might say to him...
"Yes, Mr. Nik. Catgut. Do you need the strongest?" in her eyes, the ocean still breathed, turbulent and deep as the abyss...
"How could you think that?!" the pilot exclaimed. Very cheerfully exclaimed. "You have a strange idea... About men. I'll have to correct it. Give me your catgut."
A hidden smile flickered in her eyes, and before she could stop herself, she said:
"Then correct it, Mr. Viylar."
She hurried to lower her eyes under the pretense of opening the case. Easily pulling out a packet of catgut, she handed it to Nik.
Pulling a deck from the table, he placed an order. The Anx will be surprised. But it's unlikely that an order for paints for plastic mass painting can be considered a thread to the most wanted artist in the Galaxy.
"What would I do without you..." the pilot thanked him emotionally, taking the packet from her. His fingers deftly fished out the slippery thread, measured the required length. There were no scissors at hand, and Nik risked using the Force again. A thin stream cut the fibers no worse than a razor.
"And you said it was the strongest..."
Winking at the girl, the pilot pinched off a small, pea-sized piece of plastic, rolled it into a short string, attached it to the end of the thread, and began to roll it into a ball. The end of the catgut was securely fastened inside.
Sher, who hadn't taken her eyes off his hands, noticed the strip of catgut fall apart on its own. By Force. She hadn't yet felt its effect so clearly... So, he was recovering. A spark of happiness flared in her heart. The dragon is taking flight and...
"And what is this, Nik?" she asked, trying to guess the outline of the next masterpiece.
"A terrible military secret," the pilot rolled the other end of the thread into a ball in the same way. "A sure way to protect yourself from assassination attempts... Aren't you tired of standing?"
"I am tired," she turned to look for the chair where Nemo had been sitting earlier. "It's been a strange day, Mr. Viylar..." her pupils were completely dark in the dim light of the room.
"I think I've gone mad... And I don't want to get better..."
"I can sit for a while," the pilot stood up, taking the pack of plastic and the thread with him. "I've lain down enough for a month. Lie down. You need to rest."
"No, what are you talking about, Mr. Viylar," Sher quickly sat down in the chair. "I have a bed in my room, I can go there. You're feeling better, aren't you?" she climbed into the chair with her legs tucked under her and her eyes sparkled from there like an alarmed Felinx. "And how are you going to protect yourself from assassination attempts with catgut?"
"That's a secret for now," the pilot didn't return to the cot, he sat in the free chair by the window. "Yes, I'm better, thanks to your care..."
"I'm very glad, Nik," Sher said it in such a way that these worn-out words seemed infinitely tender. "But you helped yourself. Our medicine is too weak for people like you," she shifted her gaze to the window where the little dragon was hardening. "Fly, winged one... As high as you want... And the east wind will always be a tailwind for you, accompanying you from afar..."
"I'll sit here for a while, Mr. Viylar, I don't want to fall asleep. 'Because I'm afraid of waking up?'"
"And what is the name of the 'god of wonders'?" Sher remembered. "Dyar Ili has two main themes in his work – war and... well, and another one."
"If I knew, I would definitely pray to him," came from the window. "But life has taught me two things, Sher..."
"What, Nik?" the girl settled comfortably, resting her cheek against the soft back of the chair to see Viylar's face.
"Prayer is action, Sher..." the pilot raised his head from his strange work. The twilight smoothed the sharpness of his features, and now he looked thirty or forty years old. "And neither gods nor the Force have hands other than ours."
"Of course, Nik, I don't know about the Force, but gods perform miracles through our hands... And they usually start helping those who do everything in their power. I know that for sure. I've had to pull those who seemed to have no chance of life... You pull them with your last strength, and they don't run out. And the dying survive, despite everything..." Sher's thoughtful gaze stopped on the pilot's face. "And what is the second thing you learned?"
"That the number of miracles in this world depends on how many you do yourself. For others."
He bent over his work again, making something out of plastic directly on the thread, but the gradually thickening twilight made it impossible to see what was emerging from his sensitive fingers.
"Only for others," Sher quietly repeated after him. "That's the whole point. Only when you expect nothing for yourself," she paused for a few minutes. "How old are you, Nik? Or is that also a secret?" although what difference did it make how old he was, what his name was? It wouldn't change anything. She rubbed her cheek against the shaggy back of the chair. She should go to sleep in her room, Nik was better, but next to Viylar, she felt that room 21 was more secure than the Muunilinst bank.
"Forty-two," the pilot replied quietly. "You're tired, Sher. Lie down. I'll watch over your dreams."
"No, Mr. Viylar," Sher laughed, shaking her head. "For a doctor to deprive her patient of her bed? And for a sick person to spend the whole night in a chair? That has never happened in my practice. You think poorly of Imperial medics, Nik. Rest, Nik, sculpt. I'll go to my room," she slipped out of the soft embrace of the chair and walked to the table where the bird was. Her hand gently lifted the figurine into her palm.
"I'll take it to my room, okay?" she could barely see where Nik was, so she just asked the twilight near the improvised window.
"Okay," the pilot agreed unexpectedly easily. "Sweet dreams, Sher."
"Thank you, Nik. And good night to you too. Just no dancers... If I wake up, I'm afraid I'll shoot them," Sher said in a calm, sleepy voice and went out the door.
In her room, she only had enough strength to carefully place the bird on the window and not pass by the mirror. Yes, she was no longer Nikka, the unrestrained Pola. And not even the conspicuously polite Eni... How was it in that ancient myth, when they untied the bag of winds? They broke free and... No, she wouldn't blame herself for it. Not today, when he was better, when he was smiling. And his eyes were green, like in that imaginary drawing. Forty-two years old... Only forty-two... Sher touched the pillow, and her thoughts immediately ended. She was asleep.
But it was hard to call it sleep.