Chapter Text
Red skin. The hard bone of cranial horns. The flash of his eyes, flame-yellow and spitting with heat. The snarling strength of his hands on your body, and the scrape of his claws over the thinnest, most sensitive patches of your skin.
Lying on your back, you open your eyes and sigh. There’s nothing but the dingy canvas underside of the solar-flect tent you’re sleeping in, alone. The suns can’t be up yet; it’s not hot enough, not even close. But the light pressing through the solar-flect—framing the outlines of the puzzle-piece solar array sewn into the tent canvas—tells you that there isn’t much time left to enjoy a cool breath.
You kick the disheveled bedroll away from your legs and just lie there, enjoying the temporary chill in the bone-dry air. You could do with some cooling off. In the absence of a cold shower, a girl had to take what she could get.
And the man on your mind was not high on the list of available goods. You’re exasperated with yourself. Three weeks past, you thought you finally did something smart and put some distance between you and tangible danger to your life. But even good-sense fear hadn’t been enough to black out the memory of everything you experienced in the rooms upstairs of that cantina.
And downstairs… you groan at your own treacherous memory.
You swing your legs over the edge of the bedroll. They strike the thick mat that floors your tent; underneath, you feel your heels thump a dent in the endless Tatooine sand.
---
“That’s part of the structure, I’m telling you.”
“It’s fossilized organic material. Look, it’s obviously a different texture from the wall.”
“No—look—it’s part of the wall.”
“It is not!”
“It is!”
You listen to the bickering but don’t take your eyes off the chunk of white stone. A long time ago, you would have found it nearly indistinguishable from the ruins of the wall it’s tacked onto. Everything out here in the Dune Sea is blasted of moisture and color, desiccated and bleached. Even stone.
A long time ago, you were fresh and unlearned in the ways of the archeologist. But even with the intervening years of hands-on work, even though you see the minute differences in the materials, you really can’t tell whether the chunk of stone you’re looking at is architecture or unrelated calcification. The site has only been up and running for three weeks, and very little structure has been exposed yet—most of what you can see is the same circle of small dwellings that were already exposed when the transports pulled up on the scene.
The three of you scanned the stone, but were only able to confirm some remnant organic compounds. Possibly a dead life form that had burrowed against the wall, died, and been fossilized. Or, possibly an adhesive compound used by the builders of these ruins. You peer over the wall again, view the tiny mortar lines, the faded striations in the stone.
You hold out a hand. “Give me the pick.”
A gasp. It’s Nelon, the Chiss male arguing to preserve the rock chip. His light-sensitive eyes are tucked behind blackened UV goggles, but you can see the horror on his expression.
“It’s—”
“Give me the pick.”
Ralla, the Mirialan female with whom he was arguing, passes over the pick. The point of it was about as big as a curved metal toothpick. You lean in, aware of the others hovering over your shoulders. In your other hand you have a run-of-the-mill toothbrush. You scrape carefully at the rock in question with the bristles; their scratch is the only sound on the oven-dry air. You feel the two, practically in each of your ears, holding their breath.
You place the pick carefully against the side of the suspicious fragment and hold yours, too.
You pry at it, and the fragment instantly pops clean off.
Nelon makes a choked sound, but you and Ralla sigh in relief. Under the pale rock, it’s clear that the wall is uninterrupted by tell-tale scoring that may suggest it was a decorative piece, adhered intentionally by the original inhabitants.
Ralla takes a deep breath and covers the pale green skin of her face with her hands. “That was so stressful.”
You turn to look at her, completely lost for words. The three of you are under an insufficient canopy cover in the scorching, sand-grain wind of Tatooine’s most barren region. You’re sweaty and dusty, wearing the same clothes for days on end, mouths parched dry. There are roving Tuskan raiders—maybe far, maybe near—and a pretentious Hutt representative sitting ten meters away with his personal guard, observing you toil.
You smile, and a single chuckle spirals up and out. “Isn’t it great?”
---
A buzz of activity interrupts the dig. You look at your dirt-crusted chrono. It’s only a little past local noon. As a member of the team, you’re eager to drop what you’re doing and run to hear the news. As senior assistant, you opt to set a better example—instead of dropping everything, you instruct Nelon and Ralla to pack it up carefully and set the tools aside.
“It’s here! They had it!”
Your heart skips at the shout from across camp, but you resist the urge to run and see. If Professor found the part, he’ll be coming right here with it.
Sure enough, in a matter of minutes, Professor Taq Norr and a small crowd of the field team are headed your way. In his taloned hands, you see it: the new power coupler for the ground penetrating radar.
“Lucky they had one,” you comment as Professor draws near, ruffling his feathers against the relentless sand. His prominent beak doesn’t lend itself to expressions quite like a humanoid face, but you’ve spent enough time with him to recognize that he’s beaming with excitement.
“I knew they’d hike the price up if they realized how much we needed one.” Professor and the crowd gravitate to the GPR, draw back the heavy canvas cover. He gives you a sheepish look. “It’s not very honest, but I circled their entire crawler twice pretending not to see anything of interest.”
You laugh, delighted. “Professor! You can be sneaky!”
“Only because I couldn’t afford to pay two hundred credits for a five-credit part,” he admonishes. But his eyes are still crinkled in a smile. “Well, let’s see if this thing even works.”
“If you paid anything for it and didn’t plug it in to check beforehand, I’ll be much less impressed.”
Professor laughs as he and another student pull the panel of the GPR aside. You rethink the word ‘new’ when you get a good look at the coupler he’s found. Nothing from the Jawas is necessarily new, per se, and much of it has been battered around. But when the coupler is linked into its slot by the power cell, lights glow and an affirming ping earns a cheer from the crowd of dirty and exhausted archeology students.
It’s practically a sporting event, moving the GPR into place. The weary tedium of a stalled dig site is gone, replaced by chatter and energy that nearly has you jumping. The coupler was discovered to be damaged in transit when it was unpacked, so not even a single radar image has been taken. Three trips back to the Mos Eisley tech market turned up nothing. You’ve all been digging blind, carefully scraping the top layer away from the above-ground ruins.
You and Professor arrange the GPR antenna unit in the center of the ring of rock-dwelling structures.
“Start on the widest range with the lowest power, I think,” Professor says as the two of you secure the radar apparatus in the sand.
“Will do.”
The receiver console is set out under the shade of an open-sided canopy. When the area is clear and the GPR is activated, the familiar hum and rhythmic thump of the radar begins, and shortly after, images start scrawling across the holo-display.
At first, there’s another cheer. Success!
But then, as the details of the GPR become clearer, the entire group trails into a silence both awed and unsettled.
“It’s…” You trace the subterranean structure down the display with your eyes. “It’s partially underground. Mostly underground.” The GPR’s range is set wide, not deep, but it’s clear that the underground structure continues beyond the limits of the radar, down some five meters.
None of you had theorized this sort of underground infrastructure. There are confused looks exchanged, some muttering. Tuskans don’t dig, not this deep. Of course, they haven’t built with stone in centuries, either—when Professor’s chief theory was that these ruins were pre-nomadic Tuskan dwellings, possibly part of a large settlement, spirits had been high to uncover previously-unheard-of anthropological data.
But something feels off about the depth of those huts. You trace them with your eyes again. Cellars and basements follow a predictable stair/open space pattern. Sleeping nooks, storage areas, fire pits. In the limited power of the lowest radar setting, it’s still obvious that these structures go straight in an uninterrupted line down and down and down.
---
Professor sighs. “We have to inform the University.”
You sigh right back and rest your elbows on your knees. The two of you are in the tent that serves as the operations office; it’s the most secure with double the support beams and double the foundation pegs. All the precious data-disks are stored here in neat filing cabinets. There’s a portable holo-table in the center of the room, and the junior assistants are studying it now, comparing what the GPR revealed with other established dig sites throughout the Republic.
You look up at Professor, pained. “They might yank funding on the whole site.”
“No, no, I don’t think it’s that bad,” Professor replies too quickly. He clears his throat and absently preens his talons through his wing feathers. Every one of the crew has sand in every single nook and cranny; it’s become a fact of life. “Tatooine wasn’t high on the priority list, but even a major change in projected labor isn’t necessarily enough to cut us off altogether.”
You cross your arms, frowning. “Normally, no. But you know Illiana was pulling all her contacts on the committee trying to get our funding diverted to her Mon Cala temple. We’ll need to start campaigning for renewal right now if we want another season paid for.”
Professor tilted his head, great crest feathers bobbing as he thought. He was still preening his talons absently through his feathers; he caught himself and coughed awkwardly. You shrugged, unoffended. Preening himself in public, for feathered folk, seemed to be equivalent to unfeathered or unfurred species scratching in crude places, but you simply aren’t socialized to be bothered by it.
“She’s going to try and steal our allotment,” you insist. “Mota Jor is happy to do whatever Illiana wants, just because he’s her uncle.”
Professor winces. “Family ties are hard to beat.”
You exhale, thinking. This could be a spectacular opportunity. It could turn out to be the size of the Mon Cala complex, reveal a trove of data. Centuries of history, maybe. But if it is the size of the Mon Cala complex, that means not only will you have to petition for a renewal at the end of the approved season… you’ll have to convince the committee to increase your funding.
The Mon Cala site, being at the bottom of the ocean, is an extravagantly expensive project that the Galactic Histories department loves to put at the forefront. It’s great press on a friendly world, with the pro-Republic Mon Calamari in enthusiastic support.
At least when you ask for an increase, you don’t have to include scuba gear for digging in the Dune Sea.
“We may need someone to go there and make our case.” Professor points out.
Your frown deepens. “Not me.”
He shrugs his avian shoulders. “All right, but I’m surprised you would trust someone else to do it.”
“Not just someone else. I’d trust you to do it.”
“Me? I can’t leave. I’m head of the site—I have to stay here.”
You shake your head. “That’s months away, anyway. Half a standard year.”
“Correct, you are. It will suffice to submit an update to our progress to Belmona, and she can make sure the records are all in order back on Coruscant. I need to make sure she doesn’t send a new GPR unit, also… she’s been waiting for word about the coupler…”
You sit there, thinking. He’s right that the Lina Soh University must be updated to this change of events. No question about that. But you think you’re right, too. Competing sites want your funding, and no one wanted a dig site under the Hutts supervision; a Hutt representative in a University field operation is nearly beyond the pale for the council members sitting in a clean office on the Core world of Coruscant. They just don’t get how things work out here in the Outer Rim, and the idea of having to devote even more resources and labor to a compromised site will be easy for certain parties to use in their own schemes.
“I’ll send them a message immediately,” Professor announces, slapping his hands on his knees and leveraging himself to his feet. Rishii are rather tall, and usually their winged arms seem to take up an impossible amount of space. Accustomed to the interior of classrooms, delicate artifacts, and small office tents, Professor has gotten very good at keeping each and every feather out of the way.
You stand up, too. It’s dark outside and you’re running on fumes. You start to excuse yourself, but Professor stops you.
“Say… have you thought more about your dissertation?”
You feel like the sand beneath the tent has begun to crumble. “Uh…”
Professor takes a breath, and gestures with his wing for you to do so, too. “Just a question. Have you thought about it?”
As little as you could manage. “Some.” At least if this site gets scrapped by the University, you won’t have the supervising hours to complete your requisite experience. It’ll probably be another couple years, minimum, until another opportunity comes knocking.
Professor backs off; he knows that this black spot looming on the horizon is a sensitive topic. “Go get some sleep. But seriously, give it some thought. It’s time you decided how the rest of your career is going to proceed once there’s a ‘Doctor’ at the front of your name.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Good.”
You back out of the tent, into the dark desert night, and stand there like a dimwit under the billion Outer Rim stars. Doctor. Uneasily, you head for your tent.
On the way, you steal a glance at the fancy brand-new solar-flect tent erected for the Hutt rep. Jabba doesn’t hire many humans in administrative positions, but this lackey is. He’s middle-aged and watchful, tall but weasely, too sharp of eye. It was a condition of the cartel allowing this dig site in what is—galactically speaking—their turf. The representative is here to observe that no items ‘of significant cultural significance’ are removed from the planet.
That’s a thin lie. Everyone here knows that he’s keeping an eye out for treasure, not that anyone’s expecting to find what the Hutts would consider valuable. The babysitter’s presence here grates all the same.
Anxious on one hand and aggravated on the other, you arrive at your tent to find that the night still isn’t over.
“Zhalar?” The Zygerrian is easy to spot, even in the starlight. His huge vulpine ears make his tall silhouette one-of-a-kind. You halt a few steps back. You don’t like finding men waiting at your bed unexpectedly—at least, not co-workers. And maybe just not Zhalar; you know he’s condemned his people’s ways, become an outcast among them. But Zygerrians are notorious as vicious slavers and worse… and in the wild places of the galaxy, there aren’t many things lower than slavers. You certainly never turn your back on one when you’re exploring alone.
Zhalar’s ears twitch; he’s noticed. He rolls his eyes. “I need to speak with you.”
You nod. “Ok.”
He exhales. “From all the way over there? I doubt you want Ralla hearing this.”
You approach, stuffing your doubts out of sight. Ralla is certainly more of a pain in the ass than Zhalar has ever been. “What’s up?”
Zhalar looks at the tents pitched next to yours. He drops his voice to a slip of a whisper. “Look, I don’t get in people’s business.”
You nod. “Ok.” He really doesn’t. Zhalar barely even talks to anyone.
“When we met up with you in Mos Eisley, I smelled a male on you.”
Heat sears up your cheeks in a second. Zhalar waves a hand. “Like I said, I don’t care. Not my business. My nose and ears are dozens of times sharper than yours. If I got involved in everything I heard or smelled, I’d never see the end of it.”
Shocked, you just nod. “Um… ok.”
“The only reason I’m bringing this up is because I went with Professor to the Jawa crawler today, and while we were driving back, I caught his scent near the camp. Whoever he is, he’s nearby.”
Out of nowhere, the memory of clawed hands digging into your hips seizes you. A rush of terror and a fierce craving zip through your nerves. Zhalar sees the surprise on your face and reads your alarm. “So… Is he going to be a problem? Should we tell Professor?”
“No.” The word flits out long, long before you’ve decided to say it, and now you’re asking yourself what you think you’re doing. “No, not yet. I don’t think he’ll be a problem.”
Zhalar watches your face, then shrugs. You see him relax, obviously unwilling to make a scene about your personal life. You can only imagine what he thinks of some man following you out into the desert. “Well… we might not have to worry about it much longer one way or another.”
You wince; everyone already knows Professor’s dilemma with the bureaucrats back on Coruscant. Zhalar turns to go, and you catch his arm. He looks back, wary.
“Thank you. For telling me.”
He gives you a small, sharp-toothed smile. “No problem. Just don’t be stupid; he smells like trouble.”
You don’t know the half of it, you think as you watch Zhalar stride through the half-dark, out of sight.
The first of Tatooine’s moons is ballooning up from the horizon, and the world turns silver. You stand there outside your tent, thinking about the GPR, thinking about the Hutt interloper across camp, thinking about the dissertation you have to write and present—and on what? But most of all, you’re thinking about a red nova of energy on the other side of a door, much too close, much too strong.
Hesitant, you look out over the sand. You summon up that little spark of Force you carry, and you throw it out like a line into the ocean.
From out in the desert, a crimson heartbeat drums back. An answering call.