Light of the Jedi(63)
Burryaga surveyed the Legacy Run survivors. Through the Force, he could sense the strange tension in these people—an odd mix of regret, shame, exultation, and relief. Survivor’s guilt, he supposed.
Nib greeted a young couple warmly, embracing them one after the other. As she released the second woman, she flickered her fingers toward Burryaga, in a signal that he knew meant “advance into battle”—one of their private Master–apprentice signals.
Burryaga sighed and stepped forward, adjusting his sash, the polished weight of his lightsaber hilt a comfort in its holster at his side. It shone just as brightly as Nib’s, though his was fashioned from the amber of a white wroshyr tree from the Wookiee homeworld of Kashyyyk, with a broad crosspiece in electrum. Not that he expected to use his weapon in this place, but “advance into battle” felt pretty accurate. His master knew how much he hated gatherings like this. None of these people would be able to understand him. Sometimes that was good, because often people assumed people who didn’t speak weren’t listening. Useful when he was trying to gather intelligence—but this wasn’t actually a battle, and he wasn’t in enemy territory. It was just a strange sort of social event, and he couldn’t imagine he’d learn much no matter how many conversations he overheard.
That said, he knew Avar Kriss had asked Nib to gently inquire as to the experiences of the Legacy Run survivors, to see if any details about the disaster might manifest. Master Kriss and her partner, Elzar Mann, were looking for clues about what had happened. She thought some of the survivors could have repressed memories that might emerge with a bit of time and distance from the original event. But seeking that information was his master’s job, not his—he couldn’t see how he could ask people to tell him their stories under the circumstances. None of them could understand a word he said.
Maybe if the Panacea had a translator droid aboard—but no, just a few therapy droids, with their wide-eyed faces and serene way of moving, and some pill droids floating around. It was a medical ship, after all.
Burryaga walked up to three people chatting quietly among themselves—a Mimbanese couple and a human female. They seemed washed out, reduced. Even the scarlet skin and huge, blue, pupil-less eyes of the Mimbanese seemed pale. He understood that. They had all spent what must have seemed like an eternity tumbling through space in that cargo compartment, certain they were going to die at any moment. Burryaga held up a hand in greeting.
“Hello,” he said in Shyriiwook, expecting and receiving a very familiar set of blank looks in response.
“Master Jedi,” the Mimbanese male replied, in Basic. “It’s an honor to meet you. We’re all so grateful for everything you did.”
“Of course, sir,” Burryaga replied. “No need to thank us. All life is precious, and we are all the Republic.”
More blank looks. He suppressed a sigh.
“Hey, Burry,” he heard a voice say, and looked over.
It was Joss Adren with his wife, Pikka. Both had drinks in their hands and seemed utterly relaxed. He didn’t know how they did it. Maybe it was the drinks. The two pilots walked up to the little group.
“You guys might not know this,” Joss said, “but this is Burryaga. He’s the reason you’re all alive.”
“Uh, dear, perhaps there’s a better way to phrase that?” Pikka said. She wasn’t tiny, for a human, but next to her husband, she appeared so. Joss Adren looked like a tree trunk with a head on top.
“But it’s true,” Joss said. “We were getting ready to blast you guys into vapor—I mean, we didn’t know you were aboard. We thought you were just another fragment, and wanted to make sure you didn’t smash into anything. But then Burryaga here got on the comm and started yelling up a storm—he sensed you in there, and stopped us from firing just in time.”
He grinned.
“But it was close. I mean close. One more second, and—”
Pikka hit him in the arm, hard.
“Ouch,” Joss said.
“Come on, darling,” she said, leading him away.
The three survivors were staring at Burryaga. He felt hot and wanted to start panting, but knew some people saw that as a threatening move, but he was a Wookiee, and of course his teeth were sharp, and—
“Is that true, what he said?” the Mimbanese woman said. “Was it really that close a thing?”
He nodded, and their faces went very thoughtful, and Burryaga felt very embarrassed. They were treating him like he was some sort of…
He decided to take the opportunity to escape, and headed for the refreshment tables. He was starving—which wasn’t unusual. His fur was light in color, mostly golden, with streaks here and there of the darker mahogany. He was in his prime growing years. He ate every chance he got.
The refreshment tables were full—the Panacea’s droids had made sure of that—but a glance told him it was all cheeses, breads, fruit, fresh-cut vegetables, spreads and dips and sweets…not a bit of meat. Wookiees could eat almost anything, but at that moment, Burryaga felt he needed fortification beyond what mere carrotins and pipfruit could provide.
Still, food was food. He took what was offered, filling a plate and beginning to graze. If nothing else, a full mouth might mean no one would engage him in conversation.
Munching away on a bright-green fruit he’d never had before, actually quite good, Burryaga cast his eyes across the room, this strange reception held amid a sort of illusory meadow floating in the middle of deep space. Little knots of people—Nib Assek in animated conversation with a family, Joss in the middle of a story to another group, who were smiling. Pikka holding a woman’s hand, listening earnestly to whatever she said.