Yuuzhan Vong, and not the only ones I identify with. Not anymore.”
“So you think you are supporting a greater good by staying.”
“Yes. We can assemble a report and transmit it by holocomm. We can explain that more evaluation is needed … which is the truth.”
“As you see it.”
“Yes.”
Shawnkyr’s expression changed. It did not harden against him, which was one possibility Jag had acknowledged but did not welcome. Instead, a subtle sadness suffused it. He doubted anyone not well acquainted with her would have detected it.
“I will stay,” she said, “until Borleias falls. Then I will return home.”
“Thank you.”
“But if I die here, I want you to promise to return in my place. If I stay here, I am delaying the execution of my duty. If I die, you must carry out my duty.”
Jag thought about it. And to his way of thinking, she had presented him with an impenetrable argument. His only choices really were to agree, or to bid her farewell now. And the defenders of Borleias would be that much worse off without her leadership and piloting skills.
“I agree,” he said.
* * *
Tarc shook Wolam Tser’s hand and said, “I thought you’d be tall.”
Wolam—graying and distinguished, elder statesman of Coruscant holojournalism—exchanged an amused look with Tam before returning his attention to the child. “I am indeed taller than you.”
“Yes, but I thought you’d be two meters at least.”
“An illusion, child. When you are in front of the holocam, you dominate the image. Everything else is secondary to you. So it becomes easy for watchers to believe you are of extravagant proportions.”
“Oh.” Tarc nodded sagely, as though Wolam’s words made perfect sense to him.
They stood in the lobby of the biotics building, meters from the door out onto the kill zone. The lobby was now set up with desks and stations for junior officers and enlisted personnel. Some directed traffic through the building, others ensured physical and remote security, and still others were located here rather than in locations more appropriate to their specific tasks because there was no room in those locations for them.
But there was still a little open space away from the main flow of traffic, and that’s where they stood, three generations of homeless civilian males surrounded by military operations.
“So, what’s it to be today?” Tam fished around in his expansive bag. He extracted a holocam, a model small enough to be easily concealed in his large hands, with a strap to fit around the back of one hand. This unit he handed to Tarc. He showed the boy how to tighten thestrap, where to peer into the holocam in order to see what the holocam’s lens saw.
“How the defenders live,” Wolam said. “Bedchambers, meals, medicine, refreshers, exhaustion, stolen moments. Spot interviews as I decide. No setups, no analysis.”
“Why record anything?” Tarc asked. “With Coruscant conquered, aren’t you out of a job?”
“Never,” Wolam said. “I am a historian. Unless nothing sapient survives in all the universe, I have a job, a calling. Someday people will be curious about what happened here, and what we do, recording and analyzing, may be the only surviving answers to their questions.”
“In other words,” Tam said, “once you know what you are, nobody can ever take your ‘job’ from you. They can change your circumstances. They can make it hard or impossible for you to get paid.” He shot Wolam a sly look, and Wolam gratified him by giving him an indignant little scowl. “But your ‘job’ is part of you.”
Tarc fell silent, considering that.
Tam pulled out his main-duty holocam, a recently manufactured Crystal Memories Model 17, lighter and possessing more standard memory than previous models. He passed its strap over his head. The strap grazed against the fresh scar behind his right ear, the surgical scar over his new implant, the implant that was now his only defense against the
“So you think you are supporting a greater good by staying.”
“Yes. We can assemble a report and transmit it by holocomm. We can explain that more evaluation is needed … which is the truth.”
“As you see it.”
“Yes.”
Shawnkyr’s expression changed. It did not harden against him, which was one possibility Jag had acknowledged but did not welcome. Instead, a subtle sadness suffused it. He doubted anyone not well acquainted with her would have detected it.
“I will stay,” she said, “until Borleias falls. Then I will return home.”
“Thank you.”
“But if I die here, I want you to promise to return in my place. If I stay here, I am delaying the execution of my duty. If I die, you must carry out my duty.”
Jag thought about it. And to his way of thinking, she had presented him with an impenetrable argument. His only choices really were to agree, or to bid her farewell now. And the defenders of Borleias would be that much worse off without her leadership and piloting skills.
“I agree,” he said.
* * *
Tarc shook Wolam Tser’s hand and said, “I thought you’d be tall.”
Wolam—graying and distinguished, elder statesman of Coruscant holojournalism—exchanged an amused look with Tam before returning his attention to the child. “I am indeed taller than you.”
“Yes, but I thought you’d be two meters at least.”
“An illusion, child. When you are in front of the holocam, you dominate the image. Everything else is secondary to you. So it becomes easy for watchers to believe you are of extravagant proportions.”
“Oh.” Tarc nodded sagely, as though Wolam’s words made perfect sense to him.
They stood in the lobby of the biotics building, meters from the door out onto the kill zone. The lobby was now set up with desks and stations for junior officers and enlisted personnel. Some directed traffic through the building, others ensured physical and remote security, and still others were located here rather than in locations more appropriate to their specific tasks because there was no room in those locations for them.
But there was still a little open space away from the main flow of traffic, and that’s where they stood, three generations of homeless civilian males surrounded by military operations.
“So, what’s it to be today?” Tam fished around in his expansive bag. He extracted a holocam, a model small enough to be easily concealed in his large hands, with a strap to fit around the back of one hand. This unit he handed to Tarc. He showed the boy how to tighten thestrap, where to peer into the holocam in order to see what the holocam’s lens saw.
“How the defenders live,” Wolam said. “Bedchambers, meals, medicine, refreshers, exhaustion, stolen moments. Spot interviews as I decide. No setups, no analysis.”
“Why record anything?” Tarc asked. “With Coruscant conquered, aren’t you out of a job?”
“Never,” Wolam said. “I am a historian. Unless nothing sapient survives in all the universe, I have a job, a calling. Someday people will be curious about what happened here, and what we do, recording and analyzing, may be the only surviving answers to their questions.”
“In other words,” Tam said, “once you know what you are, nobody can ever take your ‘job’ from you. They can change your circumstances. They can make it hard or impossible for you to get paid.” He shot Wolam a sly look, and Wolam gratified him by giving him an indignant little scowl. “But your ‘job’ is part of you.”
Tarc fell silent, considering that.
Tam pulled out his main-duty holocam, a recently manufactured Crystal Memories Model 17, lighter and possessing more standard memory than previous models. He passed its strap over his head. The strap grazed against the fresh scar behind his right ear, the surgical scar over his new implant, the implant that was now his only defense against the
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