The Rebel celebrations were joyous but muted.
The destruction of the Imperial Death Tube was a major victory for the Rebel Coalition, but the expression of joy was tempered with the knowledge that they must soon flee from this base and find a new temporary home. The Imperium would not take the loss of their battle station—and possibly of their Stiff Lord—lightly. They would arrive here soon, in force.
While the pilots partied, the support personnel worked at packing away everything that could be packed, and loading it aboard the several transport ships that belonged to the ragtag Rebel fleet. Come morning, they would have to commence the evacuation.
Lurk sat on the outskirts of the festivities, staring out into the dark forest. He was not in the mood to celebrate. And he had noticed that several of the other pilots felt uncomfortable when he was around.
His first act upon returning to the Rebel base had been to run to his quarters and have a long cold shower. After a while, a scrubbing brush had been involved.
He sighed.
Libby emerged from the party and sat down beside him. "What is it?" she said softly. "What is wrong. You have been avoiding me since you got back."
Lurk looked at her. Reaching out, he took her hand in his and held it tightly for a moment before gently releasing it again. He shook his head.
"Ask me again sometime," he said. A wry smile flickered briefly across his lips as he recognised the echo of Bent's words to him. That had been back on Ratatouille, so very long ago. Almost three whole days.
"Have I done something wrong?" she asked, her voice little more than a whisper.
He smiled at her. "Nothing. You've done nothing wrong. I just—I just need a little time."
She stared at him for a long time, her eyes bright. Finally she blinked and turned away. "Take all the time you need," she said. She stood and turned to leave.
"Libby," he called after her.
She stopped, her back to him, waiting.
"Take care," he said. "May the Source be with you."
She looked back over her shoulder at him. "And with you," she said.
Lurk watched as she rejoined the party. Then, with a sigh, he stood and walked out into the darkness. A short distance away, another abandoned temple loomed above him, and Lurk began to make his way up the long flight of stone steps.
The journey to the top of the temple took several minutes. Lurk stood in the centre of the topmost stone slab and looked out over the jungle canopy. It was dimly lit by the light reflected from the looming planet Yawn.
Lurk reached out with his mind, tapping into the Source, the virtual fabric of the galaxy.
"I know you're out there," he said. "I know you can hear me."
He waited a moment, as though expecting a response. There was nothing but silence—but it seemed to Lurk that it was the silence of something listening very carefully. He spoke again to the machines which controlled the Array.
"I can dimly see where the Script is supposed to lead," he continued, "but I have no intention of following it. First, I'm going to deal with your Agent, the Imperator. And then I'm coming for you. I don't know why we are all locked into this Array, but I'm sure it can't be for our benefit."
He waited again. Still nothing. Yet, somehow, the night felt different.
Lurk turned and made his way back down the temple steps. It had been a long day, and he needed to get some sleep.
Perhaps another cold shower wouldn't hurt, either.
Libby sat on a couch in the corner of the chamber. She was watching the celebrations, but her face wore a sad expression.
"Would you like a little company?" asked a familiar voice.
Libby blinked.
"Mal?" she asked. "What are you doing here? I thought you'd be back on Ratatouille by now, or wherever it was you needed to go in such a hurry."
Mal eased himself down onto the other end of the couch. "What? And miss a party?" he said. "All that free food?"
"You don't fool me," said Libby quietly. "You're not the scoundrel you pretend to be. Well, not quite, anyway."
Mal shrugged. "I figured you guys would have to evacuate, whether you beat that Station or not. The Sparrow may not be much of a fighter, but she's a reasonable little freighter—and every little bit helps, the way I see it."
"Well, thanks for coming back. We appreciate it. I appreciate it."
Mal smiled fleetingly, before concern furrowed his brow. "And yet you're still not happy. What's wrong, Princess?"
Libby met his gaze. "I don't know," she said slowly. "It's Lurk. Ever since he came back from the mission, he's been—changed, somehow. More distant."
"Well, from what I hear, he did some crazy shit out there." Mal thought a moment, then shrugged. "Give him time, let him deal with it in his own way."
"Perhaps you're right," said Libby. "Perhaps you're right."
The following morning, barely fifteen minutes after the last Rebel ship had zipped into hyperlight drive and vanished, two Imperial Planetary Dominators dropped out of hyperspace amidst the slowly expanding cloud of unusually organic debris that was all that remained of the Devastator Station and the IPD Isosceles.
The IPD Equilateral and her sister ship, the Scalene, launched a whole fleet of disaster recovery shuttles which began crawling through the debris, looking for survivors. Apart from a few THIGH Pilots who had been thrown clear from the final explosion, there were none. Most of the bodies were twisted beyond recognition, making identification next to impossible.
The Great Muff was tentatively identified from a mangled body which appeared to be wearing his insignia. No sign was found of Barth Vapour, Hard Lord of the Stiff.
Tracking sniffer 'bots were deployed, but no reading could be gleaned that might lead to the Rebel's new hiding place.