[Black Fleet Crisis] - 02(45)

Luke glanced out his window at the display on the refueling droid.

“It’s been nineteen years—you may not know her even if she’s still here. “

“I would know Nori no matter how many years have passed,” Akanah said fervently. “Wialu said we had the bond of twins. I’ve never been closer to anyone.”

The refueling over, Luke started the repulsorlifts.

“Well, let’s go find out how close we are. North Five, Number Twenty-six? “

“Yes.”

“I think I can find that.”

From city center to city edge, Akanah’s anticipation built until it bubbled over in nervous smiles and a restless bouncing in her seat.

But when the bubbleback turned onto North 5, her face went pale, and her hand shot out and clutched Luke’s wrist tightly. A strangled noise was all that escaped her parted lips.

Luke did not need an explanation—his eyes saw the same thing hers did.

The double row of lowhouses along North 5 ended at Number 22. Where Number 24 should have been was an expanse of patchy grass. Beyond it, the grass gave way to several lots’ worth of bare, yellowish dirt. The next even-numbered lowhouse was at the corner of the next intersection, Number 38.

“Well, HI—there’s no ‘there’ there,” Luke said, peering over his shoulder as he brought the bubbleback to the curb in front of Number 38.

Popping the bubble, Akanah jumped out before the landspeeder came to a stop. She ran back down the street in a staggered gait, hugging her arms to her chest, her gaze darting from one side of the roadway to the other.

Her steps slowed as she neared the lot opposite Number 25. She looked frantic and frail standing there, staring at the bare ground and the broken outline of a foundation.

Leaping out of the landspeeder, Luke hurried after Akanah. Before he could reach her, her legs buckled under her, and she dropped to her knees in the dust-dry rain gutter.

“No!” she screamed, her anguish stretching the single syllable into a wounded howl. “No! It’s not fair!”

“Akanah—” She raised her head and turned her face toward him.

Her eyes were full of pain, her cheeks streaked with tears. “I’ll never find them,” she whispered hoarsely.

“What am I going to do, Luke?”

“You’re going to keep looking. All this means is that Nori’s not here,” Luke said, crouching beside her. “You weren’t counting on that, were you?” But he saw in her eyes that she had been, and what might have been a minor disappointment was a bitter blow.

“Something the matter, folks?” a new voice said from behind.

Both Luke and Akanah turned their heads quickly to see a stubble-faced middle-aged man in blue-black tech coverails approaching them from the direction of Number 27. Luke stood as the man neared, and offered Akanah a hand to help her up. She remained on her knees and took Luke’s hand to steady herself instead.

“Is the lady having a problem?” the man asked again, a hint more suspicion in his appraising look. “Do you want to call out to Medi-Aid?”

“No—she’s all right. She just had an ugly surprise, that’s all,” Luke said. “We’re looking for someone who used to live in Number Twenty-six.”

“Ah,” the man said with a nod. “Po Reggis—Jiki and I live over in Twenty-seven Up. So you didn’t know, did you? You must be visitors.”

He glanced down the street. “Why, sure you are, and I’m a fool for not see-ing—bubbleback’s not practical in a working city.”

“Was it the war?” Akanah asked, her voice shaky.

“The war? No, Teyr was never bombed. Cyclone,” Reggis said.

“Eight—no, nine years ago. Took out eight houses here, then skipped and hit another five over at the end of North Three. The committee used to talk about rebuilding, but there’s no demand—half the houses in the city are single-family now, Up and Down. It’s all the field droids they’ve brought in— -city’s slow-dying, if you ask me.”

Luke urged Akanah to her feet. “The people who lived here—” “Kritt and Fola. Good folks. Our kids played with their kids, till they all moved to ros Noth.”

“Kritt and Fola are in Turos Noth now?” Akanah asked, a spark of hope entering her voice.

The spark was quickly extinguished by Po Reggis.

“What? No, dead, the whole family. Sorry. Killed by the cyclone. It was the supper hour, and the weather radar failed. Fifteen dead on this street alone—I knew them all.”

Akanah sagged against Luke. “How long have you lived here?” Luke asked.

Reggis squinted. “Twenty-seven—no, twenty-eight years.”