The vaulted chamber she found Kyso’s workshop in clearly hadn’t been designed for the industrial work that was now going on. As with the rest of the complex, there were signs everywhere of former luxury, of aesthetic sensibility, peeking out from beneath the collected dirt and dust. It could have been a dance hall once, but now, its wide floor was dominated by rows and rows of packed shelving reaching upwards to the high ceiling.

Wandering through the stacks, she identified many of the components on the shelves, but most appeared worn, incomplete, and grades beneath what she needed. It was hard to resist the urge to touch the pieces as she passed them, feeling saddened by the whole display. The feelings weren’t likely hers, but she didn’t shunt them aside. Borrowed memories, experiences, were still – after all – human.

Coming from past the stacks, she could hear sounds: whirring, hammering, cursing.

“Damn you!” The muffled cry of frustration could only be Kyso’s. “Work, please work.”

Althea turned a corner, drew closer to his voice.

“Why aren’t you working?” he was demanding.

Her foot hit a loose shard, sent a piece of metal skittering into a stack. She froze. The sounds of work stopped.

“Trae?” he called out, sounding a little weary, a little suspicious. “What do you want now?”

“It’s not Traejan,” Althea moved into the open. “It’s me.”

Kyso was standing behind a table piled over with what looked like a small thruster’s internal components and various attendant tools. He was holding a large decoupler with both hands high up over his head. His fury softened as she watched.

“May I come in to your workshop?”

He lowered the tool, shrugged, then beckoned her to approach. She took a few more steps towards his untidy workspace.

“I’m not at my best, but you may as well. I shouldn’t be hiding this from you, eh?” His expression twisted into a smile.

“Why would you want to hide this from me?” she asked. He was fixing a thruster assembly. He might succeed. There were enough parts scattered on the table and shelves around him. She pointed to the large tool he was brandishing.

“You weren’t going to throw that at me, were you?”

Kyso shook his head.

“No, of course not,” he told her, placed the tool on the table in front of him. He gave her a slight bow.

“What can I do for you?”

“I just spoke with Traejan,” she told him, letting her tone imply confusion about the episode.

“I see,” he told her, his expression closed.

“He apologized for his behavior last night,” she continued. “He didn’t want to.”

She saw a change in his expression, an admission.

“You wanted him to.”

“You asked for our help,” he said, tone colored with regret and embarrassment

“We are Consortia,” he added, his hand gesture a clear inclusion of her. “We should offer it without question. Trae… You aren’t what he expected – what he hoped for.”

She looked down at the table, with a single finger traced a symbol in the dust, grit and shavings. She wasn’t what she’d hoped for either. The universe was cruel and harsh. She looked back up at the old Consortian.

“Who did he lose?”

Kyso sighed, looked away, then back.

“We’ve both lost a lot of friends,” he admitted.

“He lost more than that,” she challenged.

He eyed her critically her for a moment, came to a decision.

“He had a wife, Kaelin. She died… on that trip.”

“Oh.”

Her arrival had awakened fresher, deeper grief. She toyed with the idea of not asking for more information, to just be sympathetic and respectful – but if there were clues about this Macro’s behavior, something that Traejan had experienced directly, she needed to know what he’d seen, what he’d learned, and how he’d described the encounter. She also needed to know these men, who they were – what they were capable of.

So… she asked Kyso to continue, and found herself a place to sit that wasn’t too grimy.