The facade was maintained with military precision: between 1900 and 2100 hours, ninety percent of the lights were turned on in random sequence, at three minute intervals; between 2100 and 2200 hours, the drapes were drawn; of a day, the sound of children's voices vaulted the high walls, and, of a night, the deliveries arrived. Above the durasteel gates sat a sign, woven in blackened metal:

The Eris Latombe Orphanage of Nashal

The orphanage was empty.


####


It was bedtime, and Manni was missing again. The search party had grown; they were four-strong now, with the addition of Bramble, a thigh-high 6-year-old from Drall. She trailed at the back of the group, clinging to Jinn's sleeve, wide-eyed and floofy, fresh from her bed. Ireen led the way in pink slippers, flanked by Derik, a Nikto boy who walked like he was smuggling watermelons under his arms. They had checked under ever bed and inside every trunk, they investigated the toy chest and the boy's bathroom, and were on their way, at last, to the girl's bathroom, where, Ireen suspected, they would find the mischievous little Devaronian. The door hissed open, unfurling a column of light across the hospital ward. Derik flushed, and retreated from the threshold, as if the tiled floor would burn his feet. Instead, he elected to stand guard outside, rigid like a statue.

Just as she was about to step inside, Ireen noticed something moving in the gloom, a great mass rose, taking the shape of a hulking ghost, fashioned out of bedsheets. It moaned and it howled as it closed in; Derek gasped and Bramble shrieked, attaching herself to Ireen's leg. Jinn, on the other hand, was not so easily scared: stomping forth, she socked a fist deep inside the mountain of sheets, and it crumbled.

"You idiots!" she said, to the slowly shifting mound, "You scared Bramble half to death!"

From beneath the bedsheets appeared a dazed Devaronian and a rather bedraggled Wookiee. Unclamping herself from Ireen's leg, Bramble sucked in a shocked breath, "Lewie!"

"Braccaloo, I am surprised at you." Ireen chased away her amusement, and put on her best disappointed voice; the lanky Wookiee wilted a few inches. He muffled an apology to Bramble, and rubbed at his belly, sore, no doubt, from Jinn's swift justice.

"Aw, don't be hard on him, Miss! It was all my idea!" There was something about Manni's protestations that suggested he cared more about his share of the credit than Braccaloo's share of the blame. Braccaloo, too, sensed he was being short-changed, and growled an objection. Manni was having none of it, "No way! I'm the brains of this outfit. You're just the muscle, Bra!"

"That's enough. Both of you to bed, now. We'll... talk about this in the morning."

Faltering though it was, the edge in Ireen's voice cut through the dispute, silencing the boys, who gathered up their sheets and trudged off to bed. Bramble climbed into bed with Jinn, resembling a real-life teddy bear when snuggled up to her Twi'lek bedfellow. Jinn told her the story of the Ewok Princess while Derik escorted Ireen to the exit, because he insisted.

"Miss," he began, tentatively, "When will Sualee be back?"

"When she's better, Derik. Sualee is very ill right now."

"She will get better, right?"

"I'm sure she will, Derik. In time."

"But-"

"Okay, I'm safely at the door now!" Ireen declared with agonising brightness, "Thank you, Derik, for being such a brave escort."

"Bodyguard, Miss. I'm your bodyguard."

"You totally are. Now, off to bed."

Derik beamed and scuttled off, "Goodnight, Miss!"

"Goodnight."

Ireen slipped through the door and watched as the maglocks clamped into place. One. Two. Three. On a panel beside the door, she prodded a six-digit key code, and waited for the lights on the locks to turn from green to red. Satisfied, she proceded down the long white corridor with the Imperial officer who had been waiting for her. They walked in silence, footsteps ringing into the distance, where the walls appeared to shrink before them. She hated the place: the lighting was stale, there was a tang of metal in the air, and she hadn't seen the sun in weeks.

A technician fell into step alongside them and she started to change. First to go were the fluffy slippers, replaced by a pair of flat white pumps; the dressing gown fell away to reveal a set of clean blue scrubs, which she draped in a long white coat; next came the hairnet, name badge, mask and gloves. When she was handed a clipboard, she left both the officer and the technician without a word, and passed through two pairs of guarded doors.

The theatre was large and round, like the colliseums of old, except, where there once might have been tiered terraces of roaring spectators, there were high walls and darkened windows. And, in the centre, in place of a gladiator there was a child. A Rodian child, lying face-down on an operating table; her green scaly skin shimmered like jade in the spotlight. She was accompanied by a robust medical droid.

"Is the subject prepped?" said Ireen.

"Affirmative. Subject Three is sedated and ready for the procedure, ma'am."

"Good." Her voice was not her own, strangled as it was by the mask. Every breath was an effort, pounding like hammer blows in her ears: haww-paah haww-paah. She stared hard at the monitors until they came into focus.

"Ma'am, before we continue, I must remind you that - based on my calculations - Subject Three has a 16.2% chance of survival."

Ireen looked up over the monitors at the Rodian girl, and the spiked pipes glistening dangerously above, and up again, at the darkened windows, and the shapes that moved behind them. She sucked in another breath: haww-paah.

"Do it."