Tales From The Empire

by Peter Schweighofer

  fact.

  But evidently the universe had spared him . . . most of him . .

  . for a while. He couldn't drag Tinian into the furtive existence he

  meant to lead now. Woyiq and his Gotal accomplice promised to sponsor

  him straight to the Rebellion as soon as Il Avali calmed down. The

  Rebellion needed his talents. They might be able to fix him up, too

  .

  . . somewhat.

  In the meantime, he had decided it had to be kinder to let Tinian think

  him dead. She'd leave Druckenwell. Witty and capable, she'd make a

  new life.

  He would never love anyone else, though. "Good-bye, Tinian," he

  murmured toward the wall. "May the Force be with you."

  Customs bustled, quadruple anything Tinian had ever seen--but they

  passed, just as Cheever predicted. Tinian followed him up a stale

  passageway into the transport's fourth-class hold. They found seats

  close to Yccakic's.

  Redd rode in the cargo hold, guarding the doctored instruments.

  Tinian slumped down, glad this hold had no viewport.

  No last glimpse of Druckenwell would linger in her memory.

  Alone in the galaxy except for two virtual strangers and an armload of

  illicit electronics, she'd find some way to help bring down the New

  Order. Every time she hurt Palpatine's Empire just a little bit, she'd

  dedicate that small victory to the memory of Daye Azur-Jamin and the

  life they could have had.

  Force be with you, love. Leaning back, Tinian squeezed tears out of

  her eyes and braced for takeoff.

  The Final Exit

  by Patricia A. Jackson A Planet of interminable extremes, Najiba

  existed in a state of perpetual spring, delineating seasons in terms of

  electrical disruptions and torrential rainstorms.

  Ross stared into the maturing squall, intrigued by the erratic veins of

  lightning which arced across the obscure, night skies.

  Sheltered beneath his YI-1300 light freighter, the Kierra, the

  Corellian searched the turbulent atmosphere above the open flight pad,

  following several amorphous shapes that loomed above the heavy cloud

  cover.

  Clipped with military precision, soft spikes of blond hair glistened

  with the rain as miniature drops accumulated in the longer length above

  his ears. Yawning, the smuggler leaned against one of the support

  struts. His sleepy, blue eyes stared from the shadows, regarding

  several natives who were huddled beneath the storm eaves of Reuther's

  Wetdock.

  "1947" Pressing the comlink against his cheek, Ross responded, "194."

  Alluring, a feminine voice replied, "What's the deal, Ross? We've been

  sitting here for over an hour."

  "Are you bored, darling?" he teased, grinning handsomely in the dim

  light.

  "Do you want an honest answer or just my opinion?

  Come on, flyboy," she pleaded, "let's get moving."

  "Don't get your circuits in a bunch." Affectionately he brushed a hand

  over the lower turret, wondering in what section of the onboard systems

  she was hiding. Fondly named after his ship, the feisty droid

  intelligence had a tendency to focus on the optical sensors, possessed

  by an unusually feminine curiosity.

  "Ol'val, Ross," a voice greeted from nearby.

  Despite the familiarity of the Old Corellian dialect, Ross tensed,

  casually thumbing the restraint from his blaster. Propping the heavy

  pistol against the holster, he stared into the closest shadows and

  focused on the stooped silhouette. "Reuther?"

  The aging Najib bartender stepped into the rain, humbled beneath the

  onslaught of cold drops. Sheltered below the Kierra, he straightened,

  staring into the young Corellian's face.

  Vivacious with old-world charm, his eyes were discerning and

  perceptive, contemplating Ross from head to toe.

  Meeting the smuggler's mischievous eyes, a proud smile played across

  his lips. "I see where you made the billboards in Mos Eisley last

  week. The Imperials are offering 5,000 credits for your head."

  "Is that all?"

  "Indeed," the old man chuckled. "Not nearly enough for a rogue with

  your credentials." Billowed red sleeves ballooned from Reuther's frail

  shoulders and arms, clashing with an oversized native tunic.

  Dampened by the rain, thinning gray hair was tightly braided against

  his freckled scalp. "It's good to see you, boy," Reuther whispered.

  Uncorking an intricately carved bottle, he poured a generous portion

  into a crystal goblet and handed it to the smuggler.

  "Corellian whisky?" Ross questioned, sniffing the bitter aroma.

  "What's the occasion?"

  "Growing old," Reuther croaked, nervously glancing over his shoulder,

  "and to having the strength to face tomorrow."

  Suspicious, Ross followed the bartender's anxious eyes.

  "Quiet night, Reuther?" he asked, cautiously moving a hand to his

  blaster.

  Sadly, the old man shook his head. "This is a desolate place when the

  Children of Najiba come home."

  Familiar with the Children of Najiba, Ross scanned the night skies,

  well acquainted with the peculiar asteroid belt that had mysteriously

  claimed an orbit around the small planet. As ominous as the shattered

  rock moving above their heads, Ross discerned the somber tone of

  Reuther's voice. "Your message said it was urgent."

  Muffled by the warm bodies crowded at the narrow blast door, a

  strangled scream suddenly erupted from the bar. The despondent cry

  fluctuated, a cacophony of sobs, which peaked above the violence of the

  storm.

  "Just watch, my boy," Reuther cautioned. "I brought you here for a

  reason."

  The crowd broke ranks, scattering away from the bulkhead frame. A

  Najib man, wearing the clumsy beige uniform of a port control steward,

  staggered from the bar, collapsing in the street. Cradled in his arms,

  he carried the slender, motionless body of a Twi'lek woman. Her pale,

  blue skin glistened with rain, faultless and smooth

  despite the cruelty of the shadows. With the delicate poise of a dancer, elegant

  arms swayed above her head, exaggerating the gentle arch of her neck

  and shoulders. Scantily clad in a faded tunic, her frail form

  convulsed in the steward's arms.

  "That's Lathaam," Reuther began, "our port official, and that," he

  hesitated, "that used to be his woman, runa."

  Ross shrugged the tension from his chest and shoulders, massaging a

  pinched nerve in his neck. "What happened?"

  "Adalric Brandl happened," he replied evenly. "He blew in about 10

  hours ago, demanding a ship with a pilot who could shoot as well as

  fly." Sighing, he added, "Well, you know the rule, Ross. When the

  Children of Najiba are home, no traffic on or off the planet. Lathaam,

  being the choob-head he is, made the mistake of informing Brandl of

  that fact." The anxious Najib rubbed the narrow ridge between his

  eyes. "Lathaam always did lack diplomacy skills."

  "So Brandl killed the girl?"

  "I ain't saying what he did." From the safety of the shadows, Reuther

  watched the lurid scene. Dubious, he averted his eyes, throwing his

  hands up wit
h exasperation.

  "Truth is, Ross, Brandl never touched her. Never laid a hand on her,"

  he puffed, "yet there she lies, dead. And there ain't nobody on the

  planet, not even you, who can tell me Brandl didn't do it."

  "You've been living with the natives too long."

  "I know what you're thinking, boy," Reuther scoffed.

  "Remember, I was once a bounty hunter, too. Brandl never pulled a

  blaster. Doesn't even have one." The bartender cleared his throat

  noisily, spitting into the wind.

  "His kind don't need blasters to kill." Shuddering visibly, he

  mumbled, "He's a 10-96 if I ever saw one."

  "A 10-967" Ross whispered.

  "If you don't know, you better look it up," Reuther snorted.

  "Your life may depend on it."

  Ignoring the patriarchal cynicism, Ross crossed his arms over his

  chest. "Where do I fit into all of this?"

  "Brandl wants a pilot who can handle himself. I told him I knew a

  dozen or more suicide jocks who would come through the asteroids just

  to make an easy 1,000 credits . . . then I told him about you."

  "Come on, Reuther," Ross snorted musically. "One man comes along and

  has the whole town running scared? Whatever happened to your

  militia?"

  "Is that what it's called?" Reuther scoffed. Staring at the backs of

  the prying mob, he spat, "Farmers! All of them! Eager to bite every

  stranger, but afraid of stepping on their own tails. Look at them!"

  He stared into the small assembly gathered around the body.

  "It's easy to look into another man's misery and do nothing."

  Grumbling among themselves, the crowd abruptly retreated into the

  street as a shadow moved from the back of the bar. Eclipsing the dim

  light radiating from the bulkhead, the stranger faltered in the

  doorway. "That'll be him," Reuther whispered. "I'll pay you 2,000

  credits on top of whatever he offers you. Just get him off the

  planet!" Stepping back into the rain, he hesitated.

  "There's a bad noise about this one, Ross. Watch yourself."

  Captivated by the peculiar events surrounding this outsider, Ross

  cautiously observed the reaction of the locals as Brandl swept past

  them, drawing the shadows in his wake. Struck by the unusual beauty of

  the stranger's face, the smuggler found it difficult to believe that

  such a man was capable of violence. Handsome, almost cavalier by

  appearance, Brandl's nose and chin were chiseled with stony nobility,

  polished by a quiet arrogance that aroused the smuggler's suspicions.

  Faded laugh lines framed a narrow mouth and thin lips.

  Thick, dark waves of hair glistened with rain, interspersed with

  strands of white, which ran from his temples to the nape of his neck.

  As foreboding as the shadows of Brandl's face, the robe draped from his

  shoulders seemed

  to absorb the darkness about them, concealing any

  weapons and his hands from view. "Captain Thaddeus Ross?"

  Wincing with mention of his first name, Ross brushed his duster aside,

  revealing his blaster and his hand poised over the heel.

  "Adalric Brandl?" he replied curtly.

  Cordial, a genteel smile played across Brandl's pale lips, drawing a

  sharp angle over his prominent cheekbones.

  "I'll be brief, Captain. I need transport to the Trulalis system."

  "Trulalis? You could catch the local skipper for half of what I'm

  likely to charge. Private transports don't come cheap."

  "Integrity comes without price, Captain Ross. The bar owner assured me

  that you were a man of integrity."

  Squaring his shoulders, Brandl probed the smuggler's calculating

  eyes.

  "I'm offering 5,000 credits for transport to Trulalis, where you will

  accompany me to the Kovit Settlement."

  "I don't leave port for less than 6,000," Ross countered, narrowing his

  eyes. "If you want company, it'll cost you extra: 1,500 credits."

  "Agreed," Brandl whispered. Graceful, his long fingers retrieved a

  sealed credit chit. "Three thousand now and the rest on completion of

  my business."

  Eyeing the sealed chit, Ross gushed, "Right this way."

  The smuggler extended his arm toward the freighter's lowered ramp.

  "Kierra, prepare to raise ship."

  "Well it's about time!" she hissed. "I thought my docking struts were

  going to take root here."

  Ross cast a final glance to the bar, saluting Reuther and the others

  who were watching from the sanctuary of the shadows.

  Confidently pocketing the credit chit, he flashed a reassuring smile

  and jogged up the ramp. Initializing the hatch seal, he moved along

  the familiar corridor toward the flight compartment. The Corellian

  grinned impishly, listening to Kierra's vindictive voice, as she

  engaged their peculiar passenger.

  "Who the hell are you?" she demanded. "Never mind where I am.

  I'm where I belong, but you--" "Kierra," Ross whispered, "meet our new

  client."

  Seething with the brunt of Brandl's initial arrogance, Kierra

  vehemently blustered, "Halle metes chun, petchuM" "Koccic sulng!" Ross

  scolded, shocked by the scathing Old Corellian insult.

  Pleasantly, Brandl returned his thanks for the rude statement and

  offered a challenge. "Onna fulle guth."

  Before the droid intelligence could recoup for the invitation, Ross

  glared into one of her optical lenses. "That's enough!" he fired at

  her. "Open the power coupling and charge the main booster," he

  ordered. "Now, Kierra!"

  Discharge static hissed over the internal comm, similar to the

  indignant gnashing of teeth. "Affirmative, boss," she replied.

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Ross leaned against the interior hull

  wall, listening for the ignition of the ion engines. Focused on

  Brandl's insidious eyes, he whispered, "There aren't too many people

  who remember the Old Corellian dialect."

  "In the course of my career, I've had to speak many languages."

  Cautiously, Brandl added, "I was . . .

  am . . . an actor."

  "I don't usually transport passengers," Ross confessed.

  Stepping through the low bulkhead, he activated the interior corridor

  lamps. "You're welcome to use my quarters."

  Brandl's gaze swept the length of the modest passenger cabin.

  Hesitant to enter, he paused in the bulkhead frame. "How long until we

  reach Trulalis?"

  "An hour?" Ross shrugged dubiously. "I'll notify you when we

  arrive."

  "Thank you, Captain, your hospitality is appreciated."

  "Yeah, I bet it is," the Corellian mumbled under his breath. As the

  hatch automatically sealed behind him, he retraced his steps to the

  flight compartment. "Kierra, set the astrogation system for

  Trulalis."

  "Check."

  Sitting down in the acceleration chair, Ross quickly glanced over the

  flight console. "Okay, darling, bring up the emergency auto-pilot

  program we installed this morning."

  "Not today, Ross," Kierra pouted. "I have a headache."

  Observing his reaction from several optical lenses, she dampened his

  fury, whining, "You forgot to cut the restraint servos, flyboy. So

  don't blame me for the glitch."
/>   A hushed snicker translated across the internal comm.

  "By the way, where'd you dig up the spook? He gives me the chills,

  Thadd."

  "I told you not to call me that!" Ross hissed. Glaring into an optic

  sensor, he roughly booted the throttle, causing the freighter to

  shudder and slide on the pad.

  "Gently, gently," Kierra cooed. Vexed by his dark mood, she added, "I

  hate it when you get this way. Your manners--" "Never mind my

  manners!" Curbing his temper, he flipped a series of flight

  switches.

  The freighter shifted beneath him, resisting the planet's gravity as it

  rose from the external dock. "You just think about minding your

  manners," he scolded. Checking the data readouts for the latest

  asteroid activity, the Corellian grumbled, "Brandl's paying 8,000 creds

  for this trip, that's almost half a load of spice. You could at least

  try to humor him."