Tales From the New Republic

by Peter Schweighofer

  quality of your sleep. That way your injuries don't interfere with your normal

  sleep pattern. Which means you are less likely to have vivid dreams."

  "Oh. Okay."

  "And listen," Platt said, "it's not a big ship. If you need anything at

  all, press the green button on the side of the bed. Yeah, that one.

  "Okay, Tru'eb and I are going to get a little shuteye- - is there

  anything else you two need?"

  "Leave the lights on," Jai said.

  After Tru'eb and Platt had gone, Harkness said, "What will you do when

  you get back?"

  "Are you kidding? I just inducted an entire planet into the New Republic.

  I've got lots of desk work to do."

  "Eh. Bag it. Make somebody else fill out the forms."

  "Yeah." Jai was quiet for a moment; then her voice seemed to slur. "Maybe

  when I get back I'll tell General Madine what he can do with this Intel

  assignment."

  "Maybe you should."

  "Maybe."

  Harkness felt the sedative seep into his limbs, warm and heavy. The room

  seemed to mist over, in the same blue-gray fog as the one that hung over the

  Valley of Umbra.

  "Sarge?"

  "Yeah?"

  "You ever think about becoming a mercenary?"

  "Sometimes," she said. Then her voice seemed to gather a little strength.

  "Yeah, I think that would be pretty nice."

  "You said you don't care much about fighting for the New Republic."

  "Why? You proposing something?"

  "Maybe."

  She seemed to drift off after that. Harkness felt the silence tugging at

  him, but it seemed to be easing him into a warm darkness, not a bottomless

  well.

  Then the humming noise came back.

  Harkness started; he felt a surge of dismay. But then he settled back and

  closed his eyes. It hadn't been a song, or anything to do with Chessa. The

  humming was the sound of the engines on Platt's ship.

  ***

  Hutt and Seek

  by Chris Cassidy and Tish Pahl

  with Special Thanks to Timothy Zahn

  Fenig Nabon searched the skies for the ship she knew was un its final

  approach. But, from her vantage at a grimy window, all she saw was Ryloth's

  tortured landscape, empty and desolate, stretching into darkness.

  She shifted from one foot to the other. The movement betrayed her

  uneasiness and stirred choking dust in the stifling heat of the port control

  room. As the veteran of seedy spaceports too numerous to be counted, the

  Corellian smuggler knew she should be entirely in her element. Instead, the

  whole deal about to go down left Fen with a queasy stomach and three not so

  minor questions. Why was she here when she could have been making a simple

  raava run between Socorro and Corus - cant? Why was her beloved ship, the Star

  Lady, docked systems away on Nal Hutta? And when, in over twenty years of

  traversing the stars, had she irrevocably and irretrievably lost her mind?

  There was one answer to all these questions-Ghitsa Dogder, her current

  partner of circumstance. Feeling another bead of moisture weave its tortuous

  way between her well-worn flight suit and her sweat-soaked back, she wished

  for the millionth time that she had followed her first instinct two years ago

  and just blasted the little con artist right out of her wildly impractical

  high heeled shoes. It would have truly been an act of galactic altruism on par

  with the destruction of both Death Stars.

  Squinting, Fen finally spied a speck of fast-moving light. It

  materialized into the midsized, heavily armed freighter she and Ghitsa had

  hired for passage to Nal Hutta. The ship arrowed up and disappeared overhead

  to cruise above the cliffs housing the Twi'lek clan warrens of Leb'Reen.

  Always the victims of pirates and plunderers, the reclusive Twi'leks

  never made even the legitimate landings easy. For the Leb'Reen approach, a

  pilot had to fly down a narrow rift carved into the plateau to emerge into the

  landing cavern five hundred meters below. Harsh gouges made by disrespectful

  pilots marred the unforgiving rock walls. Fen doubted the Mistryl piloting the

  inbound ship would make the same mistakes.

  Mistryl. These enigmatic women warriors would do desperate things for

  their impoverished people. And in a universe of uncertainty, getting on the

  wrong side of a Mistryl was a sure way to meet a really certain, and

  completely lethal, end.

  "It would be a pity if they damaged the ship," said a cultured

  Coruscantan voice.

  Fen didn't bother to look down at her diminutive partner. "They won't.

  Shada D'ukal's a good pilot."

  "High praise from you. Fen."

  "Simple fact. I didn't say she was a great pilot."

  "Or as good as you think you are?" Ghitsa taunted softly.

  Fen was too tense to argue with her. "I told you before, conning a Hutt

  is a bad idea; using Mistryl to do it is a really bad idea."

  "Such uncharacteristic understatement for a Corellian." Ghitsa sighed,

  smoothing back a tendril of spiky blond hair that dared to be out of place.

  "We have been over this. Mistryl possess a peculiar, tarnished nobility. And..

  ." she screwed her perfectly applied face in concentration, "they are likely

  to identify with the seeming predicament of our cargo. We could not count on

  anyone else to be as predictable."

  "They also carry heavy weapons, know how to use them, and don't need a

  blaster to do permanent damage to a body."

  "A Hutt is a big mark in a blaster sight, and a very small one in a con,"

  Ghitsa replied evenly.

  They turned from the window as the hum of repulsor lifts echoed in the

  landing cavern behind them. With a whoosh, the ship burst through the gaping

  hole in the roof of the Leb'Reen landing bay. Fen studied its descent intently

  with a professional's eye. Watch out far-wind shear, she cautioned the pilot

  mentally, as the ship bounced to a final, unsteady stop.

  Her partner's crisp words interrupted Fen's musing. "I will finish the

  details with the Shak Clan." Straightening the shoulder pads of her tailored

  ensemble, Ghitsa took Fen's own tattered flight suit and ragged, nut brown

  hair pulled into a sloppy braid. "Must you always look as if a rancor dressed

  you?"

  Fen slapped her head in mock horror. "And I ever so wanted to squeeze in

  an appointment with your designer."

  Ghitsa rolled her eyes with amused disgust and, as always, got in the

  last pointed barb. "You are as hopeless as a Mistryl's cause." Pivoting on a

  sharp, stylish heel, she walked away.

  Fen positioned herself precisely so that the ramp of the ship extended to

  rest at her big toe. From the bottom, she studied the two Mistryl at the

  hatch. Tall and not so tall, dark and light, mature and young, they bore vibro

  - blades, blasters, and the easy confidence of those accustomed to using them.

  "Shada, you're lucky you didn't lose your rear deflector when that wind

  shear caught you," Fen said, in her equivalent of "Welcome to Ryloth."

  "It's nice to see you, too, Fenig," the older of the Mis tryl returned,

  calm and unruffled. "I'm sorry to hear the Star Lady is still dry-docked.

  We'll try to make you as comfortab
le as possible on The Fury.

  Fen scowled. Shada knew nothing pained a pilot more than playing

  passenger on someone else's ship. "You know me, Shada. I'll be comfortable

  anywhere."

  Shada moved down the ramp to stand next to Fen. Fen made a point of

  ignoring the younger Mistryl who followed. To Shada, she muttered, "New

  sidekick, I see."

  "Dune T'racen," the younger woman identified herself. "And we of the

  Mistryl don't refer to subordinates as sidekicks."

  "My mistake," Fen replied, her voice flat. Dune bore her Mistryl heritage

  proudly, but not yet with Shada's smooth competence. Possibly a novice, she

  speculated. "My partner's over there," Fen continued, with a tilt of her head.

  "Hammering out the final details with the Shak Clan representative."

  Across the Leb'Reen landing cavern, they saw Ghitsa in an earnest, close

  exchange with an immense, cloaked Twi'lek. Abruptly, Ghitsa spun about and

  trotted away, swallowed quickly in the darkness of the spaceport. With a flick

  of his head tails, the Twi'lek stalked after her.

  "Where's the cargo?" Shada asked.

  "And how much ryll are we talking about?" Dune added.

  "Ryll?" Fen scoffed. "Who said anything about ryll?"

  A frown creased Dune's delicate face. "Given the cost of your Ryloth

  cargo, we assumed you were moving ryll kor for bacta use."

  Fen barked crudely, "Saltan valoramosa n telval mard."

  "What's that supposed-his" A subtle hand signal from Shada, and Dune

  swallowed the rest of her question unasked.

  "It's old Corellian," Shada said, measuring Fen with a cool gaze. "It

  means "assumption is the first step into a shallow grave." his

  "Very good, Shada," Fen responded, trying to sound casual or even a

  little sneering, no small feat under that gaze. "But I would have expected

  better language skills in your younger meres."

  "We're not mercenaries," Dune uttered with the firmness of one who still

  believes what she has been told.

  Heels tapping a staccato rhythm on the stone floor interrupted them.

  Ghitsa emerged from the gloom of the landing bay; one by one, five Twi'lek

  females followed her. Subdued, head tails limp, each shouldering a heavy pack,

  the Twi'leks padded forward, as if links in a chain, one after another.

  "You're shipping Twi'lek females?" Shada moved closer, her sheer physical

  presence crowding Fen back a step. "To Nal Hutta?" she added, her voice

  chilling still further.

  "I have a contract, executed by your leadership, that guarantees our

  passage to the Hutt homeworld," Fen said, again striving for offhanded

  casualness. She drew her datapad from her pocket, careful to keep her

  movements slow and nonthreatening.

  "Ladies, is there a problem?" Ghitsa asked pleasantly.

  Shada ignored her. "You know we won't run slaves," she said icily, her

  eyes still on Fen. She threw a quick glare at the approaching Twi'leks, who

  took the cue and stopped.

  Ghitsa held out her hand; Fen wordlessly slapped the datapad into her

  palm. "It's Shada D'ukal, isn't it? Pursuant to our agreement, the Mistryl are

  bound to provide passage from Leb'Reen to Nal Hutta for myself, my colleague,

  and our cargo." Her intricately wrought bracelets clattered against the

  display. "Fee of twenty thousand, nonrefundable deposit of five thousand,

  contract void if done in aid of the former Empire..."

  "The Mistryl won't deliver anyone into slavery," Dune bit out.

  Ghitsa spared Dune a slitted, reptilian glance before returning her

  attention to Shada. "Of course you wouldn't slave. Slavery is illegal under

  New Republic Senate Resolution 54.325." She deftly manipulated the pad again.

  "This is my contract with Brin'shak, the Twi'lek talent agent. He is providing

  the services of a Twi'lek dancing troupe to Durga the Hutt. Durga will pay

  these dancers."

  Shada shifted her measuring gaze to Ghitsa. Not that the diminutive con

  artist would require that much measuring. "Sure he will," the Mistryl said,

  her tone clearly indicating how much she believed that.

  Ghitsa proffered the datapad. "And pay them very well. Datapage eight,

  paragraph twelve."

  Shada took the pad and reviewed the contract entry. Not satisfied, she

  scrolled through the document from beginning to end. Dune, in a tribute to her

  training, remained watchfully silent.

  The seconds seemed to be dragging on toward forever before Shada finally

  looked up again. "According to this, eighty percent of the dancers' pay

  reverts back to the Shak Clan," she pointed out.

  "The Twi'lek method of compensation is not your concern, Shada," Ghitsa

  said loftily. "And if you back out now, you'll forfeit the deposit, lose the

  contract, and pay a ten thousand penalty."

  Fen winced inside herself. That was the right lever for moving

  impoverished Mistryl, all right. And Ghitsa had done her usual expert job of

  pulling it.

  Shada didn't react, at least not visibly. Her younger partner, though,

  wasn't nearly so good. "Shada, we can't be party to this," Dune urged quietly.

  "Not in good conscience."

  "Conscience?" Ghitsa asked blandly.

  Fen couldn't let that one pass unremarked. "Do you need to look up the

  word, Ghitsa?"

  Ghitsa waved a gilded hand. "No, Fen. I have a passing familiarity with

  the costly phenomenon known as conscience. Still, if this conversation is

  going to drift into ethics, I might point out that our hirelings should not be

  trying to renegotiate an agreement their leadership executed."

  "The contract appears to be both legitimate and legal." Shada shoved the

  pad back to Ghitsa. "But of course we all know what appearances are worth. So

  I'm going to go talk to Brin'shak and your alleged dancers. If they show any

  indication of coercion, the deal's off. Period."

  Shada gave Ghitsa a smile that didn't make it anywhere near her eyes. "I

  suppose I could also threaten to report your activities to every law

  enforcement agency you've ever heard of, plus a few you haven't. But I won't

  bother. I'll just mention that you'll be in trouble with us. Serious trouble."

  She looked at each of them in turn, as if daring them to protest. "And if

  the whole thing is legitimate, you'll pay thirty-two thousand, not twenty,"

  she added. "Or you can back out right now, we leave, and the contract is void.

  Your choice."

  "No problem," Ghitsa said airily, waving toward the Twi'leks still

  waiting off to the side. "Satisfy yourvs as much as necessary. We have nothing

  to hide."

  Sure we do, Fen thought grimly. Sure we do.

  "Did you really have to say that the Twi'leks could just rattle around in

  the cargo hold since they are trained to endure physical pain?" Fen grumbled,

  strapping herself in for the ride to come. Her partner had quickly moved to

  Phase Two of their plan and was determined to make the now-committed Mistryl

  rue the day they contracted with Ghitsa and Fen.

  "I did see the wisdom of seat restraints," Ghitsa conceded, struggling to

  squeeze her shoulder pads into a passenger seat of The Fury's main cabin.

  "None of them have been off-planet before. We don't want them pani
cking and

  injuring themselves."

  "Of course not," Fen said. "Incidentally, the next time you feel an urge

  to spout off about how an injured dancer depreciates in value, either don't do

  it when Dune's hand is anywhere near a hold-out blaster, or wait until I'm not

  around. Okay?"

  "Given what we have heard of their unarmed combat skills, a blaster would

  make little difference to a motivated Mistryl," Ghitsa pointed out.

  Fen swallowed her retort, preferring to savor instead the familiar thrill

  of a ship lifting. She felt every pitch and roll as The Fury fought the

  Ileb'Reen cavern wind shear, only to emerge into the blistering wind and

  driving sand of Ryloth's brutal lower atmosphere. Fen counted down the minutes

  of that wild ride in anxious anticipation.

  The moment the ship surged into hyperspace, Fen slipped free other seat

  harness. She rose from her seat with a grace borne of thousands of hours

  logged in flight while Ghitsa was still fumbling with the clasps of her

  restraints. Eyes darting to the winding passage leading forward, Ghitsa

  whispered, "You go check on the Twi'leks."