“It’s not that they don’t deserve to die,” Winshur continued, “if justice demanded it. But the First Order is merciful and believes in giving people, even undeserving criminals, a chance at reform through hard labor.”
“Is that what this is?”
Winshur frowned. “What else would it be? Now, enough questions.” He motioned for the datapad.
Monti placed the device in his open palm. Winshur entered his password and pressed his thumb to the pad. Immediately the screen revealed the list. Winshur read it carefully, trying to match names with faces. He paused over a familiar name and scanned the prisoners. There she was. An auburn-haired woman in a dull-gray jumpsuit. She looked hollowed out, empty, her brown skin pale from lack of sunlight and her eyes cast toward the ground. He was sure the woman was Hevasi Joy, that singer who had openly opposed the First Order on the entertainment newsfeeds, condemning them for the destruction of Hosnian Prime and calling for people to join the Resistance. Well, it was a pity to see her come to this, but Winshur had always preferred the singer Gaya to Hevasi, anyway. He tapped the screen, bringing up a list of job assignments he had entered earlier. He matched Hevasi Joy with sanitation and moved to the next prisoner.
This one was a hairless male from some species he didn’t recognize, but the list said he was a former attaché who had been offplanet when Hosnian Prime was destroyed and had tried to hide from the First Order. Apparently unsuccessfully. He went to sanitation, too.
The next was a tall muscular woman who strained at the binders that held her. Obviously a new capture, and physically dangerous. Winshur felt his insides shrink just looking at her. He assigned her to sea animal control. The last person who’d held the job was recently deceased, bitten in half by a pulsar skate. It had been the talk among the cadets for days, most afraid that they would be assigned to the opening. Winshur could only hope a similar fate befell the physically imposing woman.
And, ah, what was this? Another name he recognized, and his pulse couldn’t help but quicken at the idea of seeing someone so famous. This prisoner was special, notorious even. A former senator fallen from grace, indicted, tried, and found guilty of plotting the assassination of a fellow senator. How delicious. Although Winshur had thought the man was long dead. If he recalled correctly from the newsfeeds, the man had been put to death for his crimes. But here he was, standing in front of him.
“Ransolm Casterfo?” he said and realized he had whispered it for some reason. He cleared his throat and spoke again, this time with authority. “Ransolm Casterfo?”
“Prisoner 876549C,” a voice cut in smoothly.
Winshur turned to see a First Order officer, his uniform an impeccable teal, standing on his other side, opposite Monti Calay. Ah, this must be the reform officer that he was told would oversee the employment placements. The officer didn’t look at Winshur, instead keeping his gaze on the prisoner, but Winshur could feel the censure rolling off his body. He cringed, and then straightened. It wouldn’t do to look weak.
“Of course,” Winshur said. “I was…only curious.”
“It’s not your job to be curious,” the officer said, and now he cut his eyes to Winshur. They were the ice blue of a polar cap and just as cold and distant. The man’s mouth turned down. “I assume you have an appropriate assignment for Prisoner 876549C?”
Winshur did indeed.
“Sewage pipe fitter in the shipyard, sir,” Winshur offered. “Filthy work. With a high accident rate. Pipes have been known to slip and allow those crawl spaces to fill with lethal gas. According to employment records, we’ve lost a dozen people that way since the yards were recommissioned by the First Order.”
The officer, who still hadn’t told Winshur his name, narrowed his eyes. “Is that right?” he murmured.
“I did check the records.”
The man turned back to Ransolm. No, it was Prisoner 876549C, Winshur corrected himself.
“Very well,” the officer said. He pressed a gloved hand briefly against Winshur’s shoulder. Heat radiated down Winshur’s arm, like the lick of an open flame. “See that the rest of them are so aptly assigned. I have business elsewhere but I’ll come back to ensure you’ve completed your task to satisfaction.” His eyes bore into the records officer. “The First Order is counting on you.”
Something roiled nervously in Winshur’s gut, and he felt sweat gathering on the back of his neck.
The officer must have seen him sweating because he made a noise, somewhere between amusement and disgust, then turned on his heel and was gone. Winshur waited until the sound of his boots against the cold floor had faded to exhale. When he did, he looked up briefly.
Prisoner 876549C was staring directly at him.
* * *
—
“Is there something wrong?” Yama asked.
Winshur looked up blurry-eyed from behind his desk. Yesterday, he hadn’t left his office until 0400, intent on making sure that the prisoners were all assigned and accounted for. He had made the trudge home just as the sun was rising and only had time to shower, change into a fresh uniform, and down a nutrition drink before turning around and making the trudge back. He was tired but determined to be ready when that mysterious blue-eyed reform officer paid him a visit today. The man would find Winshur’s report impeccable, his handling of the matter unassailable, and if Winshur himself looked a bit fatigued, well, that just went to prove how hard he worked and how seriously he took the matter. Although he wasn’t sure he appreciated his insolent assistant pointing it out.
“What makes you say that?”
“You just seem…upset.”
“I seem—?” He ground his teeth, working his jaw in frustration. No, it wouldn’t do to show such weakness, especially to the likes of Yama. He must command the respect due him, and looking weak or, as Yama accused, upset would undermine that. “I’m perfectly fine, Yama. Why don’t you worry about whether you’ve completed the indexing tasks I assigned to you yesterday? Perhaps I need to assign you something more difficult, since you clearly don’t have enough work if you’re worried that I’m upset.” He said that last word with a contemptuous sneer.
Yama’s eyes widened. “No way,” she protested.
“ ‘No way’?” he asked, mimicking her voice. “Is that the vocabulary of a First Order cadet?”
“No w—” She cut herself off. “I mean, no, sir. And you look great. Sir.”
Winshur sniffed, only slightly placated. The truth was he was very upset, but he was sure he had done everything within his power to correct any perceived mismanagement on his part. He would just have to do something else to impress. He wasn’t sure what that was, but he’d figure it out, and before that First Order officer came around to check on him. He was so deep in thought that it took him a moment to realize Yama was still talking to him.
“What is it?” he snapped, irritated.
“Your appointment, sir. With Hasadar Shu.”
In the excitement of the clandestine prisoner assignment, Winshur had forgotten all about Hasadar Shu. Meeting the man had been a bit of a fluke, really. He had sat next to the local politician and businessman at an informational session on a new park being built in the government district, and they’d struck up an awkward but ultimately useful conversation. The man was the owner of a metal parts business that had been trying to make inroads with the First Order in the hope of landing one of the lucrative First Order contracts in the shipyards. Winshur might have mentioned that he worked for the Corellian Engineering Corporation and had sway with the First Order. He might have exaggerated. He had meant only to impress the man and never have to see him again, but somehow the man had gotten on his calendar.
“Who made that appointment?”
“I did,” Yama confessed. “He said he knew you,” she explained, sounding apologetic. “That you were old friends from Bela Vistal and that you had asked him
to contact you.”
Well, that last part was true enough, but he had never expected the man to take him up on it. Winshur pulled up short. “He knew my hometown?”
“And your mother’s name. Should I have not taken the appointment?”
“He knew my mother?” What were the chances? And now Winshur wondered if the transmission he had received from his mother yesterday was simply a coincidence, or something more. A warning? He snorted. No, that was paranoia talking, an aftereffect of his meeting with that First Order officer. It was much more likely the man had realized they were distantly related and was trying to use that to curry favor with him. But Winshur was sure he hadn’t mentioned where he was from, and certainly he would never have told the man who his mother was. It was strange.
Winshur shook his head. He didn’t have time for this. That First Order officer could be arriving at any minute.
“Tell him I’ll have to cancel. Something’s come up.”
“But he’s here, sir.”
Winshur frowned. “Here?”
Yama stepped aside so Winshur had a clear view of the open foyer outside his office. Sure enough, there was a man there in the typical dress of a wealthy Corellian. He wore white pants and a matching knee-length overcoat, both in what looked to be expensive linen. His shoulder-length black hair was slicked back from a wide handsome face with prominent brows and cheekbones. His skin was a few shades darker than Winshur’s, and he crinkled dark eyes as he talked to the yellow-haired man standing next to him in a teal First Order uniform. Winshur gasped. The glacial-eyed reform officer from yesterday.
His mouth went dry and he swallowed noisily, trying not to panic. He jumped to his feet, almost knocking his datapad from the desk. He righted it and wiped a hand down the front of his trousers to straighten any rogue wrinkles. He hurried over to the hook where he had hung his jacket and slipped it on, trying to keep his skyrocketing anxiety at bay. He thought about putting his hat on but decided against it. They were indoors and it might seem like he was trying too hard. He walked quickly over to the two men, passing Monti Calay who was seated at his small assistant’s desk to the left of the door.
“Gentlemen,” Winshur said, and winced as his voice cracked, his volume a little too loud for the small space. The First Order officer looked over, his face slightly annoyed. Winshur realized immediately he should have greeted a superior officer by his title, but of course, the man had never told Winshur his title, making it impossible. All Winshur knew was that he wore the teal uniform of a superior. The businessman’s sharp eyes glanced between the two, and Winshur knew Hasadar Shu had picked up on the tension immediately. That’s why he hated businessmen like Shu. Too shrewd for their own good.
“Bratt,” the officer said. “You didn’t tell me that you knew Hasadar Shu.”
“Well, uh, yes. We are acquainted.”
“Old friends, wouldn’t you say?” Hasadar mused, a strange grin on his face.
Winshur felt overwarm. He knew he was missing something here, some crucial bit of information about Shu that he should have known. But he was afraid to ask, worried that no matter what he said it would be wrong and he would look stupid in front of his superior officer. How had he stumbled into this situation when he was usually so good at controlling the people and places around him? He glanced about, frantic, and caught Yama’s expression as she turned away. She was smirking.
He gaped and then quickly snapped his mouth shut. Was she laughing at his misfortune, or had she engineered this debacle somehow? She had admitted that she’d put Hasadar Shu on his calendar. Had she somehow convinced the blue-eyed officer to show up, too? He pushed down the flash of rage. Paranoia, again. She was a silly girl, barely capable of serving in an office. She couldn’t have…
“Bratt? Are you all right?” Hasadar asked. Winshur turned back to the conversation. Both men were looking at him, concerned.
“Of course. Just…” He shook his head, made himself focus.
“Shall we go to lunch, gentlemen?” the businessman continued. “And while we’re there, perhaps I can tell you about the latest innovations Shu Industries has made in microwelding. It’s very exciting.”
Winshur was sure it was the opposite of exciting, but there was no graceful way to bow out of the luncheon now. The two men seemed to close in around him, and Winshur was swept out of his office without a chance at a backward glance.
MONTI CALAY SAT AT the bar at the Dead Aeronaut, his favorite cantina in Coronet City, profusely sweating. The lunch crowd was sparse, a few regulars bellied up to the bar sipping on watered-down gadje. Monti had ordered an ale, but he was much too nervous to drink it. Or maybe he should drink it to calm his nerves. He didn’t know. He felt like there were a lot of things he didn’t know. Like, had he done the right thing? His hands flexed involuntarily around the leather satchel he held against his chest. He could almost feel the datapad he had stuffed in the front pocket before he had rushed out of Winshur Bratt’s office. Almost feel Yama’s shrewd eyes on him as he made excuses about going out to lunch. But he trusted she wouldn’t care enough about his weird behavior to look into it any further. More than trust, he was betting his life on it.
Something large and heavy crashed loudly behind the bar, and Monti almost jumped out of his skin. He looked around frantically, expecting stormtroopers to be surging through the door, ready to arrest him, but all he saw was Smokey, the old bartender, stooping to pick up a bucket that had held the blue ice that he’d emptied into the drinks display moments before.
“Breathe, Monti,” he whispered to himself, and decided to take that drink of ale after all. He swallowed the deep-golden beverage, alcoholic calm radiating through his body, and he immediately felt better. When he sat the ale down, he’d drained half the glass.
“How is it?” a voice to his right asked.
He startled, almost dropping the leather satchel. He clutched it closer to compensate. “Beg your pardon?”
“The ale. Is it good?” The human asking was of medium height and build, their head shaved to skin on the side facing Monti, revealing a tattoo of a white circle on their scalp that looked vaguely serpentine. Their brown hair was long and full on the opposite side, and trailed down to their shoulder. Their features were somewhat sharp, almost vulpine, set in freckled light-brown skin, and they wore thick white liner around their green eyes. Monti recognized the makeup as a way to avoid the cams the First Order employed. He noticed a white scarf coiled around their neck, big enough to pull up over mouth and nose, another facial recognition blocker. Gray pants tucked into boots, a gray jacket, and white gloves completed the ensemble. Monti frowned. This person looked like a criminal.
But then he remembered why he was here and hoped to the all-knowing that at least they were a competent criminal.
“The ale is good,” he said beneath a cough. “How’s the weather in Doaba Guerfel?” It was the pass phrase they had agreed on, but it felt weird and contrived coming from his mouth.
“Ah,” the stranger said, sliding onto the stool next to him, “fair and fairer, I hear. Clouds are clearing and a disinfecting light is expected to spread.”
Monti pressed his lips together. It wasn’t the exact phrase his contact had suggested—a bit too flowery—but it was close enough.
“What brings you to the Dead Aeronaut today?” Monti asked cautiously.
The stranger smiled. Their teeth were very white. “Lunch.”
Monti wasn’t sure how to react. He’d never done anything like this before and felt out of his depth. Should he continue the subterfuge, or should he get right to the point? He decided spycraft was not his strength.
“I have something for you,” he said, thrusting the satchel forward.
The stranger didn’t take it. Instead they lifted a disapproving eyebrow and kept it raised until Monti, flushed with embarrassment, pulled the bag back against his chest.
“Have lunch, my friend,” the stranger said. “It’s a noticeable thing for a First Order man to be at the bar at lunchtime, is it not? And then for him not to order lunch?”
And to be talking to someone that looks like you, Monti thought. The stranger was right. He was terribly conspicuous.
“What will you order?” they asked.
“I-I…”
The stranger motioned toward the menu, a flimsy data sheet that scrolled the daily specials. Monti read it and picked a meal at random.
“Salted squid,” the stranger said. “A delicious choice. I’ll have the same.” They gestured to Smokey, who hobbled over to take their order. Once he was gone, Monti leaned close to whisper.
“I don’t have much time,” he explained. “I’ll need to be back before my boss.”
“You’ll have time,” they assured him. “Hasadar will make certain of it.”
Monti blinked. The politician in Winshur’s office. “Is he…? I mean, does he know?”
“Not exactly,” they said. “His wife is a good friend to the Collective, a benefactor if you will. He knows to delay the First Order men as long as possible without arousing suspicion.”
The Collective. Monti knew them. Well, he didn’t know, know them, but he’d heard of them. They were an underground organization of engineers, technicians, and scientists bent on stopping the spread of authoritarianism in all its forms via the use of technology. Some people said they worked hand in hand with the Resistance. Others said they were completely independent and hated the Resistance as much as they did the First Order and wanted only to spread chaos throughout the galaxy. Either way, they were known to be dangerous and untrustworthy, tricksters and thieves, a public menace.
“I thought I was dealing with a solo operator,” Monti said, feeling more than a little scared. He took another look at that tattoo on the person’s head. He recognized it now as the white-horned serpent. A water species known to symbolize a capricious or mercurial nature, and the symbol of the Collective. What had he stumbled into?
Resistance Reborn (Star Wars) Page 14