Gen Tri, Marinda, and Vigilch followed Zorii’s stare—and what they saw seemed underwhelming at first, until they heard Fontis’s bellow at the sight of the young man stumbling into Gully’s crowded entryway.
“Well, if it isn’t the best damn pilot on Yavin Four, Mr. Poe Dameron himself!”
New Republic Security Bureau officer Sela Trune walked briskly toward the main entranceway of the Yavin 4 Civilian Defense Force headquarters. She was not happy. All eyes were on her. She was certain word of her team’s arrival had trickled down to the locals, and she didn’t care. Now wasn’t a time for municipal politics. It was a time for action.
“Can I help you?” the officer manning the front terminal asked, genuinely curious. Trune was used to this reaction. She was a few days over twenty-two and had risen up the NRSB ranks quickly, often finding herself in charge of people ten or more years her senior. She got over it fast. Others not so much.
“Officer Trune, NRSB,” she said briskly. Trune savored how the officer’s expression went from blank to anxious in less than a second. “I’m here to get debriefed on the spice runner situation.”
“Spice runner…situation?”
“Did I stutter?” Trune said. “What’s your name?”
The officer blanched, her already white skin going paler.
“Reservist Chant Osman, sir,” she said, trying to rattle off the basic words but still stumbling over them. “My apologies.”
“None needed, Reservist,” Trune said, leaning over the desk, her palms on the faded wood. “Not if you can help me, that is. I’ve got a team of officers waiting outside, and we need to get to work immediately on something that concerns New Republic security. Doesn’t that seem important to you?”
Osman nodded, eager to please.
“Wonderful,” Trune said. “Now, who’s in charge? And when can I speak to them?”
Lieutenant Davim Ak sipped his Sauweceran tea slowly, letting the warm liquid calm his fraught nerves. He couldn’t delay this much longer, but how he longed for his own home, the windows sealed, and complete darkness. Running Yavin 4’s Civilian Defense Force was enough on a normal day, but today was—what had Shara used to call it?—a “redball” kind of day. One thing after another. Each one bigger than the last.
“Almost over,” he muttered to himself as the door to his office opened and a tall, confident figure strode in. He’d heard of the rising star that was Sela Trune, of course. The human woman’s reputation preceded her. The New Republic Security Bureau handled the cases that bubbled under the surface—crime, bounty hunters, spice runners, and their ilk. The corruption that always threatened to weaken the greater good. The cracks that might turn into giant fissures and pull the nascent Republic down into the canyon that had consumed the previous one, leaving a monstrous, savage Empire in its place. Ak knew the drill. It was bad news that Trune was on Yavin 4. Even worse that she was hunting spice runners.
He’d heard the stories—about the young Trune’s background and her swift climb to the upper echelons of the NRSB. Ak also knew Trune had made it her personal vendetta to shut down any and all spice runners, whether they be an overt threat to the New Republic or not. Ak also knew that the NRSB’s tactics were not without flaws, and not pristine. Yes, Ak had gleaned much knowledge during his years presiding over Yavin 4’s Defense Force, and all of it had helped him retain his role—despite the efforts of more powerful people to replace him.
He turned and greeted Trune with a knowing smile, which shook the usually stoic officer’s demeanor for a moment.
“Sela Trune, what a pleasure,” Ak said, bowing his head slightly. “Welcome to Yavin Four. I see you’ve brought an impressive coterie of troops with you.”
“My team is here, yes,” Trune said, no sign of worry or confusion in her tone. She’d recovered fast and was taking the offensive. “I don’t appreciate having to wait this long to see you. It was made clear by our advance communications team that this was of great importance.”
Ak nodded. She was right, of course. The team’s intent had been communicated directly. But Ak didn’t exactly feel like making things easy. He was tired. The day had been long—first the hubbub with Shara’s hotheaded son and now this. Spice runners on Yavin 4. Ak almost rolled his eyes. He was a few years from retirement, and part of the reason he’d clung so desperately to his post was his feeling that it would provide him with a smooth, mostly easy path toward his true goal in life: to settle down on a distant, tropical Outer Rim planet, away from the exceedingly neurotic and bureaucratic tentacles of the New Republic and safe from the fringe elements, like the smugglers and bounty hunters who cropped up everywhere, and live out the rest of his days in peace. A cold drink in his hand. The warm sun of a strange system hitting his face. It would be nice. Someday.
“Lieutenant?” Trune said, frustrated by Ak’s slow response. “I’m here to get—”
“Oh, I know why you’re here, Officer,” Ak said, taking the seat behind his desk and leaning back. “As you’ve noted repeatedly, your intent was announced well in advance of your boots hitting the surface of our lovely Yavin moon. I get it. You’re in a hurry. Aren’t we all?”
Trune stiffened. This was not what she’d hoped for. A glimmer of joy jolted through Ak. He loved to make an upstart like Trune squirm.
But this game could only be played for so long, he realized. While it was fun to needle the higher-ups, at a certain point it became an actual offense, and Ak wasn’t in the mood to have any datawork make its way to her personnel file. He tapped a finger on the desk and began to speak.
“We have received numerous reports of suspicious activity on Yavin Four—a group of at least four individuals docking at the main port who match descriptions of persons wanted in connection to the Spice Runners of Kijimi,” Ak said, and waited for a response.
Trune’s expression was enough. A look of desire—not lust, but a wanting, nonetheless—spread over her face. Trune was unable to hide it, and she didn’t seem particularly inclined to. Ak knew the why of this, too.
The Spice Runners were a secretive, upstart organization that had managed to piece together an impressive—if still feisty and small—alliance of thieves, murderers, and scoundrels to capitalize on the chaos that had sprung from the collapse of the Empire, which had left the lucrative spice trade coming out of Kessel in a state of complete disarray. Without Imperial oversight, the battle for spice was a violent struggle among various factions, leaving busy processing terminals inoperational. That opened the door for the Spice Runners of Kijimi, with their pirate vessels focused on striking any spice-loaded ships trying to move their product into the rest of the galaxy. The Spice Runners of Kijimi were definitely of particular interest to the New Republic. Like many other gangs and crews, the Spice Runners were working their own, new relationships with the mine operators, choosing business over mindless violence in an effort to assert themselves as a power in the realm of running spice. Unlike other criminal syndicates, though, the Spice Runners confederacy was growing fast—and building a reputation for being cunning and relentless in their quest. But Ak knew that as far as Sela Trune was concerned, the Spice Runners of Kijimi were more than just a criminal target. For her it was personal.
“Kijimi,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “Do we have names? Last locations?”
“Yes, it’s all in the file,” Ak said, producing a small datapad and sliding it over to Trune, who grabbed it hungrily. “I believe the Klatooinian, Vigilch, is in charge here. Quite a nasty character, that one.”
“What’s your intel say?” Trune asked. “Where could they be hiding out?”
“Our agents have sighted them not far from their ship,” Ak said, drawing out his words, relishing the moment a bit more than he probably should have. “There are a number of unsavory locales where people of their ilk can set up shop and go undetected, but with your overly qualified team, I’m sure it won’t be long before—”
The door opened. It was another Security Bure
au officer, one of Trune’s men. Youthful, excited, and desperate to talk.
“Apologies for the interruption,” the officer said as Trune turned around, the displeasure on her face looming large.
“What is it?” Trune snapped.
“We…we have a problem—” the officer started.
Trune cut him off. “What is it? Spit it out.”
“Reports from the dock,” the officer said. “They’ve found a body.”
“I’m in trouble,” Poe said, sliding into a seat at the bar. “Big trouble.”
Fontis waved a hand at Poe dismissively.
“You keep playing this game, Poe, but you know the score,” the barkeep said. “You’re a sprout. I don’t serve sprouts.”
Poe slammed a hand on the bar—more a joke than a show of anger.
“C’mon, Fontis, cut me a break,” Poe said. “I’ve had a rough day.”
“Looks like it, kid. And, hey, I will be happy to take your scraps of money in a few years,” Fontis said with a devious smile. “I’m quite fond of allowing people to drown their sorrows, as you well know. But I also need to avoid having my place shut down because an unruly teenager wants to get a buzz going, you see? It’s just not worth the cost of a drink, assuming you have any credits in those rumpled pants.”
Poe smiled. He wasn’t sure he considered Fontis a friend, but he enjoyed the Devaronian’s dry humor and shadowy demeanor. Gully’s felt like a doorway to another world to Poe, a sign of what was out there, beyond the Yavin system. A galaxy of scoundrels and double crosses and space travel that seemed within Poe’s reach.
“Can I at least stick around?” Poe asked. “Too hot for me to go home just yet.”
“What else is new?” Fontis said, pouring Poe a glass of Jawa juice. “Here you go. The worst this’ll do is make you want to dance, which I think is worth risking my license.”
Poe thanked the barkeep, tossing a few credits onto the counter before turning around to scan the bar. It was another loud, unruly night at Gully’s, and Poe wouldn’t have had it any other way. He didn’t want to dwell on what’d happened earlier. He’d pore over his conversations with his father and L’ulo later, probably after another argument with Kes Dameron, on his way to another sleepless night in his room on the farm. Another night resigned to his exile, dreaming of the expanse above Yavin 4 and the secrets and adventures it held.
The tavern was loud, the music—a festive Laki Lembeng number—boomed through the place, making it feel like the entire venue was swaying softly. Most of the customers seemed oblivious, enraptured by their own table-centric squabbles or well on their way to obliterating their memories of the night. Poe found himself jealous of that option. He’d love to go back a bit and just wipe the day clean, start over. As much as his father angered him, he loved the man and really wanted there to be some kind of understanding between them. Why couldn’t his father just let him go? Let him find his own path? Poe was young. Adventure was in his blood. How could his father—who’d married a Rebellion pilot and been a Pathfinder during the war himself—expect any less? But time had a way of hardening men, of making them more set in their ways and frightened of the possibilities of life. Even as a young man, Poe saw this in his father, in L’ulo, and in many people he came across on humid, dark nights like this—when Poe would come to Gully’s and spend his time flirting and dancing and laughing, the one pure escape he had that didn’t involve a ship and a course that would get him out of the Yavin system for a long time.
He saw her out of the corner of his eye—a lithe figure swaying to the music, which was now playing a Calamari waterballad. She was about Poe’s age, he guessed, her long, wavy brown hair and sharp features giving her an almost feline quality, like a patient predator able to perch on a tree for days, waiting for its prey to finally make a move. Her young friend—or comrade—was a Twi’lek. Poe had seen them often near the port, a species used to space travel and the business of the Outer Rim. She seemed less confident in her movements but was clearly enjoying the chance to blow off some steam. They made for an alluring pair, and Poe was mesmerized.
“Who is that?” Poe asked, more of himself than of anyone in particular.
Fontis sidled up across from the bar, his eyes also on the pair.
“Never seen them before,” Fontis said. “Which means only one thing.”
“What’s that?” Poe asked.
“Trouble.”
A rush of bravery coursed through Poe as the song ended and a pulsing, newer, fast tune began to filter through the tavern. The two dancers seemed hesitant, so entranced by their slithering movements that they were unwilling to change their pace. Poe watched them both carefully, his attention locked on the human woman—her smile confident and knowing, her eyes seeming much older than her years. Next thing he knew, he was in front of her. He hadn’t put much thought into what he’d say, but by the time that dawned on him, a few seconds had passed—and she was looking at him with a quizzical expression.
“Hey,” Poe said with a slight jerk of his chin. “Seems like you two were having fun out here.”
The young woman arched an eyebrow before responding.
“We were,” she said, emphasizing the last word. “But now you’re here.”
“Well, don’t stop having fun on my account,” Poe said with a shrug. “Just thought I’d say hello.”
“You’ve done that,” she continued, her voice confident and distant. “Mr….?”
“Poe. I’m Poe Dameron,” he said, extending his hand. She took it briefly. “I’m a local.”
She nodded, a slight smile on her face. Her Twi’lek friend had wandered back to their table, where she joined two others who were looking on, watching Poe banter with their friend. Their expressions were a mix of worry, anger, and…fear?
“A townie. How quaint,” she said. “I’m Zorii Wynn.”
Poe bowed quickly.
“A pleasure to meet you, Zorii,” he said. “Welcome to our tiny fringe moon. I’d be happy to show you and your friends around, if you’re staying long.”
“We’re not,” Zorii said, shaking her head. “In fact, we’re in the process of figuring out how to…continue our journey.”
Journey? Poe thought. They had a ship. They were going somewhere. His mind buzzed with possibility. Surely he was jumping ahead of himself, but he let it happen. The idea of stepping onto a ship and leaving all this behind had never been stronger in him. He realized he had no desire to reenter the repetitive loop of his life. The arguments. The escapes. The eventual returns home. The resentment. It was time to go, whether it was on this ship or the next one.
“So, tell me, Poe Dameron of Yavin Four,” she said, bringing him back to the present. “Why should I care who you are?”
“Because I’m going to be the best pilot the galaxy’s ever seen,” Poe said. “Bank on it.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Zorii said with a shrug. “So what?”
“I can fly anything,” Poe said, his tone growing defensive. “Trust me.”
Zorii’s smile melted into a curious, intrigued expression—like a reptile squinting its eyes.
“Anything?”
The temperature seemed to drop around Poe as he took a seat at the table with Zorii’s group, her hand on his shoulder.
“This is Poe Dameron,” she said after she’d introduced her comrades to him. “And he is a pilot.”
“A pilot? He’s just a boy,” the Klatooinian Zorii had identified as Vigilch said with a grunt. “A pilot of what? A landspeeder?”
The group laughed—the Twi’lek Poe now knew as Marinda Gan heartily, the Pau’an named Gen Tri softly. Zorii remained quiet, her hand still on Poe’s shoulder.
“I don’t see you rattling off any options that might help us get off Yavin Four,” Zorii said. “Unless I missed that while I was recruiting our ticket out of here?”
They want me to fly their ship, Poe realized. He swallowed hard. Was he ready for that? He’d soon find out.
&
nbsp; Gen Tri turned to look at Poe more closely, their dark eyes probing Poe in a way that made him shiver with discomfort. It wasn’t their appearance—Poe had seen every type of species cruise through the Yavin 4 ports. It was something else. They made him uneasy in a way he’d not yet figured out.
“We do need a pilot,” Gen Tri said, their voice hollow-sounding and whispery. “But are you ready to do what’s needed?”
“If you need a pilot, I’m your man,” Poe said, not missing a beat. “Point me to your ship and I’ll get you where you need to go.”
Marinda Gan laughed dryly.
“That’s all well and good, Poe Dameron, but do you want to go where we’re going?” she asked. “That’s the big question.”
“Well, I mean, I can just drop the coordinates and plot a course. It’s not that compli—”
Zorii’s hand gripped Poe’s shoulder.
“It’s not getting there that’s the problem, Poe,” she said. “It’s what we’re doing. We’re not traders or members of the mining consortium. Our travels are a bit more…adventurous.”
Poe waited a beat before responding.
“Adventure’s what I’m after,” Poe said, the words reaching his mouth fully formed, as if coming directly from his heart instead of his brain. “I’m not afraid of that. I’m done with Yavin Four.”
Zorii’s grip loosened, and she took the empty seat to Poe’s right. Their eyes met.
“I’m not going to dance around what we are,” Zorii said. “Because you seem smart, and even if you do get scared and tell anyone, we’ll be gone before it can mean anything.”
Poe nodded. Vigilch raised a hand, as if to try to stop Zorii from continuing. She ignored him.
“We’re smugglers,” she said flatly. “And our pilot is dead. If you can get us off this moon, you will begin a life of adventure and uncertainty unlike anything you’ve imagined. This place will be a blurry memory before too long.”
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