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."
"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."
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