Star Wars - A Bitter Winter

by Patricia A. Jackson

  Drake guided the mare to the corral fence and halted. Stiff and saddlesore, he kicked free of the stirrups and dismounted. With deliberate slowness, he gently swept his hands over the olai’s broad back, surveying the extent of damage covering her black hide. Severely bruised by the fall, the mare flinched beneath his touch, nickering polite criticism to her handler. Vividly made aware of his own sores, emotional and physical. Drake grinned and scratched her velvet-smooth muzzle.

  “Well, if it isn’t the Prince of Socorro himself,” a dim shadow whispered. “And one of the fallen crowns of Corellia.”

  Drake snorted, recognizing the familiar accent of another childhood hero. “Ol’val, Fahs.” he greeted, accepting the lssori’s steady handshake.

  Far from his aquatic homeworld, Issor, Fahs’ white-blond mane had grown dingy gray from time and ill-health. He wore it proudly in a ceremonial tailknot, hiding the pale, balding spot at the crown of his head. The cost of vanity exposed the smooth, rounded sides of his face, where evolution had removed primordial ears. Dressed in faded, beige pirate leggings, his skin and hair showed a lifetime ordeal spent in the vermilion clay base of Redcap. Deeply tanned and prominent with muscle, the Issori’s long, slender limbs accentuated his elongated frame, lending a visible strength to the seemingly fragile stature. In the shadows, Drake noticed a slight tremor in the lean, webbed fingers, evidence of too much time spent in the local cantina, rather than in useful pursuits.

  Fahs smiled generously — a genuine warmth spread through the measure of his wrinkled but charming face. “Still not a man, but living a man’s life. You look well for a common rogue, Drake Paulsen.”

  “That’s because I’m not so common,” the Socorran quipped. Inclining his head toward Toob, he whispered. “Do you have a place for us?”

  “Always.” Moving to the olai’s side, the Issori gently cradled Toob against him and slid the unconscious smuggler from the saddle and onto his shoulder. “There, there, old man,” he whispered against the Corellian’s incoherent muttering.

  Drake followed him to the lodge door, hesitating in the narrow frame. Acclimated to the darkness, he scanned the familiar interior, where he had spent numerous summers in the company of his father’s most trusted friends. Reluctant to go any farther, he retreated to the shadows outside and to the olai, who were in need of some attention.

  Nearly an hour passed before Fahs re-emerged from the lodge. “How long’s he been like this?”

  “Ever since we left Tatooine and before that I’m not sure.” Drake leaned against the fence post, resting his forehead on the rutted wood. “Jabba ordered Tait to dump him somewhere in the desert. Something about bad luck if Toob died in the palace.”

  Fahs laughed. “Jabba is as Jabba does; and no one ever accused him of being compassionate.”

  “Someone ought to teach that slug — ”

  “Someone ought to leave it alone,” Fahs scolded gently. “You’ve got much potential, Drake. Get a few more light years under your belt and in time, you may yet give the old worm his due.”

  “I could care less about Jabba. Right now, Toob’s my biggest problem. What’s going on. Kahs? What’s wrong with him?” Exasperated, Drake tossed a stone over the olai pens, into the brambles on the opposite side. “It’s like he’s slowly going insane.”

  “You might say that,” Fahs replied, gathering his thoughts.

  “You might say that,” Fahs replied, gathering his thoughts.

  “On my world, the poets call it melanncho, a sadness so far reaching that it drives men mad. Our cousin species, the Odenji, were nearly destroyed by it some centuries back.” The Issori shifted, glancing at the night sky. “When I began working on Corellia, the miners,” he sniffed with conceit, “who knew nothing of the arts, called it by another name … brekken vinthern.”

  “A broken … a bitter winter?” Drake translated.

  “It’s a bitter winter when a smuggler reaches the end of his days. That’s where the saying comes from. They call it that because few ever survive it.” Crossing his arms over his chest. Fahs yawned. “Back then, it was common to miners who worked the radiated core operations or smugglers who spent too much time working with contaminated engine parts.”

  “So what happens to him?”

  “Well, Drake,” Fahs pensively began, “men taken with it don’t usually die in their sleep. I once saw a pirate who had it suffer 40 or more stab wounds before dropping out of the fight.”

  “Who was he fighting?”

  “Himself. He thought the Empire had impregnated him with thousands of tiny transponder beacons. So he started cutting them out.”

  Drake swallowed with effort, struggling with the realization, “Isn’t there something … anything we can do?”

  “There is one thing.” Fahs pursed his thin lips and stared into the thick clay beneath his feet. A stern, distant expression enshrouded his face, which was no longer handsome, but rather sinister in the shadows. “He’s in the final stages of the disease. In the last few hours, he may not even know you. May turn on you in an bad way. He’ll relive the past, mistaking it for the present, and he may even mistake you for an old foe.”

  “And when it happens,” Drake probed. “What am I to do?”

  The Issori never hesitated. Leaning into Drake’s face, he replied, “Make certain it’s your finger on the trigger and not a stranger’s.” Fahs moved away, taking refuge in the shadows. “There’s only two kinds of sacrifice in this life: those one willingly offers and those meant to be suffered. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell the difference.”

  “How do you tell?”

  “We take care of our own, Drake. When the time comes, you’ll know.”

  Numb, Drake trembled, avoiding the Issori’s steady gaze. Staring out beyond the darkness of the olai pens, he watched a shadow move along the perimeter of the corral. The figure paused, watching them for a long moment before waving. “Who’s that?”

  “Lieutenant Noble Calder.” Fahs whispered. “He flies escort for the Aremin. They’re searching the area for smugglers.” Winking playfully, he snorted, “Do you thinks he’s found any?” The Issori pulled Drake close to him. massaging the boy’s taut shoulders. “Calder’s a good man for an Imperial, Drake. Don’t judge him by what you see.”

  “Eventide, Fahs,” a smooth voice greeted. “How goes the night?”

  “It goes well,” Fahs replied, accepting the Imperial’s hand and imparting a firm shake. “Lieutenant Calder, this is a dear friend of mine, Drake.”

  “Drake,” Calder welcomed, offering his hand in earnest friendship.

  Drake waited for his smuggler’s sense to erupt with suspicion and alarm. As his eyes registered the black flight suit, an unexpected wave of calm coursed through him, pacifying his pounding heart. “I’m really not such a bad guy,” he heard the Imperial chuckle. “It’s all in the uniform.”” Drake laughed, shaking hands with the officer. Oddly at ease, he smiled into the handsome face and the shock of white hair crowning it. Deeply inset blue eyes were separated by an unusually angular nose, offsetting the cruelty of an aristocratic countenance.

  Gently cuffing Drake’s shoulder, Calder teased. “What are you doing with this old scoundrel? You’re just a kid.”

  “He’s 17,” the Issori said curtly. “That’s a man in our world.”

  Straightening, Calder whispered, “Don’t smugglers believe in childhood, Fahs?”

  The reply was unexpectedly sharp. “One tends to grow up fast on this edge of the Empire.”

  “All depends on the choices you make.” Winking, he patted Drake on the head. “Good night.” He started back to the mountain road, retreating through the settlement gates and into the commons.

  Guardedly, Drake whispered. “Speaking of smugglers. Do you know a Saylor Marjan?”

  “Know the name,” Fahs replied. “Haven’t seen the man in over a decade or more. I met him on Arapia when Toob and I went to collect on a debt for a crimelord named Saadoon-Kauldi.”

  “
Saadoon-Kauldi,” Drake laughed skeptically.

  “You’d be surprised who we worked for back then, my young friend. Anyway, it just so happens that Marjan was the one who owed the money. Being friends, Toob let the fool talk him into running a load of spice through the Elrood sector to help him pay off the debt and maybe turn a profit.” Pursing his lips, Fahs grinned with the memory. “We made it. Got the money for Saadoon. But what we made as profit couldn’t pay enough to fix one, let alone five hull breeches we sustained.” The Issori shook his head wearily. “Marjan was a fool. But who was the bigger fool, Toob or him, I can’t honestly say.”

  “Toob mentioned him and something about a large spice shipment. That’s why he insisted on coming to Redcap.”

  “It’s the disease. Don’t worry yourself, Drake. Saylor and Toob were friends, long ago. They had a falling out almost 20 years ago and haven’t spoken to each other since.” Guiding Drake by the shoulders, Fahs led the exhausted Socorran to the lodge door. “I think you could use a sip of my soup, my old mother’s recipe,” he chuckled “Just right for a cold, damp day.”

  “Sounds good,” Drake replied sleepily. Quietly, they stepped inside the cabin and closed the door, barring it behind them.

  Drake awoke from a troubled slumber. The heat blasting from the hearth was stifling, almost alive with a tangible essence. Unable to breathe, the Socorran quickly donned his boots and fled the lodge, escaping into the swarthy night mists. Climbing the corral fence, he stared into the great mouth of Tyma Canyon, mesmerized by the intricate labyrinth of semi-underground ravines and hidden mountain passes, each highlighted by ivory marble shading and open, black voids, exposed beneath the dim light of the stars.

  The stillness of the night erupted with the distant shriek of a landspeeder engine, reverberating from the cliffs and projecting echoes farther down the mountain. As the vehicle approached. Drake jumped down from the fence, taking cover behind the water trough. He watched as the speeder’s head lamps pierced the darkness, lurching unsteadily from side to side as the craft swerved, narrowly missing the settlement gates before righting itself on the trail.

  The Rodian driver shrieked as a bottle of daranu slipped from his grasp and shattered against the steering bar. Desperate to save the last few drops, the Rodian braked sharply, nearly launching himself and his passengers from the vehicle. Beside him in the front canopy, a Sullustan hooted several seething curses as his forehead connected with the dash, leaving a noticeable dent in the storage compartment.

  From the back seat, two Human men howled with delight. “Don’t get the wind up your tail, Nio!” one of them bellowed in Basic. “Here,” he threw another bottle to the elated Rodian, “have another. There’s plenty where that came from!” Saylor Marjan swayed precariously before sitting back into his seat. Momentarily, he barked, “I can’t believe you brought a kid in on this thing, Toob. What were you thinking?“

  “You let me worry about the boy,” a hoarse voice replied. “I’d take him over any one of you jet juicers.” The smuggler gagged as a fit of coughing assailed him.

  “As long as he can fly escort in my Z-95,” Marjan recanted. “I’ll cut him in on a fair share.”

  “That’s all I ask,” Toob wheezed. “Now let’s get going.”

  Abruptly, the Rodian gunned the engine and the landspeeder veered, sideswiping the mountain wall and rattling its passengers. Marjan swore vehemently, batting the driver over the head with a meaty fist. Grumbling obscenities, he snatched the bottle from the Rodians trembling hands and shattered it over his scaly head. “Now do it right!” he snarled. Weaving, but steady, the landspeeder resumed its course, accelerating down the mountain road to the canyon trails below the rim.

  Frantic, Drake sprinted across the small compound, hurdling a workbench of abandoned engine parts. Sliding to a halt as Fahs emerged from the doorway, he sputtered. “Did you —”

  “I heard,” Fahs gushed, handing the Socorran his blaster, shirt, and coat.

  “How could he even get out of bed!” Drake asked, shrugging on his shirt.

  “It’s the nature of the disease,” Fahs replied, anxiously staring down the trail. “Up, down, totally unpredictable, particularly in the last stages.”

  “Where do you think they’re headed?”

  “The Laughing Bantha, probably.”

  Buckling his blaster around his waist. Drake stumbled toward the olai pens. “I’ll take Garish Ridge and head them off.”

  “Rains washed it out,” Fahs warned, leading one of the olai behind him. “It’s certain suicide, even on an olai.” As Drake settled into the saddle, the anxious Issori whispered, “Watch yourself.”

  Drake flashed a reassuring smile, charming the Issori’s fears and his own. “I’ll take care of him.” Activating the beacon light on the mare’s harness, he whistled encouragingly and spurred her onto the trail, galloping recklessly into the narrow mouth of the canyon passages beyond the settlement.

  “I know you will, boy,” Fahs sighed, exhausted. He watched the beacon light dim over the ridge trail. “I know you will.”

  Barely an hour out of the rim. Drake leaned over the mare’s neck and slapped the reins against her lathered shoulders. He could see the Laughing Bantha just below him and could hear the characteristic shriek of blaster bolts coming from that direction. He reined the mare off the trail and into the rocky slopes above the tavern. Disengaging the light apparatus, he slowly worked his way down the hazardous slope, desperately scanning the shadows and the arc of laser fire from each side of the establishment.

  On the left, he could make out the white-on-black armor of Imperial stormtroopers as blaster shots briefly illuminated the area behind the bar. Opposite them, he saw the smoldering remains of a Rodian and a Sullustan sprawled in the mud. The Sullustan was still alive, its arm badly wounded and dragging at his side as he crawled toward his companions, who were pinned down behind the landspeeder. A stray shot effectively ended his struggles.

  “You’re on your own this time, Marji!” a voice bellowed. “Ain’t up to me to fix this one!”

  Recognizing the harsh quality of Toob’s voice. Drake guided the mare in that direction. From his vantage point, he could see that the stormtroopers were preparing to charge the outnumbered, outgunned smugglers. Using suppressive fire to their advantage, they delayed the attack as another detachment of stormtroopers moved into position on the outer flank.

  Drake galloped out of the high ground, making a bold sprint across the field of fire as dozens of Imperial soldiers took aim. Lashing the mare beneath him. he dodged a frenzy of blaster salvos by spurring the temperamental olai up and over the disabled landspeeder. Fiercely checking her with the reins. Drake spun her about, balancing over her cumbersome neck as she reared. “Come on,Toob!” he shouted, momentarily making eye contact with Marjan.

  Pale with hysteria, Marjan screeched, “You can’t leave me, Toob!”

  Pulling himself up by the stirrup, Toob hissed. “Curse your luck, Marji!” Savagely, he struck the smuggler in the head with his boot, smearing red clay over his face.

  Drake clicked his tongue against his teeth. The olai responded strongly, rearing slightly before galloping away from the muddle of shouting voices and blaster fire. Protesting the extra bulk, the mare bucked with serious intentions of throwing her riders. Irritably bouncing her hindquarters every few strides, she threw her head and kicked up her heels, stumbling in the unstable clay. Drake snatched the reins, guiding her back onto the road. It was a desperate struggle as the mare fought back, unable to compensate for the shifting weight and the reckless flight down the mountain. Lengthening her stride, she obeyed, galloping down the steep canyon slope, twisting her ankles and knees with every step.

  Drake kept his heel at the mare’s side, insistently spurring her. Behind them, he could hear the fading sounds of pursuit. Every few strides, the noise of stormtroopers trapped up to their knees in clay would lessen. The Socorran grinned wryly, praising a night full of torrential rainstorms that h
ad precipitated and allowed their escape.

  Making one last effort to resist, the olai mare violently threw her head. The blow connected with Drake’s nose with the snap of bone. The Socorran fought to keep the mare’s head under control, effectively keeping her on her feet. Behind him, Toob shifted to the side, nearly staggering from the olai’s back as the mare hastily jumped an outcrop of rock. Squealing in terror, she landed in a quagmire of wet clay, desperately thrashing her hind legs to escape the bog. Despite her efforts, the mare staggered and collapsed to her knees. Sparks flew from her cleated shoes as she thrashed against the jagged rocks, which were scattered along the trail. Somersaulting into the air, she threw both riders before landing again with a bone-shattering impact against the hardened mountain road.

  Controlling his fall, Drake tucked and rolled. Trapped by momentum, he continued to plummet, head over heels, down the mountain pass. In the confusion of nausea and vertigo, he heard the mare’s wretched cries behind him, as she crashed down the rugged slope and into the canyon basin. Accelerating down the incline in a maddening tangle of legs and reins, the olai bounced over and above him, striking him in the side with a flailing hoof. At the base of the mountain, he slammed into her, knocking his head against her unmoving body. His last sight was that of the late night sky, violet, pink, and then endless black.

  Frightened by unknown injuries, Drake winced, making no attempts to move. Testing each limb, he was satisfied that there was no permanent damage and struggled to sit up.

  “Drake?”

  “Toob!” he gasped, recoiling as the sound of his own voice exploded within his skull.

  “Who taught you how to ride, boy?”

  “You did,” Drake grumbled. “Remember, you bought me a dewback from Tatooine.”

  The Corellian chuckled with the memory. “Well aren’t you a sight.” He helped the boy to his feet. “Nothing broken?”