“Kaine!” Karl Ancher’s voice boomed over the shrill whine of a defective exhaust rocket. Anticipating trouble, technicians and tourists paused to watch, snarling the flow of traffic through Omman’s hectic starport.
Beside him, Drake Paulsen flinched, startled by the harsh quality of the Corellian’s voice. Embarrassed by the sudden focus of attention, the 15-year-old Socorran groaned, covering his face with the wide, black collar of his desert duster. Ahead of them, he recognized his father’s lean figure, framed by the battered hull of their freighter, Miss Chance. The outdated YT-1300 sat alone on a private mooring dock, shadowed by the mammoth starport generators.
Shirt less except for a hand-tooled leather vest, Kaine Paulsen’s lean, muscular frame glistened with sweat. A repulsorlift cargo bed full of unmarked crates sat beneath the freighter’s hull where he had left them. “How are you, Lom?” he asked playfully, using Drake’s Coynite name.
“Ancher’s on the war path.” Drake whispered. “What’s going on?”
Troubled by the haunted rings beneath his son’s eyes, Kaine whispered. “Don’t worry,” affectionately caressing Drake’s neck and shoulders. Then he coolly met the Corellian’s ruthless gaze. “Ancher, I’ve been expecting you. Thanks for bringing Drake along.”
Cold recognition fluttered in the old smuggler’s eyes. “Damn right you’ve been expecting me! If you thought I was going to stand by and watch you make the biggest, dumbest mistake of your life, then you don’t think very much of me. Kaine Paulsen!” Gathering his wits and his breath, Ancher snapped his fingers in Kaine’s face. “I didn’t waste my time and learning to see you go soft on refugees trying to homestead on some miserable, forgotten rock! Lofahchu ets pyroni vyoryn viske.” he grumbled, slipping into a dialect of Old Corellian.
Kaine laughed suddenly. “Loyalty is a smuggler’s worst vice?”
Ancher’s face exploded with violence. “The worst! And don’t you forget it!” Silver-white hair crowned Ancher’s handsome face, which was well weathered by a lifetime of scars and wrinkles. Dark eyebrows arched above his eyes, mature, green eyes, clouded by mild regret. Piqued, he crossed his arms over his chest, as if shielding himself from a blow to the heart. His foot tapped querulously against the metal docking plates, an irrefutable sign of the smuggler’s agitation. Despite the furor of incoming and outgoing spacecraft about them. Drake could hear the distinctive drone of Ancher’s cybernetic leg, synchronizing with the Corellian’s foot.
By sharp contrast, Kaine’s handsome face, so deeply tanned by the Socorran sun, was smooth and flawless, radiating good charm. Unruffled by the Corellian’s temper, he whispered, “Ancher, those people on the Thrugii outpost need food, medical supplies, and anything else I can think of to help them …”
“Those people need a serious psych-eval!” Ancher spat. “Anybody who thinks they could make a living on that forsaken rock is crazy! And any fool smuggler who would deliver goods, encouraging them to stay, is even crazier! How much are they paying you?”
“Nothing right now,” Kaine whispered, chided by his mentor and friend. Cautiously, he added. “But when the mine gets started, they offered …”
“When the mine gets started? Kaine, that rock’s already killed seven generations of miners! Do you really think …”
“Damn it, Anch! I’m not some kid you picked up on one of your smuggling adventures. I’m a man, a father,” he brushed a reckless brown curl from Drake’s face. “And a damn good pilot.”
“If those claim jumpers would make peace with the sector authorities, they could get their own pilot and leave you out this mess!”
“You know that would never happen,” Kaine said quietly. A trio of Imperial stormtroopers walked past, briefly observing them. “The sector authority has that planet locked down tighter than a Coynite chastity belt!” he whispered, cautiously observing the stormtroopers “That’s why they need a smuggler and a good one.” Kaine recognized the explosion escalating in the old man’s eyes. “Ancher, I don’t need your permission to make this run!”
“You don’t need my permission?” Ancher’s face flushed several shades of crimson. “What about those money-hungry sector officials? The ones who claim the rights to Thrugii, the asteroid belt, and even the open spaces in between. What about them. Kaine?” The Corellian propped his hands on his hip, visibly shaken by the Socorran pirate’s tenacity. “Even Abdi-Badawzi …”
“Let’s leave Abdi out of this, shall we?” Kaine frowned with mention of his arch-rival, the Twi’lek crimelord who ran Socorro’s illicit underground. “Besides, he’s too busy filling his own pockets to bother with exploiting a humanitarian cause.”
“Listen to me, Kaine!” Ancher snapped. “You’re ruffling the wrong tail feathers this time. Those private owners have money, political leverage, mercenaries; they might even have Imperial connections. You don’t want this one, boy.” Suddenly, his face softened as he attempted to change his approach. “You’ve got a good heart, Kaine. You’re a better man than me to even think about this run. But you better think long and hard about the folks you’re crossing and what you stand to lose.” Gently, he ran his fingers through Drake’s hair, clucking the anxious boy beneath the chin. “Swallow your pride. Loyalty is the worst vice a smuggler can fall into.”
Cradling Drake against him, Kaine whispered evenly. “Maybe Corellians think that way, but Socorran integrity goes too deep for that garbage. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” He hesitated, stumbling over the insult. “It’s just an excuse for not getting involved, and why? Because there’s no money in it!”
“Drake, scratch a little gravel,” Ancher growled, his eyes intent on Kaine’s face.
Wanting nothing more than to stay between them, Drake hesitated. His father smiled, soothing reassurance into his rigid shoulders. “How’s your Wookiee?” he asked.
Startled by the question, Drake stammered, “My Wookiee?”
“There’s a problem over by the guard house. Go see if you can help them out,” he whispered, pushing Drake away. “Ask for Seth.”
As he moved away, Drake glared at Ancher holding the Corellian solely responsible for the tension threatening to divide his loyalties. “Go on,” Kaine persisted.
Reluctant to leave either of them, even the cantankerous Ancher, Drake walked toward the port entrance. “Are you so eager to make your fortune?” he heard Ancher hiss with venom. “What about the boy?”
“Drake understands,” Kaine retorted, “just like his mother.”
“That little girl twisted you up good, didn’t she?” Ancher barked. “She didn’t make her final jump soon enough to please me!”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Damn right I mean it!”
“Watch your mouth, old man!” Kaine sputtered, fists balled against violence. “If you hadn’t tampered with the hyperdrive …”
“I told you that drive was unreliable! How was I supposed to know she’d birth the boy right there on the deck plates! I didn’t tell her to get on that ship with you. She knew the risks and the consequences!”
From a distance, Drake watched them arguing. Since early childhood, he had lived aboard ship with his father, flying the trade routes and learning the dangerous thrill of smuggling. When not accompanying his father, the young Socorran had spent his free time in strategic mental games with Ancher, plotting Kessel runs and cheating smalltime ganglords. He knew each man intimately, familiar with their moods and eccentricities.
There had been other explosive quarrels between his father and the overly protective Corellian that were tantamount to similar arguments between Kaine and Drake. But none had ever gone so far as to merit insult. Frustrated, Drake thrust
his hands into his pockets, powerless to stand between them and their dominant personalities. Not even the familiar silhouette of the Miss Chance, docked beyond them, could comfort the immeasurable sense of foreboding that threatened to consume the anxious boy.
Sullen, Drake moved out of the hangar arena, stepping up to the port entrance where the guard house was situated. Barely large enough to contain a full complement of staff, the small, one-room structure offered a quiet place for the port guards to rest between shifts. Drake approached the group of armed men gathered outside. “I’m looking for Seth,” he whispered.
“That’ll be me,” huffed a portly, Human man. He stared into Drake’s face with focal intensity. “Aren’t you Kaine Paulsen’s boy?” The security director grinned astutely, sweeping his gaze from side to side. “Do I need to ask? You look just like him. Do you understand Wookiee?”
Drake shrugged absently, catching a quick glimpse of his father and Ancher still arguing by the Miss Chance. Though the dock was barely 10 meters away, the continual echo of blast rockets and welding equipment drowned out their voices.
“Come on in and whatever you do, don’t spook.” Seth cautioned, moving his stout body through the narrow bulkhead that framed the blast door. “Stay calm and move slow.”
Before Drake could question the peculiar directives, he felt a blast of hot air escaping from the small compound. With horror, he realized that it was not a breeze, but a voice, booming from the back of the room. Dodging several projectiles, the young Socorran backtracked, falling into Seth’s waiting arms. “Now steady on there!” Seth scolded, shielding the boy against the wall.
Perplexed, Drake realized that Seth was not speaking to him directly, but to the figure standing only meters away from the blast door. A formidable 2.4 meters tall, muscles twitching beneath a deep layer of black fur, the territorial Wookiee dropped to one knee. As the muzzle leveled off at chest level, Drake could see that the bowcaster was set and fully charged.
“Tell him to put the gun down!” Drake cried.
“He’s a she, young Paulsen,” Seth laughed. “And besides, you’re the expert. You tell her to put the gun down.”
Drake straightened his coat, moving away from the guardsman’s support. “She should understand Basic,” he whispered nervously. “Don’t you?”
The Wookiee bawled insufferably. It was a sound that Drake could only translate as intense loneliness and abandonment. “She’s scared.” The reaction to his translation was immediate; relieved to be understood by someone, she propped the bowcaster against the chair, openly explaining her desperate situation. “And she’s hungry.”
Seth scoffed, “What does one feed a Wookiee?”
Drake approached her cautiously, reaching into his pocket for his last protein bar. “Easy,” he soothed, offering it to her. “It’s not much; but we can get you more.”
Her face brightened, silver highlights showing at her brow and nobly set cheekbones. Framed by a mixture of black and silver fur, her opaque blue eyes were cloudy with exhaustion and sorrow. She took the bar, gingerly sniffing at the contents. Drake delighted in the momentarily contact, feeling the smooth warmth of her shaggy mane against his hand. Bawling in a sedate voice, the Wookiee moaned and returned the dehydrated bar.
“No, you can have it,” he assured her, nervously taking that moment to ruffle the fine, black fur beneath his inquisitive fingers. Intrigued, the boy stared up at her, admiring the silver accents that swept through her neck and arms, down across her broad shoulders and over her back. “Where’d she come from?”
“Space tramp dropped her off here.” Seth replied, settling his heavy frame into a chair by the door. “Tells me to find transport for her. He emphasized safe transport and hauls 24 cases of Corellian ale into my office to make sure the job gets done.”
Drake whistled, impressed by the payment. “Why the trouble?”
“Evidently the old man’s hyperdrive was ready to implode, sending him, her, and most of his crew into the final jump with a bang!” He clapped his hands together. “According to him, the Wook held the drive together with nothing but a few pins, a little Jawa snot, and an emperor’s ransom of good luck. Old man claims his hyperdrive hasn’t run that well in over 20 years.”
“So you’re a tech, huh?” Drake teased the Wookiee.
She shrugged, gingerly biting into the ration bar. Almost immediately, her nose wrinkled with the bitter taste. As hunger won out over reluctant appetite. Drake watched in fascination.
“Why’s she offworld?”
“Her folks smuggled her out.” Drake replied, listening to her strained voice, “shortly after the Empire took over Kashyyyk. She’s been on the run ever since.”
“I guess so,” Seth chuckled deeply, “what with the bounty being offered for free Wookiees.”
With mention of a bounty, the Wookiee bellowed fiercely, snatching her bowcaster and anything else she could grasp as ammunition. Dodging an assault barrage of tin cups, storage containers, and power packs. Seth flipped over, shattering the chair beneath his substantial bulk.
“Nikaede!” Drake scolded gently, prying a smoke grenade from her large hands. “He was kidding.” Scowling at the security official, he demanded, “You were kidding, weren’t you?”
“Honest Wook!” Seth grinned, remaining under the table. “No love for the Empire here.”
Successfully retrieving the grenade, Drake asked. “What have you arranged?”
“Transport to Tatooine.”
“Mos Eisley?”
“It’s an agreeable atmosphere,” Seth grunted, struggling to his feet. “And if she’s really a good tech, I can set her up working modified ships out of port.”
“Tatooine’s a good place to hide,” Drake whispered. “No Imperial paperwork. And if you’re handling ship modifications for smugglers, no one will bother, not even tracers.” Then, reminded of the seclusion that often plagued him, he selfishly added. “But I know an even better place. You could come back to Socorro with me.” The Wookiee yowled inquisitively. “My dad’s the best pilot in the business, but an average technician. He could use a good mechanic.”
Nikaede howled immediate appreciation, sweeping the young Socorran into her massive arms. Feeling his rib cage bending beneath the Wookiee’s might. Drake croaked, “Sure Nik, we just need to figure a way to get you offworld.”
“Leave that to me,” Seth almost sang with great ceremony.
“Boss!” crackled a voice over Seth’s comlink. “Boss!” Briefly, the sound of blaster fire echoed outside the door.
“Stormtroopers!” Drake cried, recognizing the distinctive pulse of Imperial-issue weaponry. Quickly taking the bowcaster from the chair, he stowed it beneath a pile of discarded flight suits. “Stay calm,” he whispered to Nikaede, pinning the Wookiee between himself and the wall.
Rattling like predatory teeth against the metal, white-armored fingers forced their way through the blast door. Visibly stunned, two starport guards slumped to the floor. “I’m in command here,” Seth’s operatic voice boomed. “By whose authority …”
Outflanking each other, the stormtroopers hurried into the room. Their squad leader marched through the blast door, violently thrusting his rifle into Seth’s sternum. “This station falls under the jurisdiction of…” his voice trailed off, shocked into silence by the Wookiee and the boy standing in the back of the compound. Two other stormtroopers stepped into the room, flanking the walls. “Cease your fire!” the ranking soldier screeched, as they leveled their weapons at the Wookiee. “You might hit the boy.”
“Yes, you might indeed hit the boy,” Seth grumbled. “And cause an incident that would take millions of credits to hide. Not to Mention embarrass your superiors …”
“Quiet!” The stormtrooper moved away suddenly, then returned, thrusting his rifle butt into the security official’s chest. Drake was helpless to act as Seth collapsed to the floor. “You!” the stormtrooper pointed to Drake. “Where’s the permit for that animal?”
> “Permit?” Drake piped, his voice raising an octave higher than he expected.
Breathless, Seth groaned. “The boy hasn’t got a permit. What do you expect? His uncle only purchased the creature a few moments ago.” He pointed to the stacked cases of Corellian ale in the corner. “I was acquainting the child with commands and important hygiene instructions. There’s no crime in that.” The security man hesitated, staring at the stormtrooper. “Or is there?”
“What’s going on here!” demanded a gruff voice.
“Uncle Ancher!” Drake whined. Mustering all his energy for a childhood tantrum, the boy cried, “Uncle Ancher, tell the soldiers. You bought the chumani for me! They want to take her away.” Silently imploring Ancher to play along with the ruse, he added. “You won’t let them, will you? After you paid for her. Twenty-four cases of Corellian ale is a lot, isn’t it, Uncle Ancher? That’s what you told me. You said nothing was worth 24 cases of your Corellian ale, not even an Imperial bribe …”
“Koccic sulng!” Ancher spat to silence the insipid prattle. Despite the rough indignity of a blaster rifle wedged against his spine, he turned on the stormtroopers, feigning a disgruntled Imperial citizen. “Since when did the Emperor allow his forces to traumatize children and helpless animals!”
“This creature belongs to you?” the squad leader demanded.
“I bought her for the boy, his chumani.” He hesitated, staring into the soldier’s unreadable face. “Chumani, gentlemen, is Old Corellian for companion; or so I’ve been told.” Ancher leaned toward the stormtrooper, whispering, “Come, come man, have a little compassion. The boy just lost his mother day before last.” Pulling a chit of credits from his pocket, he straightened, saying, “I understand there is a question of tariffs to pay, permits …”
“All licensing takes place at the Bureau of Customs. You will accompany us there immediately.”
Ancher hesitated. “I see,” he sniffed, glaring at Drake. “Lead on my good man.”
Though the presence of stormtroopers was a common phenomenon on Omman, a culturally diverse planet, the presence of a Wookiee, a boy, and an older man being herded between a squad of Imperial soldiers proved to be something of a spectacle. During the brief walk across the starport intersection, the stormtroopers pressed through throngs of curious tourists who stumbled across their path. Never breaking formation, they led the prisoners through the narrow streets and into the Bureau of Custom’s antiseptically clean front station.
Star Wars - When the Domino Falls Page 1