Star Wars - To Fight Another Day

by Kathy Tyers

  “What can’t hurt him? Come on, girl. I haven’t got time to play whatsit.”

  “He was Force-sensitive. He read people perfectly. Including me. He had a generous spirit. He always tried to please.”

  Una Poot scowled. “Sounds like the Empire made an enemy in you, missie. I’ll alert the ships docked here and see if anybody knows who might be related to this bodyguard of yours. What was his name? Wrr?”

  “Wrrl. Short for Wrrlevgebev.”

  “Wrrlevgebev,” repeated Una Poot. “But don’t call me. I’ll call you. Oh, and thanks for the c-boards. It’s a long shot, but — ”

  “I understand,” said Tinian.

  Una Poot stared after Cheeve and his adopted refugee rich-girl. The technology they’d brought? Extraneous equipage for wealthy, uniformed units. Now, if they could’ve resurrected Tinian’s Force-sensitive sweetheart, that might’ve solved a crisis for her. Una needed to find someone sensitive, like her first man — Drogue — had been. Her blaster carbines must reach the right people on Monor. It was a tricky system to negotiate.

  But Drogue was 30 years dead, and evidently this one was gone, too.

  And she’d never turned down a windfall. She tossed Cheeve’s contributions into a box, then reached for her comlink. One Wookiee berthed at Silver knew all the clans. She could pay for those pieces by making one call.

  She thumbed the comlink.

  To Tinian’s surprise, Una Poot summoned her and her companions back to the galley that evening. Behind the crone stood a huge Wookiee of a color Tinian had never seen. His fur was dark brown, but each guard hair glistened silver at the tip. The effect made him shimmer. “This is Chenlambec,” said Una Poot. “He might be able to help you pass that message.”

  Tinian barked a short greeting. Chenlambec woofed back. Una Poot raised both of her scraggly eyebrows. “Where did you learn to speak Wookiee?”

  “From Wrrl,” explained Tinian. “Does Chenlambec work for you?”

  The Wookiee bent forward, laughing.

  “Not at the moment.” Una Poot smiled with both sides of her mouth this time. “He’s a bounty hunter.”

  Tinian stared. She’d heard of beings who hunted others for money—who killed for profit, not patriotism. She despised the idea. She’d never dreamed that she might stand in front of a hunter.

  “You two can talk in my private alcove, if you’d like.” Grinning, Una Poot gestured toward a hatch on one side of the galley.

  Tinian narrowed her eyes, repelled by the woman’s sense of humor.

  Chenlambec spouted a rapid stream in Shyriiwook, asking how she had known Wrrlevgebev.

  She didn’t think that the bounty hunter would appreciate hearing publicly that Wrrl had been her family’s slave. Evidently she’d have to address him privately, if she talked at all.

  And this would have meant so much to Wrrl. She could do it for Wrrl. She led the big Wookiee into Una Poot’s private alcove.

  It was small and bare with a single ancient luma dangling from its ceiling. “I was 12 when I met Wrrl.” Tinian shut the hatch and backed up against it. She positioned her hand near the control that would open it again.

  Chenlambec bent to stand under the alcove’s low ceiling. He kept to a corner opposite her.

  “There were slavers in Il Avali, the city where I grew up. One of them was beating him — it looked like they meant to kill him with a shock whip. Later, I found out he’d tried to keep them from selling a young female Kitonak away from her child. Anyway, I got loose from my grandmother and jumped into the ring.” She’d never realized the danger. “I threw myself over the poor bloody creature and yelled at the slavers that I’d buy him. Grandmother argued with me, but I won. That’s how I met Wrrl.” Wrrl had been utterly ethical, totally loyal. How could any Wookiee stoop to bounty hunting?

  Chenlambec crossed his silvery arms. A broad black bandolier spanned his chest from right shoulder to left hip, studded with odd silver cubes. He barked a question.

  “I didn’t know then about your people and the life debt,” she answered. “But I found out as soon as I learned to speak Shyriiwook. Please tell his clan that he discharged his debt fully, Chenlambec. He died helping me escape the Imperial stormtroopers who killed my grandparents.”

  He bowed his head and woofed softly.

  “You’re welcome,” she said, confused but impressed by his private manner.

  Then he raised his head and told a strange story. Evidently several of the bounties that the Empire had paid him were wasted. He had actually helped several “acquisitions” escape to the Rebel Alliance, then donated most of the funds that the Empire paid him … to Una Poot for buying arms, this time; last time, to a refugee group. He added that Una Poot was one of three people — four, now — who knew his secret. He asked her to honor it.

  Tinian shut her slack jaw and wished Daye were here … not just because she missed him so desperately, but he would’ve known if the huge stranger were lying. Left to herself, she had to trust her hunch that Chenlambec was what he claimed — someone whose mission actually excited her — and that he wanted her respect in return. Cheeve and Yccakic had tried to comfort her by caring about her, but she needed to care about someone else.

  She stretched out a hand.

  He clasped it with a grip as gentle and strong as Wrrl’s had been. Gravely he thanked her again. Then he motioned her away from the hatch.

  “Wait,” she exclaimed.

  Chenlambec backed off a long step.

  She wondered where — in all the thousand-thousand worlds — she’d gotten this crazy idea. But she was no musician. And she knew explosives. And Chenlambec made her want to live. “Would you let me apprentice to you?”

  Chenlambec gave a startled woof.

  “I’m serious,” she said. “I grew up in an armament factory. My knowledge of explosives might be useful in your trade.”

  His blue eyes twinkled as he apologized and declined — she was too small and delicate for bounty hunting. He had survived the deaths of two partners, one very recently. From now on, he would hunt alone.

  “I have no fear of dying,” Tinian insisted. “In your profession, if I died, it would be clean and fast.”

  Not necessarily. He crossed his arms and looked half away, a pose Wrrl had used only when adamantly refusing.

  “I see,” she said sadly. “Well. Thank you for carrying that news for me.”

  She pushed out of the alcove wondering what she would do with the rest of her life. She’d discovered how to care again, and that she wanted to care, and it was a relief… if temporary. Maybe Una Poot had a place for her.

  The crone wasn’t waiting with Cheever and Yccakic. “Everything all right?” asked Yccakic.

  Tinian shrugged. “Yes. Good-bye, Chenlambec.”

  The Wookiee raised a hand in farewell and then left her alone with her traveling companions. Dispirited, she trailed Cheeve and Yccakic to the bunk room. While she’d spoken with the bounty hunter, they’d agreed to play a special cruise-concert for Una Poot and her inner circle, tomorrow afternoon on board her personal tugship … in lieu of rent on their cabin.

  “Rent?” Tinian exclaimed. “On this hole?”

  Cheeve shrugged. “It’s a chance to perform. Feel like singing?”

  Tinian cleared her throat. Cheeve’s wife, Twilit Hearth, could scorch blast shielding with her voice. “I wouldn’t do you justice. Do you know enough instrumental numbers?”

  “We can carry the show if you’ll fill in one or two songs — ”

  “Anybody tired?” asked Yccakic. “We’d better dim the lights and get some rest, if we’re performing tomorrow.”

  Tinian lay down, but she couldn’t sleep. Every time she shut her eyes, she saw Daye … or Wrrl, rushing the stormtroopers who finally killed him … or saboteurs, threatening to blow holes in Silver Station —

  Abruptly she sat bolt upright. She’d been asleep on her feet! She should be out sniffing the corridors for explosives.

 
Cheeve’s hold-out blaster dangled out of a pocket on his pants, which he’d hung haphazardly over one end of his bunk. She slipped it into her vest pocket and crept out into the corridor.

  Two hours later, she caught a faint whiff of something that made the hair on her neck stand up: JL-12-F, a product of one of I’att Armament’s competitors. Manufactured for controlled planetside demolition, it exploded in a symmetrical, almost linear pattern. It did not belong on board a space station.

  Sabotage. Following the whiff trail, she stole up a corridor that led toward the docking area.

  That couldn’t be right. She reversed herself and hurried in the opposite direction. The scent grew stronger. She followed it down an access ladder.

  On the fourth level down, she lost it. She doubled back again and climbed off the ladder into an area that was marginally tidier than others, maybe housing for Silver Station’s upper class … such as it was. Down here, the odor grew so strong that she wondered why other people hadn’t noticed. She gripped the little blaster in one hand and slunk forward.

  Two dark, furry shapes crouched next to the flat outer bulkhead of Silver Station’s original construct. “Hey!” Tinian cried. She leveled the blaster.

  The aliens whirled toward her. Each had a long, pointed snout and small round ears. “Hey!” they echoed her in chorus.

  Then they charged.

  Tinian fired. One Ranat curled up, shrieking. The other kept coming. Long sharp teeth closed on her left leg. Tinian screamed and struggled to draw a bead on the vicious creature without shooting herself in the foot. The Ranat shook her leg so hard that stars danced in front of her. She flailed for balance.

  A clear shot! Tinian took it. Powerful jaws released her calf, and the creature screamed at her. She backed off and fired again.

  The Ranat charged at her other leg.

  She squeezed off another blast. The Ranat collapsed at her feet. She kicked it away, splattering it with blood from her leg.

  The other Ranat hadn’t moved. But what about that explosive?

  She limped forward. Her injured leg trembled when she tried to bend down.

  Be calm, she admonished herself. She crouched, even though it hurt. The JL-12-F was packed into a standard cylinder, heat-fused against the outer bulkhead. Fused to its other end were a primer and c-board. Somehow the Ranats had obtained a solid-state detonator, almost fail-safe.

  The c-board had two vulnerable spots, though, where the main circuit entered and exited the timing mechanism. Tinian scrambled back to the first Ranat and frisked it. She found a belt knife, limped to the bomb again, and delicately cut the connections. That disabled the detonator.

  She exhaled. Then she frowned. The c-board might be dead, but she couldn’t leave an explosive canister this close to an outer bulkhead. If a spark set it off here, everyone on board would be at risk, from Cheeve to Chenlambec. She tried to pry the knife into a hairline crack between explosive cylinder and detonator. Its blade didn’t bend, which worried her. The steel must be brittle —

  It snapped without warning. She dropped it in time to save herself another deep, nasty cut.

  This was nothing she could disarm without proper tools… but JL-12-F did require a spark, not an impact, to detonate it. She backed up to the cylinder, balanced on her hurt leg, and kicked sharply with her heel. Fresh jabs of pain shot through her leg. The cylinder broke loose from the bulkhead and clattered onto the deck.

  Gingerly she scooped it up and carried it deeper into the station. She glanced back to see if any Ranats followed. A red splatter trail marked her route. When she started walking again, she almost slipped in a red puddle. That’d collected quickly!

  She set down the explosive canister at mid-corridor and hammered on the nearest door. “Hello?” she shouted. “This is an emergency!”

  The Stationer took her to a medic on Level Three and called Cheeve. When Tinian emerged an hour later, leaning on Cheeve, a huge, shimmering Wookiee waited in the corridor outside. He howled somberly at her.

  “I’m all right,” she assured Chenlambec (I have one more friend in the universe!). “They don’t have a medical droid, but there’s a competent Human in there. He fused the artery. I’m just supposed to take it easy for a few days.”

  He cocked his head and barked a peculiar question — did she realize that he and dozens of others owed her a life debt?

  Tinian laughed. “No, no. I saved my own life, too. So it doesn’t count.”

  He woofed an offer.

  Tinian stared.

  “What did he say?” asked Cheeve.

  Tinian felt slightly rummy from chemical painkillers. “I, um, yesterday I offered to go into business with Chenlambec. He just invited me on board his ship to see what I knew about his trade.”

  “But isn’t he a … ”

  Chenlambec clasped his fur-draped hands, looking calm.

  “It’s your life.” Cheeve touched her shoulder. “But I wish you’d stay with us. Who’ll sing that gig tonight?”

  “You’ve been kind, Cheeve. Much kinder than you needed to be, and I appreciate everything you’ve done. But I’m no musician. I need to find my own place. You want that, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  Yccakic turned so that Chenlambec couldn’t see his face. “Tinian, be careful. He might — ”

  “I’ll be fine.” If Tinian understood one thing about Wookiees, she understood the life debt. Rightly or wrongly, Chenlambec considered himself bound.

  Limping on her numb leg, she followed him back out to the docking area, then through an umbilical onto a small saucer-shaped craft with three mammoth engines. Like Silver Station, it had seen better days. Better decades, she decided as she rubbed a rust spot.

  Still, this looked like her chance to hurt the Empire.

  Chenlambec sat her down in front of his shipboard computer. He called up a succession of weaponry images. Tinian recited specs for an hour. Then he tossed her a blaster rifle. She disassembled and reassembled it in four minutes.

  Then she yawned. Instantly, Chenlambec apologized. She mustn’t walk clear back to the bunk room, he insisted. She could nap on board his little ship Wroshyr, named for the home trees of Kashyyyk. In the afternoon, after she’d caught a long healing nap, they could discuss terms — if she still wanted to apprentice to him.

  She collapsed on a bunk that felt softer than clouds and fell asleep before she could thank him.

  Daye Azur-Jamin shut his eyes and let his companions carry him through the little blockade runner’s airlock. Delayed at Doldur Spaceport, they’d used up their last medpac two days ago, and the pain was back in full force. He couldn’t feel one leg at all, but that was a blessing. The other leg made up for it. One hand, too, was crushed, and his companions had bandaged his shoulder and head with synthflesh, but beneath that superficially healed layer, they all throbbed.

  Woyiq, a big beefy Human, carried the end of Daye’s pallet nearest his feet. He let go with one hand and waved at a station droid. “Hey, you! You — how about a float bed? I’ve got an injured Human here!” It was indicative of Woyiq’s strength that the pallet didn’t wobble when he dropped one side.

  The droid scurried closer. It was an aging protocol unit, probably in charge of docking.

  “I am Toalar Yalom Yalom,” said the Gotal who carried the pallet’s head end. Two cone-shaped perceptor horns protruded from the top of his head. “Una Poot knows me. She will want this Human to be taken to a medic immediately.”

  “It is very early morning here at Silver Station,” said the droid, “and we have just gone off saboteur alert. She may still be sleeping.”

  “This Human might still recover if she got him into bacta today.” Toalar’s knobby gray-brown brows lowered over red eyes. “Take us to your medical station.”

  “I am sorry. All arrivals must be interviewed before — ”

  “Fine. Take us for our interview now.” Gotals spoke in monotones, but Toalar looked fierce. The horns helped.

&nbs
p; Evidently the droid was also programmed to recognize fierceness. Either that, or he automatically allowed for emergencies. He led them deep into the gray-walled station.

  “Saboteur alert?” Daye murmured as they carried him.

  “Whatever it was, it’s over,” Toalar answered.

  In a galley full of tables, Woyiq and Toalar set down Daye’s pallet. Toalar walked up to an old woman who had incredibly cold eyes. Toalar had told Daye that Una Poot’s incompetent crone act was her version of deep cover, though she was slightly crazy. Toalar claimed she had connections and resources that would surprise him. Evidently Toalar’s resistance cell back on Druckenwell depended on Una Poot for tactical support.

  “Toalar,” she creaked. “Bless your horns. You haven’t reported in too long. Has the resistance died on Druckenwell?”

  Toalar’s face twitched. It was flat where a Human would’ve had a nose. “Far from it. All Druckenwell’s stirred up at the moment. I need — ”

  She walked to Daye’s pallet. “Who’s this?”

  Daye tried to sit up, but his hand and shoulder wouldn’t bear weight. “Help, Woyiq,” he called. The big Human stepped into position behind Daye’s head and slid his hands down Daye’s shoulders to lever him upright. “My name is Daye Azur-Jamin. I am an armament specialist. I want to join the Rebellion.”

  “Good. But why should we take you?”

  “I worked directly with Strephan I’att, of — ”

  “I’att Armament on Druckenwell?” cackled the crone. “Then you served the Empire.”

  “Yes,” Daye admitted. He sensed her sincerity, despite her unpleasant manners. She would trust him only if he were absolutely honest. “Strephan I’att and I developed an armor field that would have made stormtroopers invulnerable.”