Star Wars - 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 YT-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.

  “194?”

  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’Iek 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, Arruna.”

  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 with 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 10-96?” 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 lip
s.

  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, petchuk!”

  “Koccic suing!” 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 Branl’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 autopilot 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.” A hushed snicker translated across the internal comm. “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.”

  “Whatever you say, boss.”

  “And while I have your attention, run a code check on a 10-96.”

  “That’s easy, it’s listed by Imperial enforcement protocol as a mentally imbalanced person.”

  “No, there’s got to be something more to it,” he contemplated. “There must be something else. Research the dead files on all 10-codes with that designation.”

  “That could take some time.”

  “Good!” he snapped. “I want every description for a 10-96, everything from Imperial databases to Old Republic records.”

  Resistantly, Kierra replied. “Affirmative, boss.”

  Accompanied by a low hum, the hyperdrive cue flashed intermittently, recalculating the jump to hyperspace. Checking the onboard systems, Ross observed hyperactivity in the library programs, where Kierra was researching the peculiar 10-code. “Stand by, hyperdrive engaging,” he announced, piping into the ship-wide intercom. Bracing himself against the acceleration chair. Ross activated the motivator, propelling himself, his passenger, and his ship into the multicolored explosion of hyperspace.

  In the lower cradle of the ship, Ross sat in the swivel gunner’s chair, swinging side to side, absently strumming his fingers against the turret firing controls. He closed his eyes and massaged a muscle spasm in his shoulder, wincing as the clenched tendon tightened then released. Oblivious to the spectacular display of light and color beyond the narrow viewscreen, he relaxed against the cool leather brace, drifting into the serenity of sleep.

  “You know,” Kierra whispered, “you make the cutest faces when you’re asleep.”

  “I wasn’t asleep,” he lied, suppressing a yawn.

  “Well heads up, flyboy! I have some intriguing data for you.”

  Ross sat up. rubbing the circulation back into his ears. “Let’s hear it.”

  “Well, it seems that your mysterious 10-96 dates back long before the 10-code setup even existed. Now, according to the description, and I must admit I’m perplexed, the 10-96 came from an Old Corellian word, ke’dem.”

  Staring into the hyperspace vortex. Ross mentally mouthed the word. “Go on.”

  “Go on?” Kierra snorted. “That’s it! Since before the Empire, a 10-96 has had two definitions, an imbalanced person and a ke’dem. Hesitant, she whispered, “Now without overinflating your ego … what’s a ke’dem?”

  “It’s a variation of Old Corellian that means condemned or fallen.”

  “Well that would explain the modern terminology.”

  “Yeah,” he whispered, “it would also explain what happened down there on the planet.” The smuggler cupped his hands together, supporting his head and neck. “Kierra, darling, Adalric Brandl is a Jedi Knight.”


  “A Jedi? That would explain a lot of things.” Momentarily, her optic sensor dimmed. “Stand by. Hyperdrive about to disengage. Three … two … one.”

  Leaning against the gunner’s panic bar. Ross felt the vibration of the ion drives, set to ignite once the transition was complete. “Easy on the drive coils, Kierra.”

  “Aren’t you coming to the bridge?” she asked.

  “On my way,” he replied, “but first I have to collect our unusual guest.”

  Blanketed by a protective cloud layer, the planet Trulalis was richly embellished with a spectacular landscape of verdant green. A mosaic of rolling grasslands, sprawling forests, and spacious oceans stood as an invitation to paradise for the space-weary traveler. Crisscrossed and separated at irregular intervals by feral wilderness, Trulalis offered innumerable flat fields for small transports to dock. Ross made a mental note to mark this planet as a potential checkpoint on his smuggling runs. A brief sensor scan pinpointed the closest, suitable landing field. Compensating for the subtle shifts on the ground surface, he set down near a small hamlet.

  On the surface, Ross shouldered his travel tote and secured an extra power pack to his holster. From the top of the ramp, he hesitated in the corridor, glimpsing Brandl from the corner of his eye. The eccentric Jedi was waiting for him outside on the trail, shadowed by the towering visage of the black trees. A seemingly invincible statue, the strange man stood with solemn conviction, staring into the hazy silhouette of the late afternoon sun. “Kierra, I’m still not sure what Brandl’s up to. Keep your eyes open.”

  “Keep your comlink open,” she replied. “You know how I worry.”

  “That’s my girl,” the Corellian chuckled.

  Testing the soft earth beneath his boots, Ross strolled up to the familiar silhouette of his passenger. For the first time since leaving Najiba, he noted that both of Brandl’s hands were visible, one of them swathed haphazardly in a black bandage. Through gaps in the makeshift dressing, he saw the tender pink of raw flesh and yellow seepage draining into the thick fabric.

  Before Ross could question him, Brandl turned and started along the trail. “What did the Najib tell you about me?”