the workers, it should have been here twenty-five years ago."
Silence followed. "What happened when the Empire took over?" she finally
asked.
Quarle's mouth twisted, "Well, I'll say one thing for old Corlin. If he
couldn't have the credits, he didn't want anyone else to, either. When he
realized the Empire wasn't just going to come in and oversee the operation-
that they intended to boot him out and run it themselves- - he started erasing
company records. Client lists, production reports, shipping contracts-
"And employee records." She nodded, beginning to understand. "The Empire
didn't know about his arrangement with the employees."
"That's right," he said. "So when the Empire took over, Verkuyl stopped
being a miserable little company planet run by a tight-fisted tyrant, and
became what it was supposed to be: a place for these people to work and live.
In the past twenty years, we've tripled our worker population and quadrupled
our bacta production-and increased our profits by a thousand percent.
Verkuylians are better off under the Empire than they ever were under my
grandfather, so don't imagine you're doing us any great favors by liberating
us."
It was true the Verkuylians had not clamored to be free of the Empire.
Indeed, it had only been in the last two years or so, when the New
Republic chased the Empire out of the Core and triumphantly claimed Coruscant,
that the resistance movement on Verkuyl had even begun. During her mission
briefings, Selby had formed the impression the workers might have been cowed-
or content, a small voice now whispered-to labor for the Empire forever if not
for two things. One, that as Imperial strength ebbed, it provided less and
less in the way of support to its smaller possessions such as Verkuyl; and
two, the loss of a major medical supplier at Chennis last year had sent New
Republic rabble-rousers to various Imperial held suppliers to see what kind of
rebellion they could stir up.
Verkuyl had stirred nicely.
But that doesn't mean the workers aren't sincere in their desire to be
free, Selby told herself. Just that it took our encouragement to give them the
courage to revolt.
She looked at Quarle. "If the Empire is forced to leave Verkuyl, you
probably stand to inherit the bulk of the holdings. How can you possibly
object to that?"
He shook his head. "You just don't get it, do you? I want what's best for
Verkuyl-not what's best for myself, but best for the company and the planet.
And I believe what's best for it right now is the Empire."
"The workers don't agree."
"The workers don't see the big picture," Quarle retorted. "They're
laborers, not administrators. At the moment, they can't see past the promises
the New Republic's dangling in front of them like nerfs being led to the
milking shed.
"Independence-was He made it sound like a dirty word. "You tell me where,
anywhere, workers don't dream of being their own boss. But they haven't got
the faintest idea how to actually do it. Without the Empire's guidance,
they'll run this company-their livelihood- - right into the ground, or make
juicy pickings for the bacta cartel. Then how much will their independence
mean?"
"They'll be free," Selby said.
"Free to starve, maybe," he shot back bitterly.
She raised the blaster.
"Selby, think about it," he said warningly. "The Governor knows what's
going on here. You can't win, but if you surrender now, I give you my word you
won't be harmed."
He took a step forward, eyes earnestly searching her face. "Please,
Selby. You won't get out of here any other way. It doesn't have to be like
this."
In her mind's eye, Selby saw Vartos held at blaster point by the Hall
stormtrooper. She thought of Claris, and the horror stories every Intelligence
agent had heard of the fate that awaited them at the hands of Imperial
inquisitors. She thought of Quarle, and that in doing what he truly felt best
for his people, he had to betray their confidence, knowing full well that for
many of them it meant certain death.
Black or white, friend or foe, she reminded herself. In this job, there
was no room for anything else.
"Yes, it does," she said, and fired.
Thirty-four hours later, leaning against the stone railing of the Hall's
roof and staring down at the dancing flames of a celebratory bonfire in the
street below her, Selby reflected that, for having salvaged success from such
certain failure, she should be in a much brighter frame of mind.
Listening to the revelry going on below, she wondered at the absence of
her usual satisfaction at the successful completion of a mission. She didn't
doubt the New Republic had done the right thing, bringing about the liberation
of Verkuyl and restoring Bac - taCo to its native workers. A populace held in
thrall, either to an Empire or a business dictator, needed to be set free.
But for the first time in her years of being involved in such
liberations, it occurred to her to question whether the New Republic had done
it because it was the best thing for the planet and its people, or because a
direct pipeline to BactaCo was the best thing for the New Republic.
She could not forget Quarle's prediction: that the Verkuylians, faced for
the first time with self-government and the running of a business, would be
crushed under the weight of their new responsibilities. To help ease their
transition, Selby had been told the New Republic planned to provide advisors
to help the fledgling business - folk find their economic feet in the galactic
community. She frowned, bothered by this train of thought. New Republic
"advisors" to Verkuyl somehow sounded too similar to the same sort of "advice"
the Empire had dispensed.
She half wished Quarle, who had the experience to run the company and, by
birth, the right, had chosen to stay and help. But released from the hidden
passage where she'd left him bound, only a certain darkness in those green
eyes betraying the feelings he kept from showing on his face, Quarle had
elected to leave Verkuyl with the rest of the Imperial interlopers. Once the
workers learned what he'd done, it was painfully clear that they would never
trust him again.
"Sel?" A voice cut into her brooding. "It's almost time to go."
She turned. Vartos's dark skin blended into the shadows around the
turbolift, but she could see the faint gleam where his eyes reflected the
starlight overhead. Both he and Claris had survived their captivity, although
Vartos had required a few hours in a bacta tank to fully recover. Selby found
that somehow ironic. "Yes, sir," she replied. "I'll be right down."
Vartos nodded and stepped back into the turbolift, leaving her alone.
Selby turned back to the railing, eyes again drawn to the bonfire below.
Verkuyl celebrated its freedom tonight-but how long would its jubilation last
under the pressures of its new responsibilities?
She sighed. She would not be around to find out. She had done her job-
done it well-and now it was time to forget the things Quarle
had said and move
on to the next assignment.
Black or white, friend or foe, she reminded herself. Under the Empire,
Verkuyl had been black. Under the New Republic, it would be white. It might be
true that Verkuyl's future most likely held shades of gray-but in her line of
work, it was best not to look at those shadowed colors too closely.
Turning away, Selby took a deep breath. She grimaced at the stink-the
awful smell of the alazhi simmering in the refineries. It permeated
everything, and after just four days on Verkuyl, she felt as if its stench had
somehow soaked right through her skin and taken up permanent residence in her
heart.
She feared it would stay with her forever.
***
No Disintegrations, Please
by Paul Danner
Squeak. Sqwak.
Squeak.
Most beings would have found the intermittent sound annoying. Some might
have even gone so far as to blast the noisy repliwood sign into toothpicks.
But the main street of the New Hope Settlement was currently devoid of life.
There were only a few dust balls moving in accordance to the fickle will of
the wind. The row of stores that flanked the main street stood silently,
sealed up and forgotten. The rust-colored sands of Ladarra were already
returning to reclaim the land it had lost years ago....
And so the sign continued to squeak, hanging as it was by a single frayed
duracable. The lettering was a bit faded, but the words were still legible:
"The Ellstree Bar-Cold Lum; Droids Welcome; No Disintegrations, Please..."
Like the rest of the shops in downtown New Hope, the bar looked to be long
deserted. But as the old saying goes, "appearance and truth have as much in
common as Jawas and Hutts."
The children sat in a semicircle around the man. There were at least a
dozen of them, mostly human, but a few other species were represented as well.
They were orphans and urchins, the last generation of a failed colony-too poor
to book passage off Ladarra and unwilling or unable to face the difficulties
of life in the few larger cities on the planet.
The man had no name as far as the children knew. They merely called him
the Storyteller. He was dressed as they were, in ragged clothing scrounged
from a dozen wardrobes and cobbled together into a free-form garment. The
Storyteller was an older human, with a heavily lined face and a shock of white
hair. He had the look of a man who had seen too much and his eyes were unable
to stay focused on any one location for longer than a minute-as if they were
constantly searching for any possible threat.
"You want another story?" he asked in a weary voice.
The children nodded in unison. They rarely spoke, and he wasn't sure all
of them even knew how.
"How about the legend of the fearless young Jedi Knight who rescued a
beautiful princess?"
A chorus of groans answered that question.
"Well, then. There's always the tale of the evil Imperial governor who
wanted to conquer the innocent little world of-was He saw the looks on their
faces and couldn't help but laugh. "No? My, but this is a tough crowd." He
shook his head in mock irritation. "So what would you like to hear about?"
"Tell us a new one," one of the children said. She was a pretty little
one, though it was hard to tell under all that grime.
"Come now, you've heard all of them at least once. Just pick the one you
like."
The girl folded her arms and jutted out her lower lip.
He fought to keep a straight face. "Okay, okay..." He scratched his chin
in dramatic fashion. "A new story. Let me see... ah, yes, I've got it!"
Their eyes lit up.
"No, no... that won't work."
The children frowned at him.
"Kidding, kidding," he chuckled for a moment, then quickly grew serious.
"I do have one tale that I heard a long time ago. To my knowledge it has never
been told again." He had their full attention. "How many of you have heard of.
.." His voice lowered to a dangerous whisper. "BobaFett?"
Their eyes grew wide at the mention of the name, and one by one each
little hand lifted into the air.
"Well, I happen to know a long-forgotten tale of the greatest bounty
hunter who ever lived. Would you like me to share it with you?"
Every head in the room slowly nodded.
The Storyteller had his audience.... He smiled briefly, then settled back
into the comfortable chair and slowly closed his eyes. He began the story
after a moment of dramatic silence. The children listened with rapt attention.
As the shuttle's exit hatch slowly descended, the sudden hiss of escaping
gases nearly caused Rivo to jump right off the platform. As it was, he barely
regained enough balance in time to prevent himself from unceremoniously
rolling down the ramp.
General Gaege Xarran gave a dramatic sigh to indicate his disgust and
extended an arm to steady his brother as he stumbled down the ramp.
Xarran quickly glanced at the sharp line of stormtroopers that served as
an honor guard. The squad remained at such rigid attention that he momentarily
wondered if the Dark Lord of the Sith had suddenly emerged from the Lambda-
class shuttle. The Empire's ivory-armored shock troopers weren't always the
brightest specimens around, but at least they knew enough to keep their mouths
shut and follow orders.
Unlike some people, the General thought as his gaze fell upon Rivo.
Xarran suddenly felt his body grow flushed with anger and his lips twitched
into an involuntary sneer.
"How could you be so stupid?" he whispered. Not that it really mattered
whether the stormtroopers overheard; they had been privy to conversations of
much greater importance than the scolding of a sibling.
Rivo might as well have been one of the silent group of guards, for he
acted as if his brother had never spoken. His eyes were still darting around
wildly, searching for a possible threat in every shadow.
Xarran lightly cuffed his brother with an open hand, striking the back of
his head. If there was one thing the General did not like, it was being
ignored. "Answer me!"
Rivo's response was swift-Xarran was doubly shocked as he stared down the
stubby barrel of a hold-out blaster. First of all, the General had never
imagined his own brother would point a weapon at him, and second Rivo was
supposed to have been relieved of his armaments. Someone was destined to die
for the oversight, but the General intended to avoid being the unlucky party.
It was his brother's life, however, that appeared to be in the most
immediate danger....
The stormtroopers remained motionless, but somewhere in the span of an
eye-blink nine blaster rifles had been expertly trained on Rivo.
The young man didn't seem to notice. His eyes held a blank stare that
didn't quite focus on anything. The General wasn't even quite sure if Rivo
still recognized him.
"It's only me, brother," Xarran said softly. "I'm the one trying to keep
you alive." Slowly but steadily the General reached out with a gloved hand.
The span was less than half a meter, but it t
ook forever to close the distance
between his fingers and the weapon.
When the General took hold of the blaster, Rivo's nervous energy drained
out as if he were a leaking power cell. His entire body slumped down and the
weapon spilled like liquid through his fingers until it was collected in
Xarran's waiting hands.
"I'm sorry," Rivo managed through choked sobs. He wavered unsteadily,
lost in his anguish.
Xarran pulled him into a hug, nodding to the guards over Rivo's shoulder.
The gesture was unnec. Their blasters were already bolstered.
The General cradled the back of his brother's head, in the same place
where moments before Xarran had struck him. That now seemed like an eternity
ago - comx suddenly became clear to him how time, no matter how brief, could
irrevocably affect one's entire existence. Every moment was a crossroad to
infinite possibilities- - Rivo's greatest talent besides drinking and gambling
was picking the wrong path to travel. Fortunately the results, as bad as they
were, had never ended with outright disaster. This time was different,
however, for Rivo's latest mistake might end up costing his life.
Of course, it went without saying that Xarran would do everything in his
power to prevent that occurrence. And as a General in the Imperial Army, that
power was considerable.
Tales From the New Republic Page 30