Star Wars: Tapestry, Volume III

[I. J. Thompson]

(Note: Each volume of Star Wars: Tapestry contains 500 in-character posts. However, due to a couple recent moves, Volume III has been broken into three parts: the first 108 posts can be found here, and the next 124 posts can be found here. When this volume reaches 500 total posts, all will be combined into a proper pdf of the complete Volume III. And now, back to the story! )

[Fingon]

The boarding ramp shuddered and let out of loud hiss, then slowly began to lower. Immediately a familiar damp odor fled into the room, itching Dante’s nostrils with memories. Not old ones, either. A few seconds later the ramp was fully down, revealing a dirty landing pad, littered with run-down machinery, framed against purple blue sky. Dante sucked in a deep breath, letting the world’s air fill his lungs again.

Nothing had changed. And why should it? It had only been half a year.

He strode down the ramp.

“Welcome to Junction City,” Dante said as Bear caught up with him.

Bear was craning his neck around, trying to take in as much of this new planet as quickly as he could. “Gosh, it’s. . .”

“Run down?”

“Well, yeah,” Bear admitted, with a nod.

“That’s Junction,” Dante replied with a wry smile. “It was a trading hub years ago. Now it’s just a rest stop. Good people here, though.”

“I heard this used to be really rich, really wealthy, you know? Hutt traders and bands and mercenaries and everything else.”

“It did. You still have nice places here. A lot of the old building have been abandoned now, but before Junction was a jewel here in the outer rim.”

It also used to be home.

“C’mon, let’s get going,” Dante said and led the way off the landing pad. “We need to transfer the patients to the hospital.”

“And afterwards?” Bear asked as they walked.

“I know a few places we can stay.”

[I. J. Thompson]

There was only darkness. Darkness, and cold.

The cold was nearly absolute, and it clung to the Dawncaller's interior like an unshakable curse. Dimly visible by the meager starlight that barely penetrated the transport's canopy, tiny ice crystals floated about the Dawncaller's interior like pollen, unbound by the laws of gravity.

For gravity had been the first system to go. Floating in The Whirl nebula with no direction and a dwindling power supply, the Dawncaller's main computer had been forced, in the interest of energy conservation, to make the hard choices. And its tiny mechanical mind had decided that gravity, compared to more critical systems like heat and light, must be sacrificed first.

So objects floated about the craft, like so many mindless aquatic animals. A stylus. A cup. A leather glove. Flecks of dirt. All barely visible in the darkness. Barely visible because, of course, the Dawncaller's problem of dwindling power hadn't been solved by the cancellation of artificial gravity. The ship's rudimentary computer had watched power levels recede even further, as the days went by, and become convinced that a second system needed to be shut down. In this instance, that system was light.

And without it, the interior of the Dawncaller became impossibly, unthinkably black. The only light was provided by the stars and the vague, morphing colours of The Whirl nebula, distantly visible out the cockpit glass, whose rays feebly did their best to illuminate the craft's bridge, wherein billions of ice crystals, floating among the more solid debris, did their own best to reflect those rays about the frozen chamber.

Frozen because, with power dwindling to nothing and no assistance in sight, the Dawncaller's little computer had been forced to make the hardest decision of all: maintain heat, warmth, the giver of life to any organics who may be aboard, or use that power to sustain its own operation. The decision was not an easy one, but finally the computer had decided that, given the presence of several perfectly serviceable vacuum suits aboard, it should preserve itself, to facilitate communication with any craft that might come in rescue.

And so, the heat was turned off. The computer, sadly, would never know if it had made the right decision; two short hours after the temperature controls were disengaged, the power was drained completely, and the computer went to sleep forever. Now, nothing stirred aboard the Dawncaller but the last gasps of air that her oxygen tanks had been able to spit out.

And the millions of ice crystals. Crystals emerging from the nose and mouth of a dark shape that rested in the pilot's chair, motionless. The shape had not stirred from the chair, and thus, had not been sent spinning about the cabin in the zero-gravity - and could not now, as it was securely fastened in place by tendrils of frozen condensation, icy ropes tying it to the pilot's seat.

Light.

It came from nowhere, it came from everywhere. It turned the bridge of the Dawncaller from what it was, to the exact opposite of what it had been. It reached into the ocular receptors, and from there the mind, of the shape, the girl, who sat in the pilot's chair. Fiola Shaku.

Fiola raised her head slightly, and the sound of ice breaking was like crashing cymbals in the former silence. The ice on her neck, her body. The clumps of ice in her hair, rattling and jingling like a chandelier. The droplets of ice floating about her in the zero-gravity cabin, bouncing off one another in reaction to her sudden movement. A cacophony. A symphony. In any event, the exact opposite of the silence Fi had known for countless days.

And the light!

Fiola raised a hand, breaking (shattering! Smashing!) more ice to do so, and raised it, fingertips blackened by the cold, in front of her face. The shadows it cast upon that frozen face, eyes nearly stuck shut with ice crystals, were a revelation.

Fi tried to vocalize, to talk to the light. All that emerged from her frozen throat was a weak clicking sound. She tried again.

"Hunh..."

The blinding, impossible light out the cockpit glass moved a little, side to side, then slightly closer.

"Hunh..." Fi said again, much more weakly this time. Who was she kidding? This was it. The light was here. The light was beautiful.

There was an impossibly loud clanging sound, and the Dawncaller shuddered as a result of it. Fi didn't feel either. She had breathed the very last of the vessel's bottled air. Its last gift to her.

She was done.

[Ice Hawk]

Reil woke up in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar apartment, with a pounding headache.
Well at least that part’s familiar he thought wryly to himself as he rolled out of the bed rubbing his temples. He was pleasantly surprised to find that he was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, and would not have to spend a good fifteen minutes looking for his pants. Things are looking up already.

He strode into the apartments common area, to find Cali unconscious on a couch, in front of a holoplayer, after consuming what could generously be called only an eighth of her weight in surgary treats.

It was muted, but the light’s from the monitor still played over her while she slept. Zealos turned the player off, and surveyed the apartment. He was confronted by its sparseness, as it contained, aside from the couch Cali was passed out on, a small table with one chair to it, and very little else. Papers and clothes littered odd bits of the floor, and the beige-ish walls were surprisingly bare. The kitchen was relatively clean, but that was more from neglect, than any sort of active maintenance on the part of the owner.

Reil went into the kitchen with a serious intent to forge some form of breakfast. As he looked into the refrigeration unit, he mused that this was probably Steve’s apartment. There was a certain lack of furniture in the house, and a small shrine to the deities of take out in the fridge, that screamed bachelor. What real food Stephen had in his fridge sported several different types of mold. Zealos gave up on breakfast and lowered his sights to just making caf.

As Reil washed the caf pot, he splashed some of the water on his own face and tried to remember last night. There had been drinking, and arguing, which was par for the course in the Reil family. He and Stephen had been in the bar waiting for Cali. Cali had been late; Reil couldn’t even remember her coming in at all.

As the caf brewed, Zealos looked out the apartment’s window, and saw the whole town bathed in orange, as the sun finally set. He checked his chrono, it was almost noon, local time. They were running behind. He made his way back into the living room, and tried to wake Cali.
Reil gently tried rousing her but she mumbled something and rolled to face away from the intrusion on her sleep.

“Cali, wake up.” Zealos intoned, more strongly this time. Cali groaned as she struggled towards consciousness.

“Reil?” she asked groggily.

“ ‘S me. Come on, get up. We gotta find Stephen and be on our way ‘afore too long today. Where is he anyhow?”

Cali sat up, rubbing her eyes.
“He left with a waitress. Or, you know, more like she left with him. You were both pretty far out of it, and she seemed to know him. She gave me showed me where his place was, and told me about the key card under the mat.”

Reil tried to process this new information.
“You let a strange woman carry my brother off against his will?”

“It wasn’t against his will!” Cali protested, “It just wasn’t with his explicit consent either. . . I wasn’t gonna let her take him, but he was heavy, and I barely got you up those stairs and-”

Reil smiled and sat down beside her on the couch.
“It’s fine. You didn’t happen to get this waitresses name did you?”

Cali shook her head mutely and Zealos sighed.
“Well, I’m sure he’s fine, and happier for her taking him, but we’ve gotta get a move on.”

Cali got up and stretched.
“What’s your rush anyhow? I didn’t think you’d be eager to go back to your folks’ place.”

“I’m not. Time’s come that with leave Cold Water in the dust, but we’ve gotta do it today.”

“What’s so special about today?”

Zealos fought the urge to lay on the couch, and drift into comatose his own self.

“Last ferry before the rivers’ freeze leaves tonight, and we’ve gotta be on it.”

Cali looked at Reil skeptically.
“Freezing water? It was like fifty degrees out there yesterday, that water’s not going to freeze.”

Reil groaned.
“Cali, I grew up here alright? Just trust me when I say that the river is going to freeze, and we need to catch this ferry.”

“Fine, it’s fifty degrees out, and the water is going to freeze over. Where’s this ferry taking us anyway?”

“River settlement, called Twillingate. And then we’ll be off this rock, and on to better things.”

“Like what?” Cali challenged.

“I don’t know, but anything’s better than this.”

Cali grinned slyly.
“I dunno about that. You and Steve seemed to have a real good time last night. When I picked you guys up you could hardly stand.”

Reil cocked an eyebrow at Cali.
“We were having a good time, what about you?”

“What about me?”

“I recall that we were in that bar waiting for you. You were gonna watch the holo one more time while we had a few drinks. You could have watched it three more times, we were waiting so long.”

“I. . .lost track of time.” Cali admitted bashfully, “It was still light out though!”

Zealos rubbed his temples.
“Cali, it’s been light out for the three days we’ve been here, why would you be using that as your point of reference?”

“It got dark after dinner with your folks.” Cali insisted.

Zealos shook his head in bemusement.
“No it didn’t.”

“Yes it did. There were windows all over the house, and it got dark after we finished dinner.”
Realization dawned of Zealos.

“Oh, that. No the windows auto-tint.”

“They what?”

“They get dark at certain points of the day. Most homes have them, ‘cause of Taanab’s weird rotation.”

Cali eyed Zealos suspiciously.
“What do you mean by weird rotation?”

“ It’s about forty days long. . .”

“You can’t grow crops on a planet that has a day night cycle of forty days! That’s lunacy, there is now way agriculture could survive such extreme temperatures!” Cali declared.

“And yet. . . they farm.” Zealos gestured out towards the window, where barely past the town’s limits were rows upon rows of large wheat fields. “I dunno Cali, which is more likely, that you’re right, and all of these people have struggled fruitlessly for generations to get a crop out of this environmental nightmare of a planet, or that you’re wrong, and it just works.”

“It works out to be about 28 days of sun, and twelve days of total darkness, there’s no way a harvest can survive that!”

“Well boy, they sure had me fooled. It’s a good thing the girl from the desert planet where they farm moisture out of the air because it’s so inhospitable set me straight on the necessities of an agricultural planet. Why don’t you run downstairs, and share your theory with the rest of the town. It’s fine, I’ve got to wait for Stephen anyway, so we’ve got some time.”

Cali scowled, and stuck out her tongue.
“Well this is just great. I’m on a boring planet with a weird rotation. This detour of yours just gets better and better.”

“You’ll like Twillingate.”

“Why will I like Twillingate?”

“ ‘Cause I like Twillingate, and if you keep whining, I’m gonna pitch you off the ferry.”

“Provided we can get to the ferry at all.”

“Exactly. Now where the frell is Stephen?”

Cali sat on the arm of the couch.
“Do I have time to make breakfast, or do we need to start knocking on doors to find this waitress?”

“We’ve got time, just no food. There’s a pot of caf on, and it should be done by now.”

Cali wordlessly went into the kitchen. A few minutes later, she returned with two big mugs of black caf. Zealos took one from her, and nooded silently in thanks. They sat there in silence for a few minutes, and just as Reil was about to get up and get ready to look for his missing sibling, Stephen managed to drag himself through the front door.

[I. J. Thompson]

The infirmary was serviceable, if not entirely antiseptic. Medical equipment covered every available surface, punctuated here and there by bandages, towels, and other implements of the trade. Over these presided a Too-Onebee medical droid, who worked contentedly in silence. Its steel chassis was painted a dull maroon, the colour of dried blood. This was not an aesthetic choice, but a practical one.

The droid looked at the nearby bacta tank, recently vacated, and set the device to drain its spent liquid contents and fill itself with a fresh supply. With that process in motion, the mechanical doctor strode to the bedside of the patient who had been plucked from the tank, once more checking her bandaged hands and feet. The patient, still dripping with bacta solution and emerging reluctantly from unconsciousness, groaned softly at the prodding. The medical droid noted her condition, and brightened slightly at the prospect of having someone to talk to.

"Ah, Miss Shaku," it greeted her in a deep monotone, "welcome back to Mull Station. I am pleased to report that, despite your injuries, you are alive."

The patient (Fiola Jean Shaku, Musician of Lord Obar Mull's Court, the droid had been told) didn't respond, but that was not to be unexpected. Her injuries had been severe. Thinking further, the droid opted to continue with its positive assessment of the situation.

"It will please you to know that, despite the extensive damage you sustained in the freezing, all of your anatomy has been preserved. Thanks to the bacta, the amputation of your extremities will not be necessary."

No response.

"However," the droid cautioned, not knowing what else to say, "I cannot advise you to expect to regain more than the most basic of motor functions. It is doubtful that you will ever be able to play the mandoviol again."

The prognosis garnered no immediate reaction. Her mind elsewhere, if it was anywhere at all, Fiola simply stared off into empty space. Then she raised herself up from the cot as best she could, propping herself up on her elbows, and spit directly into the robot's face.

The medical droid studied her another moment, then reached for one of the nearby towels, with which it dabbed at the fluid running down its steel visage.

"Are you upset?" it asked her. "Would you like a sedative?"

"I hate you," Fi rasped. "I've always hated you. Get scrapped. Get spaced. Die."

The Too-Onebee did its best to look concerned, making a mental note about the patient as it did so. "Interesting," it observed. "You believe that we have met before?"

"Shut up."

Although not well-versed in human psychology, the droid was accustomed to following orders. Thankful for a brief rest and recharge, it shut down.

Her tiny allotment of energy spent, Fi collapsed back onto the cot and did the same.

[Fingon]

As Dante had already discovered, being dead did have certain advantages. However, having to avoid certain people so as to remain dead was not one of them. And going back to a city you had lived for nearly half a decade did not help.

“And I thought this was a good idea because. . ?” Dante muttered to no one in particular. At least the surgery had changed enough that he really was not the same person. Not legally, and apparently not to the casual viewer, either. It had not even been two hours after disembarking before Dante had encountered a sentient he had known (had “he” really known her? It was all terribly confusing), at a store no less. Dante had frozen and quickly began to contemplate the fastest way to leave the planet, but the Ithorian did not give him a second glance. It was a good thing they had only been casual acquaintances.

Careful. That was what Dante needed to be. Careful until he was safely off world again. But as long as he was careful, there was plenty that Dante had in mind to accomplish before he set off again. Things to check up on, places to see, maybe even a discreet visit or two. Granted, whole sections of the city would be off-limits, and if he was not careful it would mean another galaxy of trouble on his head. But that was not the worst part. The worst part was—

“So,” Bear said, interrupting Dante’s thoughts, “explain to me again how you lived here, but you don’t know anyone.”

That was the worst part. As usual.

“It was a while ago, and I wasn’t here for a long time, Bear.”

“Uh-huh,” came Bear’s unconvinced rebuttal, “I just don’t believe that in your time hear you didn’t meet anybody. Not friends, no enemies, not even just some buds down at the cantina? You worked here, didn’t you? You gotta know somebody.”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Bear. It was a long time ago and a lot’s changed since then.”

Bear shot his companion a sidelong glance. “You freak me out when you say things like that, you know. Makes me worry that something bad’s gonna happen and you just aren’t telling me about it.”

Dante nearly winced. It stung. It was the truth.

“Just. . . just trust me with this, Bear. As far as we are concerned, I don’t know anyone here.”

Bear sighed, his complexion troubled. “All right,” he said after a pause. “I’ll trust you, Atiles. And I won’t press you about it.”

Thank you, thought Dante, I’m sorry you got dragged into this, Bear. It wasn’t my choice.

[I. J. Thompson]

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?"

Kappa tried his best to not look insulted by the question. It was relatively easy, given his impassive Duro features. But the insult still stung; clearly, there was plenty to talk about.

He was about to press the matter when Obar Mull's Morseerian bartender arrived, tray in one of several hands, with his drink. And with his companion's... third? Fourth?

"Duro Sunrise, gentlesir," the bartender announced in his strange, jittery language, placing the glass of orange fluid on the table. He then plonked another shot of lum down in front of the Duro's companion, sneered slightly, and moved off. Kappa watched him go, then turned back to the being slumped on the other side of the table.

"You almost died out there, Fi. Everybody's talking about it. Some people are saying you're too dumb to come back to port when your vessel's power levels are flat-lining."

The girl didn't meet her bandmate's gaze, merely stared into the newly-arrived spirit in its tiny glass.

"I guess I must be pretty dumb, then."

Kappa watched the girl reach out slowly, with her two bandaged hands, and lift the glass to her lips. She gulped the liquid down awkwardly, some of it dribbling down her chin. This she wiped away absently, soaking one of the bandages.

"Only, I know differently, see?" Kappa pressed on. "I know that you went directly to the co-ordinates of that Star Destroyer. Force knows why you did that, but you did. So... they did something to you, right?" His blue brow furrowed in puzzlement. "They drained your power, or something... and left you for dead?"

Fi laughed despite herself, and nodded condescendingly. "Yep, you're a regular prime-time holo detective, Kappa. They 'drained my power'." She snorted rudely, and motioned to the bartender for another shot.

Kappa ignored the insult, opting instead to change the subject. "Is it true you won't be able to play no more?"

Fi said nothing, merely held up her bandaged hands and frowned despondently.

"But," the Duro offered, "you can still sing, right?"

"Do I look like I have something to sing about?" Fi half shouted, drawing looks from the surrounding tables. And a few muffled chuckles.

Kappa shot a stern look at their audience, who took the hint and turned back to their drinks.

"So..." he concluded, "the band breaks up again, huh?"

"So the band breaks up again."

Surprising him, Fi held his gaze for the first time since he'd joined her at the table. "You'll tell Zoot?"

"I saw him earlier," Kappa reported dutifully. "He's, uh, 'in orbit' at the moment. I'll find him and let him know tomorrow."

"Right."

It was Kappa's turn to frown now, as he watched his bandmate, his friend, blearily try and pick up the new glass of lum that had just been placed in front of her.

"I'll respect your reasons, Fi, whatever they may be," he said. "But I want you to know something: you're not the only one who's suffered a near-death experience of late." He pointed toward his leg, or rather, to the place where the leg that had been blown off in Jason Greysands' recent attack on Mull Station should have been. "But the difference between you and me is, I want things to get good again...

"What do you want?"

Fi stopped fumbling with her little glass, looked the Duro straight in the eye, and smiled coldly. "What I wan," she slurred, "is for you to push off and let me drink in peace. Unnerstan?"

Kappa stared back at the girl, his features unreadable. Then he dropped a few coins on the table, thumbed his hoverseat to life, and glided out of Fi's sight and awareness.

Fi set back to work picking up her drink.

[I. J. Thompson]

"Wake up."

The table shuddered from the sharp impact, causing the side of Fi's face to bounce painfully off its surface. She opened her eyes only slightly, reluctantly, corneas burning under the glare of the chamber's not-terribly-bright lights. Around her, the portside bridge of Mull Station spun dizzyingly, dangerously.

The formidable hunk of flab who stood above her appeared impervious to the relentless spinning, though his expression painted the picture of a man who was anything but pleased.

"If you're quite finished stinking up my bridge," the obese crimelord announced, his voice a dozen hammers inside Fi's head, "It's high time we see you off."

Fi tried dazedly to get a grip on her surroundings, to put a stop to the spinning. How long had she been here, in her employer's audience chamber/bridge? How long since her conversation with Kappa had taken place? Hours? Days? Time, for Fiola Shaku, had lost much of its meaning recently.

"Obar, you sunovagun..." Fi mumbled, trying to be charming. Failing. "I'm justa be sleepin' for a bit... I'm nuh botherin' nobody..."

"You're bothering me, wretch!" Mull answered her harshly. "Due to your recent excursion, I've lost a valued entertainer... and gained a worthless, slobbering drunk in exchange. That is a bad trade, do you understand?"

Fi didn't appear to be listening. "Shhh..." she replied with a sad grin. "I'm jus gonna sleep a lil more..."

Obar, chubby fists resting on giant hips, shook his head in disgust. "Not on my station, you're not. Lads."

Fi felt her stomach flip-flop as she was hoisted into the air by two of Obar's cronies, who carried the girl closer, but not too close, to the massive criminal.

"Ever since I was kind enough to have my people retrieve you from the jaws of death," Obar Mull said, "you've nearly drunk me dry, and done nothing in return but take up space. I simply cannot abide useless people."

"I'm fff..." Fi tried to reply, but forgot what she was saying as she was saying it.

"I want you off this station. At once. Incidentally, I had your Dawncaller restocked and made spaceworthy, back when we brought you in. You can count yourself lucky on that score," he scowled. "Had I known what you were going to turn into, I'd not have bothered."

Obar looked down at the deck, doing his best to hide his disappointment. He'd really liked Fi.

"If you can somehow find a way to make yourself useful again, I may - oh, for..."

The fat man felt his fists clench as he looked again at the girl, who had passed out entirely in the hands of his two heavies. She hadn't heard a word.

"Get her out of here."

[I. J. Thompson]

The rhythms of the ship couldn't be called comforting, but they were at least constant. The steady basso thrum of the engines, currently idling. The counterpoint tick, tick, tick of something within the inner workings of the refrigeration unit. The gentle tones of a Sakiyan wind chime, intentionally hung too near the air circulator by Inex Jonn, now dead, back when the craft had been called the Skalen II... before it had been renamed the Dawncaller.

Dawncaller.

Fiola listened to the sounds, alone here in the crew lounge, just as she had done for the last couple of hours. The vessel was, once again, floating inert here in The Whirl nebula like so much stellar debris. Of course, it was only a matter of time before patrols from nearby Mull Station arrived to run her off. But for now, Fi was alone, and the galaxy was quiet.

Yet, not quiet enough.

She sat there, in the near-quiet, staring blankly at the lounge table in front of her. Two objects rested upon it. At her left hand, a freshly-prepared mug of piping hot spiced tea. Her favourite kind, untouched. At her right, her blaster pistol, lying on the table like a lump of stupidity. Obscenely, one of the only objects in the galaxy that could make good on the promises it made.

And of course, the sounds around her.

Fi reached out a hand. It was her left hand, still bandaged, and with it she picked up the cup of spiced tea, feeling its heat through both the cup and her bandages. She watched the steam rise, and breathed in its vapours. Then, slowly, she turned the cup over, spilling its contents across the table. Blankly, she watched the tea spread outward from the point of impact, swirls of steam dancing across its surface. Some of the liquid approached her side of the table, spilling off the edge and into her lap, soaking through her pants. It felt hot.

Fi put the cup down. That was tea. She picked up the blaster in her right hand and pressed it against her cheek, lining up the barrel with the centre of her skull. Tea would go where tea would go, but the contents of the blaster would travel exactly where Fi intended them to.

Simplicity.

Silence.

She sat there, for a time, blaster pressed against her cheek. Then she put the weapon down, staring at it. It didn't know what purpose she'd asked it to serve. It didn't know anything. It simply lay there, waiting to be fired in any one of a billion different directions.

By someone braver than she.

Fi sat for a time, thinking thoughts of her own. Then she rose from the lounge seat, pushing cup and weapon off the table and onto the cold deck plating, and walked briskly toward the Dawncaller's cockpit.

[Fingon]

“I still think we should have gotten the model with a nav unit. These streets are more confusing than Nar Shadda, and trust me, Nar Shadda ain’t a walk in the park.”

“We’ll be fine, Bear. They were going to charge 70 credits for it, and besides, we don’t need it. I know the city.”

And indeed he did. Junction had been the closest thing to home the man named Dante had known since the academy. Ten years ago, that had been. Afterward, from planet to planet, trying to forget the lessons Imperial training had taught him. Finally he had come here. Not a luxurious location by any stretch of the imagination, but there was always work for a physician, and after a few years it started to feel like home. Until some false allegations from a second rate Imperial investigator came; then it was all over. Again. It had not mattered in the slightest that the charges were flagrantly fabricated, the Empire needed to make an example of “Rebel sympathizers” and shut down his practice. Then it was off to Boz Pity to get away from things. . . Dante batted away the thought as he would a stinging insect.

Then everything went wrong.

But this was a new start, or so he had told himself a thousand times. A fresh beginning. A clear record, one which he needed to keep clean. Where he could avoid any conflict with the Empire that had taken everything he held dear.

But how he longed to even the score. Revenge. . . it gnawed at his bones and haunted his dreams. It consumed his thoughts until he drowned his rage with wine, then it left for a while. But it always found its way back. There was no reason or method in it; he just wanted to hurt what had hurt him.

Taking in a deliberate, deep breath, Dante eased his white-knuckled fingers into a relaxed grip on the speeder’s controls. Not now, he thought¸ I can’t think of this now. He fixed his eyes on the serpentine path ahead of him, navigating from memory. It was just a few klicks more to where they were staying; the crewmen were already in the clinic, they had a week to stay here. First, to the hotel. There was a side street right here that would cut off a few minutes. He’d been on it a thousand times, it was right where-

Too late, Dante realized his mistake. That he had been on this street a thousand times was no exaggeration. He considered throwing the speeder into a hard turn and retreating back the way they had come, but he kept his course steady. He wanted to see this.

The speeder brought him over the familiar bends and dips in the road. He saw the new high rise some hopeful company had installed a few years before, the factory which had been abandoned for as long as anyone could remember, the marshy field that the local children loved to muddy themselves in, the hideous housing development that sat right on the corner, and then. . . there it was. Humble, one story with a basement, walls that used to be blue, double doors crafted with a coreworld decor, the pathetic tree that should have died decades ago still putting out new, feeble growth. It was all there.

My house.

Except now the windows were tinted and there was an eviction notice printed in bold letters on a sign by the road.

“Hey, what’re we slowing down for? We making a stop here?”

Dante quickly throttled the speeder up to velocity. “No, I just thought I saw something I recognized.”

[I. J. Thompson]

The planet was here, pretty much right where she'd left it.

Fiola felt the ship shudder a few times as the hyperdrive disengaged, then she started the sublight engines and sped the Dawncaller toward the brightly-coloured ball that hung in the void outside the cockpit glass. How little the world had changed, in six-or-so long months. How completely Fi herself had changed in the same time. She thought back to her life before it all. Before him. She tried, at least. It was someone else's life, not her own. And somewhere back down the trail, it had already ended.

The orbital station was nowhere to be seen, though of course it might have been on the other side of the world. Fi was unconcerned. She expected no resistance, and she found none.

The globe's flat colours became peaks and valleys as Fi brought the Dawncaller into the atmosphere. The ship's computers held no topographical data on the planet, and of course there were no settlements. Fi engaged the sensors, setting their search parameters for metals, electronics, radiation. The sensors were quick in returning a result; across the entire world, there was only one such signature.

The ship flew over wide, swaying fields and through verdant canyons, while indigenous creatures looked up, startled by unexpected mechanical sounds. The Dawncaller then entered a valley, and Fi's heart leapt into her throat as she saw, wedged into the earth below, the marker she'd been looking for.

It was a ship. Or had been, some would say. It lay on one side, crashed and unsalvageable. The earth and foliage around it were scorched, as was the mile-long divot it had created in the earth behind it as it had skidded to its final resting place.

The Destiny's Light. The name seemed almost funny, now.

Fi brought the Dawncaller down at the edge of the clearing, near the derelict. She then sat motionless in the pilot's chair for a time, thinking. Her solution lay here, and was indisputable. Nothing would change it. Maybe that was why she hesitated. But the time for hesitation was done.

The ship's boarding ramp lowered, and Fi strode down it. Already she felt her hair grow heavy and her clothing begin to stick as the humidity enveloped her. Around her, the breeze whispered through flowers and trees of brilliant reds, oranges, and purples. A bird called in the distance, an anonymous greeting. It was, then and now, the most beautiful place Fi had ever seen.

Burista.

Fi walked further into the clearing, a stand of gaily-coloured jungle foliage on one side, the broken hulk of the Destiny's Light on the other. Tam had crashed it

don't don't don't don't

Tam.

Tam had crashed it. He hadn't been a good pilot. He'd survived, though, as had Fi and the other passengers. He'd survived. It had taken more than a starship crash to kill Tamander Dawncaller.

It had taken Fi to do it.

Fi turned her eyes from the Destiny's Light, and toward the gathering rain clouds. It often rained here. That, she could depend on. Among other things.

Fi sat down in the tall grass, cross-legged, and inhaled deeply. The air was, again, impossibly sweet. Fi sucked the scent in greedily, hungrily. It coursed into her lungs, and from there her bloodstream, where it was already working its peculiar brand of magic. Fi enjoyed the sensation as much as she could.

For she was finally going to pay the price. She'd been unwillingly rescued from the cold of space. And her blaster, simple instrument of death that it was, had a trigger she'd found herself unable to pull. But now, the decision was out of her hands - and anyone else's, as well. In two or three hours, the magic of Burista's unique flora would begin to take hold. The frightening, exhilarating whoosh-ing sound would return to her ears, and her blood would run hot. She would forget the difference between right and wrong, and would become slave to her new lustful, carnivorous programming. A few more hours after that, Fi supposed, and her mind would be completely eradicated. She would live out her final hours as a mindless predator, likely to be consumed by one of Burista's larger ones. It was the law of the jungle.

She cried a little. She thought about Tam. She wondered if she would meet him again.

The clouds continued to gather, as distant thunder echoed and little drops of rain began to fall. Fi opened her eyes and looked at the beauty of it all. It was a relatively good way to go, considering.

From between the sparse raindrops, an object approached. It was not, thank the Force, a man, come to save her. It was just a shape. A circle. Small, white. Floating. It came nearer, and chirped weakly.

Fi blinked in surprise, and rose to her knees in the tall grass. The object, the creature, came closer. Barely larger than her fist, hair matted and beginning to soak in the coming rain, it looked at Fi hopefully and chirped again.

"Muh..." Fi stuttered. "Mr. Mace?"

The creature squealed slightly, and floated eagerly into her grasp. Fi held the fabool gently, examining him. Mr. Mace appeared to be his old friendly, docile self. Clearly, the effect of Burista's plants and flowers had no effect on him. Malnutrition certainly did, though, as the little creature was noticeably lighter and bonier than Fi remembered him, and considerably less buoyant. Mr. Mace, her deceased love Tam Dawncaller's former pet, cooed happily at being held.

Fi laughed despite herself, in the now pouring rain.

"Well, come on then, little fella," she said, and stood up. Turning, she began walking through the tall grass, toward the Dawncaller.

"Let's get the hell outta here and find you something to eat..."

[Ice Hawk]

Reil winced as the harsh light of the setting sun stung his eyes. He tried to ignore it as he drove towards his parents’ estate, but he badly wished for a pair of sunglasses. Cali snored gently, asleep, and head resting against the passenger side window. Zealos glanced in his rear view mirror at Stephen in the back seat.
“You know it’s convenient that showed up when you did. I was worried that I was gonna have to look for you. For all I knew you we’re going to spend all day with what’s her name. . .”

Stephen groaned from the back seat, nursing his head with an icepack that had melted some time ago.
“Cassandra. And maybe it’s convenient for you, but I for one do not appreciate staggering home, and up three flights of stairs, only to be absconded and thrust into the back seat of my own speeder and driven to the ass end of the county. Nor do I approve of how bright it is.”

Zealos shrugged, mostly from habit though, as Stephen was lying down and couldn’t see him.
“The sun is setting and we’re heading west. When we get home, I’ll write a very sternly worded letter to the ball of hydrogen on your behalf. In the meantime, I suspect you could improve your attitude by reflecting on how lucky you are that I waited for you at all, rather than just hotwiring the damn thing myself.”

Stephen hauled himself up into a sitting position.
“I don’t believe you could hotwire a speeder.”

“Maybe, maybe not” Zealos conceded, “But I could still smash a window and splice some wiring to pass the time.”

Stephen laid back down and groaned.
“Point taken.”

After a few minutes, Stephen broke the silence.
“Have you thought about what you’re gonna tell dad?”

“You mean about me taking off, and leaving him in the lurch?”

Stephen grunted an affirmative.

Zealos sighed.
“I don’t s’pose what I say will have much effect on how he reacts.”

Stephen shifted to get more comfortable.
“I suspect you might be right. But that didn’t answer the question.”

The rest of the drive proceeded in silence, but Steve’s question preyed on Reil’s mind, and even as he pulled up the drive way, he still lacked a satisfactory answer.

[mack jace]

The stars in the sky were the same, they were always the same. It seemed like they never moved, even though Captain Gordon Antew knew better. Being stuck in an Imperial Star Destroyer for weeks on end, in one spot, in the middle of space tended to cause people to start to consider the galaxy around them. But Antew merely pondered his own role in the galaxy. The son of several high-ranking Imperial supporters, Antew had made it through the Academy only by way of his parents' influence, and wound up as Captain of the Spacewolf in much the same way.

Not to say that he was a terrible Captain, but several members of his officer corps thought they would likely do a much better job. This included Lieutenant Dyl Hartor, who was Antew's right-hand man, and also responsible for everything the Captain normally would oversee. He had a much better grasp on the tactics a naval officer should understand, and ran the drills for the crews like the instructors at the academy, and acheived results that made Antew look brilliant to the higher-ups. And so Antew got all the glory, and Hartor got nothng. But that would change.

Antew was on the bridge, milling about aimlessly as usual when the turbolift doors opened. Hartor approached him, producing a datacard with the results of the latest drills. "Captain, our fire crews have increased their accuracy by ten percent over the last drill, as well as decreased their response time. I suggest drilling them again within the week to ensure the continuation of such a performance."

Antew took the datacard absentmindedly, "Excellent work Lieutenant. I trust you to take care of that, as usual."

As usual is right, you worthless slimeball, Hartor thought. "Yes, Captain, it would be my pleasure." His face revealed none of the emotions that lay beneath.

As Hartor turned to resume his duties elsewhere, the sensor operator caught his attention, "Sir, we have a mark on bearing two-five-nine, sensors indicate a medium transport, with a transponder reading of Widowmaker." Hartor looked at the sensor board, which showed a ship no bigger than a YT-1300. Another crew member shouted out, "Sir, the transport is hailing us!"

Antew looked to Hartor for his next move, and Hartor nodded to the comm officer. On the holoprojector a being appeared, a human male, approximately twenty-five standard years old. His hair, which fell about shoulder length, was pulled back into a sort of top-knot, and he had a beard that nearly engulfed the lower portion of his face. His voice was quiet, but it had a subtle strength behind it, the strength of a man who knew his own power. "Imperial Star Destroyer Spacewolf, this is the Warship Widowmaker of Warlord Khazad Du'ul. I am here to discuss the terms of your surrender."

[mack jace]

The bridge was deadly silent as Hartor escorted the supposed warlord for a meeting with Captain Antew. Hartor had convinced the captain that it was only one transport, with very few weapons, and even then not enough to damage the Star Destroyer. To assuage his worries, Hartor had ordered a squadron of TIEs to escort the ship in, and had detailed a squad of Stormtroopers to watch his every move. Hartor himself would ensure the captain's safety within his conference room.

As the door slid shut behind him, Hartor saw Captain Antew sitting at the far end of the table, looking slightly worried and uncomfortable at the situation he had been put in. And this is why they shouldn't put incompetent scum in charge, Hartor thought. He doesn't have a clue as to how to act, let alone what to say.

Luckily for Antew, it seemed that the guest was going to be taking charge. He was a tall man to say the least, standing nearly half a meter above Hartor, who could not be considered tiny. He carried himself with the poise of a trained noble, though his features belied experiences one could only see in battle. A scar, tiny but noticeable, ran from the right corner of his nose to the middle of his right cheek, and his hands, which could only be described as massive, were scarred and calloused. His brown hair, which had earlier fell to his shoulders was now pulled up into a full top knot, giving his head the freedom of movement otherwise unavailable. His eyes darted constantly wherever he walked, taking in everything he saw, even the seeming little details. He wore armor, though not full battle-dress; the armor was tinged purple and showed as many signs of battle as the man did. His shirt underneath was jet black, with dark red markings all over. This Khazad Du'ul was a very intimidating fellow, especially where Captain Antew was concerned.

"Captain Antew," he started, "greetings. My name, as I stated before, is Khazad Du'ul, and I am here to discuss the terms of your surrender."

Antew was puzzled. "Surely you must be joking? This is an Imperial Star Destroyer! One does not simply walk in and demand its surrender!" Antew was drawing upon his upbringing as the son of an entitled bureaucrat, and his voice dripped with loathing.

Khazad Du'ul merely smiled softly. "You are correct that this is an Imperial ship, though not for long. You see, I have come here to take it over, and use her as the flagship in the fleet I am gathering. Whether this happens peacefully or not is your choice."

Now Antew was dumbfounded. Here was this young man, demanding that he, a Captain of the Imperial Navy, surrender his ship to his army of one. Incompetent or not, Antew was not about to give this man anything of the sort. "Lieutenant Hartor, send this man to the brig, he will be tried for attempted extortion against the Imperial Navy, and if he is lucky will spend the rest of his life in the bowels of Kessel!" It took him a moment to realize that Hartor hadn't moved a muscle. "Lieutenant, perhaps you didn't hear me correctly. I said -"

"I know what you said, Antew," Hartor interrupted. "I'm afraid I am unable to comply with your orders, however."

"Wh-what? What is the meaning of this?" The beads of sweat formed on Antews forehead were now visible from the other end of the room.

"You see, Captain," Du'ul explained, "I once spent some time here on the ship, under your command, for several weeks after you left dock. During my stay here, I befriended the young Lieutenant here, and brought him to my cause. And, if luck is with me and he has completed his assignments, I do believe that the majority of your crew has aligned themselves with me. Now, I think it is safe to say that the ship will effectively be under my command from this point forward, the only thing left to do is figure out what your situation will be from now on." He paused, letting Antew absorb everything. "Should you choose to, I would be more than happy to welcome you under my wing, I'm sure I can find some position for you in my new organization, otherwise we will have to figure out some other accommodation."

Antew by now was flabbergasted. He slowly stood up, trying to take all of the new occurrences in stride. As he approached the door, Hartor knocked three times, revealing several stormtroopers standing ready to escort the former captain. "I will take some time to....to think it over, Lieutenant." Hartor and Du'ul both followed the group out of the conference room toward the bridge. Halfway there, Antew suddenly reeled, bringing his elbow up to clip the trooper next to him underneath the helmet, and simultaneously producing a small blaster in his palm. He raised it, leveling the barrel at Du'ul, and pulled the trigger, all within the blink of an eye. With a snap-hiss, a silver beam of light intercepted the blast and reflected it back to the shooter. The shot hit him between the eyes, killing him instantly.

Du'ul shut down his lightsaber and turned to Hartor, who was slightly put off by the engagement. "You didn't mention that he had that," he said, a slight tinge of venom on his words.

Hartor gathered himself quite quickly, "It's hard to talk about things that you don't know exist, sir. You as well failed to mention you were a Jedi." He locked eyes with Du'ul for a few moments, until Du'ul smiled. "Well, that's a fair statement. Now you know. Come, it's time we get this ship in gear."

Once on the bridge, Du'ul activated the ship-wide comm. "Attention, this is your new Captain speaking. As I'm sure you are all aware now, we have had a change in command. I am Khazad Du'ul, Warlord, and you are now under my command. If this doesn't sit well with you, arrangements shall be made to ensure you will not interfere with my operations. I run an entirely volunteer outfit, but I will not tolerate any dissenters or opposition on my ship. I shall say this to those who may be considering leaving us. Should you leave, you will be able to return to the Empire and resume your duties. By the time you notify them of these events we shall be long gone. But if you decide to stay, I can promise you that we shall all share riches beyond your wildest imagination. And with the new fleet that I shall be gathering in time, we shall have the entire galaxy handed to us on a silver platter. I give you ten minutes to decide, anyone who wishes to leave us can do so in that time." After ten minutes passed, Du'ul activated the comm once more.

"Well gentlemen. It is this moment that history shall recognize as the beginnings of the new galaxy. It is this ship, the people upon this ship, that shall be the harbingers of a new future. I have operated my entire life on the basis that talent and merit will outweigh anything in a person or group, and this is the way this ship, and the galaxy, will be run. No more special treatment, no more entitlement. You get what you earn, that is the most basic way of the world, and that shall be the way of the galaxy. Gentlemen, we sail now into the future!"

He turned to Hartor, "Lieutenant, or should I say, Admiral Hartor, you have the conn. Make course for the Bilbringi system."

[mack jace]

The ship hummed quietly as it sped through hyperspace. Khazad Du'ul sat in the forward bridge staring out of the viewports. His face was impassive, his arms folded across his chest. To Hartor, he looked like one of the old Jedi, the ones from the holos he used to watch. It was odd, working with a Jedi, or whatever he was. Hartor knew that Du'ul knew what he was thinking, or feeling, but he always acted as if everything Hartor said was new. He treated him with respect, something Hartor wasn't used to. In the Empire, people were promoted based on who they knew, or how much money they made. Growing up on Commenor the son of merchant parents, Hartor knew little of luxury, but decided to try and make his own way in the galaxy. He bid his farewells and left to work on a trading ship. After a few months of skimming the surface with his funds, Hartor found his way to an Imperial recruiting post and signed his name on the dotted line.

And now here he was, a fugitive from the Empire in a stolen Star Destroyer. It probably wouldn't be long before the entire Navy was on their trail. And it was all because of a man named Khazad Du'ul. When Hartor first met Du'ul, in the mess hall of the ship, Hartor had had a particularly bad encounter with Captain Antew. Hartor vented to the only one who would listen, and that had been Du'ul. After, Du'ul explained to him an idea that he had, that he wanted to turn into a plan, but he wouldn't be able to do it alone. At first Hartor had laughed, thinking that the man was deranged, or an idiot, but as time went on Hartor realized he was neither of those things. And after a while, the plan started to make sense to him. So he started feeling out the rest of the crew's thoughts on their leadership, and the Empire, and he found that most of them were less than thrilled with their current assignment. With that knowledge in mind, he sent a message to Du'ul, with the words "The way is clear." With almost the entire crew behind him, Hartor had paved the way for the quietest mutiny in the galaxy.

Not that he was having any regrets at this point, though he had hoped Antew would have been able to live, but that was neither here nor there. He had done it to himself, and that was that. Now all Hartor could do was focus on the present, and the future. "Something on your mind, Admiral?" The question brought Hartor out of his thoughts.

"You tell me," he quipped. "You are, after all, the Jedi on board this ship."

"That I am," Du'ul said thoughtfully. "But I much rather hear those things coming from the person himself, as opposed to ripping it from his mind. I've found that it comes out much differently that way. Gives me a better sense of the man." Du'ul turned away from the viewports and stared Hartor in the eyes. This was becoming a more regular occurrence, where the two would look at each other, Du'ul searching Hartor's eyes and Hartor attempting to shield his thoughts. "Excellent work, Admiral. You're getting better every day. The key to retaining your own self is being able to disguise your emotions. You're quite adept at it now." Du'ul smiled, offering a handshake to the young man. Hartor took it, unable to help cracking a smile.

"I do appreciate the compliment, sir. Unfortunately I won't be happy until I can surprise you with my presence."

"Well, let me say that the day that happens will be an interesting day indeed, my friend." Du'ul paused, "Now, how are our preparations going?"

"Well," Hartor said, "We're becoming the regular pirate fleet as we speak. Flight crews have begun to, ah, customize their ships and equipment. Crew morale is at its highest since the ship left berth."

"Excellent, and what of accommodations for our future guests?"

"Well sir, that's what I was actually wishing to speak to you about. We don't know how many to expect, do we? I have made enough room for approximately fifty ships and their crews, plus about two hundred. I'm assuming we won't be having many more than that?"

Du'ul scratched his chin, "Hmm, I think that should be enough, we'll have to figure something out should there be more. In all likelihood we won't need that many spaces, but you never know. Jax Verot was always one hell of a recruiter."

"Well, in that case I'll try to make some more room, but I can't promise anything. Either way, we'll be approaching the Bilbringi system in a few hours. We should expect little resistance once there."

Du'ul smiled, "If Verot did his job, I'm sure we won't find much there at all."