Star Wars: Tapestry, Volume III

[DogSolitude]

Ban waited for Mith to regain consciousness before he hauled Mith off the shuttle floor and shoved him face down onto the navigation console, holding him forcefully with an arm lock maneuver, holding Mith’s arm behind his back. There had been some brief banging on the cockpit door as someone attempted to get inside. Ban’s troops must have failed to eliminate the other commando. “So, someone has taken an interest in our little operation here, have they?”, he said, twisting Mith’s arm even harder. “And who might that be?”, he asked.

“No one that matters to you,” Mith said, knowing the irony was lost on Ban.

“Oh, I think they do matter,” Ban replied, putting more pressure on Mith’s arm, and pressing his face in closer to Mith’s ear. “In fact, they matter a lot more to me than whether or not your limbs stay attached,” he threatened. Lifting Mith away from the console, Ban quickly slammed him back down. “Now, maybe we can have a little conversation. And don’t think you can stall while you wait for your little friend in the cargo hold. A couple of my buddies told me he won’t be joining us.” Mith remembered Bel, and assumed others must have been with Ban when he entered the shuttle. He hoped Bel had survived, but couldn’t tell if Ban was lying or not. With the blast door to the cockpit shut, there was no way either of them could be certain what was happening in the cargo hold.

Mith decided to try and catch Ban off guard. “Don’t be too sure about that, Ban Id. My friend really hates to miss parties.” He waited for a reaction.

“Wellllll.........isn’t that interesting,” Ban responded, seeming not to be thrown off by the revelation. “So you know who I am. Now I’m even more intrigued,” said Ban, smashing Mith against the console and twisting his arm yet again. “And much less patient in getting the answers I want!” Ban was angry, and he had control of the situation. Mith guessed that Ban’s temper was not something to be trifled with. Ban was frightfully strong, and, holding Mith’s arm with one hand, he put another around his throat, threatening to cut off his air. “How do you know me?” he hissed.

Struggling for air, Mith stammered, “You...killed..my..brother”. Ban’s grip lessened slightly, and Mith was able to get some needed air. Overhead, Mith could make out the sound of the Stormcrows returning to pick up Able Squad. Even if he did escape from Ban, he wouldn’t make the egress window. He was on his own.

“Your brother?”, Ban asked, a sinister curiosity in his voice. “I’ve killed a lot of people, son. Which one was your brother?” Ban’s question came with a sick sound of satisfaction.

“Coruscant....Magrail platform” Mith responded, emotions coursing through him as he recalled that day. Pain filled his mind and thoughts. “You were running from some security officers.” Mith struggled to take another breath. “Left him in a warehouse,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “You tortured him!” Mith was becoming hysterical. Ban recognized it, and enjoyed it. This was going to be more fun than he thought. He might keep this guy alive so he could have more fun with him after they took off.

“Ah...yes. The whiny outback kid who begged like a helpless nerf calf. What a waste of a boy”. Ban was relishing getting under Mith’s skin.

“You Hutt-spawn! They executed you!” Mith could not see it, but Ban’s twisted smile got bigger with each grief-stricken outburst he made.

“That would be a pretty neat trick, considering I’m still alive!” Ban hissed into his ear. “You ignorant backwater types have no clue on how this galaxy works. Money in the right pockets can change a lot of things,” he said. “Including who does and doesn’t get executed. And I assure you, my friends and I have plenty of money to put into those pockets.” So....that was it. Ban and his gang had paid off some corrupt government official, who had let them go, but reported them executed. I bet they’re all still alive, thought Mith.

------------------------------------------------------------------

The tactical team watched as one figure with friendly IFF tape exited the shuttle, and made its way toward the landing zone for egress. The second one did not emerge. As the Stormcrows returned for pick up, the tac officer relayed the message that they would be minus one on egress. All the other members of Phazer One and Two had emerged from their missions unscathed. There was no time to wait, as waiting endangered the whole team. “Plan Fynock” had been initiated. At the mark of the tac officer, the countdown started.


-------------------------------------------------------------------

Mith heard the faded whines of the shuttles as they ferried Able Squad away from the compound and toward their ditch site. He knew his time was limited. Because he had not been at the egress point, the backup detonation plan would have been initiated, and the charges were now running on timers.

Ban continued to speak. “You know...,” he said in a devilish voice. “I haven’t..” WHAM! Bam’s face rebounded off the console screen, nose broken, and blood spattering. Thrusting his hips back quickly, Mith had thrown off Ban’s balance, catching him by surprise. A quick reversal and twist of Ban’s arm had allowed Mith to drive him face first into the panel. Holding his hand on Ban’s clavicles and sternum, Mith held his surprised captor firmly in place. Stunned, Ban offered no resistance.

Ban was a man driven by power, who controlled people with fear. Mith knew this, and had allowed himself to be manhandled. Thinking he had control and that Mith was emotionally broken caused Ban to let down his guard and give out information he normally would not have. Had Mith subdued him immediately, Ban would never have given him any of the info he had wanted, even if Mith had beaten him. With time running out, though, Mith had to get control to finish his original objective. But before he could do that, he had to do something with Ban.

Years of commando experience had taught Mith to be emotionless and unfeeling. He couldn’t let his thoughts be clouded when the lives of his squadmates as well as mission success depended on his performance. But the years of pain and loss started cracking through. Mith would have to render Ban unconscious and leave him to die in the blast. He hesitated. He thought, and struggled. Memories of his brother surged through his mind as the anger coursed through him. A shriek of rage emerged from Ban’s throat as he started to resist and attempted to break free. Time’s running out, said a voice somewhere in Mith’s head. Focusing one last time on Ban’s eyes (despite the rule to “never look anyone in the eyes!” they’d taught in commando training), Mith clenched his hand around his throat. Ban’s eyes widened in fear. Somewhere, deep down, Mith enjoyed it. He wanted to make it last. But time was short. With a swift, strong squeeze, Mith crushed Ban’s windpipe and let him drop to the floor.

Mith had little time to work. Checking the data extractor, he found the transfer was complete. He pulled a small, block-shaped radio out (known unofficially as a “brick”) of his survival vest, and plugged the extractor into the data port. Getting the information it contained to Alliance intelligence was of utmost importance. Mith was going to have to exfiltrate the compound on foot, and he had no idea how long he might survive. The data needed to be transferred before he left the shuttle. With the extractor in place, he keyed in the activation code and set the radio to transmit. Over the next 45 seconds, the radio would transmit short, high energy bursts containing packets of data over a short range. To anyone monitoring the radio waves, it would appear that some clumsy hiker had accidentally activated their emergency radio burst, an event that happened frequently amongst the many would-be adventurers who visited Ancatar. Buried in the static burst wave was an encrypted code that would be detected by the drone overhead, which would retransmit the data to the tactical team. Mith set the radio down and headed to the cockpit door. He did not have time to wait for the signal to complete. The radio (and any evidence it contained) would be destroyed in the blast.

Mith deactivated the blast door lock, and opened the cockpit, heading quietly and quickly toward the exit. On the floor behind him, Ban Id Ell made a gurgling sound and died.

Peering out of the shuttle exit, Mith did a quick tactical scan of the area. Fires burned from the shuttle assault, and a few bodies lay motionless, or nearly so, around the compound. Quickly looking around the corner to the north, Mith could see the opening in the wall. Determining there were no apparent threats, and well aware of his limited time, he broke into a sprint toward the breach. He passed through the barrier unhindered, and noted that no one fired at him as he went. He hoped that was a sign that no one had sen him, and that there would be no pursuit. Immediately outside of the compound, the ground dropped away in a somewhat steep and long hill. Mith charged down as quickly and safely as he could. An inkling in his mind told him to get behind a tree and get down. Moments after doing so, the deep, muffled thumps of numerous detonations shook the ground, followed by a heavy concussive blast. Huge fireballs erupted into the night sky as structures and the shuttle gave in to the pressure of high explosive charges. Covering his ears and willing himself as low to the ground as possible, Mith could feel bits of debris start to fall on top of him. Inside a chaotic storm, Mith hoped he had gotten far enough away to survive the blast.

------------------------------------------------------------------

A muffled tone sounded in the intel officer’s headset. Checking his datapad, he noted an indicator that a secure data squirt was downloading from the drone. Phazer 2-3 had successfully initiated the transfer. Looking back at the live feed, he watched as a lone figure exited the shuttle and sprinted out of the compound. The tac officer adjusted the zoom to allow a wider angle view. The figure headed down the slope outside the north wall of the compound for about 30 seconds, then took cover, a tree obscuring him from the drone’s view. Immediately, there was a brief white flash as the drone’s low-light camera was temporarily blinded by the brightness of explosions. Filtering to near blackness, the drone feed was absent for a few moments as the initial light and heat from the blast dissipated. When it had cleared, fires could be seen burning for hundreds of meters around the compound, while a large, glowing hole emerged where the mine had been. There was no way to tell if Phazer 2-3 had survived. There was nothing the tactical team could do for him now. If he had survived, he was on his own.

The lead Stormcrow signaled their imminent arrival at the ditch point. The tac officer initiated the charges on the Mynock, blowing it into unrecognizable fragments that would ride high-altitude winds and spread over hundreds of square miles. Days later, an adventure guide would find the charred remains of the abandoned ski lodge, apparently burned down after a random lightning strike during a recent storm. Natural sinkholes off the shore of a remote coastline would conceal the crushed fuselages of the scuttled Stormcrows for decades to come.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Mith was not followed, but he took no chances. He travelled through the most dense portions of the forest, and avoided open areas. Land navigation was second nature to him, and he made good time as he made his way, and arrived in his SAFE zone 4 days later. Normally, he would remain in the Selected Area For Evasion until friendly forces could assist his escape. But there would be no help for him this time. Two days previously, a well-known transport captain had taken off from the Ancatarian spaceport in Basan with his usual, discrete load of illicit goods in a hidden compartment. He paid good money to the port master to ignore the extra weight his freighter registered, and he was paid good money by his customers to ignore the contents of the containers. In the end, he would never know that he had carried Alliance operatives off the planet, and delivered them to an undercover transport that would ferry them back to an Alliance base.

Mith had chosen his SAFE zone specifically because it was an area that he was familiar with. Preparing for this contingency, prior to the mission, he had buried some extra clothing in a small cave he’d found a few months back. After burning or burying all of his equipment, he donned the much-more-civilian attire. One other feature of the area was that a river that ran through it that was oft travelled by tour companies on rafting adventures. Executives from the Bank of Aargau were enjoying the second week of a two week rafting and camping trip when they discovered what they believed to be a tired and battered adventure guide who had been reported missing in a recent storm. They gladly allowed “Tomas” to finish the trip with them, and gave him a lift to Basan, where he reported in to his employers.

After spending a night in a local medical facility, Tomas took two days of leave to recover. He then booked one of his occasional off-planet supply runs. It would be days before the Ancatar Adventure Agency would start wondering why Tomas hadn’t returned. Within a few weeks, a new guide would be hired, and people would begin to forget about the previous guide who had seemingly disappeared.

[Dawncaller]

“Excuse me, young man,” said the commander after a long, awkward silence, “but if you could tell me what you’re looking for perhaps I could help.”

Tam ignored the officer, his eyes locked on the hologram, clicking forward one frame at a time. Every time the two figures stepped out of view, Tam would skip the footage back to their emergence. He didn’t know the taller of the two; when she rolled through the closing blast door her hair had apparently caught fire, but it was quickly put out.

And that’s when Tam would twist the frame jogger so the frames would progress most slowly, for it was Fiola Shaku who extinguished the woman’s hair and helped her to her feet so they continue running. Tam studied the face of the woman for what must have been the hundredth time, hoping to see some sign or indication that this was the Fiola Shaku, the one he knew. It had to be her, Tam could feel it. He knew what he had felt, and though he couldn’t explain it, this was Fi. The real Fi.

His Fi…

It was some time before Tam realized that the commander’s incessant chatter wasn’t directed at him any more. He looked up to see the man arguing with some subordinate. “Is there a problem?”

“As a matter of fact there is.” The man made no attempt to hide his frustration. “It appears that I’m to confirm a prisoner transfer to your ship, but I haven’t been notified of any such directive before now.”

Tam turned back to his hologram. “Neither have I.”

“Is your captain in charge of such things, then?”

Tam only offered a noncommittal shrug.

“Gunnery Chief…” the man checked his datapad, “Varnillian is reporting with her prisoner. I imagine she will be eager to take off once the prisoner is secured.”

That elicited a response from Tam. “Is this your pathetic attempt to get me to leave?”

“Not to put too fine a point on it…”

Tam rose to his feet, and turned to face the commander and his aide. “And your eagerness comes from…?”

“Frankly, I don’t understand your purpose here. You, a young boy of, what, fifteen at the oldest, march into my offices and make demands at gunpoint. If there were some official sanction for this I’d be willing to—“ The man’s diatribe ended abruptly, and he began to tug at the collar of his tunic.

“Congratulations, Commander, you have reached the end of my tolerance.” Tam focused on the assistant. “Now, if you would be so kind as to transfer all the files I reviewed onto a data chip, we’ll be on our way.”

The commander dropped to his knees, then crumpled completely prone on the floor, breathing his last. The assistant stood frozen, staring at the body of his former superior.

“Now,” said Tam, “if you please…”

**

The weather outside matched Tam’s mood: dark, dismal, and determined. The pouring rain had blasted his face as he and his entourage had ridden the speeder bikes back to the Inun. Captain Doule was waiting for him at the top of the boarding ramp.

“We were beginning to worry, Tam. Where have you been?”

Tam brandished the datachip. “Investigating.”

“And?”

“Are we ready for liftoff?”

“Yes.” The two entered the ship’s cargo area. The recently used speeder bikes were being placed back on their storage racks, and the soldiers standing near the turbolifts saluted smartly. “Will we be going directly to Dantooine, or do we need to drop your prisoner off somewhere else?” The captain’s face was inscrutable, but Tam could tell through the Force that he wasn’t sure if this prisoner was expected to survive the voyage.

“I thought the prisoner was your business.” Tam thought to add, “this time, at least. What’s his name?”

“Kal Laggert. Ever met him?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

Doule smiled. “Well, that’s a blessing. Shall we go have a look?”

The two made their way to the brig, and were greeted by Niclara Varnillian. “I’m glad you showed up when you did. We got this scumbag from a nearby crash, and we need to transport him to Bastion for processing.”

Tam ignored Doule’s explanation that the Inun wasn’t on its way to Bastion, that his ship wasn’t a taxi service, and the ensuing argument. His attention was firmly placed on the prisoner. “That man is not named Kal Laggert,” he said, feeling his already dark mood spike with alarm and incredulity, wondering if he should let Luis Santiago ever see the outside of this holding cell again…

[DogSolitude]

“Waitress!” shouted the customer impatiently.

“I’ll be with you in a moment, sir,” responded Ana. She’d been working in the tapcafe in the New Quarter of Mos Eisley for two weeks, and she already hated it. A native of Tatooine, she had hoped to make enough money to buy her way off planet and start a new life. Where that was, she had yet to decide, but she figured she could be earning money in the meantime while she thought about it.

“But I think there are bugs in my salad!” the man protested, obviously not willing to wait. While the New Quarter attracted more tourists and higher tips, it also brought wealthier patrons that were not used to waiting for anything.

Ana sighed. “Can you excuse me for a minute?” she asked the young man at the table. His hair was on the long side, and messy, and he had a scraggly, full beard. Along with his rolled up pants and sandalled feet, Ana couldn’t help but peg him as a traveling musician type. She’d seen a few around town. Trying to find gigs in cantinas and the like, no doubt. Likely broke, too.

“No worries,” then man said calmly “Take your time.” Ana smiled, grateful for the man’s patience. She hurried off to tend to the Bug Salad incident. She hated having to be friendly and apologetic to arrogant sons of banthas, but she knew that it was the best way to win their approval, and a larger tip. Of course, showing a little of her tan cleavage helped, too.

Once she’d tended to the upset salad-eater, she returned to The Starving Musician to take his order. That wasn’t really his name, but she tended to “name” her customers in her head as part of a little game to help keep her mind off of how much she disliked most of them. Unsurprisingly, he ordered an inexpensive meal and beverage. As she served other customers, Ana found herself stealing quick glances at him out of the corner of her eye. She found herself wanting to be attracted to him, but failing. Physically, he was mildly atractive (and might be much more so without the beard), and he was kind and patient, but he was too soft-spoken for her tastes. She preferred guys who were a little more take-charge. Not in a cocky way, but in a confident way. No, she thought. He’s just not what I’m looking for.

The afternoon went on and The Starving Musician remained. Ana wasn’t surprised. He’s got nowhere else to go, she thought. She began wondering if he’d stay through the evening. Approaching him to ask if he wanted a refill on his beverage, she couldn’t resist the urge to ask him. “You aren’t by chance a musician, are you?” she queried, smiling politely.

“Yes,” he replied softly. “Yes, I am.” He smiled at her nervously, not sure what she was getting at.

“Thought so,” she said.

“What gave it away?” he asked. Like it wasn’t obvious, Ana thought to herself. He doesn’t even realize he’s fits the stereotype.

“I don’t know,” she lied. “You’re more patient than most of my customers. It seems to me that musicians tend to be the more patient type. At least in this part of the galaxy.” It sounded good to her. She hoped he didn’t take offense.

“Sure,” he answered, nodding. “I can see it. You do have to be patient to learn an instrument and become good at it. It takes time and practice.” Ana breathed a sigh of relief inwardly.

“What do you play?” she asked, trying to guess in her mind what he might say.

“I play the Braemarian fife”, he replied.

“I’ve never heard of that,” Ana responded. “What is it?”

“It’s similar to other fifes,” answered The Musician. “It’s a native instrument of my home planet of Braemar”.

“Can I see it?” asked Ana, not really interested in the instrument, but enjoying talking to someone who wasn’t rude.

“Well, you see, I don’t actually have one anymore,” he responded. “I...well...I had to sell it to help buy my passage here”. He really is hard up, she thought.

“Are you looking for work here in Mos Eisley?” Ana asked, knowing what his answer would be.

“No,” he replied. Really? And I thought I had you figured out....”I’m trying to find a ride somewhere else.”

“Where are you headed?” Ana inquired. She had new customers coming in, and would have to get back to work.

“I don’t know yet”, The Musician replied with a sigh. He had a resigned look on his face. He shrugged his shoulders in a slow, sad motion. “It will come to me one way or another, I suppose”, he said.

“Well, I wish you luck,” replied Ana, feeling a bit bad for him. “Stop by again sometime, if you're ever in-system. And remember me when you make it big!” She gave him a warm smile and went to serve other customers. As she moved to another table, two Caamasi entered the tapcafe. They looked briefly for a place to sit, and eventually took up the table behind The Musician. As they sat down, one Caamasi asked the other, “He wants to go where?”

“Yes," replied the second. "Really. He is set on life as a monk, and wants to open a monastery on Dantooine".

Mith Mankar, The Starving Musician, placed two coins on his table with two audible “clicks”, then got up and exited the tapcafe. He smiled politely at Ana as he left.

[DogSolitude]

Fi had been right. The farmer who owned the land that now hosted both the Dawncaller and the Whydah indeed had a thing or two to say about the ships parked in his field. As the group watched the farmer approach in his speeder, corporal Dunn spoke up. “We’ll take care of this,” he announced, and he and Dylan walked away to speak with the farmer.

“At least they’re making themselves useful,” Reil muttered.

“Are you sure you don’t want Jyllis and me to use our feminine whiles to charm him?” Fi responded. Whether she was bitter, sarcastic, or joking was hard to tell. Reil decided not to pursue it. The events on Ord Mantell, the escape, and subsequent trip to Dantooine had worn on all of them, and no one was really in the mood to squabble. Besides, the wide, quiet expanse of the field, coupled with the quiet breeze, had a potent calming effect.

The group had watched the exchange between the Renegades and the farmer from a distance. Not able to hear what transpired, no one was certain what had been discussed. The farmer, initially upset, had seemed to calm in his demeanor. At one point, he became enraged again, but something the two rebels said calmed him back down. In the end, he left and returned to his home. Dunn had only reported that they were free to stay as long as necessary, but it would be best if they kept quiet and to themselves, and tried not to burn down the field.

Evening had passed, and Dantooine’s sun had set. The group had set up some makeshift seating arrangements around some glowplugs a few meters from their ships. Conversation had been light, and the mood was introspective, while they dined on rations from the ships’ kitchens. The rebels could tell there was much more going on than they were aware of, and that the people seated around them likely had an extensive history together, in one form or another. One thing was clear, however. Whatever they each had planned, whether individually, or as a group, contact with the rebellion was what they were waiting for next, before they continued. And so, they waited.

A few hours after dark, a speeder approached from the direction of the farmhouse. Corporal Dunn rose from his seat to go meet it, with Dylan following him. The speeder came to a stop just inside the radius of light given off by the glowplugs, and what looked like another farmer got out. This one appeared younger, and sported a mop of dark hair and a full, thick beard. The conversation was brief, and appeared to the others to be serious and intense. Kenlan, rubbing his clean-shaven chin absent-mindedly, noticed Dunn turning to look at him, the farmer’s gaze also resting on him briefly, before returning to their conversation. A few moments later, the farmer reached under his worn and faded shirt and produced a small device. He manipulated the device, then returned it to its hidden location. After a few more words, the Renegades turned and led the farmer back to where the group was seated. The farmer walked to where Kenlan was seated.

“Kenlan?” he asked. The farmer wasn’t imposing, but spoke with the quiet confidence of someone who knew what he was doing.

“Yes,” replied Kenlan, rising to meet the man.

“My name’s Mith,” the man said. “Mr. Dunn tells me you have a message to for the rebellion.”

“Well...yes,” said Kenlan. “I’ve already explained it to him. Do I need to explain it to you, too?”

Mith laughed. “No. Not me,” he responded, a smile on his face. “But I do know someone who would like to talk to you about it.”

Before Kenlan could ask who that might be, the sound of a rapidly decelerating transport filled the air. The dark, unlit shape of an assault transport settled quickly to the ground in the shadows about 50 meters away. As the repulsorlifts whined to a quiet idle, a ramp dropped open, revealing a dark ramp.

“That would be him in there,” Mith said.

[Ubiqtorate]

The figure at the top of the ramp was a hulking felinoid specimen, perhaps just shy of two meters in height. Most of his orange fur was covered by a plain brown uniform with the insignia of the Rebel Alliance on the bulging shoulders.

"I am Captain Amur, leader of Alpha Squadron of Barthok's Brigade," he announced in fluent, if slightly practiced and formal, basic as he descended the ramp. "I presume you are Kenlan As-Buka?"

"The same," confirmed Kenlan. He had approached the edge of the ramp, but stood firmly on the ground, daring to go no further until he could be sure the captain's razor sharp fangs wouldn't develop a taste for washed-up con artists.

"Corporal Dunn informs me that you have information vital to the Alliance," prompted Amur.

"Yes," replied Kenlan. "Captain, I can give you few assurances beyond my own word, but you must believe me, I implore you."

"That depends on what tale you would tell," qualified Amur.

Kenlan nodded. It was the best he could hope for, given the circumstances. "Are you familiar with what took place some time ago on Owara?" he asked.

Amur spat on the ground. "Yes, another senseless victim of the Empire's cruelty," he cursed. "How many more worlds must fall?"

"With your help, Captain, I intent to be sure that this world is not one of those," replied Kenlan.

"How do you mean?"

"The fleet responsible for the destruction on Owara," continued Kenlan. "We - my...companions and I - have reason to believe that the same fleet is on its way here."

"And what evidence would you present?"

"We encountered them in orbit over Ord Mantell," explained Kenlan. "The entire fleet converged on us, and on one of our members in particular. I believe that the commander of the fleet will stop at nothing until he finds this member of our party."

"Why would he pursue you with such singular focus?"

"We each have a...history with the commander."

White teeth flashed in Amur's mouth. "You are associates of the Butcher of Owara?"

"Easy!" retorted Kenlan, his hands in the air. "He wasn't always a butcher, you know. When we all knew him, he was just a boy."

"That must have been a very long time ago."

"Not actually," replied Kenlan. "You see, Captain, your 'Butcher of Owara' is in fact still just a boy. A boy named Tam Dawncaller. Raised here on Dantooine, in fact."

"And so you lure him back here?"

"Yes," confirmed Kenlan. "Despite the atrocities he has committed, I believe he is still just a boy. If I can get him to come back here, to a familiar place, then I believe we can bring back the boy."

"Your story is...implausible," admitted Amur, "but the risks are too great to ignore your tale. Boy or no, the Butcher of Owara must be stopped. What would you request of the Alliance?"

"Time," replied Kenlan. "And support. He will come to us, that I am sure of. You must engage his fleet, but you must allow the commander to land. We will deal with him ourselves. At best, we can turn him back to our side. At worst..." Kenlan trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

"If he cannot be turned," continued Amur for him, "he must be destroyed."

Kenlan nodded. "And Captain, there's one more thing," he added.

Amur stood quietly, waiting for Kenlan to continue.

"No matter what anyone calls me, you need to understand that I am no Jedi," admitted Kenlan.

"A curious request," replied Amur. "Then what are you?"

"I am no Jedi," repeated Kenlan firmly, "just as Mith here is clearly no farmer."

Amur regarded the pair carefully. "Very well," he said finally before bending over to scoop Kenlan's hand into his massive right paw. "Welcome to the Rebellion."

As Amur turned and marched back up the ramp, Kenlan looked back down at his own hand. "Great," he muttered. "Just great."

[Dawncaller]

“Tell me,” said Tam, not turning away from the prisoner in the holding cell, “why is he unconscious?”

“He resisted containment,” offered Gunnery Chief Varnillian, “and had to be stunned. I suggest we keep him in this state for the duration of our journey to Bastion.”

Tam could sense the consternation of the man behind him. Captain Doule didn’t like how Varnillian had attempted to commandeer the Inun, but he seemed to have spoken his peace on the matter, and had apparently resolved himself to disappointing her. Additionally, Doule exuded a growing anxiety that had only manifested once before: when Tam had taken an interest in a prisoner.

“Thank you, Chief. I assure you we will maintain utmost security with your quarry.” Tam turned and handed a datacard to one of the brig guards. “Please show our guest to an available guest suite.” After a brief glance, sizing up Tam and Doule, Varnillian followed the guard to her quarters.

It wasn’t until they were alone that Doule opened his mouth to speak, and Tam silenced him with an uplifted hand. “Let me assuage your fears. I have no intention of traveling to Bastion, nor do I wish any immediate harm on Doctor Santiago.”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to you doing that,” said the captain with a rueful shake of his head. “But you do know this man?”

“I do. It seems the Force is determined to set in my path acquaintances from my past. I foresaw this, and foresaw the threat that they pose to me, but so far I’ve failed to eliminate that threat.” Tam looked on Doule gratefully. Had it not been for his subterfuge, Tam would eventually have brought a fatal end to Zealos Reil’s painful torture, and the slave girl Cali would have met a similar fate. He couldn’t deny the same urge to dispatch Luis Santiago, but he also couldn’t deny his encounter with a ship called the Dawncaller above Ord Mantell. Fi had been on that ship, and if it hadn’t been for that second craft—the Whydah, it was called—the musician would be in this brig as well, and Tam could finally get some answers. Tam found that he wanted answers more than to eliminate threats or anything else.

“I know I haven’t always expressed it, Captain, but I appreciate your efforts during our time together. If not for you, I may have lost sight of my purpose.”

Doule kept his features professional, but he couldn’t hide the emotion welling in his eyes. “I fulfilled my duty, Tam. I must admit I hope for an explanation of all that’s happened.”

“As do I, Captain. Inform the squad to set a course for Dantooine.”

“The Obstructor’s gravity well generators are still disabled. And while the Inun is spaceworthy, our defensive systems are barely operational.”

“I doubt that will matter. If I don’t get the answers I’m looking for, the firepower of the rest of the squad should be sufficient to end this once and for all…”

---

“If I may just say, milord,” said High Inquisitor Tremayne, standing beside Darth Vader as the two imposing figures towered above the bridge crew of the Executor, “why are we persisting in this wild bantha chase?”

Vader brandished an accusatory figure as though it were a lightsaber. “You have either falsely claimed credit for the creation of Morning Star Squad, or you are now attempting to distance yourself from your subversive private fleet. In either case you are trying to hide your treachery, and in either case the Emperor will not be pleased with my report.”

Tremayne threw his hands up in a plea of innocence. “But milord, I’ve told you everything!”

“Which is why you are given the opportunity to cooperate in the apprehension of the boy you call Tam Dawncaller. You will help me in my search or you will pay the price for standing in my way…”

[Fingon]

All the other boys formed a circle around him, their uniforms stained with the blue-green grass. They stared, their eyes wide with the horror that he felt. The screams in his chest tried desperately the claw their way out, but he couldn’t make any sound at all besides a small whimper as hot tears streaked down his face. His uniform wasn’t grass-colored any more. Neither were his hands, splattered crimson from when he tried to stop the bleeding. And his leg was all the wrong way, and he couldn’t move it, and it all hurt so much.

I’m going to die, the boy thought. He curled up as best he could into a ball, shuddering at the pain shooting up his side. Oblivion kept calling as his lifeblood seeped out of him and spilled onto the torn field. “No,” he sobbed, squeezing his eyes shut. “No, no, no, no.”

“Luis!” cried a booming voice. His father’s voice. That was good, at least. He’d see his dad one last time before the void took him. Little Luis squinted his eyes open in time to see the upside-down image of his father pushing his way through the ring of his teammates, a medical droid en tow.

Mr. Santiago knelt down besides Luis. Does father know how to do the last rites?

“Mi hijo, look at me. Can you hear me?”

Luis managed to nod weekly. He felt his father’s hands gently pressing on his neck, his chest, his good leg. “Does any of this hurt?” Luis shook his head.

The droid wheeled itself over, its many-jointed limbs dangling over Luis’s face. He heard a gentle whirring sound. “The patient has suffered from a compound fracture of his tibia, but otherwise appears unharmed. No spinal damage. He is safe to transport. Please allow me to place him on a trolley.”

“No, I’ll carry him,” Mr. Santiago said, wrapping his arms around his boy.

Luis tried to fight his father’s grasp. He was in his off-duty uniform, the one he always kept clean. He’d get it all dirty, and then he would be mad. He tried to escape, to tell his father he’d rather have the droid take him, to call for help.

Instead all he could do was cry as his father held him close . . .


~~~


Kal moaned as the sedatives began to wear off. His leg still hurt, but so did his chest. And his face. He didn’t remember getting hit there; it had just been his leg when he and Rober had both gone for the ball . . .

Wong time and wrong name, Santiago, Kal reminded himself. Though wouldn’t it be nice. Apparently his captors had dumped him face-first on the cell’s bench, which explained the pain in his face. The ache in his chest was probably the stun blast, and the legs. . . honestly he had no idea at this point. Pushing himself up and sitting gingerly, he hoped that Varnillian hadn’t left him any other corporal surprises.

He heard the speakers crackle. “I was hoping you’d come to before I had more pressing matters to deal with,” said a distorted, oddly familiar voice.

Kal quickly surveyed his cell. Just a bench and a toilet, no bed, and no one-way transparasteel, which meant a camera. No visible door either. Maximum security. “I’d be more than happy to go back to sleep,” Kal said, backing away from where he thought the door might be. “I wouldn’t want to distract you from whatever ‘pressing matters’ you may have.”

Something resembling a snort came over the intercom. “I don’t think so, Santiago. I want answers, and you’re going to give them to me.”

Kal froze. “How do you know that name?” There was no way to trace him. His retinal patterns, fingerprints, facial patterns, they were all altered. All connections between his previous life and the next . . . dozen or so . . . severed. To protect his friends.

“Come on now, Luis, you gave it to me. Don’t you remember?”

Someone I served with? From the academy? A superior? Wait, did I talk while I was out? What did I say?

“Just some incoherent rambling about your leg hurting. Nothing interesting. Unfortunately.”

Luis backed up to corner, looking for anything he could use to defend himself. There was nothing, of course. What’s going on here? They must have me under, some sort of subconscious interrogation.

“No, Luis, this is quite real. Let me show you.” A section of the far wall retracted silently and a short, uniformed officer stepped into the cell. Young, far too young. It was—

“Tam? Tamander Dawncaller?” He was taller than Luis remembered, with his hair cropped short and in Imperial gray, but it was Tam. Luis abandoned his fighting stance and ran to the boy, the first smile he’d worn in months twitching at his lips. “You’re alive! What are you doing here? Where are—”

His words and breath were cut short as an invisible wall slammed into his chest, throwing him backward. “That’s close enough, doctor,” Tam said, lowering his outstretched arm. “And I’ll be the one asking questions here.”

Luis coughed, coaxing air back into his lungs. Sith . . . what’s happened to you, Tam?

The boy took a step forward, pointing one menacing finger. “What’s happened to me? You’re not really one to ask, are you, ‘Kal Laggert?’ Not after you cut your losses and ran.”

“I did it to protect you!” Luis said, helping himself up with the bench.

The boy he knew as Tamamder snarled, his face a mask of cold hate. “You left us all for dead, you filthy coward!”

Luis took a slow breath and looked the boy dead in the eye. “No Tam. They started chasing Tey and myself first. That’s how you all got wrapped up in this tapestry of schemes and death. If you really can look into my thoughts, look now. I did it for you.” And for her.

Tam began to laugh. Short, mirthless barks which sent shivers down Luis’s spine. “Why didn’t I see it sooner? Of course you would be in league with her too.”

The boy’s snapped, Luis realized, watching Tam’s wild eyes roll up toward the ceiling as the boy continued to laugh that cold, empty laugh. The Empire got him, broke him. And now he’s wearing a uniform and being used like any other tool.

Tam’s gaze snapped back to Luis. “I am not anyone’s tool!” the boy bellowed, raising up both arms. Luis felt an unseen grip around his throat and on his back, forcing him to his hands and knees. “Not yours, or Doule’s, or the Emperor himself!” The pressure grew stronger with each punctuated word. Luis doubted that his trembling limbs could hold him up much longer. “Not even Fi’s. Now, what was she doing here?”

Luis grasped at his neck, but there was nothing to fight against. “I don’t . . . know . . . what you’re talking about.”

“Liar!” Tam shrieked. Luis felt the ground fall out from underneath him. He flailed for a moment, suspended in the air, and then was thrown back against the wall of his cell, his feet half a meter from the ground. “First that Zealos and his slave girl, then her, and now you. An amazing set of coincidences, don’t you think? Don’t think I can’t see through your pathetic designs. Now tell me! Why was she here and what are you planning?”

Tears stung at Luis’s eyes as his bones began to creak and protest against the strain. “Tam . . . I didn’t even know any of you . . . were alive. I’ve been trying . . . to find you.”

Tam paused. “Why?”

“Because . . . I care . . . about you.”


~~~


“Sir, the Inun is breaking orbit,” called the comm officer from his post. She says that they’re headed out of the system.”

The general gritted his teeth and gripped the datapad he was reading. “Who authorized that?”

The officer typed several commands into his console. “I don’t know, sir,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m only getting that it’s on priority matters.”

“Figure it out. Now.” The general rose from his seat, walking to the far side of the Pulsar’s bridge. “Lieutenant, stall them. Hit them with every procedure and protocol in the book.”

“Yes sir,” Lt. Matthews replied, picking up his headset.

“Sir, they’re not responding,” called the comm officer. “Ignoring our hails completely now.”

“Make them respond!”

“Sir, they’re headed on a trajectory for hyperspace along with a fleet of ships. They’ll be gone in five minutes.”

The general balled his hand into a fist. “Everyone, full alert. I want everything we know about that ship, who commands it, and where it’s going. And we’re going to bring it back.”

The comm officer swiveled around in his chair. “Sir, it looks like they have proper clearance. From what I can tell, all we can tag them on is failing to deliver a prisoner. And if I may, why the sudden interest?”

General Santiago took his chair again, scratching at his gray beard. “That prisoner is mine to interrogate. And don’t worry, I have a few people who owe me a favor.”