Saga - OT Stars In Their Multitudes, Book I: Entrapment

Author: rktho
Title: Stars In Their Multitudes, Book I: Entrapment
Era: Early OT era, spanning 27 BBY-11 BBY
Characters: Original characters: Com Narcom, Koss, Kaltha, Leela, Tarkay, Mrs. Tarkay
Genre: Drama
Summary: Convicted thief Com Narcom meets a kindly former Jedi, he is given an opportunity to turn his life around. Shortly thereafter, single Twi'lek mother Kaltha places her daughter Leela in the care of two Weequay innkeepers, the Tarkays. But as the Tarkays demand more and more from her in return, she struggles to make ends meet. Meanwhile, Narcom has vanished, and Imperial inspector Koss is convinced that the prime minister of Montal is not what he seems.
Notes: This 5-part series is a reboot of another story that was never finished. I hope readers of that story will enjoy this version even more.

———

The Galactic Republic was a government that championed equality and justice above all else. In the grand and glorious Galactic Senate, there was no species in the known galaxy that was not represented with a fair and equal voice, and oppression was not tolerated by the Republic in any capacity. Even outside the known galaxy, beyond its own borders, the Republic was a swift and impartial arbiter of justice. When the belligerent Bitthævrians threatened the primitive Kaleesh, the Republic supplied them with the weapons to defend themselves, and when the savage Kaleesh attempted to conquer the industrious Yam’rii, the Republic swiftly came to their aid and forced the Kaleesh to stop their destruction and make reparations. Under such a responsive and undiscriminating system, discontent was unfathomable. The Republic was a paragon of justice, a perfect system without flaw.

No one believed more staunchly in the Republic’s perfection than Koss.

There are rare species in the galaxy that have the ability to alter their appearance to mimic that of other species and individuals. These are commonly referred to as changelings, or shapeshifters. The Clawdites of Zolan are one such race. For some time now, the Clawdite home planet has largely been irradiated beyond habitability, save for a scant number of hardy animal species that survive by the will of the Force alone. Even for the Clawdites, whose shapeshifting abilities evolved as a result of the original radiation flare, only small pockets of the planet are livable, necessitating an exodus of the excess population. Unable to return to their native world, these children of Zolan are spread throughout the larger galaxy. Despite this, however, the sight of one is rare. They are generally distrusted by others because of their unique disguise capabilities, often associated with spies and assassins. For this reason, many Clawdites do not appear to outsiders in their true forms, though maintaining this mask requires a great deal of effort. When they do entrust their actual appearance to a non-Clawdite, they are often rewarded with a place on a watchlist, or, if especially fortunate, a personal visit from the galactic security bureau.

In a Republic prison on the watery moon of Trolorn, an egg was laid by a Clawdite inmate which was kindly placed in the custody of the prison staff. The child that hatched shortly thereafter was assigned the designation of Koss. His mother, being a convicted criminal, was not deemed fit to raise him, and therefore the task of his upbringing fell to the state. From the state Koss received an education, and from that education he gathered that his kind were enemies of society. Being confined to a prison from infancy, Koss saw firsthand the treatment that enemies of society rightfully deserved, and resolved that he would never be one of them. When he reached adulthood he became a prison guard.

In the year 7939 on the frontier world of Hugo Minor, a certain man was sentenced to five years in prison for the theft of a meiloorun fruit— three for the crime itself, and two for resisting arrest. An escape attempt lengthened his sentence by three years, a second attempt by five. This second attempt was not only met with a lengthened sentence, but a transfer to a higher-security facility. That is how, in the year 7950, eight years before the formation of the Empire, the prison guard known as Koss became familiar with the convict by the name of Com Narcom.

Narcom was a large and intimidating man, and by the time he arrived on Trolorn he possessed a wild, prematurely greying beard and pale skin so ashen it almost matched, giving him a haunted countenance. From the moment Koss saw Narcom, he felt a strange connection to him. Something that whispered that he and Narcom were the same in some unknown way. It was not a connection he could describe, but it rankled him to no end to feel any sort of kinship with a convict, and so, though they almost never spoke, Koss reserved for Narcom a place of deep loathing.

The time between Narcom’s arrival and his next escape attempt was short. Impressively, the time between his breakout and recapture was not.

Koss stood dutifully at the door of the parole room, bulbous eyes fixed straight ahead. The warden, a stern-jowled man by the name of Canady, sat at an elevated position with his brows drooped low and his fingers laced together on the table. Two others sat at his left and right in similar fashion. Aside from the tribunal bench, the only other furnishing was a chair in the center of the room directly below the singular glowpanel, giving the small room the appearance of being unnecessarily spacious.

The doors whooshed open and the prisoner was escorted in. With his shaggy head bent low, he looked like a great orange wall with the number 56632 printed on it in faded black ink. Submissive as a beaten dog, the prisoner took his place in the chair before his judges.

Koss’s lip curled. Every time Narcom was in his presence there was that galling feeling, a voice that whispered without words that he and the convict were the same. Such a thing was not and could never be true. In any respect.

The warden regarded the prisoner with a brow raised in superior contempt. “Prisoner 56632. This is your third attempted escape.”

The prisoner’s eyes were hidden beneath his thick brows.

The warden read from the datapad which lay in front of him. “During this incident, you assaulted a guard, breaking his arm and stealing his weapon. With that weapon you incapacitated three additional guards before making your way to the wall of the courtyard and jumping into the sea.”

Koss could still scarcely believe his own memory of the event. He had seen everything from the east watchtower when Narcom had made his break. Narcom, grabbing a guard by the wrist and holding him aloft until he dropped his electrobaton. Hurling the man against the wall— some ten to twelve feet away. That was when Koss realized how dangerous the convict was.

“By Republic law,” said the warden, leveling his gaze with a lifted chin, “I am required to ask whether you have anything to say for yourself.”

The prisoner’s eyes met the warden’s, stormy and grey as his hair and skin. “Thirteen years.” His bound fists clenched. “Thirteen years for a melon.”

“Twenty years,” declared the warden coldly. “Thanks to your most recent infraction.”

“My family was starving,” the prisoner snarled. But he did not utter the words with furious indignation. Rather, he hissed them, without moving, as if he had learned after so many years that his words were wasted breath. “My family was starving and you threw their sole provider into a jail cell and left them to die.”

“You really should have considered that before you broke the law, shouldn’t you?” the warden replied dryly.

The prisoner’s glare fixed itself to the floor, broken.

Koss had heard many prisoners over the years offer arguments like Narcom’s. None of them had any excuse. There was an order to things, and in that order one could find their place. If that place was prison, so be it; they had chosen it of themselves, just as Koss had chosen his. Koss did not know what he shared with this convict except that which was common to all sentients: no one deserved more than the lot that the universe allowed them. It was Koss’s accepted duty to enforce that principle. He was born for it.

The warden pulled up a datapad and stylus. “If there are any further incidents of violence,” he declared, not looking at the prisoner as he wrote, “you will not be eligible for parole. You’re going to have to learn to control that temper of yours.”

Narcom did not reply as Canady gave his signature and tapped the datapad with the stylus, formalizing the document with a beep.

There were no more escape attempts after that. At least, not by Prisoner 56632. Though there were scuffles as always, Narcom was a passive automaton when he returned from solitary confinement. There was no escape but to wait out the rest of his sentence. And so he labored alongside the other prisoners, a model inmate. Koss in particular was impressed by his work ethic. He toiled as if he had nothing else to live for.

Of course, he did have nothing. No family to return to, no friends, no promising future interrupted by his extended stint in prison. Nothing except for the possibility that, at the end of his miserable sentence, he would be given his freedom. It was worth naught save for its own sake, but that was enough.

Thunder rumbled a league or so away. The rain, however, had already arrived, soaking the deck upon which the prisoners were gathered. Descending into the docking bay was a carrier bearing an asteroid-beaten freighter in its clamps. The rain dripped in bucketloads from the sides of the vessel, soaking the inmates’ shoes before draining into the grates at their feet.

Koss observed the prisoners as they waited for the battered cruiser to dock. The ship made contact with the ground with a dull but resonant thud, echoing the distant thunder. The prisoners wheeled stair platforms against the vessel, and went to work dismantling the ship.

Com Narcom gripped the slick support rails as he ascended the platform with a blowtorch on his belt, which he drew once he reached the top. A sentry droid floated past, making sure he was putting his tool to proper use.

None of the prisoners looked at the guards observing them, keeping their heads low as they worked to repair the ship. Two symphonies played a counterpoint duet— the instruments of nature being the gongs of thunder, the rattling of the rain, the clapping of the waves, with only the whistling of the wind to give melody to the excess of percussion; the music of the inmates being comprised of the falsetto hum of electrosaws, the clanging and clinking of hamers, the twisting wrenches groaning and screeching like kloo horns on fluctuating settings. Immediately to the left of Com Narcom, a Klatooinian gave lyrics to the cacophony in growled Huttese:

Stuka doompa, stuka doompa
Hagwa stuka ta hoohah
Stuka doompa, stuka doompa
Unko uba nee choo,

And in lieu of a final syllable he would spit, quite forcefully, to approximate a rhyme, which would make his green leathery jowls quiver. At the third repetition of this verse, Narcom’s shaggy, sopping head whipped in the inmate’s direction with a snarled “Can you shut up?”

The singing Klatooinian locked eyes with Narcom and growled deep in his throat, like an akk dog ready to snap. A sentry probe zoomed over, its photoreceptor flashing red as a grating electronic bark warned them to leave each other alone and focus on their work.

Narcom’s eyes dropped. “I mean, can you shut up, please.”

The Klatooinian scowled, though given the fact that Klatooinian visages resemble that of a hairless bulldog, and this individual being no exception, to Narcom he looked as though he were merely scowling harder than usual. The droid made a low beep. Narcom returned the bot’s implied glare and resumed his work sealing a gash in the vessel’s side.

Koss observed a Duros guard walk up to the place where Narcom and the Klatooinian were working and wave the former down. Narcom descended wordlessly and was replaced by a Rodian with a missing antenna. Narcom took the Rodian’s place beneath the fore of the starship, stepping up to the low platform where two other workers were repairing the ship’s underside.

As Koss gazed over the work area, he felt a tap on his shoulder. One of the guards, a blond human woman, had come to replace him.

He nodded to her, ignoring the veiled disgust in her eyes. Any other Clawdite in Koss’s position would have adopted a more human appearance while on duty, but Koss, by his own resolution, was incapable of guile, no matter how benign or necessary, and therefore applied to himself an entirely different standard of professionalism. His uniform was his skin, and that he wore with an unwavering devotion that, for all its haughtiness, lacked the esteem of pride. He nakedly displayed his reptilian form at all times so as to be judged with a full degree of accuracy. Any scorn he received from his colleagues or superiors was wholly justified, and he would have it no other way.

Koss boarded the turbolift and the door swiveled shut. He stood at attention the entire journey to the ground level, despite his solitude. When the door swiveled open at the bottom, he strode from the elevator to cross the courtyard, boots sloshing in the slick as the rain continued its merciless assault. A few dirty looks were cast his way by the prisoners as he marched past, but they made no eye contact with him and vice versa.

A deafening groan escalated over the thunder, causing the prisoners to panic and scramble away. Koss whirled around to see the front end of the ship beginning to tilt. The sound of snapping metal echoed through the crack that was forming. The craft was folding.

Whistles blew as the guards attempted to restore order. Shouts rang over the blaring of the emergency alarm. Koss stood fixed to the spot. The prow sank further and further forward, until…

The front of the craft, slowly, began to rise.

Koss’s mouth dropped open as he realized what was happening. As all the other prisoners had scattered, Narcom pushed against the ship, grunting as he exerted all its strength to keep it from crushing the prisoners beneath it. “GO!”

The prisoners shook from their stupor and hastened to crawl out from underneath the ship as Narcom valiantly, singlehandedly, kept the prow from crashing down.

Impossible.

“Fetch the loadlifter droids!”

Koss was the only one who wasn’t scurrying about or yelling his head off. He stood like a statue, his bulging eyes struggling to comprehend the scene in front of him. One man— a large man, but surely not large enough to be— supporting a ship that weighed over two hundred thousand tons.

Then, grunting like a reek under the strain, Narcom slowly, purposefully, turned. Koss watched as he took one step, then, with great effort, shifted himself closer to the body of the ship. He made his way like this until he was at the midpoint of the crumpling prow.

Several loadlifter droids lumbered over to support the straining convict. Koss remained unmoving as they walked past him.

“Hey! What’s with the lizard?” yelled one of the guards.

“He’s just standing there!”

“Let him stand there if he wants!”

The loadlifter droids gathered underneath the ship and pushed it up. Narcom collapsed the moment the prow lifted upward and off his shoulders.

Hastily, the guards dragged Narcom away from the ship. The droids held the ship together while support beams were brought to prop it up.

Hours after the incident, Koss could still not wrap his head around what had transpired. The fact that he was even making an attempt was in itself remarkable, as Koss was generally averse to contemplation. All he knew was that Com Narcom, one solitary man, had lifted the prow of an entire freighter ship on his shoulders. It was impossible, and therefore Koss would have dismissed his witness out of hand were it not for the others who had also been present and corroborated what his eyes believed and his mind had not.

It was impossible for an ordinary man— certainly not a human man; a Dowutin, maybe, and even then, ordinary would be a stretch— to do what Narcom had done.

But Koss had heard of Jedi doing such things. With their mystical abilities, such a feat was easy. Perhaps then Narcom was a Jedi.

Koss dismissed it immediately. Nonsensical. The Jedi were the guardians of order and justice. A Jedi would never stoop to crime. Therefore Narcom could not possibly be one. At any rate, his background was known, and he did not come from the Jedi Order.

As a result of his miraculous feat, Narcom was confined to the prison infirmary for several days to recover. He was never acknowledged for the lives he had saved, or the fact that he had prevented the ship from snapping in two altogether.

But that singular incident ensured that Koss would never forget him.

 

I like this story. I think that I would enjoy it even if I didn't know it was Les Miserablés in a Star Wars version. But seeing as I do know that, I am now thinking that I should actually read Les Miserablés, so I have the full context to properly appreciate your wonderful story.

 

You're certainly welcome to, but it's not necessary. They call the original novel The Brick for a reason. Faithfully as I'm adapting the story beats, the pacing and chronological arrangement is completely different. The entire first book is devoted to the bishop's life story. The beginning of the second volume jumps back to recount the entire Battle of Waterloo. I'm taking a much more straightforward approach and I'm not as wordy as Victor Hugo, so they're going to be very disconnected experiences.

 

In the grand scheme of galactic history, the small planet of Wotalu was not the most important. At least, it was not more important than the hundred other battlegrounds of the Outer Rim Sieges; it was barely significant enough to warrant a brief mention in most history professors’ lecture notes (mine excepted— as my students will well remember.) It was on that backwater planet, the final days of the Clone Wars, the Jedi Unal Munir launched a pre-emptive attack on General Warmagon’s forces, before the Separatists could reclaim their lost ground as the Republic backed the Confederate armies further and further against the edges of wild space. Though the Separatists were spread thin, the Republic was spread even thinner. Admiral Bonoport’s forces were outnumbered almost two to one by Warmagon’s. Despite the element of surprise, the odds appeared to be in the Separatists’ favor.

General Munir would not remember much of it.

The lingering coils of smoke stretched thin towards the sea, the sands of the beaches stained with blackened craters and blasterfire scorches. Below the seaside cliff, enormous mushrooms lay upside down on their caps, their stems sticking into the air to point to the fungal forest from which they had fallen as the Confederacy forced its tanks to the edge of the cliffs.

When the air was finally clear, there were only two living things left on the battlefield. The Republic had left with their prisoners in tow, and the shells of deactivated battle droids littered the area, outnumbering the corpses of the clone troopers who had fallen in the slaughter. The birds scavenged little; the droids were inedible and the flesh of the slain clone troopers was protected from curious beaks by their plastoid husks.

The only sentient being walking on that beach was a solitary individual in a long blue coat, his storkish legs stepping expertly over debris and shrapnel, beady, inset eyes sweeping the ground. Small droid parts rattled in his already slightly bulging pockets, and he had in his belt pouch a few tools with which he was reasonably handy. The satchel under his coat was full of blaster components and a few magazines. In one hand he carried a DC-17 pistol that had until a few hours ago belonged to a clone captain; its twin hung on his belt.

Though stopping frequently to remove some valuable armor component or piece of high-end machinery, the scavenger took an interest in the natural-born soldiers as well. The native Wotaluvians carried with them trinkets that the scavenger could not have scrounged from any of the other million similar battlegrounds across the Outer Rim. A carved necklace, a handcrafted blaster, a totem of precious metal, sometimes even a few gems or coins. With these the scavenger filled his pockets eagerly, grinning as he did. The tall collar of his jacket hid the frills of his jowls, the small bony protrusions that sprouted from his jawline like rigid, stubby whiskers. He stooped beside one of the corpses, his eye having been caught by one of the soldier’s tusks, glinting gold as it protruded from the dead man’s open mouth.

“This won’t ‘urt a bit,” the scavenger reassured the corpse, chuckling at his own joke as he took the tusk in his fingers, gripping the soldier’s chin and wriggling the prosthetic until it wrenched from the corpse's mouth.

The scavenger examined the tusk, squinting at it to determine the value of the cap. With a leathery thumb, he wiped the blood from the remaining bit of natural bone and placed it with his other treasures. He pulled down the brim of his maroon stocking cap in salutation of the dead man, smirking.

The scavenger went on across the beach in this fashion when he spotted something altogether different. Another body, this one not encased in armor or covered in blue scales. It was a human body, facedown and clad in soggy beige wrappings. The scavenger nearly tripped over a deactivated dwarf spider droid in his rush to investigate.

The scavenger dropped to his knees and rolled the body over. Dark hair spilled into the surf, damp with seawater. The scavenger didn’t even look at the stranger’s sand-caked face. Instead his fingers searched for something far more precious than any of the paltry knick-knacks he’d collected. If the scavenger’s suspicions were correct, then this was the corpse of a Jedi, and where there was a Jedi, there was a laser sword.

But the scavenger could not locate any such covetous collectible on the person of this tunic-clad human who had washed up on the shore. “Poodoo!”

A growl of disappointed frustration turned to a startled shout as the scavenger saw that the stranger’s eyes had opened. He was not, after all, dead.

The man coughed, blowing sand from his beard. His black eyes fixed blearily on the Weequay kneeling over him. He drew in a shaky breath and his chest began to move again. “Wh… Where am I?”

“Er…” The scavenger struggled for an answer, thrown by the fact that the apparent dead man had asked him a question. This would be a difficult one to explain. His better judgement kept him from going for his gun— one did not simply shoot a Jedi. If, indeed, this laser sword-lacking survivor was a Jedi.

The stranger groaned and pushed himself into a sitting position, his eyes heavy with thought. “My… my troops.”

“Nobody ‘ere but us,” replied the scavenger. “Looks like you’ve been left for dead.”

A sudden idea came to the scavenger, a possible way to save himself from being discovered for what he was. “Lucky I saved you, innit?”

The stranger’s chest heaved, his wet locks hanging down from his bronzed face. “I… I jumped. My clone troops… They betrayed me.” His words were heavy with the realization. Slowly, his head turned to meet the Weequay’s eyes. “You… saved me?”

“I saved you, alright,” the Weequay nodded vigorously. “You would’ve drowned without me.”

The stranger clasped the Weequay’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Just doin’ the right thing,” the Weequay waved. “You wouldn’t ‘appen to be a Jedi, now, would ya?”

“Indeed I am,” said the man, rising shakily to his feet. “Master Unal Munir, at your service. Who are you?”

“The name’s Tarkay,” replied the scavenger.

“Tarkay,” the Jedi repeated, memorizing the name. “I owe you my life.”

The Weequay suppressed a grin. “It’s the least I could do. Seems we’re the only survivors ‘ere.”

The Jedi frowned. With great distress, he patted himself and whirled around, searching the sand to no avail. “My lightsaber.”

“Mm?” the Weequay grunted, feigning ignorance.

“My saber’s missing,” the Jedi fretted. “You didn’t see it, did you?”

“Unfortunately, no,” the Weequay replied bitterly.

The Jedi’s boots splashed into the shallows. He sank to his knees, hands swirling through the water in search of his lost weapon. “It must have come loose from my belt while I swam.”

“Must ‘ave,” the Weequay mused, and here it began to sink in that he had woken this Jedi for nothing, and now he could not continue to hunt for trinkets. He disguised his deteriorating mood by clearing his throat and amicably raising his voice. “Well, seein’ as my work ‘ere is done, I think I’ll be ‘eadin’ out to find a way off this spore-covered rock.”

“I’ll come with you,” said the Jedi, rising, his robes newly resoaked. “There is a terrible disturbance in the Force. I must discover what happened.”

The Weequay suppressed a groan. He had hoped to be able to search for the lightsaber. Now the Jedi wanted to follow. He had no choice but to allow him. He pulled out a planetary positioning scanner and made a note of the coordinates before slipping it back into his pocket. “Scanner says we should ‘ead in that direction.”

The Jedi nodded. “Lead the way, my friend.”

The Weequay led the Jedi through the mushroom forest, the two of them saying not a word as they trekked, their thoughts too occupied for conversation with each other; Tarkay’s on how to quickly be rid of the Jedi so he could return and search for his lightsaber, slim as the odds were of finding it, and Munir’s on what had transpired that had caused him to jump. Something was amiss.

Tarkay’s ship was docked in a clearing in the fungal jungle, several klicks away from the battlefield. A vintage B-7 light freighter, in remarkably good condition. Beneath the thick layer of grime, it was clear that this vessel was a restored model, the red and white paint barely chipped. Munir raised an eyebrow when he saw it. “Whose ship is this?”

“Mine, of course,” Tarkay replied with a hint of pride.

“I was under the impression you didn’t have a ship,” Munir remarked, furrowing his brow. “You said you were heading out to find a way offworld.”

“What I meant was, ‘ead out to find my ship,” Tarkay explained quickly. “An’ we found it. Always tricky to remember where you’ve parked, eh?”

Munir made a humming noise that suggested pretended agreement to an experience he did not truthfully relate very much to. He glanced up at the underside of the cockpit as they approached the boarding ramp. The name Tarkay was scrawled on the overhang in red spray paint a slightly brighter color than the maroon stripe against which it was splattered. Tarkay knocked on the durasteel as he boarded the ship. “Muni, dobra bunky dunko!”

“Jeeska doompa!” hissed a voice from the upper deck. A Weequay of considerable brawn descended the ladder on the port side, and though she touched down softly and with little noise, Munir almost thought he felt the ship tilt when she placed her foot on the ground. She marched over to her husband with a finger over her nonexistent lips, the buckle of her pilot’s helmet straining against the girth of her chin. The woman jerked her head in the direction of a grimy, white, egg-shaped pod hovering in the corner, which was sealed. “Peedunkee mufkin winkee.”

“Mi goola.” Tarkay immediately dropped his voice to a hush. “Kid’s asleep.”

Munir smiled at the egg-shaped crib. So Tarkay had a family.

The Weequay woman crossed her arms, raising a leathery brow at her husband. “You’re back early.” She leveled her gaze at the Jedi. “‘Oo’s this?”

“Jedi,” Tarkay replied, striding over to his wife. “‘E needs a lift.”

Tarkay had the proportions of a tall man, but that illusion was easily shattered. Irrevocably so when seen next to his mate, who was dwarfish only by Dowutin standards and built like a Gammorrean sow with a frown to match. “Don’t touch nothin’, you ‘ear?” she said to the Jedi.

“Of course,” Munir smiled, folding his hands. He glanced around the cabin. The walls were completely covered in mechanical parts and pieces of armor hanging haphazardly in overlapping curtains of mismatched scales. Even more components were strung on cables. Evidently, these Weequays were merchants. Quite a hodgepodge of wares in their inventory— Or in Weequay terms, a kemlish of wares, he thought, remembering with a twinge one of the Sriluurian words his Padawan had taught him. No doubt Tarkay’s merchandise was obtained from black markets. Not strictly legal, but he couldn’t fault Tarkay for trying to make a living, especially after he’d saved his life.

Tarkay’s wife glanced dourly at the Jedi’s lower half. Despite the length of the trek on which he had just embarked, his robes were still slightly soggy from the ocean, and his boots were caked with sand, dirt, and likely a few spores. “‘E’s trackin’ in muck all over the floor, ‘e is.”

“Well, ‘e won’t be with us for long,” her husband reassured her. “We’ll drop you off in the Galidraan system. That sound alright to you?”

Munir nodded. “That will do.”

Tarkay’s wife grunted and ascended to the cockpit. Her husband followed her up the ladder. Munir found a small bench mounted on the wall to sit on, regretting his damp robes. He would have to dry the seat off before he left, not to mention see about cleaning the floor where he’d tracked in all the silt and soil. It was the least he could do to thank these nice people for helping him.

The cargo hold smelled of pheromones, and Munir was once again reminded of his Padawan. If she were here, perhaps her scent would have mingled with that of these fellow Weequays of hers. But she was not here; she had been shot down over Korallat, and his dreams had reminded him of that battle nearly every night since.

He propped his elbows on his knees, resting his face in his hands. His head still pounded from— whatever had just happened. Somehow, the Force felt… smaller. Like someone had lopped off a chunk of it.

Not a perfect analogy, but something was definitely wrong.

Munir sighed, lifting his head as he kneaded his temples. What had happened? They had just been on the verge of turning the tide of this losing battle, and then that feeling, that terrible, knee-liquefying weight that had descended on him out of nowhere. He’d stumbled, just barely catching himself. A disturbance in the Force like he had never felt before. Death. So much death.

And then, in unison, the clone troopers cocked their blasters.

Ping.

Munir sat up straight.

Ping.

His hand flew to his belt.

Every Jedi once carried with them a small black device while away from Coruscant. These devices could be used to receive emergency alerts. From the Jedi temple, a beacon could be used to beam a message simultaneously to every Jedi in the galaxy who carried one of these receivers. It was Munir’s receiver that sounded now.

A third ping sounded just before he activated the device. A hologram sprouted from the black box; a bearded man in robes with a mournful expression.

Munir’s brow furrowed. He knew the man.

“This is Master Obi-Wan Kenobi. I regret to report that both our Jedi Order and the Republic have fallen.”

A gasp escaped the his lungs. Fallen? The Jedi? The Republic?

It could not be true. And yet it explained everything.

And for all it explained, a thousand more questions.

“Do not return to the temple. That time has passed, and our future is uncertain.”

He wanted to let the receiver fall to the floor and sink back against the wall. The Jedi were dead. All of them, save him, Kenobi, and… who else? Was there even anyone left? His clone troops… The ones that had fought by his side for years… Trusted him with their lives, as he had trusted them…

“We will each be challenged: our trust, our faith, our friendships.”

Hadn’t they been tested enough? Every single one of his men, he had known by name. Every single one of his men would have died for him. And more readily, he would have died for any one of them. Even only one.

And in that terrible moment, something had changed, and that trust shattered as if it were nothing.

Had all the Jedi’s troops turned in the blink of an eye?

He didn’t hear the rest of Kenobi’s message.

As the hologram faded out with a hum, he placed it on the bench beside him. His head found his hands again, and they grew wet.

All of it was gone.

He had nothing left. His former Padawan, dead for nearly a year. A son he was forbidden to see, born never to know him. The child’s mother, never to clasp his hand in hers as they stared into each other’s eyes. His former master, doubtless killed with the rest of the Jedi. His clone troops, sudden traitors all. Commander Achilles, Captain Fox… Reeves and Beck and Double and Miles…

Young Miles’ armor had had barely a smudge on it, he was so fresh from Kamino. Blacker than any of the grime of his first battle was the smoking pockmark of a blaster bolt in his chest. His own blaster bolt. That Munir had deflected with his lightsaber when the troopers opened fire.

Miles wasn’t the only trooper whose blood was on Munir’s hands. Reeves, wounded in the knee. Fifties’ shot had been redirected into Rattler’s skull. And 1815, even shinier than Miles, so shiny he hadn’t even earned a name, had taken a shot to the gut. Unal didn’t even remember whose blaster bolt had buried itself in the boy’s abdomen, only that he had sent it there. The last man to fall before the Jedi general leapt backwards into the sea had been Achilles. Faithful until the final moment, and his reward had been to die at hand of the man he had served so loyally.

Munir wished he hadn’t jumped. He was glad the cursed saber was gone.

A noise drew his attention. He glanced over at the sealed pod. He’d thought he’d heard a faint thump.

“Oobie?”

The child was awake. It followed its babble with three more thumps. It was knocking on the inside of the crib with its little fist.

Munir hesitated, then slowly approached the pod as the occupant knocked and cooed again. “Oobie!”

His finger hovered over the opening mechanism. He pushed the button.

The pod opened up to reveal a wrinkly brown toddler sitting up with its fist raised, staring up at him with wide, inset eyes. There was something familiar about the child. Perhaps she reminded him of his old Padawan. Or the fact that his son would be around this child’s age by now.

Munir smiled warmly. “Hello, little one.”

The child’s naturally pinched face became scrunched, its lipless mouth pressing tight. Too late Munir remembered how babies generally react to bearded alien strangers hovering over their cribs.

The child began to bawl at an exceedingly high volume. Munir held up his hands and shushed the baby, apologizing profusely and admonishing it not to cry. The mother Weequay was shoving him aside in an instant, and he threw out his hand to catch himself against the wall as he stumbled. She scooped the wailing child into her arms and whispered softly to it in a mutters of Sriluurian. She glared at the Jedi Master. “Why’d you go wakin’ ‘er up like that? What’s wrong with you?”

“I am so sorry.” Munir wrung his hands. “Please forgive me. I was only—”

“You woke the baby!” Tarkay barked as he came down from the cockpit. “Didn’t I tell you she was asleep? ‘Ow d’you go pokin’ around our ship after we explicitly tells you not to?”

“Deepest apologies, Mr. Tarkay,” the Jedi Master bowed.

The Weequay paid him no further attention as he hovered under his wife’s shoulder, standing on tiptoe to croon at his daughter. “‘Ello, punky muffin. Did you ‘ave a good nap, my precious? Did the nosy ol’ Jedi wake you?”

The child smiled wide at her father with all four teeth. “Ammie!”

“That’s right,” Tarkay replied, tickling her chin. “Am-i.”

Munir swallowed, his eyes beginning to shine as he watched the mother and father dote on their child. Mona giggled as her father made a face. Her mother lifted her up and tossed her in the air, eliciting shrieks of laughter as her mother caught her and tossed her again. All three Weequays now giggling with delight, her mother set the child down to let her run around the ship. Munir watched her speed around the deck with her arms outstretched, running her hands across the hanging pieces and components and making them rattle.

As Tarkay went to return to the cockpit, Munir lifted his hand. “Excuse me. Could I place myself a little further in your debt?”

Tarkay glanced back at the Jedi Master and grinned, taking his foot off the ladder rung. “Much as you like, sir. Always glad to do a Jedi a favor.”

“I want to change the destination,” Munir requested. “I have another place in mind. It’s a little further out of the way. I can make it worth your while.”

Tarkay rubbed his hands. “No trouble at all, myo pateesa. Name the system an’ we’ll be on our way.”

Munir chewed his lip, folding his arms as he hesitated slightly. He wasn’t sure about this. It was risky. If he were caught, he could be thrown in prison— or maybe even worse. There were thousands of other systems where he could go. He could settle on the remote desert of Tatooine, or live as a farmer hermit on Lah’mu tilling the soil. The Empire would never find him. No one ever would.

No. If he had to go into hiding from the Empire, there was only one place where he wanted to be.

“Set course for Embaril. Tion Hegemony.”

 

Maybe I should just watch the movie then.

 

Around the time of the Empire’s formation, filming was in process for the eagerly anticipated fifth holofilm in the Paladin franchise. In the early days of the Paladin saga, the title character had been played by a dashing Twi’lek named Vid Meehal, who was now reprising his role to pass the torch to a gifted young Zabrak protagonist. Meehal had a son named Than, who lived on Coruscant. Than was currently unemployed— he had no need to look for work when his father was so wealthy— but he was an aspiring holowriter, considered himself a connoisseur of classic holocinema, and was currently dabbling in standup comedy to moderate success. Than was seeing a girl named Kaltha, an eighteen year-old Twi’lek whose relationship with the holostar’s son had gone public a few months ago. They had met a few years back in a HoloNet chat room discussing Than’s father’s work, and a romance had sprouted quickly after that. Ever since they had finally revealed their relationship, Kaltha had gone everywhere with Than. Many were jealous; Than had retained his hereditary good looks well into his thirties, and Kaltha turned all heads, both covetous and envious.

On one particular night shortly after the declaration of the new order, Than met for dinner with a couple of his friends and their girlfriends in one of Coruscant’s more high-end restaurants.

Than lounged in the booth with his lekku draped over his shoulders and an arm around Kaltha, whose deep brown eyes never strayed from him as she rested her head on his shoulder. Her hand was placed lovingly on his slightly rotund stomach, another hand placed on her own. Her friend Mai, who was dating Than’s cousin Shal, also rested her head on her lover’s shoulder, but periodically her eyes would abruptly snap open with a snort. Grig Groogan, a Weequay HoloNet radio personality, sat across from his girl, Rodian pop star Spalla Taffareen, grinning like his life depended on it. A red Twi’lek with extensive plastic surgery and tattooed head-tails sat next to director Walber Wagsteen; her real name was unknown to all parties at the table, including quite likely the man who had invited her, and her stage name was not one many would readily admit familiarity with, lest they reveal habits they would rather keep private.

The conversation, invariably, turned to classic holocinema, or at least that regarded as such by all male individuals present at the table. Than, a connoisseur of such holofilms, pontificated for half an hour about The Brawl Room and the brilliance thereof. Mai rolled her eyes and tried to exchange a knowing glance with her friend, but Kaltha listened with rapt attention as Than dispensed his wisdom. I will spare you several pages of monologuing and skip to the end.

“I mean, nobody knows what a man’s supposed to be anymore,” Than drawled to nods from his compatriots. “The Brawl Room tells ya. It’s about fightin’ not to be emasculated. It’s about life as a war. Ya gotta get outta your comfort zone to be a real man. You can’t run like a little schutta when the galaxy throws a curveball at ya.”

“Mm-hmm,” Shal nodded with agreement.

“It’s kriffin’ genius,” Than finished. “But nobody ever talks about it.”

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s the first rule,” Groogan quipped. The men thought this was rather clever, since Groogan was referencing a line from the holo. Kaltha, who had never seen The Brawl Room, smiled, thinking perhaps if she paid attention, she would figure out by context why all the men had grinned when the radio host had made that remark.

The waitress brought a bottle of red wine to the table. Than winked at her and picked up the bottle. “Ah, this is the good Corellian stuff. How’s about a toast? To Paladin Five!”

“Hear, hear,” said Wagsteen, with an eager nod of agreement from Kaltha. Than uncorked the bottle, poured himself a generous amount, then began filling everyone else’s glasses. He circled round to Kaltha.

“Oh.” Kaltha blushed. “No thank you.”

“What?” Than furrowed his brow. “You’re not drivin’.”

“I know,” Kaltha murmured. “I just… don’t want any.”

Shal imitated a klaxon alarm. “Killjoy alert!” Spalla, Groogan and the red Twi’lek chuckled.

“Eh, let the broad be a stick in the mud if she wants to,” Wagsteen waved. “Who cares if she doesn’t want to have fun?”

Kaltha shot the holo director a glare that made him flinch. He threw up his chubby hands as if to defend against a crouching nexu. “Easy, sweetheart. It’s a joke.”

“Come on, Kal,” Mai huffed. “It’s one glass. Don’t be stuck up.”

Kaltha’s eyes dropped to her lap. She bit her lip very hard.

“Hey. You’re alright.” Than rolled his eyes as he put a hand on her shoulder. “Have a little bit. For my dad.”

Kaltha looked the other way as she pushed her glass toward him. He filled it very full and pushed it back. “To the new holo, and my old man!”

Glasses clinked. Kaltha pretended to drink, fooling no one.

For the next several minutes, Kaltha focused mainly on her food, trying to ignore the whispers between her friend Mai and the other women. Despite being upset, she tried not to let it ruin her appetite and consumed a portion of each appetizer that was sent to the table in addition to her own plate. The other women, however, ate little in an effort to preserve their figures, and Kaltha’s choice not to do so earned passive-aggressive remarks and judgmental whispers. That stung even more than being labeled a stick in the mud. Kaltha ended up retreating to the lavatory, miserably certain that that, too, would be subject to gossip at the table in her absence. She knew they’d seen her holding back tears.

When she returned, her suspicions were confirmed; she saw Spalla and the red Twi’lek whispering. Mai raised an eyebrow at her. “You weren’t crying in the fresher, were you?”

“No,” Kaltha replied forcefully. “And for your information, it’s none of your business.”

“It’s just that you seem so… sensitive,” the red Twi’lek commented.

“Tell me about it,” Wagsteen grumbled.

“You gotta toughen up, kid,” Groogan agreed. “It’s called concern. No need to get emotional about it.”

“Okay, first off, don’t call my girlfriend a kid, ya fraggin’ creep.” Than jabbed his finger on the table, turning to the women with a glare. “And second, I won’t have any of you talkin’ about my girl that way. Ya hear me? Kaltha is my rock. Who cares if she eats more than you? You schuttas barely eat anything! You wanna pick on anybody at this table for eating, pick on Wagsteen the Hutt over here.”

Wagsteen exclaimed indignantly, but what exactly he exclaimed was lost in a spray of bread. Everyone at the table laughed. “I mean, who do you think you’re fooling?” Than snorted scornfully. “We all know you get it sucked out anyway. Tooki injects it back into her bazonkers.”

The red Twi’lek rolled her eyes as the men at the table hooted. Wagsteen guffawed and draped an arm around her neck, which she ignored as she rested her jaw disdainfully on her fist.

“Kaltha’s got the best body out of all you,” Than declared. “You’re too jealous to admit that I lucked out and she makes you look like threes. You all apologize and tell her she’s beautiful, right now.”

Kaltha beamed, her heart swelling. She sat back down and curled against her defender. He wrapped his arm around her as he glared at the people at the table.

Everyone present muttered an apology and a grudging compliment. Than nodded firmly. “Now don’t talk about my girlfriend like that ever again. You did kinda overreact there a little bit, Kal,” he added in an undertone. Kaltha nodded gratefully.

Shal hiccuped as he swirled the dregs of his third glass. “Les’s talk about politish or sssshomefin’.”

“I am so glad we’ve got an Emperor now,” Groogan piped up, taking a swig. “It’s about time somebody gave Palpatine the power to do stuff. I mean, for the past hundred years or so the Senate was filled with kriffin’ shapeshifters controlling everything behind the scenes until Palpatine went and arrested all of ‘em. Well, most of ‘em, my gut still tells me there’s something off about Mon Mothma…”

Kaltha was in considerably better spirits as they walked out of the restaurant, staring at all the pretty lights of the Coruscant skyline. She gazed up at Than as they waited on the edge of the floating platform to board a taxi speeder. “This place is magical at night.”

Than smiled. “You’re cute, Kal.”

Kaltha returned his smile, even though he wasn’t looking at her. “I have a surprise.”

“Huh?” That got his attention. “What is it?”

Kaltha smirked. “I’ll tell you when we get home.”

Than grinned.

The four couples boarded three separate cabs. Than and Groogan discussed a future appearance on his radio show until Spalla squawked at him to hurry up. Wagsteen picked up his comlink and assured his wife he would be home shortly before boarding a separate taxi from his date. Shal vomited over the edge of the platform, dooming some poor Aqualish’s head on Level 3182 to receive a most unwelcome splat of bile and alcohol fifty-six minutes later. Mai shoved him into the taxi next to Than and took the front seat.

The cab speeder dropped off Than and Kaltha on the spacious, open-air balcony of a cylindrical skyscraper. Kaltha waltzed into their apartment, bursting with anticipation. It was time to give Than the surprise.

They entered the bedchamber of the apartment, where there were windows that only went one way. Kaltha shut the door behind them and balled her fists in front of her chest to contain her excitement.

Before they had even entered the room, Than had unwrapped his lekku from around his shoulders and unfastened his shirt. He smirked as he slipped out of one sleeve. “So, what’s this surprise?”

Kaltha laughed and lifted the other side of his shirt off his shoulder, letting it fall to the floor as she rested her cheek on his bare orange chest, running her hand down one of his lekku, her other hand curled over his shoulder. “Something wonderful has happened.”

“Well, what is it?” Than chuckled, placing an arm on her back and pressing his lips against the base of her lek. “Come on. Tell me.”

Kaltha gazed into his eyes, her own shining with joy. “Thannie… I’m pregnant.”

Than’s mouth dropped open. His embrace loosened. “You’re… You’re what?”

“That’s why I didn’t drink any wine,” Kaltha confided. “The doctor said I shouldn’t consume alcohol.”

Than gripped his bulbous cranium in his hands. “When were you going to tell me about this?”

“Now, silly!” Kaltha laughed, throwing her arms around Than’s neck with a giggle. “I’ve been planning to tell you all day! I found out yesterday. Isn’t it wonderful?”

Than lifted her arms off his shoulders and walked over to the bed. “I need to sit down.”

Kaltha had waited eagerly all day to see his reaction, but now she was too caught up in her own euphoria. “I wonder if it’s a boy or a girl. If it’s a boy we’ll name it after your dad. If it’s a girl I have a few ide—”

“Hold up.” Than’s voice was suddenly very hard, his hairless brow knitted. “You’re not going to keep it?”

Kaltha’s stomach dropped, splattering her joy all over the ground. “What do you mean? Of… of course we’re going to… Don’t you… Aren’t you happy?”

“Our life is perfect!” Than threw his hands up in the air. “What do we need a baby for?”

Kaltha swallowed. “I… I don’t understand. This is the best thing that’s ever h-happened to us. Isn’t it…?”

“No!” Than snorted. “We’ve got our whole lives ahead of us. There’s no reason to throw some kid into it.”

“B… but this is ours,” Kaltha choked. “I’ve dreamed of this ever since we fell in love. Our own child, Thannie…”

“Well, not right now,” Than insisted. “Get rid of it. I’m not ready to— be a father!”

Kaltha burst into tears. She sank into an armchair, burying her face in her hands as she sobbed. Than kneaded his cranial lumps. “I can’t believe you’re cryin’ about this. We’re just not ready to have a… I mean, how could you possibly think this was a good idea?”

“I didn’t… m-mean to,” Kaltha blubbered. “It just… h-h-happened, and I th-thought you-ou’d be h-happy and now you’re telling me you don’t even w… w… want…”

“Kriffin’ hell.” Than sighed and slid a datapad off the bedside table. After punching in a message, he set it aside again. “There. I’ve scheduled an appointment.”

Kaltha wiped her nose, which was blue from her weeping. “An appointment for what?”

Than rolled his eyes. “To take care of the problem. For frag’s sake, Kal.”

Kaltha gasped, eyes shooting wide. “I’m not going to do that!”

“Why the frell not?” Than threw up his hands. “We already decided you’re not goin’ to keep it!”

“You decided that,” Kaltha protested. “I don’t want to give up my baby! You’ll love it, Than, you’ll see! Just give it time, I know you’ll—”

“No!” Than shot up from the bedside. Kaltha ducked as if he’d hurled a grenade. “You’re goin’ to that appointment, Kaltha. You’re not ready for this.”

“But if you’re there to help me…” she pleaded.

“Kaltha, I’m thirty-seven years old,” Than replied, spreading his arms. “Ya think I want to waste the last years of my prime changin’ diapers and drivin’ some brat to grav-ball practice?”

“You take that back right now, Than Meehal!” Kaltha shrieked.

“Don’t you shout at me!” Than jabbed the air with a pointed nail. “If you don’t take care of this, then we’re through!”

Kaltha stumbled back as if she’d been stabbed. Than’s shoulders slumped, his scarlet face returning to its normal tangerine. “The appointment’s at 1100 tomorrow. Clinic’s on East 700th.”

Kaltha stood pleading with her eyes. The hum of airspeeder traffic outside filled the silence that loomed over the moment, tears carving rivers through her aquamarine cheeks. Finally, Than sighed and kicked his shirt aside as he went out the door. “I’m sleepin’ on the couch.”

 

So glad to see this back again! And it's been very interesting to see the kind of prequel to all the events of the old version -- will be very cool to see when and where it all starts to diverge.

 

Thank you so much for commenting— and welcome back! I'm so glad you're enjoying the story so far. Next chapter drops this Saturday! We'll be getting into some familiar territory for old readers. Buckle up!

 

We now return to that convict who was mentioned in the beginning. The rest of his prison term was served without incident, and it came to pass, in the third year of the reign of the Empire, that Com Narcom was granted parole for the remaining year of his sentence.

When he was released, he was deposited on a nearby planet scarcely twice the size of the moon where he had toiled as an inmate, and given a small amount of money, which he had earned during his labors before the establishment of the Empire, which significantly reduced and eventually abolished prison wages. One hundred and eighty-seven credits were what he had to show for nineteen years of labor. He was also given a knapsack, which was largely empty, and a datapad, on which was a document he was required to carry. This document read, in part:

ON PROBATION
Com Narcom
Species: Human
Gender: Male
Age in standard years: 46
Offense(s): Petty theft, various incidents of violence
Parole officer: Zertwin Kimball
Comlink code: 246.019.430.050.606.1832

This was listed on the page he was required to display everywhere he went. The datapad was black with a distinctive yellow display and buttons to turn the pages of the files contained thereon. He did not even have to remove the device from his belt and open the document to be recognized as a convict on parole. The yellow screen was unmistakable, as was the cog insignia emblazoned on the back of the device which signified that the datapad was property of the Imperial prison system.

He learned this almost as soon as he left the spaceport. As he walked the twilight streets, he saw women clutch their purses, and men narrow their eyes. Children whispered. At first he assumed it was because of his sullen, downcast gaze, the way his low head suggested misanthropy. But then he knocked on a door.

It was a quaint little two-story cream-dyed house with a flat roof with shingles the color of red velvet and an immaculately kept lawn of milky-blue grass. The sign on the porch railing read Bed and Breakfast; Rooms Available.

A blonde-haired woman in a laced sunhat answered when he knocked. She observed his disheveled appearance and drawled, “What do you want?”

“This is an inn?” he confirmed. “I would like a room.”

The woman cast a dubious glance at his shabby clothes and suddenly noticed the datapad. Her fingers floated to her sparkling necklace. “I’m sorry, this is just my house. I don’t lodge people.”

“But your sign.” The convict furrowed his brow. “It says you have rooms available. And breakfast. I haven’t eaten yet.” By quirk of planetary chronozones, this town’s dinnertime was shortly after the Trolorn prison’s morning meal period which he had missed, having been escorted to the shuttle offworld at sunrise instead of proceeding to the prison cafetorium. The last thing the convict had eaten was a ration of polystarch and artificial milk at the prison’s evening mealtime, and that had been some twelve standard hours ago.

None of these things occurred to the woman at the door. “I’m sorry, breakfast is from 0700 to 0900.”

“A place to sleep, then,” the convict insisted. “I’m exhausted. I need to rest.”

“I’m very sorry, but we’re full.” The woman reached for the button to close the door.

“Do you have a shed in the back?” He stuck his fist through the door to offer a handful of coins. “I’ll pay for it. I don’t need a room. Just give me somewhere to sleep.”

The woman flinched. “Sir. Please leave.”

He withdrew his fist abruptly, his countenance immediately souring. The woman jabbed the door button. It rapidly slid shut. The sun glinted off the lacquered maroon plasteel. He glared over his shoulder at it.

The convict proceeded down the road again. Obviously, that woman had some hangups. She probably charged more for lodging than he would have liked to have spent anyway; it was a very nice house.

It was a very nice town.

As he walked, the convict glanced over his shoulder at the clopping of hooves on the dirt road. A four-eyed equine beast pulled an open-topped hovercoach down the street. The driver of the coach barked at him to get out of the way, and he walked to the side to allow the coach to pass. As the vehicle approached, he lifted his hand. “Sir, do you know where I might find a place to eat?”

“Why, certainly, stranger,” the man replied as the convict walked alongside his coach. “Down that way, there’s a bar on Janton Road. Best sliders this side of the Kessel Run. Old Ollindrode runs it. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you.” The convict hesitated. “Can I trouble you for a lift?”

“Climb aboard,” the driver invited, halting the coach.

The convict turned to step up into the coach, but in doing so revealed the yellow-screened device hanging from his belt. The driver raised an eyebrow. “Might I see that?”

The convict’s face hardened ever so slightly. He unhooked the datapad and handed it to the man.

The man read the contents of the datapad, his brow furrowing as he did so. He passed it back down to the convict. “Good day.” With a crack of the reins, he was gone.

The convict stared at the datapad, his shaggy face reflecting in its monitor.

So that was it.

He proceeded to the recommended restaurant only to find the proprietor waiting outside for him. “Move along,” the Abednedo waved, small wide-set eyes squinting as they followed the convict. “I don’t want lowlifes in my establishment.”

“You don’t understand,” the convict pleaded. “I’ve got credits.”

“I’ve never had a fight in this bar for as long as I’ve owned it, and today’s not going to be the day it happens.” The proprietor’s mouth tendrils flapped as he jerked his head down the road. “Get going.”

“I don’t want any trouble—” the convict growled.

“Neither do I,” the Abednedo retorted icily. “So move it. I’ll call the cops!”

The convict felt the proprietor’s eyes on him until the moment he turned the corner. Spitting on the ground, he shuffled toward another tavern, already knowing how he would be received.

As the convict went from house to house, he saw a pair of police officers. Their uniforms were like the guards’ uniforms on Trolorn, except that the guards had worn black caps and ash gray tunics, and the police officers’ caps and tunics were a matching shade of teal blue, with brass rank plaques and cap discs instead of silver. He avoided their gaze, but they randomly stopped him anyway and asked for his identification. He handed them the datapad. They handed it back and let him go on his way.

By the time the convict had wandered the town for two hours, his reputation preceded him without exception, and he was consequently turned away. By that time the sun had sunk low beneath the bluewood trees and the lamplighter droids were floating through the streets. Dank farrik, even the droids were skittish of him. The droids had scarcely finished their work when it began to rain. The convict was so desperate now for food that he overturned a garbage barrel in search of scraps like a tooka, and like a tooka he was chased away with a broom.

“This is civilization?” he muttered to himself, soaked through as he trudged up the hill toward the outskirts of the city. “I wish I’d been a lifer.”

At the top of the hill where the convict was currently plodding along, there were two buildings, a modest church at the top and a cottage further down the hill. In that cottage lived an elderly Cerean named Korma. Korma was the bishop of the local church, the congregation of which he affectionately referred to as his “ward.” When he had first come three years ago, he had brought disciples. No one knew where they came from, but they had credits, and they were able to purchase lodging. They had preached their message to the people, and the people had taken an interest. Meanwhile, the Empire shut down the local courthouse, enacting a new edict decreeing that trials be held offworld. Those who believed in what Korma had preached to them had donated to his small group, and they were able to purchase the decommissioned courthouse and convert it into a church. The cottage they built with their own hands.

That had been two years ago. One year ago, Korma’s disciples had left one by one in search of rare artifacts, feeling the preservation of history was essential and they could not remain where they were when there were relics to be recovered. Korma had given each of them his blessing, for he understood well and was proud; when they had first come, he had brought with them an heirloom that he himself had rescued. Her name was Risuno; Sister Risuno as she was now known, and before becoming the church’s sexton, she had been an archivist droid for the past two thousand years or so. Sticking out of the top of her head was a datatape which was changed periodically. Korma had an entire box of datatapes containing her memories, the worth of which was priceless. Whenever an old datatape was inserted into Risuno’s drive, she could play it back in hologram, and remember the event as if it had taken place only minutes ago.

Risuno’s holoprojector, which was mounted on the right side of her U-shaped forehead, was a recent addition, only one thousand years fitted. Before this upgrade, her memories were played through an external drive, or else she would recount the events orally to many fascinated scholars and students, which she continued to do even after she had been granted the ability to replay them herself. It was on one of these drives that Korma was currently copying the contents of one such datatape to a disc, both to contain it in a more portable format and so the original tape could be wiped and reused, for there was always a danger of the ancient droid running out of new tapes to fill. It had, unfortunately, actually happened several times, though Korma had always managed to free up space to allow the droid to remember her continued existence, mundane as it was as a sexton on a backwater world compared to her time as a historian in days of yore.

As Risuno was preparing dinner for the old bishop, she glanced over her shoulder at him where he worked. “Observation: That is quite a storm outside.”

Sister Risuno always prefaced her speech with a tone indicator, as vocabulators had not yet advanced past monotone when she had been constructed millennia ago. “Statement: I hear there’s a new arrival in town.”

“Is there now.” The old man glanced up only briefly, feverishly scribbling a written account onto a datapad with a stylus. “I wonder if he will make his way here.”

“Commentary: I hope not,” replied Sister Risuno, jerking her head slightly with a whir. She lifted the cutting board and tipped the vegetables into the pot. “They’re saying he’s dangerous.”

“People say a lot of things.” Korma set down the stylus and rubbed the bones of his dark, wrinkled hands. Though he was making some effort to pace himself, his writing muscles were cramping as he otherwise tirelessly transferred the data. It was time for a rest.

Sister Risuno dipped a ladle into the pot and filled a bowl with the soup she had just finished. “Announcement: Dinner is ready.”

“Thank you, Sister,” the old man replied gratefully as she set the bowl in front of him. The droid gathered the various recording implements and went to put them away.

Korma stared out the window as he tested the soup, contemplating the rain. It was too dark to see, but doubtless the night was as cold as it was wet.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Sister Risuno glanced at the door as she reentered the room. “Advisement: Don’t answer that.”

The bishop put down his spoon, rose from the chair, and turned around to face the door. “Come in.”

The door whooshed aside to reveal a silhouette that filled the doorway. What at first glance appeared to be a hunched Wookiee revealed itself to be a sopping human man, with wild grey hair and a beard that covered nearly the whole of his face. He wore dark brown pants and a khaki shirt underneath a brown jacket with small pockets, a dull green backpack dangling from his shoulders. Though his clothes looked new, they were soaked and did not seem to fit his frame properly. Hanging from his belt was a black datapad with a yellow screen. He stared at the Cerean and the ancient droid. When the door shut out the rain, there was not a sound beside the dripping of water onto the floor and the hum of the datatape in the droid’s divoted head as her photoreceptors processed the new arrival.

“Welcome,” Korma smiled. “Suno, a heater and dry clothes for our guest, if you would.”

Risuno turned her head to ask a question, but realized it was redundant. “Commentary: —” the droid said to herself on a low volume setting as she went to fetch the requested items.

The man glanced at the droid and then back to the bishop as water dripped from his hair to the floor. His thick brow furrowed in a confused scowl.

“I’m afraid the only dry garments I have on hand are rather monastic,” Korma apologized. “I hope that will be adequate.”

“I didn’t even tell you who I am,” the man protested.

The Cerean raised a white eyebrow. “I don’t think that matters, but if you wish, you may tell me your name.”

The man bent his head, staring at the little puddles forming at his feet. “I have to tell you I’m a thief.”

He unhooked the datapad from his belt and handed it to the bishop. Korma took it and switched it on, the yellow glow illuminating his brown wizened face. His dark eyes flitted back and forth across the document as the stranger kept his gaze turned aside. As Sister Risuno returned with dry clothes hanging on her back appendages, carrying a heating unit, Korma nodded and handed the device back to its owner. “Sister Risuno?”

The stranger hung his head. The droid tilted hers as she set down the heating unit and switched it on, awaiting the bishop’s request.

“A bowl for our guest, if you would.”

Com choked on a gasp. Sister Risuno turned to allow Korma to remove the robes from her back appendages. That done, she retracted them as she walked to the pot to dish up another bowl of soup. Korma held out his arm to Com, inviting him to take the clothes draped over it. Com knit his brow as he took them. His eyes flicked upward suspiciously.

“There is a room upstairs where you may change,” said the Cerean. “You may sleep there as well if you would like. Otherwise, there is another room available.”

The convict glanced at the robes. “You did read the datapad, right?”

“Yes, I did,” Korma confirmed with a nod. “May I call you Com?”

A pause before answering. “Sure.”

“It’s good to meet you, Com,” Korma smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder. Com was a large man and Korma was not; it was only thanks to his conical cranium that the Cerean and the human were of equal height. “You may call me Korma.”

Com’s brow remained knitted with confusion. He stood there for a moment before asking, “Why?”

“Because that is what I call myself, of course,” Korma replied with a wry smirk.

“No,” said Com forcefully. “Why do you trust me?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Korma cocked his elongated head. “I have no reason not to.”

Com sputtered. “What about the fact that I’m a thief?”

“You use the present tense,” Korma observed, stroking one of his thick, curly sideburns. “Are you not a released prisoner? Would they let you out if they knew you would steal again?”

“Everyone else thinks I will,” Com growled. “They might as well be right.”

Korma shrugged and turned to return to his chair. “We shall see.”

Com stood there for an eternity, dripping, robes in hand, before slinking up the stairs to the first room.

When he arrived, he immediately recognized it as the bishop’s, from the shelf of holotomes, the sheets of flimsiplast on the desk accompanied by a stylus. Instinctively, with a glance over his shoulder, he went to the closet to see its contents. What he found was that the door he had taken for a closet entrance actually opened into the other room the bishop had spoken of; they were connected. These quarters were not lived in; there were no furnishings other than the bed, table with an illumination unit, and wardrobe in the corner to serve the function of the closet it lacked. Com furrowed his brow and stepped into the uninhabited room.

I’m sure there have been early mornings where your alarm has gone off and then, after a long session in the sanistream, you’ve sat on your bed wearing only a towel or your undergarments, procrastinating putting your clothes on for no real reason while you check the HoloNet on your datapad or think about how you’re going to get your protagonist out of the nest of gundarks you dropped her into in the last chapter— that or a particularly difficult math problem, whatever people who aren’t writers think about. Com was in a similar state. His soggy clothes lay on the thermal unit as he sat on the bed, barefoot in borrowed trousers, still puzzling over the treatment that was so inexplicably different from what he had received in the past. It had taken him a full five minutes to slip into the pants in this foggy state, and he had yet to don the brown shirt or the tunic that wrapped over it. His prison number was branded under his collarbone. 56632. He would bear it for life, decades after his release.

Stars, how many decades do I even have left?

Eventually, in his lethargy, he tugged the shirt over his large head and pulled the socks over his feet for warmth before trudging down the stairs with the unwrapped tunic hanging from his shoulders. Korma glanced over his shoulder with a smile. “Come, sit.”

Com did as he was told, taking the seat across from the old Cerean. His spoon flew to his mouth and he dropped it with a cry of surprise.

“Sister Risuno kept it warm for you,” said Korma with concern. “Is it too hot?”

“No,” Com grunted, picking up his spoon. “I just… didn’t expect… for…”

Com did not finish his sentence, furrowing his brow. He ate more slowly but no less voraciously than his initial spoonful. He seized his cup and drained it with a raspy sigh. Only then did he furrow his brow and and realize the bowl, the plate it was set on, the cup and the spoon were all golden. “What are these made of?”

Korma took a sip. “They’re aurodium. A small luxury.”

Com stared into his empty cup. “How did you come by a set of aurodium dishware?”

Korma sighed, staring into the distance as he folded his wrinkled hands in his lap. “A gift from very long ago, given by people who may not feel such gratitude towards me now since times have changed so much. I suppose they are… sentimental, that way.”

The bishop closed his eyes and bowed his head, sitting for a moment in deep contemplation. Com looked at his cup again, then to his bowl, and resumed eating. Sister Risuno bent over his shoulder as he hunched over his bowl. “Query: More soup?”

Com slurped the last spoonful and pushed the bowl under his elbow to the droid. Korma, his own bowl empty as well, sighed, finally opening his eyes and relaxing. “Tell me about yourself, Com.”

“What’s there to tell?” Com grunted, looking away. “You read the datapad.”

“I don’t care about the datapad,” Korma replied. “I want to know about you, not your criminal record. Your past does not define you.”

Com’s enormous fist clenched. “If it didn’t define me, then I wouldn’t have to carry it.”

“Do you have any family?”

“Dead. Every single one of them.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s my fault. Or the Republic’s.” Com laughed bitterly. “I don’t care whose. Whichever one’s to blame, they’re both dead. There’s nothing left of me except that document.”

Korma nodded slowly, his gaze slowly falling to the table as he spoke. “It’s been difficult for everyone with the rise of the Empire.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Com rolled his eyes. “What, you have to get your credcoins all changed at the bank? They make you wait in line to get a new chain code? Big kriffing deal. You want difficult you try rotting in a cell for nineteen kriffing years. The Republic did that. Empire didn’t do shaak spit to me. What’d they do to you?”

Korma did not reply, but he did not look as though it was for lack of an answer. Com’s gaze challenged the bishop, but the old man did not respond.

Sister Risuno glanced back and forth at the silent individuals seated opposite each other before deciding against interjecting and electing instead to place the guest’s refilled bowl on the table. The convict’s gaze dropped from the bishop’s to the soup as he attacked it, staining his beard purple. His spoon clattered against the empty bowl as he stood, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of the tunic he was wearing. “Thanks.”

“I think I will retire as well,” Korma sighed contentedly. “I’ve had a long day. Sister, is your tape full?”

“Answer: There are still twenty-two hours left on it,” replied the droid. “Since I will be shutting down, I will not require a replacement until tomorrow evening at approximately 1832 standard hours.”

“Very well then,” the bishop smiled. “You go power down. I’ll show Com to his room.”

“Observation: The dishes have not been cleaned and stored,” Sister Risuno objected.

“I’ll do it,” Korma insisted. “Both you and our guest need to rest.”

“Statement: That will not be necessary. I can easily—”

“Your joints are older than mine, Sister,” Korma smiled wryly. “By countless lifetimes. Please, rest. I can stay awake an extra twenty minutes.”

The convict gazed at the golden dishes over his shoulder as he went to the stairs. He looked away before the bishop could catch him staring.

 

Small update, I will be changing the posting schedule, so the next chapter will drop this Tuesday!

 

So... It is not Tuesday. Oops. But here's the chapter.

—

A month after his first escape attempt, Com was haunted by ghosts.

They visited him in his dreams, bringing reassurance that it wasn’t his fault, attempting to bring him comfort. But he knew they were lying.

His sister. His four nieces and three nephews. All dead. Because of him.

And the worst of it was, he knew somehow it was connected. Their appearances in his sleep, their deaths. No one had told him they had succumbed to starvation. He knew because when they had come to him, he asked if they were dead, and they said no.

And he knew they were lying.

Dreams were a paradise that Com did not deserve. A space outside the bounds of time, where his loved ones were always with him, no matter how deeply he had failed them. How could he rejoice in reunion knowing he had confined them forever to that space, to vanish with his opening eyes?

They always pleaded with him not to turn around. Not to walk away. His sister would put her hand on his shoulder, and it would be intangible as a hologram, because it was a dream. His nieces and nephews would tug on his shirt as he walked away, and he wouldn’t feel it. They would go after him, calling and calling, until he could no longer bear it, and he would spin around and shout at them.

He never shouted at them while they were alive.

The shame at their weeping would send him into a run. He never knew where he was running. Away. Just away. And when he reached away he would collapse to his knees and turn his anger on himself for hurting the people he loved so dearly. He would have beaten another man with his bare hands for abusing his family that way. He would have thrashed that man without mercy. And Com Narcom was no exception. But the punishing blows were nothing but a breeze, ineffectual against the offender, whose inability to feel the pain he deserved robbed the avenger of justice. The bruises would appear on his ribs, around his throat, but they were harmless illusions. When he awoke, they would vanish.

Sometimes, he would bash his bosom again until the bruises were real and turned his breath to cobwebs. Sometimes, when this would not satisfy, he would provoke a guard into dispensing the retribution he hungered to inflict on the man who had ruined his life.

But when Com Narcom awoke at this moment, it was not in a cell. Nor was it because that same nightmare had come to him.

It was because it hadn’t.

He sprang at the softness of the bed. Then he remembered everything.

He was free now.

It was still dark. He swivelled his lower body under the covers, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. What a spacious bed. Compared to the one he had slept on for eight years, and the one eleven years before that, it was overwhelmingly large at four and a half feet wide.

The room was nice. The cottage was nice. The neighborhood was nice. The countryside was nice.

So what was he doing in it?

He stood and went to the window, the light of the twin moons illuminating his face as he pondered his situation.

Some nights, he blamed himself. Other nights, he realized that if he hadn’t stolen that meiloorun, his family would have starved anyway. He was trapped. He had always been trapped.

He began to pace the room.

When an akk is cornered, he will fight his way out. He will growl. He will bark. He will snap.

If the master beats the akk, the akk may whimper and lie curled and docile. But though the akk may not dare take its anger out on its master, it will bite others.

Even those who try to help.

All of Com’s enterprises in escape had failed. But his mind was still consumed with it. Prison had made him an automaton, programmed with escape as its sole directive. He had escaped the penitentiary moon by waiting it out, but he was still not free of the prison. There had to be an exit somewhere, and the servos in his computational unit spun with calculation.

The dog sought to retaliate. The droid sought to rectify.

The convict could do both.

The bedside chronometer read 2359. By the time it ticked over to 2400, the convict’s plan was decided. He picked up his knapsack from the floor where it sat.

He flinched when the door opened like rushing wind. But, after an eternity of seconds, the bishop did not rouse, so the convict crept into the room.

He kept his eyes on the bishop as he moved silently past the bed. He noticed a curved stick propped against the wall; it looked to be a walking stick or crook of some kind, carved from the wood of one of the local bluewood trees. It suddenly occurred to the convict that should he be discovered, it would be useful to have a weapon.

The staff was removed from its place. The convict slung one strap of his rucksack over his shoulder so better to hold the rod like a quarterstaff. He stood over the sleeping bishop for several minutes.

If he brought the rod down upon the old man’s pointed head now, he would be spared from needing to use it later should the bishop awake.

After an eternity, he moved on.

The cups, bowls and plates were protected only by a small metal key which the bishop had foolishly left in the lock. How careless and naive the bishop had been, to lock his valuables in a wooden cupboard the convict could have smashed open more easily than a skull, let alone leave the key where it could be twisted to open the cupboard without so much as a creak.

He stacked the dishes in the bottom of his pack. How fortunate now for his scant possessions, the more space for these treasures. He tried the drawer directly below the cupboard and found that the bishop had in fact locked it. A glance up at the recently looted cupboard yielded the observation that the key in the hole might fit the drawer lock as well, and a moment later his theory was proven correct, rewarding him with the utensils that were companion to the plates and cups.

That done, he made his escape, leaving the crook by the door, its purpose fulfilled.

In the morning, Korma went to the downstairs room where Sister Risuno was plugged into a power generator. Her pale golden eyes flickered to life and the reels in her memory tape began to turn again. Her photoreceptors blinked briefly as her systems booted up. “Greeting: Good morning, Bishop.”

“Good morning, Sister,” Korma replied warmly, his walking stick in hand.

“Observation: I see you have not been murdered,” the droid remarked— dryly would be an appropriate adverb, but being incapable of inflection, Sister Risuno always sounded like that.

Korma looked at his hands and feet. “I think you’re right,” he replied, sounding as if he were genuinely surprised. “Incidentally, I have not seen him this morning as of yet, but he was not in his room.”

“Commentary: Perhaps he left in the middle of the night. No doubt with several of our valuables.” Sister Risuno glanced at the walking stick. “Query: Why are you carrying your staff?”

“It’s the most curious thing,” replied the bishop, and this time his bemusement was not feigned. “I found it propped by the front door when I came downstairs.”

“Commentary: I wonder who put it there.” Sister Risuno proceeded toward the kitchen to prepare breakfast. “Perhaps our guest is still here after all, if he borrowed your walking stick and put it back when he returned.”

Korma and the droid were both greeted by open cupboards and drawers when they arrived in the kitchen. Risuno folded her arms. “Commentary: What did I tell you?”

Korma said nothing.

There was a knock on the door, and Korma went to answer it. The door opened to reveal a police officer holding a knapsack; behind him, two others restraining a familiar individual in stun cuffs.

Korma furrowed his brow. “Officers.”

“Do you recognize these items?” The officer opened the knapsack to reveal the missing dishes.

“Indeed I do,” replied the bishop.

“This thief says you gave them to him,” the officer sneered. “As a gift.”

Korma blinked. “But I did.”

The prisoner started.

The officer’s eyebrows shot skyward. “What?”

Korma leaned to peer over the officer’s shoulder. “Why is he in binders? Release him at once!”

The police officer stood blinking before waving two fingers toward the officers behind him. The policemen deactivated the cuffs. The prisoner rubbed his wrists, staring at the old Cerean with bewilderment.

“Return the knapsack,” Korma ordered. “Those belong to him.”

“O-of course,” the officer stammered. “It’s just that… Well, this man is a convicted thief, and at the spaceport… in the middle of the night, it was all just… very suspicious.”

“I understand,” nodded the bishop. “We all make mistakes. I thank you for taking the time to return my property. You can go about your business.”

The officer nodded tersely, setting the knapsack on the ground, and left with the other two officers. Com stood staring at the bishop.

Korma smiled and Com’s eyes dropped. “Why did you lie for me?”

“Lie?” Korma put a hand on his shoulder. “No, Com. These are yours, just as I said.”

Com shook him off, stumbling backwards. “No! I stole them from you! You didn’t give them to me!”

“I have now,” said the bishop. “You deserve the chance to make an honest man of yourself.”

Com hung his head. “I deserve nothing.”

Korma laced his fingers. “I think it’s time I let you in on a secret.”

Korma beckoned the man inside. He warily complied. Sister Risuno followed them into the upstairs room.

Com sat on the edge of the bed while the bishop stood in front of him. “Com,” said Korma, “what do you know about the Force?”

“Query:—” Risuno interjected.

Korma held up a hand; she fell silent. Com furrowed his brow. “The what?”

The bishop chuckled. “I see. Com, the Force is what binds the universe. You can see it in all things. Every creature on every world… All the planets which move in their regular form… The Force gives them life, and the Force resides in all things that live. It is all around us.”

“So it’s… what?” Lines appeared on Com’s face. “A god? Auras? The universe made sentient? Or is it just what you call… things existing?”

“Well, that depends greatly on your point of view,” the Cerean replied. “Many, such as the Mirialans, do worship it. The congregation over which I preside does not know the Force by name; they believe it is a great spirit who is the creator of the universe and father to all those in it. I do not worship the Force, though I seek to know its will.”

Com blinked at the floor. His knitting brow had become a habit over the past few hours. “Why are you telling me this?”

Korma sat beside him on the bed. “Before you arrived on my doorstep, the Force whispered to me that you would come.”

Com’s eyes widened. “It did?”

“Statement: That explains your illogical nonchalance,” Sister Risuno commented.

“Call it what you wish,” Korma smiled, shaking his head at the droid before returning to Com. “I did not know you were a thief. But I knew the Force brought you to me for a reason. I knew you needed my help. So I trusted you.”

Com’s eyes dropped to his knees.

The Cerean placed a dark, wizened hand on Com’s equally weathered knuckles. “I want to place my trust in you again.”

Com took Korma’s meaning slightly differently from what the bishop had intended. He nodded with desperate vigor.

The old man nodded. “I knew I could.”

Com’s lips thinned as if the words pained him.

“Com,” the bishop smiled, “I believe I know why the Force led you here.”

Korma paused for a moment, then said, “This is a secret you must not divulge with anyone. I have infinite faith in you.”

Com did not look at the bishop, staring past his own knees at the floor. “…I understand.”

“Commentary: If you’re about to entrust him to the secret I think you are,” said Sister Risuno, folding her arms, “this is a cosmically terrible idea. You can’t possibly consider him trustworthy after what he just did not ten hours ago.”

“Sister,” the bishop replied, fixing the droid with a stare, “my trust is my own to give, regardless of who is worthy of it.”

Com squirmed, glancing at the droid, who, if she were suited to detecting the nuances of human facial expressions, might have realized they were in agreement, despite what came forth from the man’s mouth immediately following. “…I can keep a secret.”

Korma nodded. “What do you know about the Jedi?”

Com stroked his thick grey beard. “They were real, apparently. My whole life I wasn’t sure if I believed in them, but rumor has it the Empire wiped them out, so I guess they were real until now.”

Korma raised an eyebrow. “And what do you know of them, besides the fact that at one point they existed?”

Com blew air through his beard. “They carried swords with lasers for blades and went around the galaxy saving people with their magic. At least, that’s what I heard. I don’t know how much of it is true. No Jedi ever saved me.”

That brought a wry turn of the corner of the Cerean’s mouth. “You say the Jedi had magic. What if I told you that was the Force?”

“Wait.” Com’s brow wrinkled. “I thought you said the Force was a spirit or the life of the universe or something. Now you’re telling me it’s the Jedi’s magic? Which is it?”

Korma ran his tongue over his teeth, pondering. “The Force flows through all things, like a river. But like a river it can be channeled. The Jedi mind the will of the Force, and the Force obeys their commands. If you reach out with your hand and feel an object, you can move it with your hand. If you reach out with the Force…”

Korma smiled wryly again. “I can trust you to keep a secret, can’t I?”

Com hesitated, then nodded.

Korma nodded in turn. “The Empire did hunt down most of the Jedi. But some of them escaped.”

He rose from the bed, then closed his eyes and stretched forth his hand. Com’s brow wrinkled in confusion, then he looked over his shoulder and saw a holobook gliding slowly towards the bishop. He gaped at the Cerean as the book gently drifted into his hand.

“You…”

“Yes, Com,” Korma nodded. “I am a Jedi.”

Com was struck dumb, being able only to stare at the bishop in fear, as one fears a god, feeling as though he would burn to ash from the heart outward.

“You must tell no one,” Korma admonished. “If I am discovered, the Empire will hunt me down.”

Com’s inward nod must have translated to a physical motion even though he did not remember feeling himself move his head or change expression, because the bishop smiled and went to retrieve a datapad from the desk. “And now, we will see if I am correct in my hypothesis.”

Hypothesis? Com wanted to ask what the bishop meant, but he could only stare. The bishop pressed a few buttons on the device, then held it up at eye level without turning it around. “Tell me what you see.”

Com grunted quizzically. He answered his own question without knowing why. “An animal.”

Korma’s eyes lit up. “Describe it.”

Com’s brow creased. He looked at the bishop’s knees, wagging his bottom lip back and forth, trying to figure out what just happened. Somehow, he’d known what the image was displayed on the other side of the datapad screen. How?

He looked up at the old man, who was still looking expectantly at him. Sister Risuno cocked her head.

“It’s a reptavian of some kind.” Com frowned with concentration. “Feathery head and back. Scales everywhere else. A ridged beak… four legs, a tail… and a saddle?”

Korma nodded. “That is a varactyl, native to Utapau. They are used as mounts.” He pressed another button on the datapad. “Now tell me what you see.”

“A YT-model freighter,” Com replied with less hesitation. “I’ve done repairs on them.”

The bishop nodded and pressed another button. “And now?”

“A jogan fruit.”

Korma changed the image again. “A blaster.” Again. “A Rodian.” Again. “A bird.” Again. “A planet. Coruscant?” A nod. Again. “A hat.”

Korma switched off the datapad, beaming. “I was right.”

Com was still confused. “Right about what?”

“The Force is strong with you, Com,” said Korma. “You can sense things with it.”

Com’s knitted brow threatened permanence. “That’s the Force?”

“Answer: Indeed it is.” Sister Risuno finally unfolded her arms and stepped forward. “Statement: I have witnessed many prospective Jedi be tested in a similar manner. You do indeed display at least one significant trait in Force-sensitive individuals.”

“You are… forty-six years old?” Korma stroked his chin. “Have you ever realized you possessed any unusual talents?”

Com frowned. “I’m… strong,” he mused. “But… I don’t think that’s the Force. I’ve built up muscle from prison labor, and before that, various heavy lifting jobs.”

“Are you… abnormally strong?” Korma questioned. “What’s the heaviest thing you’ve ever lifted?”

“Prow of a ship.”

The bishop’s eyes shot wide, a chuckle escaping at the man’s nonchalance. “A starship?”

“Well…” Com furrowed his brow. “Yes, but there was also a time when a durasteel panel fell off the side of a patrol watership we were patching and I held it back up until they bolted it back on.”

Korma shook his head, smiling with amusement. “Remarkable.”

Com was, by this point, only just beginning to grasp the situation. Korma asked him to perform some seemingly random exercises of meditation, to which he complied without understanding their purpose. As he performed these meditations, Korma told him more of the Force.

“The Force moves through all life. When your mind is quiet, you can feel everything around you, even things you cannot see or touch.”

Com concentrated, sat on the bed with folded legs, eyes closed. The Jedi’s words were true; he could feel everything. The whirring of the reels in the ancient droid’s datatapes, the mouse-like creature in the grass outside, and if he focused, each individual bug crawling in the mattress.

“The Force has a light side and a dark side. The light side is selflessness and submission to the will of the Force. The dark side is selfishness and domination. It exists within each of us, and to serve it is to serve oneself and lust after power. To find balance in oneself you must overcome the dark side.”

Com drank in the bishop’s words. He saw now that he had been living in darkness, succumbed to it in his desperation. And this man, this Jedi, had pulled him from it as a savior pulls a drowning man from the waves.

The instruction— for that is what Com eventually realized it was— occupied the whole of the day; even during lunch, Korma continued to teach while they ate. Sister Risuno stood watching, inputting occasional commentary, her datatape whirring as her photoreceptors recorded their exercises and lessons. At the conclusion thereof, they ate an evening meal, and Com went upstairs with the bishop to retire.

As Com entered Korma’s room to cross into his own, the old Cerean approached him, carrying a strange device in his hands. Com could not immediately discern the purpose of the cylindrical, ornately crafted object, and looked up with confusion when the bishop placed it in his hands.

“This is a lightsaber,” said Korma. “It is the Jedi’s weapon you spoke of. It is yours. In the morning I will teach you how to use it.”

To say Com received the gift with renewed astonishment was an understatement. He had already received far more than anyone should have given him; his freedom, the valuable dishes, instruction from a Jedi, and now this rare and priceless heirloom, and with it, the promise of further instruction.

Did Korma expect him to become a Jedi himself?

The thought struck terror into Com’s heart like nothing else. How could he ever be fit to be as this bishop? How could this paragon of light deign to see a worthy student in a soul so dark as Com’s? How could he expect him to become so wise and great, to be entrusted with the power of the universe itself? How could he bear the burden of the Jedi’s faith in the face of his profound unworthiness?

Com slipped away in the night, as he had the night before. But this time, he stole nothing, taking only the gifts he had been given.

Except for one. The lightsaber. He only realized after he had boarded a starship that he had brought it with him, and regretted it deeply. Even though it was a gift, he had rejected the promise which had come with it. He did not deserve to keep it.

But neither could he now be rid of it. Too great was his shame to return to his benefactor. Too precious the artifact to sell or give to another. So he would keep it, and he would hide it. It would never be used. When he began his new life, he would bury it.

 

So what did Kaltha do?

Than was as good as his word. Kaltha first turned to Mai. Mai did not see the issue and thought Kaltha was being stubborn for no good reason; she advised her to terminate the pregnancy and apologize. As Kaltha walked away fuming from her former friend’s doorstep, it occurred to her to com Than’s father.

But Vid Meehal also took his son’s side. “He’s still developin’ in maturity. Ya really oughta terminate and try again in a couple years when he’s ready. He’s just not equipped to handle that kinda responsibility.”

She had only just put her comlink back on her belt when it beeped. It was Than’s sister, Eba, offering similar advice. She ended the transmission immediately only for Than’s mother to take Eba’s place. Kaltha tried to explain how desperately she didn’t want to terminate, but Mrs. Meehal’s only other suggestion was that she place the child for adoption once it was born and then Than would take her back.

Than’s family and friends commed her incessantly urging her to come around, and finally she chucked the infernal device over a pedestrian platform, where it would shatter to pieces at the feet of a startled Ithorian on level 4216 thirty-nine minutes after she tossed it.

If Kaltha had changed her mind at some point about Mrs. Meehal’s advice, she could not have taken it, because two weeks later, Than was dating up-and-coming holostar Evie Abba Antilles. As a tangential piece of trivia, Antilles’ eighteenth birthday had occurred eight days after Kaltha and Than had had their fight. Than’s relationship with Antilles was not yet as public as his relationship with Kaltha had been in the weeks before their falling out. Kaltha’s mind was too occupied with her fury to contemplate revenge, but even if she had thought to leverage it against him, the only people who would believe her were the tabloids, and the story would die out quickly. She was not a celebrity in her own right; her severance from Than had rendered her a complete nobody, not even worth a passing mention on his biographical HoloNet article.

Now being without a home, Kaltha exchanged most of her possessions for credits. Aside from a few changes of plain, casual clothing and one moderately elegant dress she ended up selling anyway, Kaltha retained only a violet silk voylan with a golden crest. The voylan is often taken for granted; you probably don’t even know it’s called that, even though you have certainly seen one before. It is a wrap, band or cowl which all Twi’lek women wear around their heads. Usually they are fabric, but in the upper classes they are often made of ornate metal, and slavemasters will often fit braces after this fashion which are designed to suppress voluntary movement of the head-tails to prevent Twi’lek slaves from communicating in lekku sign language. They are so ubiquitous they are almost never commented on, which is why I did not mention it before. Now, however, Kaltha’s voylan was quite conspicuous; the voylan often matches the clothes of the wearer in color and material, but since Kaltha now clothed herself in humble tones, the purple silk and golden crest stood out. Still she clung to it, as a memento of a better time. And despite the incongruent vibrance of the headpiece, Kaltha always managed to select colors that complemented, rather than clashed with, the ornament.

She gave birth to a daughter the following year in the cheapest hospital she could find. Calisuma was the name on the child’s birth certificate, but the mother called her Leela. Please don’t ask me about the process behind that abbreviation; even my Twi’lek friends have had difficulty explaining it to me.

The child possessed her mother’s deep brown eyes and gaze of childlike wonder. The latter was especially fortunate, as Kaltha’s reserve of it had been sapped thoroughly by the entire ordeal. Yet this was not to say she was bitter or cynical; indeed, whenever she was with her daughter, which was always, she was joyful. Most fortunate of all was that, although this would not be fully evident for two or three years, she was almost a perfect copy of her mother, with no trace of resemblance to her other genetic donor; one might have thought she had been cloned.

For the first year of little Calisuma’s life, Kaltha lived in a shelter; the shelter, however, was struggling for funds, and was shut down by the Empire shortly after her first birthday. With what little money she had, Kaltha took a starship to the Lifh sector where she, apparently, had an aunt related by marriage she had never met. The woman was fond of infants, and so allowed the young mother to board with her for a time. By the time the child had turned four, however, Kaltha had worn out her welcome, by the simple fact that she had been unable to find a job. There was a vast multitude of jobs on Lifh, and Kaltha’s aunt felt that she had not exerted due effort in searching for one while she mooched off her slim resources. What the aunt failed to take into account was that though there was an abundance of jobs, there was a complete dearth of ones that were open, and Kaltha, being somewhat inexperienced with strategic assassination, was forced to embark for the Outer Rim frontier.

It was by these circumstances that the young mother was brought to Monderon. Monderon was best described as the Tatooine to Onderon’s Dantooine, in that they were similarly named, yet located in wholly different regions in the galaxy and with distinctly dissimilar planetary biomes. Whereas Onderon was a humid, vibrant jungle with magnificent urban cities, Monderon was a deceptively temperate planet, much like Jedha’s winter desert, and was characterized by tiny forests dotted around the sparse grasslands which covered the rest of its continents.

Monderon had, in total, nine spaceports. The one where Kaltha was dropped off was in a relatively sizable town called Fermin. Kaltha, upon the advice of a stranger sat next to her on the shuttle, sought work on a ranch. The reason for this was that a ranch hand would be able to live on the farmer’s property, and so she would not have to leave her child unattended. Therefore, Kaltha hailed a landspeeder taxi to locate a place of employment outside of town.

The taxi took her to the first farm on the outskirts of town. The child walked wordlessly as she held her mother’s hand, staring with wide brown eyes at the stable in the distance. She pointed a blue-green hand towards a corral. “Look, mama! Banthas!”

Kaltha glanced at the large, curly-horned creatures lumbering around the enclosure. “That’s right, Leela, those do look like banthas.”

“Why come the banthas got spots?” Leela asked inquisitively, observing the white patches on the animals’ shaggy caramel hides that did not reflect what she’d seen in pictures.

“That must be the breed they raise here,” Kaltha surmised, observing the twisted black horns that were bigger than those of any bantha she’d ever seen.

Leela tugged on her mother’s hand. “Can I go pet one?”

Kaltha smiled. “We’ll ask the farmer if you can pet one. Alright?”

“Okay!” she beamed. She began to skip as her mother led her toward the farmhouse.

When she was within a few yards of the house, a red-skinned, yellow-ridged Weequay in muddy khaki overalls sauntered over with a shovel over his shoulder, tugging the brim of his goggled sunhat with a friendly grin. “G’day to ya. The name’s Al-kad, but ya can call me Al if ya like. Can I help ya, miss?”

“I’m looking for a place to work,” Kaltha replied as Leela waved shyly at the man. “I need to look after the little one and I’m hoping for a live-in position. Are you hiring?”

“Ah,” said the Weequay with an apologetic frown. “I’ve already got the hands I need. I’m not oppos’d to extra help, but I’m afraid I haven’t got any room for you and the little ankle-biter to stay.”

Kaltha nodded, crestfallen. “I understand.”

“Very sorry about that,” Al replied sympathetically. “Ya might try the next farm over, but ya might not have better luck. There’s a lotta folks like you comin’ through with the same idea.”

Leela tugged on the hem of her mother’s tunic. “Um…” Kaltha smiled and glanced down at her. “My daughter would like to know if she could pet one of your banthas.”

Al gave Leela a grin. “Right this way, miss.”

Leela did not just get to pet one of the banthas, but the Weequay rancher let her ride one as well. Leela squealed with delight as the bantha lumbered around the pen, swaying its great horned head from side to side. A female Weequay carrying a sack of feed over one shoulder waved to Al-kad as she passed the fence; he returned her wave with a shy smile. “That’s Yazzie. She’s been here for a year now. Been meanin’ to pop the question, but I need to talk it over with the little ones first. I know Jiva would approve, Quay rest her soul.” He sighed and held his hat in his hand.

When it was time to leave, Al-kad offered to give Kaltha a lift, since her taxi had driven off. Kaltha gratefully accepted. Al-kad took her to his friend Sinomore’s orchard.

But even though the Abednedo was hiring, he did not have any live-in positions. Al-kad knew of one other farm in the area and took her there. The owners were a Troig couple named Keeb, Dwurf, Joon, and Fay. They debated fervently whether to let one of their hires go to make space for Kaltha, but Kaltha didn’t want any of their workers to be laid off on her account, so she thanked them and decided to call it a day.

The sun was sinking low by the time Al dropped Kaltha off on the edge of town. Leela dozed through the whole speeder ride. “Real sorry ya couldn’t find a place to work,” the Weequay sighed as he deactivated the engine. “I know I’m out in the sticks, but if ya ever need anythin’ from me, ya know where ya can find me.”

“Thank you.” Kaltha threw an arm around his neck. She didn’t want him to see the tears in her eyes, but he knew anyway and patted her back.

As she walked along the road, holding her yawning child’s hand, she came to a slightly dilapidated establishment with a curious eyesore bolted above the entrance. Crudely painted on a sheet of durasteel scrap was a battle scene wherein a figure in a blue coat and red cap hauled an unconscious, cloaked man in white armor on his shoulders through a sea of fallen battle droids, clone troopers and blaster fire. Below this amateurish tableau was stenciled the name of the establishment in the Outer Rim Basic. Being only familiar with the Aurebesh, Kaltha could not read the sign, but she gathered the place was a tavern of some kind.

Kaltha was drawn to the opposite side of the building by the sound of children’s laughter. Upon investigation she discovered two Weequay girls, one her daughter’s age and one a little older, swinging on a hanging bench while their mother sat nearby reading a holonovel. Kaltha approached the Weequays with a friendly wave. The mother glanced up and saw her. “‘Uh’chu apenkee! ‘Aku koose uba unko?”

Kaltha replied with a smile. “Gooddé da lodia. Just passing through.”

“Rest for awhile,” the Weequay woman invited, making space on the bench where she was sitting. “You look like you’ve done a lot o’ walkin’.”

“Thank you.” Kaltha sat next to her while her child, suddenly alert, ran to join the other two girls.

“That’s a pretty bauble you got there,” the Weequay remarked, looking at the golden oval on Kaltha’s head.

Kaltha smiled shyly. “Thank you.”

Leela laughed delightedly as she swung on the swing beside the Weequay girl her age while the older sister pushed. “She’s a cute thing, isn’t she?” the mother smiled. “What’s ‘er name?”

“Leela,” Kaltha replied with a smile of her own.

“She’s right precious, she is,” the mother Weequay cooed. “Where you ‘eaded?”

Kaltha sighed, lead-hearted. “I don’t know. I came looking for work, but all the jobs are taken.”

“Not all o’ them,” the Weequay woman replied. “There’s a jogan orchard two ‘undred klicks from ‘ere. You could try there.”

“I know,” said Kaltha. “But I want a live-in position. I don’t want to be separated from my daughter.”

“Now that, I can understand.”

Kaltha sighed as she watched the girls play, taking turns on the swing. They got along so well together. Leela had never had any friends before. It was something she desperately needed.

“Booty da nolia,” came a gruff, amicable voice. A man in a long blue coat and a red cap with the Republic insignia stitched on it sauntered out from the house. “Tarkay, at your service. This is the wife, and those are my daughters.”

“Kaltha,” Kaltha replied, shaking his leathery brown hand.

“Pleasure to meet ya, Kaltha,” Tarkay grinned. “You lookin’ for a room? Only twenty credits a night.”

“Thank you.” She sighed. “What I’m really looking for is a job. But nobody has any live-in positions, and I need to be able to take care of my daughter while I work.”

“Well now, that sounds like a right dilemma, alright.” The Weequay stroked one of the bony protrusions on the side of his chin. “Truth be told, there ain’t a lot o’ jobs like that out ‘ere. The sector’s full o’ people comin’ in, lookin’ for work, takin’ up all the lodgin’s… Well, it’s good for us, innit? We innkeeper folk.” He chuckled. “It’s gettin’ late. I think we’d best ‘ead inside. Would you like a room? The missus’ll be makin’ dinner soon.”

“That’s right,” said the mother Weequay. “Mona! Port! Tocky tulpa noleeya!”

The children groaned, but hastened to obey their mother. The younger girl took Leela by the hand while the older one waved them on toward the house. Kaltha’s heart ached, knowing Leela had never had friends before.

“Let’s get you a drink,” Tarkay offered, putting a hand on Kaltha’s shoulder as he led her inside. “You look like you could use one.”

The back door of the inn led directly into the kitchen, where the countertop overlooked a room full of tables and chairs. Kaltha sat at the closest one while Leela and the two Weequay girls began to stack blocks in the corner by the staircase.

Tarkay pulled his wife aside and muttered something to her. The two of them engaged in a furtive conversation in Sriluurian before Mrs. Tarkay began preparing a soup. Tarkay waltzed over with a bottle of ale and two glasses. Kaltha wordlessly declined. “It’s on the ‘ouse,” Tarkay offered, but she shook her head. Tarkay shrugged and poured two glasses for himself. “That’s a fetchin’ trinket on your ‘ead there.”

Kaltha gave a small smile in acknowledgement of the compliment.

“You know, business is boomin’ on Montal,” Tarkay remarked offhandedly. “You could try lookin’ there for work.”

“Won’t it be the same?” Kaltha sighed lamentfully. “No jobs on Lifh, no jobs here… They’ve all been taken.”

“Well, that’s not strictly true,” Tarkay replied, wiping some foam from his leathery lip. “Plenty o’ places ‘irin’. But… you need a place to stay while you work.”

Kaltha nodded. “And I can’t leave Leela at home for long periods.”

“Course not,” Tarkay nodded sympathetically. “It ain’t right for a mother to be away from ‘er child for so long, ‘specially with no father around— what ‘appened to ‘im, by the way? There was a father, weren’t there?”

Kaltha clenched her fist. “Sleemo kicked me out.”

“Ooh, that’s unfortunate.” Tarkay shook his head, thinning his nonexistent lips. “Believe me, I know the type.”

Kaltha watched Leela play with Tarkay’s daughters for a while. In the morning they would leave again— but where would they go? Could she ever find a place where they could stay together?

Tarkay heard her sniffle. “You alright?”

The tears pooling in Kaltha’s eyes began to spill. “What am I going to do? ”

She buried her face in her arms, sobbing. Leela looked up from her game, concerned. Kaltha lifted her head as she felt a small hand on her arm. “Don’t cry, mama.”

Kaltha sniffled and pulled Leela into a hug, still weeping. Tarkay observed the scene, face twisted in a sympathetic pout. Leela glanced over her shoulder at him and clung to her mother more tightly.

The Tarkay girls trotted over to see why Leela had stopped playing with them. Kaltha squeezed her daughter and set her down with a sniffle. “Go play, starbeam. I’ll be alright.”

Leela stared at her mother anxiously, glanced at the Weequay girls, glanced back at her mother, and hesitantly took the younger Weequay girl’s hand.

Tarkay smiled as the girls ran off to resume their play. Kaltha swallowed, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “They’re like sisters.”

“I daresay you’re right,” Tarkay mused, scratching his rough chin thoughtfully. He was silent for a few moments as if sitting on an idea. “Supposin’ you didn’t ‘ave to take care o’ the little one. Then you wouldn’t ‘ave to worry about a live-in job, would ya?”

“I couldn’t give her up,” Kaltha replied, fresh tears beginning to leak.

“No, o’ course not,” Tarkay waved. “But supposin’ someone else looked after ‘er… An’ you could just focus on work knowin’ she was cared for. ‘Ow would you feel about that?”

Kaltha chewed her lip. “I’d be grateful to anyone willing to watch her, but I can’t afford to pay a sitter every day.”

“Well, ‘ow does a monthly sum sound?” Tarkay quirked an eyebrow. “Supposin’ she were to live with someone, fulltime, until you saved up enough money to come an’ get ‘er?”

“Are you offering?” Kaltha furrowed her brow.

“Well, yes, I suppose I am.” Tarkay grinned. “What do ya say? We’ll take good care of ‘er. She’ll be like a third daughter to us. You said it yourself, she an’ my girls are already like sisters.”

Kaltha glanced at the three girls playing happily together. She suddenly felt as though she should let her stay. But—

“Where will I live? With you?”

“Ooh.” Tarkay winced. “‘Fraid that’s not possible. See, then you’d be ‘ere as a longtime guest, an’ like I said, that’s twenty creds a night. We could give you a discount, but I doubt you’d be able to afford it, an’ if you can’t afford it, we can’t afford it, see?”

Kaltha nodded. She did see. “Right, of course. Do you know of anywhere that charges cheap rent?”

“You mean, out ‘ere?” Tarkay shook his head. “No, listen. You want to live with your daughter eventually, right, without ‘avin’ to worry about money, yeah?”

Kaltha nodded.

“But you don’t want to live out ‘ere ,” Tarkay continued. “Middle o’ nowhere out on this dinky grass ball in the Bumkark system— sorry, tryin’ to watch me language. You know what I mean. When you come to take your daughter to ‘er new ‘ome, it should be somewhere much nicer than ‘ere.”

“What are you saying?” Kaltha’s eyes widened. “You think I should find work on a different planet? ”

“It wouldn’t be so bad,” Tarkay reasoned. “You wouldn’t ‘ave to travel to the edge o’ the Rim. I ‘ear business is boomin’ on Montal just a couple systems over. Nice little water world. Find a place there, an’ then you an’ your daughter can live there together when you save up enough to come an’ get ‘er. D’you like the ocean?”

“I’ve never been,” Kaltha confessed.

“Oh, you’ll love Montal,” Tarkay grinned. “Nothin’ but seaside on that quaint little marble. They’ve got big white cities dotted all over the place on top o’ the natural islands. Look like egg baskets, they do. You know we’ve been meanin’ to take a vacation, per’aps we’ll come visit. Maybe even drop your kid off for you, eh?”

Kaltha chewed her lip, stared at the table, glanced at Leela, and back at the table.

“You don’t ‘ave to decide now,” Tarkay reassured her. “Sleep on it. Oi, muni, joppay du inachu? Dobra kayfoundo!”

“Ateema,” Mrs. Tarkay replied, ladling soup into six bowls. “Emeelas! Yafullkee tee-tocky!”

The girls ran to the bar. The Weequays seized their bowls, but Leela looked questioningly at the one in front of her, uncertain if it was intended for her.

“Go on,” Mrs. Tarkay encouraged with a smile. Somehow, the smile made Leela even more hesitant, but she pulled the bowl towards herself with a wary look and began slurping hungrily with her spoon. All the while, the Weequay girls chattered to her between spoonfuls.

Kaltha, consumed with no small amount of anxiety, ended up giving her bowl to Leela to finish. Tarkay led them to a room upstairs, where Kaltha slept fitfully as she agonized over her decision.

In the morning, Kaltha came downstairs with her mind not fully made up. Mrs. Tarkay prepared breakfast while the girls played a game outside. Mr. Tarkay placed a jug of jogan juice on the counter and switched on the radio as he began to fill everyone’s glasses.

“—but somehow I’m the bad guy for hitting back. Hey, I didn’t throw a shoe at your face, you crazy schutta! She wrote a whole kriffin’ album about me, of course…”

Kaltha recognized the voice on the radio and grimaced. Then a second, even more familiar voice came on.

“Yeah, I don’t go for those ‘strong, independent’ types. I mean, come on. You’re not independent, woman. You’re just psycho.”

Kaltha squirmed. “Can we listen to something else?”

“Mm?” Tarkay grunted. “Oh, sure, o’ course.” He switched the channel to a smooth jatz station, poured a shot of something from a different, smaller bottle into his own glass of juice, and walked over to the table with a glass for himself and her. Kaltha took it, but hearing his voice again, she found she was too upset to take a sip.

Tarkay noticed her glowering. “You alright?”

Kaltha bit her lip and tried to look less bitter. “Fine.”

After the girls came into the house for breakfast and went back out to play, Tarkay leaned back in his chair and picked his teeth with his fork while Mrs. Tarkay cleared their crumb-filled plates. “So… ‘Ave you thought it over?”

Kaltha looked out the window where Leela and the Tarkay girls were chasing each other in a game of tag.

She was so happy here.

“How much?”

“Let me see.” Tarkay pulled out the calculator he always kept on his belt. “Rent’ll be twenty-five creds a month. If you pay the first three months in advance I’ll give you a 20% discount, so that’ll come to sixty credits. Plus an extra twenty-two for, er, miscellaneous expenses. That’s eighty-two credits in total. In cash, if you don’t mind.”

“I’ll pay it.” Kaltha slapped a pouch of credits on the table and swiftly withdrew the requested amount.

Tarkay scooped up the money. “Pleasure doin’ business with ya,” he grinned. “Rest assured, your daughter is in good ‘ands. ‘Ere’s our com code so you can wire us periodically…”

Kaltha bit her lip and glanced out the window again. How will Leela take this?

Leela hurried to her mother at her call, looking up with inquisitive eyes.

Kaltha bit her lip. “Do you like it here, Leela?”

“Yes, mama!” Leela nodded.

“How would you like to live here?” Kaltha almost hoped she’d say no.

Leela’s eyes grew wide. “We’re going to live here? With Port and Mona?”

Kaltha closed her eyes and sighed. “No, starbeam. Just you. Mama’s going to live somewhere else for awhile.”

Leela’s eyes grew even wider, beginning to ripple. “You’re going to leave me!”

“Only for a little bit, starbeam,” Kaltha reassured her desperately. “A couple of weeks and then I’ll come right back to get you. The Tarkays will take good care of you.”

“No!” Leela clung to her mother. “I don’t want to!”

“I’m sorry, Leela,” Kaltha cracked through tears, holding her tight. “I have to. You’ll understand someday.”

“Don’t go!” Leela wailed. “Don’t go!”

Kaltha squeezed her eyes shut, trying to dam their flow. “I have to.”

They remained there for a moment, holding each other and weeping, one silently, one muffled. “It’s okay, Leela. The nice Weequays will take care of you.”

“No,” Leela protested through a bubbly nose. “They’re scary.”

Kaltha furrowed her brow. “What do you mean, they’re scary? You were playing with them just now.”

Leela shook her head. “Not Port and Mona. The grownups.”

“Oh, Leela,” Kaltha whispered. “I know it will take some getting used to having someone else take care of you. But you’ll like them just as much as you like those nice girls.”

“No,” Leela insisted desperately. “I don’t like them. They make me feel funny.”

Kaltha took Leela by the shoulders. “I know it’ll be hard, but it’ll be hard for me too. Just be brave for mama, starbeam, and I’ll take you to the most magical place in the universe.”

Leela bit her lip and nodded. “I’m going to be brave.”

Kaltha pressed her chin to the top of Leela’s head, then their foreheads slid together. Kaltha soothingly stroked the back of Leela’s neck and patted her back. “I’ll be here again before you know it.”

After an eternity that seemed like a microsecond, Kaltha stood and walked out of the yard. Leela followed her to the road and watched her walk away, tears streaming down her cheeks. But she held her lip fast and did not let it quiver. She would be brave for mama.

A landspeeder taxi came driving up the road. Leela saw her mother board it. Then it turned and sped off, disappearing into the horizon.

Doing her best to dry her tears, Leela went back to the backyard to play with Port and Mona.

Not two minutes after Kaltha’s departure, a burly Ithorian entered the Tarkays’ inn. “Eniki, Tarkay,” he growled, the translator mounted atop his neck converting his stereophonic rumbles into slightly metallic Huttese. “Oto ma moulee-rah. Tee-tocky ta wamma tonka.”

Tarkay strode over without missing a beat. “Vota do mu-moulee. Éthee-tu porko wangas.”

He dropped eighty-two credits into the Ithorian’s spindly hands. The Ithorian pocketed the money and jabbed a warning finger at the Weequay proprietor. “Hagwa jeeska jee na-geen, Tarkay. Mo jee koose bu D’Emperiolos.”

Tarkay held his hands to show he understood. The Ithorian left and Tarkay removed his cap to cool the top of his head. “That was close,” he chuckled. “Imagine if she ‘adn’t given me eighty-two credits just now.”

His wife nodded, nonexistent lips even thinner than usual. Tarkay grabbed a squirt canister from the counter, sprayed his crown with a mist of moisturizer, and replaced his cap. “Well, time to make our little investment worth our while.”

Leela was outside shooting marbles with the Tarkay girls when their father marched outside with a vibromop. “Oi, Twi!”

Leela’s head snapped up fearfully. Port and Mona stared at their father, marbles poised in their thumbs.

“Get up.”

Leela reluctantly stood, trembling.

Tarkay chucked the mop at her. “Playtime’s over.”

 

I'm back! So sorry for not updating. I've been extremely busy and I kind of forgot about copying over to here. Let's get right back into it!

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The most striking thing about Montal from space is that at any given time, one of their poles seems to cover the whole of the hemisphere it occupies. Whenever it is winter on one portion of Montal, the ice floes that form in that region can be seen from space. Conversely, when it is summer, the climate is positively tropical. This phenomenon, though extraordinarily curious, does have a scientific explanation. Quite a fascinating one too.

Kaltha arrived during the summer season in the northern hemisphere of the planet, settling on the capitol city of Morso-on-Montal. The moment she arrived, she found a public HoloNet terminal and began applying for jobs. But after a week, she received no responses from any of the businesses to which she’d applied. So she changed her application somewhat. Instead of just “Kaltha,” she put “Kaltha Faltona.” Instead of no experience, she put “some experience.” Instead of “single” and “children: yes,” she put “single” and “children: no.”

She quickly found a job at a factory which was owned by the planet’s minister of industry, Aberon Halmath.

Halmath, it was said, was a wealthy do-gooder who had economically revolutionized Montal’s industry almost singlehandedly, attracting the attention of Moff Zeniff, who made him his minister of industry on Montal. Before and after his appointment to office, which he had attempted to decline multiple times, he was notorious for his generosity. Frequently, he would donate to charities, and even more frequently, he would donate to beggars or even anyone who mentioned offhand they were encountering some form of financial trouble or another. There was no shortage of jobs on Montal, especially after his reluctant ascension to planetary governorship. Consequently, he was universally beloved among the citizens of Montal.

Except one. His name was Broque, and ever since Halmath’s business had taken off, he was living up to his name. Old Broque had been quite successful before the arrival of Aberon Halmath. When Halmath arrived, however, they became rivals. Broque’s own factory was eventually bankrupt. Halmath bought the factory to save the workers from losing their jobs, but Broque disgustedly rejected Halmath’s offer to allow him to continue running the factory autonomously. Consequently, Halmath found someone else to oversee the second branch of the company, an Abednedo immigrant by the name of Wyelle Durmine. Broque was not speciesist, but, he took that appointment rather personally. He had lived on Montal for all his life and been a highly successful and respected member of its community for decades; now, this upstart usurped his prosperity and appointed a fellow newcomer as his successor. He called it collusion; he called it nepotism. No one paid any mind to him; for one, Halmath and Durmine were not prior acquaintances; for another, Broque was quite alone in his disdain of Halmath, until the arrival of a certain individual in the seventh year of the Imperial reign.

The Galactic Empire was a government that championed stability and peace above all else. Across the galaxy of the Empire’s domain, countless planets were liberated every day from lawlessness and offered new opportunities for growth. When the Empire came to Chagar IX and saw the gladiatorial arenas there, where the poor were forced to fight to the death, they sent stormtroopers to put a stop to the blood matches once and for all. No longer would those people be doomed to a lifetime of expendability, to engage in endless slaughter for the benefit of those above them. Many of the former people of that world, and many like it, joined the stormtrooper corps out of gratitude. The Empire was a paragon of order, a perfect system without flaw.

No one believed more staunchly in the Empire’s perfection than Koss.

Koss was not unlike those grateful stormtroopers. His devotion to order had given him the ambition to join the police force. This was singular, for he was not, as a rule, ambitious. Indeed, he would have been content to be a rankless grunt, but the excellence of his performance was such that he had ascended the ranks as one ascends aboard a turbolift, and shortly after attaining the rank of inspector, he was transferred to Montal to replace a retiree. It must be noted that in the grand scheme of things this was still a relatively unelevated position, as his jurisdiction was municipal. The particular city over which this jurisdiction was held, however, did happen to be the capitol of the planet upon which he served.

It was because of this that he had frequent occasion to cross paths with and later meet formally with the minister. And from the moment he laid his froggish eyes on the man, he was filled with deep suspicion.

This, too, was singular, for if there was one thing of which Koss had never been accused in the entire duration of his existence, it was distrust of an authority figure. And it was because of this that he kept this heresy to himself, for he had no proof of his hunch except for a familiar sensation, vexing in its inexplicability.

And yet it was distinctly un-Imperial, the way that Halmath conducted himself. Throwing money at random strangers willy-nilly. Showing generosity to those who least deserved it. It was reckless; even worse, it bordered on treason. The man was hiding something. No one else saw it. Moff Zeniff was certainly blind to it, too pleased as he was with the results of Halmath’s policies to question whether they were truly appropriate. Even Broque’s animosity was born from simple resentment, not suspicion. Koss alone suspected that Halmath was not what everyone believed he was.

For the minister’s part, he was completely oblivious to the inspector’s misgivings. If Koss perceived Halmath as a familiar character, it was completely unreciprocated. There was nowhere from which Halmath could have truthfully admitted he recognized the man prior to their introduction as minister and inspector. In fact, Halmath did not pay the inspector much attention at all; Koss, being a notorious misanthrope, had never indicated he was in need of the minister’s magnanimity, and Halmath, consequently, never displayed any special regard towards him. It was, actually, quite remarkable that Koss never incurred the minister’s goodwill, as Halmath, ever observant, frequently offered his assistance to those who never even thought to request it. It was rumored that he had a spy network throughout the planet through which he executed his good deeds, although there was no foundation whatsoever to this speculation. Certainly, Halmath had never involved the police in any such operations. No, he preferred, whenever possible, to act on a personal level, flying often about the planet, or even sometimes offworld, to visit those in need.

It was after returning from one such visit that Aberon Halmath found himself walking the streets with his faithful droid attendant, 4B-L3, or Able, as the minister nicknamed him. The salty ocean breeze was omnipresent in Montal, even this far inland. Cargo ships passed overhead, landing and launching like birds from a nest. Halmath walked forward with slightly pressed lips, overstimulated by the buzz of market chatter.

“We should really take the train, Minister,” Able advised, not for the first time. “At our current pace, we will be 4.37 minutes late to our appointment.”

“I’ll walk faster,” the minister replied. He saw a one-winged Toydarian panhandling and crossed the street to drop two hundred credits in his tin. The Toydarian thanked him effusively, but the minister had already walked away without a second glance.

That was Halmath’s way. He shrank from praise and credit, and in general he was rather introverted, despite the fact that he travelled on foot as often as possible to seek opportunities along the way to offer aid to any beggar he might see or desperate civilian who might stop him on the street.

Halmath furrowed his thick, grey brows as he detected a commotion in the distance. Without speaking, he broke into a sprint. Able protested, unable to keep pace, but Halmath sensed danger.

He found a crowd and pushed his way into the center of it. The onlookers were gathered around a repulsorcart which, by some malfunction, had toppled on its side; the animal pulling it, an amphibious dromedary, lay fallen on its side with two broken legs. Beneath the repulsorcart was pinned the driver, who cried out as his ribs bore the weight of the load. “Help! Help me!”

Halmath’s eyes widened as he recognized Broque.

“Someone help him!” he cried, rushing to the old man’s side. “He’s going to be crushed!”

“We’ve sent for a lo-o-oadlifter droid,” bleated a Gotal woman frantically.

“It won’t get here in time!” Halmath roared. “He needs help now! Everyone, start moving crates out of the cart!”

“We can’t do that!” a man protested. “If that cart moves even slightly it could kill him!”

“It has to be lifted from the bottom,” nodded an especially tall Ugnaught gravely, folding his arms. “We have to wait for the loadlifter droid.”

“We can’t do that! He could die at any minute!” Halmath looked frantically around, searching for a solution as Broque cried out. “We need to get under the cart and lift it off!”

The persons gathered exchanged glances.

“Five hundred credits!” Halmath pulled a credit chip from his coat pocket. “Somebody, anybody!”

“Aah!” Broque yelled. “It’s crushing me—!”

Halmath brandished the money. “Quickly! Help me get him out!”

“It would take a Wookiee to shoulder that cart,” observed a patrol stormtrooper, rank distinguishable by the orange pauldron on his shoulder. “And a Wookiee of above-average brawn at that.”

The inspector. Halmath exerted a quarter of a second in remembering his name. Koss. He was a Clawdite, although Halmath only knew that because he’d seen him in his officer’s uniform when he wasn’t on patrol duty. “Any Wookiees here!” He stood on tiptoe to see to the back of the crowd, but it was a redundant effort, as he could clearly see no Wookiees present.

“Six hundred!” Halmath pleaded. A few shuffled uncomfortably, but no one possessed the confidence to take him up on his offer, nor would that confidence be justified if any one of them did. Halmath saw this, shed his coat, and dropped to his knees.

“You?” Koss tilted his helmeted head. “Minister, with all due respect, I know of only one human individual to possess the strength necessary to intervene.”

“Is he here right now?” Halmath snapped as he wormed his legs underneath the cart to get into position.

“He was a convict,” said Koss. “In the prison of Trolorn.”

The minister stared stonefaced at the inspector. The inspector’s expressionless visor stared back.

There was a snapping sound. Broque gasped. Halmath pushed himself underneath the cart. With a deafening grunt, he heaved himself slowly up, and the repulsorcart with him.

It was at this moment that Able finally caught up to the minister, just in time to see his master performing an extraordinary feat. “By the Maker!”

There was a gasp as the cart rose. Koss continued to stare; there was no guessing his hidden countenance. Halmath strained under the weight. “Pull him out! Quickly! ”

Several volunteers rushed forward this time to pull the man to safety. Within seconds, he was free. Halmath eased himself out from under the cart. One crate, loosened from the straps that bound the load to the cart, tumbled to the ground. The rest, however, held firm.

Broque only managed an astonished “Thank you!” before succumbing to unconsciousness.

Koss nodded. “Get him to the medical center.”

The crowd applauded the minister’s valiant act. The servos in Able’s neck whirred as he jerked his head back and forth, trying to understand what had just happened. The minister himself had collapsed on the ground, the seams of his tunic torn.

Halmath lifted his head and pushed himself up on one elbow. “That’s… taken care of.”

“One thing still.” Koss drew his blaster pistol and delivered a swift shot to the head of Broque’s beast.

Halmath shakily rose to his feet. “What… did you do that for?”

“You didn’t honestly expect it could be saved, did you?” Koss regarded the minister curiously.

Halmath stared at the dead beast. “I guess not.”

“Minister Halmath, are you quite alright?” inquired Able, helping the minister remain standing as his chest heaved, combed hair extremely disheveled.

“I’m fine.” Halmath swiped a hand across his face, wiping sweat from his close-cropped sideburns. He glanced at the inspector, who had not taken his gaze from the minister the entire time.

“Well,” Koss said softly. “That was quite uncanny, wasn’t it?”

“I must confess, Minister,” Able remarked, “I’m not entirely certain my photoreceptors have not experienced a peculiar malfunction just now.”

“No, droid.” There was a peculiar tone in the inspector’s voice. “That truly was an exceptional feat. You are an exceptional man, Minister.”

Halmath nodded, narrowing his grey eyes at the inspector. “So I’m often told.”

Able glanced back and forth between the two men before declaring, “Well, Sir, now we will certainly be late to your meeting. And your tunic is in tatters. Where is your coat? We should leave at once.”

Halmath’s heroics, naturally, made rounds on the local HoloNet for several days. Old Broque was left without an animal to draw his repulsorcart, which was heavily damaged; in the first place, one of the repulsorlifts was fried, which had caused the accident in the first place. Another repulsorlift had shorted from strain. Combined with the damage from the fall, it was a costly repair, which Broque could not afford. So Halmath elected to purchase both the damaged vehicle and the dead animal from him. As a result, he could not only afford the repairs, but was also spared the necessity of making them. This compensation still left him jobless; he could no longer continue in his current line of work due to the combination of his advanced age, his injuries sustained in the accident, which amounted to several broken ribs which were healed in time with bacta, and paralysis of the legs, which no amount of bacta could reverse. This latter problem, however, Halmath also took care of, and paid for an operation in which Broque was fitted with a pair of cybernetic leg braces which restored their functions, although cerebrally puppeting one’s own dead, unfeeling legs took some getting used to on the old man’s part, and he did grow to miss the ability to wiggle his toes. However, his gratitude towards his savior knew no bounds, and whenever the minister would grace him with his presence he would weep for unworthiness.

Halmath promised to find Broque a job that would suit him in his new condition.

Halmath sat at his desk, punching in a com code. After a few short beeps, a small hologram of a Mandalorian appeared in front of him. “Aberon Halmath.”

“Buir Entyela,” Halmath nodded. Halmath was not fluent in the language of the Mandalorians, but he was aware of the basic phonological principles— no silent letters, cy makes “sh” and yc makes “eesh,” u is always pronounced “oo,” e pronounced “eh,” o as “oh,” and so forth. He also knew the traditional Mandalorian greeting, and gave it. “Su cuy’gar.”

The Mandalorian lifted her chin. “What can I do for you, Minister?”

“If I recall correctly, Alor’buir,” Halmath replied, lacing his sturdy fingers, “I believe you pledged a debt to me a year or two back.”

“Elek,” said Entyela. “I remember.”

“I’m calling in that favor now.”

The Mandalorian matron nodded. “Name it.”

“Does the Vod’tsad still have an enclave on Pasir?”

“They do indeed.” The Alor’buir cocked her helmeted head. “Why do you ask?”

Halmath pressed a few buttons on his desk. Buir Entyela’s hologram shrank, shifting to accommodate a hologram of Broque in the projection space. “This is Broque. He is a good friend and a dedicated worker.”

Buir Entyela regarded the man’s image. “And he is… seventy?”

“Seventy exactly,” Halmath nodded. “He has spent the past three years of his life as a carter, until an accident with his vehicle paralyzed him from the waist down. Note the braces.”

“I see them.” Buir Entyela folded her arms. “What do you require from me? I hope you are not asking me to arrange a retirement for him.”

“He can still work, if you can find a duty for him,” said Halmath. “I will of course contribute toward his retirement, but my wealth is not boundless. Is the morut in need of a groundskeeper? He is an excellent gardener.”

The Alor’buir tilted her head seriously again. “This Broque is not a Mandalorian, I presume? He doesn’t look like one.”

“Unless there’s something he hasn’t told me and I have been severely misinformed about what a practicing Mandalorian looks like, he is not.”

Buir Entyela fixed the minister with a stare, the gravity of her gaze clear even through the expressionless, flickering, fuzzy hologram of her helmet. “Minister Halmath, I hope you realize we cannot allow an aruetii under the roof of our sanctuary.”

Halmath thinned his lips, his eyes clouding with thought. “Perhaps then he can live off the grounds. Would he still be able to work in some capacity in your care?”

Buir Entyela considered this for a long while. “If you can find a place for him to dwell outside the morut, we will allow him to work the grounds.”

“You won’t regret this, Alor’buir,” Halmath smiled. “He’s a good man. He will serve you well. Consider your debt paid.”

“Ret’urcye mhi, Aberon Halmath.” Buir Entyela bowed her head in farewell as her hologram flickered out.

Halmath leaned back in his chair, breathing a sigh. Now that was done. He would inform Broque of the good news when he next visited him. The old man was out of the hospital now and was steadily mastering his cybernetic accommodations.

Broque was, as expected, very grateful to the minister and thanked him profoundly. “I will never forget this, Minister Halmath! You’re a much better man than I am. Oh, how is it you can forgive me after all I’ve despised you all these years?”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Halmath replied. “I never held any grudge against you. You’ve done nothing to me except say a few unkind things. And even if you had wronged me, I don’t believe anyone is beyond forgiveness.”

There was, secretly, one single exception to the minister’s belief. That sole exemption from compassion was what compelled Halmath’s infinite compassion for all others. This individual had been a robber, and in his robbery committed murder. For his murders, he was insufficiently punished, and now walked free, a traitor and an impostor, lurking in shame. That man could never be forgiven, for even if he were absolved of his murders, he lied each day of his continued existence, for no other reason than to preserve his own skin. It was for the sake of this unforgivable man that Halmath did all his good, in the vain hope that he might counter the evil in that man’s soul and restore an unachievable balance. It was to this man that Halmath denied compassion. If anyone learned of this denial, they would be astounded, believing the minister’s benevolence was boundless. Yet Halmath denied his relationship with that man, lest great shame be brought upon his own head. This man should have been brought to justice, and it was within Halmath’s power to deliver him up. If it were discovered that Halmath’s cowardice kept this man from the law, he would be despised throughout the galaxy.

Broque, who for so long had opined that the minister was a usurping opportunist, now could never suspect in eons that Halmath carried such a secret. He joyfully thanked the minister for providing for him and promised he would always remember him. Shortly thereafter, he boarded a shuttle for Pasir, and settled in a house near the sanctuary, which Halmath had purchased for him. Every day, he went to work tending the grounds of the morut, and made them, in the words of Buir Entyela, “Dral bal vorpan bid kurse be Manda’yaim,” or, as bright and green as the bygone jungles of Mandalore. Though by the decree of the Vod’tsad, he was not allowed inside the morut’karta itself, he made friends with the Mandalorians who were willing to approach him. He picked up the Mandalorian language fairly quickly, and would spend much of his time conversing with the Mandalorian children while he worked. Eventually, of his own free will, he converted to the Mandalorian way, taking the Mandalorian creed and donning a suit of Mandalorian armor. From that point forth, he was welcomed into the Vod’tsad and allowed to walk freely through the morut and live under its roof.

Halmath knew nothing of this. Broque had left his mind almost as soon as he had left Montal. Halmath’s mind was constantly occupied with the next individual in need of his help. And in another year, that person would be a desperate, debased, debt-ridden Twi’lek mother.