The Breathing: A Star Wars Story
By Devin Dabney
Dedicated to my family who nurtured my creative side, my good friend Jerrette who helped me come up with this idea, my good friend Ryan who offered inspiration, my sister Ava for encouraging me to go for it, and my beloved Angelique for supporting me through the trying process of writing a full-length novel.
Dramatis Personae
Jett Elleon; transient (human female)
Kam Bucca Sivora; captain, Halo Hammer (human male)
Sarna Sereta; first mate, Halo Hammer (human female)
Carth Torpoli; second mate, gunner, Halo Hammer (human male)
Erim Getchell; courier (human female)
Ziha Ridal; mercenary (human male)
Argo Cuneen; engineer (Sullustan male)
Rezon Sog; navigator, medic, scout (Duros male)
A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…
Act I: A Twist of Fate
Talos, Atzerri – three days before the Battle of Yavin
Jett Elleon rarely relished having to kill someone.
This bloodlust – this compelling desire – was not only unnatural to her, but also fought against the core of her good nature. Her parents were peaceful people, and had raised her as such. She was never prone to violence.
Yet here she was, in a grimy cantina buried deep in the shady Pemblehov District of Talos, sitting at a dimly lit table with her hand hovering over the blaster concealed by her thigh. She could feel her options shrinking dangerously; both escapes had been blocked, and she was outnumbered three to one at the table, not counting the others scattered about the cantina. While she considered her odds, Verrul Bral - the petty Pau'an crime leader and current focus of her rage - stood staring her down from the opposite side of the table, backed up by two human cronies. His jagged teeth and black eyes formed a sick imitation of a smile.
"Looks like you're out of choices, Elleon." Verrul's tone mocked her, both regal and snide. "Now, hand over the necklace, please – I would hate for this to get…unpleasant."
She knew she could kill him right now. He was unarmed, and her A180 pistol would blow his bulbous head open faster than he could speak another word. She also knew that surprising them meant she could hit at least one, two – maybe three more of his men if she were sharp; they would all be dead before Bral's body hit the ground. The problem was she had counted at least six more armed henchmen since she sat down, and since some were pretending to be civilians, she had no idea how many more were in this crowded hellhole. Imperial patrols would take over ten minutes respond to a blaster fire alert way out here, which would be way too late. Not that she really wanted to see stormtroopers, anyway.
Verrul's sneer began to turn upside down. "My patience is running thin, girl."
Now or never. She cleared her throat, and feigned anxiety. "O-okay…you win. It's yours. It's…just in my thigh pocket."
He sniggered, his grooved white skin contracting around sunken eye sockets. "Admittedly, I admire your spirit – always have…but reach for that blaster, and you won't leave this place alive. For the last time, the necklace – or I'll snatch it from your smoldering carcass."
Jett swallowed anxiety – some fake, but some real. "Okay – okay! You got me - I hid it in an inner pocket on my jacket. I'm sorry." She brought her right hand from under the table slowly - a show of good faith - before reaching inside her heavy bomber jacket.
What an idiot. He had taken her bait.
In a flash, Jett snatched out her sidearm. Two blasts left the two men next to Verrul brainless. Jett immediately kicked the table into the crime boss, sending him sprawling backward. She ducked down and kicked against the wall behind her, sliding under the wobbling table as blaster fire pummeled where she had been sitting. Another shot from Jett exploded the kneecap of the Rodian bodyguard blocking the back exit, who howled in pain as he collapsed onto the floor. Civilians shrieked and trampled each other in a fit to escape, unwittingly aiding Jett by creating added chaos. She set off a smoke grenade and scrambled on all fours toward the back exit, through the screams and smoke and drips of green blood oozing from the wounded Rodian. Another blast from Jett crippled his blaster arm, intensifying his shrieks as she crawled over his body, careful to keep her head down as she pushed open the door to make her escape.
She knew they would follow her through the door, but that didn't matter – she'd fare much better in the open streets than in a cramped space. Jett scuttled to her feet, holstered her still-hot sidearm and drew her A180. She quickly began to convert the pistol to its blaster configuration, shifting its modular parts mid-stride as she rushed down the alley, away from the door. She only needed a few meters distance to set up her shots, clicking together the last piece of the barrel before lining up her iron sights. As predicted, the henchmen blindly stumbled one after another out of the bar, coughing themselves hoarse as they tripped over their fallen comrade. Blinded and disoriented, they were all fish in a barrel.
She tensed over the trigger, and exhaled…but her conscience had begun to kick in. She was already regretting killing the two men in the bar – more kills meant more regret. After a brief pause, she lowered her rifle and sprinted towards the alley's end, a slow stream of people in her sights but not enough of a crowd to blend into. Damn…No point in being subtle, she thought as she sprinted to meet the street, then turned in the general direction of the docking facilities. More people, more crowds, more cover – Jett repeated this like a mantra to the rhythm of her boots thumping against the ground, on roads full of trash and puddles of murky water.
Commotion erupted behind her; they were coming – she could feel it. She had to stop running – even with every alleyway she had cut through, there was no way she could fake them out on their own turf. She maybe could have taken the small band of thugs at the bar when she had a chance – when they were off guard from the smoke grenade - but now they would have surely called for backup. Who knows how many of those scumbags are out here? It didn't matter how many - they would catch her, and they would kill her. They would take what they wanted, and that couldn't happen. She had to keep running.
Panic was setting in. Each breath was more ragged and painful than the last. Jett could feel herself losing speed, her footfalls slowing, her heart hammering. But the din of the city was getting louder with hovering ships and conversations in passing. The lights were getting brighter, and more people were starting to stare at her. No matter – keep running, keep pressing through, and pray there's no patrol up ahead. She shoved through the streets as the groupings of people became tighter - more frequent, more closely knit. It felt like she had been running for miles before she finally came to a crowd dense enough to filter into. Thankfully, those goons weren't skilled enough for her to worry about snipers or trackers. She began to slow her stride and conceal her weapon, leaving behind the band of disoriented thugs as she did her best to blend into the crowd.
And not an Imperial in sight. Of course, you can never count on the Empire to show up when it counts.
Jett wasn't safe yet, but she began to relax more – to breathe more easily and focus. Clearing her mind was always a special sort of skill she had, but once that focus faded, all of her emotions came back. Fear, conflict and regret bubbled up inside of her, creating a sickening mixture of feelings. This was always the hardest part for her - wrestling with righteousness and remorse. Taking life never gave her joy, but she knew that some lives needed to be taken, if the chance was given…She would get another chance to kill that black-eyed bastard Verrul Bral. She would make sure of it. But right now she needed to get off this rock.
"Hm…I thought he'd be taller."
First Lieutenant Carth Torpoli peered across the bustling starport of Talos. He – along with his captain, Kam Bucca Sivora – had come there to meet Ziha Ridal, their newly hired enforcer. They had spotted him at the designated meeting spot just in sight of where they stood – or at least they thought it was him. Someone was waiting in their designated meeting spot. Whoever it was, they were completely covered in a hooded black cloak with no identifying features and had been there when the two arrived. Ziha had come highly recommended due to his unique abilities, but if this was he, Lieutenant Torpoli was less than impressed; the figure seemed small and weak.
Captain Sivora stared on at what they assumed to be their man. Though he was undoubtedly unsure of what to expect, the captain seemed unfazed by the comments of comrade and friend.
"Size isn't everything, Carth. You, of all people, should know that by now. Trust me – I wouldn't have brought him on for this job if I didn't think it was worth it."
"Of course, sir." Already looking away, Carth lit a cigarette, shielding the ember with a scarred hand as he inhaled deeply. Sivora didn't notice, locked in his thoughtful observation until the fumes washed over his nose and eyes; he snapped to face his lieutenant, already scowling.
"I told you last week to stop with those damn things. You're only killing yourself."
Carth sighed and snuffed it out against the building face to his right. If it weren't for his immense respect for Sivora, he would have kept smoking; of all of the things that could have done me in by now, some leaves and paper surely aren't going to be the killing blow. He mulled this over before finally speaking again. "What do you say we go meet this tough guy, boss?"
The two walked down the busy street, keeping a casual pace; their rendezvous point was outside of a small parts store at the end of the street, which then forked into two perpendicular paths – a fair distance away. Talos seemed particularly crowded tonight. The starport was very much alive, anxiously teeming with engineers looking for parts, pilots stretching their legs and visitors taking shortcuts to reach the entertainment district, which glowed in the distance with neon advertisements and gilded revelry. Stone structures rose from the dirt to form the tight, tall corridor of the street, their entries yawning to reveal entrances to various shops, keeps and cantinas. The night air smelled strongly of motor oil and bore a deafening clamor, its sounds a melting pot of roaring engines and whining power tools that was seemingly everywhere at once. Aliens shouted orders to droids, customers barked at vendors and people haggled over prices for parts, passage and places to store their personal effects.
Carth hated the damn noise.
When they finally made it to the junction, the figure still had yet to move. Its hooded head was down, not quite resting on its folded arms in some meditative state. No skin was visible through the long robe that sat motionless. In fact, if it hadn't been in the exact spot where they agreed to meet, they might have thought it was a statue.
The captain spoke first, and with authority. "Ziha Ridal?"
After a few seconds of silence, the hooded figure raised its head. A pair of yellow eyes glowed through the shadow of the hood, like two burning suns. The figure then lowered its hood to reveal a gaunt human face with hollow cheeks, just barely portraying its youth through brown skin and a head of thick, neck-length black hair. The captain narrowed his gaze.
"You must be Captain Sivora." The robed man spoke through a thin smile, his voice was surprisingly smooth, almost kingly. "I trust your travels went well. And you are?"
"Carth," Torpoli replied, offering his hand to shake. The robed man either didn't notice or didn't care.
"I assume we must be going, then." Ziha rose to his feet, dwarfed by the two military men who had come to meet him. His robe sleeves fell to his elbows, betraying spindly fingers and thin arms. "You don't strike me as a man who wastes his time," he added, peering at Sivora.
"We have another stop," Sivora stated. "We haven't picked up the cargo yet – someone is meeting us to make the handoff. Let's head that way."
The captain turned to walk away from their meeting spot, heading down the left fork of the junction. As Carth followed behind, he struggled to make sense of this frail man Sivora had hired, who carried himself with the confidence of someone twice Carth's size. Ziha folded his arms back together as they walked, but kept his hood down. "Are we going far?" His yellow eyes continued to look ahead as he talked.
"It's actually this bar – right next to our meeting spot." Sivora pointed to the tiny cantina next to him known as the Hive: one of the most popular cocktail bars in the starport, and not even twenty paces from where they first stood. "I arranged to have you meet me near the drop-off point to save some time."
Ziha smiled again; he looked as if he might laugh. "It seems my first impression was right after all."
When the three men walked into the Hive, Captain Sivora found its namesake fitting. It swarmed with a wide variety of sentient beings – a number that was surprising for such a small place, making it feel quite vibrant. The circular bar in the center of the room was barely visible through the thicket of patrons – patrons whose appearances which were in stark contrast to the atmosphere that bathed them in neon blue light and smooth-sounding jazz music. Sivora led the way through the crowded space, pushing towards the back-left corner of the bar, his eyes searching for their middleman.
As he walked further into the bar, he noticed someone staring at him – someone he recognized even in darkness…a woman seated in a small booth. Her gaze was unwavering, and it took him a few moments to realize he was staring back at her with the same fixation. He lost focus on moving through the thicket and knocked shoulders with a large Devaronian, who sneered at him with teeth sharper than its two head horns. His stare broken, the captain made sure not to hit anyone else as wove his way to the woman - the middle-"man" he was looking for. Eager to get out of the crowd, he hurriedly slid into the booth to sit across from her, almost forgetting he wasn't alone as Carth also scrunched his large body into the booth. Ziha glided to the other side of the booth - next to the woman - but then chose to sit on the edge next to Carth, opting to look the stranger in the eye. She was even more striking up close, with a sculpted face, glowing blond hair and bright eyes that reflected the electric blue of the Hive's interior.
"You said you were coming alone," the woman said flatly, her voice cutting through the music.
"You said you'd be unarmed, Erim," Sivora fired back. His eyes motioned to a subtle bulge on the woman's dark jumpsuit.
"For me, this is unarmed. Is your ship ready for departure?"
"It will be soon," the captain told her. He scanned their surroundings. "Where's the cargo?"
Erim reached down underneath the table to pull out a torso-sized case by its large handle. It slammed on the table with great force, turning the heads of a pair of chatting Rodians. The case appeared to be mostly made of durasteel, with several latches and a keypad. Sivora reached over to grab the case, but she pulled it back before he could touch it.
"I'll be holding onto this," Erim barked in response to Sivora's gesture.
His eyebrows furrowed. "I don't understand. You think you're coming with us?"
"My employer considered that to be non-negotiable," she stated in the same flat tone, sliding the case off of the table. "I need to ensure this transaction is handled properly."
Her actions felt strangely calculated – almost rehearsed.
"I wasn't told that," Sivora grumbled, essentially to himself in the clamor of the cantina. Why would they need a transporter? He wasn't supposed to ask what the cargo was – that was part of the deal - but for the first time since agreeing to transport it, he was curious.
"What if we don't have room on the ship for another passenger?" Sivora asked Erim, taking back control of the situation.
Her eyes rose to lock with his again. She had an emotionless, icy stare that somehow matched her sharp, frigid beauty – like coming face-to-face with a cobra. There was a tension that almost made the Hive seem silent.
"Then you don't have room for the cargo," she retorted.
Sivora sighed internally, but had no plans on refusing the money, even if it meant conceding. His crew needed it, and he had already hired Ziha. Perhaps this could be in his favor; he knew nothing of her current employer – this job was arranged with utmost secrecy – but he did know Erim Getchell, and if she were as good with a blaster as he assumed, it'd certainly help their numbers. That scumbag Han Solo would be much less likely to cheat them – rather, he'd be less likely to succeed.
"Fine, but that'd better be the last surprise on this job, Erim. Sixty now, and 120 when we make the drop, correct?" His tone made it sound more like an order than a question; her stillness made her seem more like the one in control than the one who was outnumbered.
"Yes. Your up-front payment comes from us, and the remainder comes from the recipient." Erim slid a credit chip onto the table from the inside of her jumpsuit, which Sivora took to his own jacket pocket, zipping it shut. There was another moment of silence, but tension at the table eased up.
"We need to get going," Sivora noted as he straightened his collar and ran a hand through his short hair. "The Halo Hammer has enough space for us all, but we're flying heavy, so we're gonna be packed in pretty tightly. I hope everyone likes making new friends."
No one said anything.
What the hell did I just do?
Jett Elleon was wrought with conflict. An internal battle raged inside as she calmly traversed towards the starport, keeping her eyes open for more of Verrul's men. Remorse fought with rage, guilt wrestled with disgust, and her ever-nagging sense of humanity competed against her intense desire for justice. Her mind felt flooded with competing ideas, which made it even harder for her to focus on finding an escape ride from Talos. There weren't many other places on the planet of Atzerri for her to hide, but at this point, anywhere was better than where she was now.
Jett gathered her thoughts as she tumbled the Adegan crystals in her inside breast pocket, pieces of the chain necklace that Verrul Bral's crew so desperately wanted from her. Every lie she told had some truth – she did keep the necklace there, just underneath her military-issue sidearm that was small enough to conceal in her bomber jacket. She always felt a sense of calm when palming the stones; each time she touched them, a cool sensation would seem to rush through her fingers, lowering her temperament along with her body heat, placating her anxiety.
People seldom knew what those crystals were, and even fewer knew about her own family's heirloom…of course, those people usually were the ones trying to pickpocket it from her, or take it by force with a blaster at her chest.
Jett felt herself relax as she came within eyeshot of the city starport. She could see a wide variety of ships, including several freighters; surely one of them could fare another passenger. This thought was enough to truly put her at ease, and she began to observe her surroundings – to feel everything moving around her. In busy places like this, she often dissected the layers of activity, studying the ground floor teeming with people going to and fro, the understory of hovercars and flying droids, and the canopy of gray buildings with lifeless windows. Each of these layers wove together in her mind, creating a complex web of life – no, energy, that circulated, dying and birthing again in new forms…energy that channeled into flesh and machine, into actions of survival and persistence, commerce and violence, sorrow and compassion. She could feel it all –
Something broke her concentration. A ship parked in a distant hangar – a Corellian light freighter, the YT-1250 model. It was painted with bold stripes of orange and black, with some striking accents of yellow that shined bright despite the ship's well-worn look. It had been years since she had last seen it, but even from hundreds of meters away, she recognized it immediately.
It was the Halo Hammer.
Corporal Sarna Sereta was known to grow impatient. Today, she was beyond impatient.
Usually, being anxious brought down her patience. Fighting her anxiety was a skill she learned in combat - from years of recon, stealth and covert militarism. Having a clear goal – having a mission – helped ease her anxiety. It helped because she had a purpose, and a purpose helped her focus, which helped her excel. But as of now, Sarna had no clear goal – no purpose. Captain Sivora and Carth had left hours ago to retrieve the enforcer and cargo, but the waiting wasn't the problem…rather, it was this job in general. She knew nothing about it – not who, what, why, how or where – and the only thing Sarna Sereta hated more than not knowing things, was not knowing things about a mission.
Okay - technically, she knew where…but she'd never been to Vaal before, so did she really know?
Sarna stood at the control panel, surveying the hangar of the starport for the sight of Sivora and Carth, her impatience growing exponentially and her foot tapping incessantly. Tapping her foot was a habit she picked up from being in the army - as a result of not being able to pace or mess with her hair, which were her original nervous habits. Now she did it naturally, along with biting her lower lip to keep her from dismantling her tied-back hair.
She trusted Sivora with her life. She did not trust this mission. How could she? She knew nothing about it – you can't trust something if you don't know it. What the hell were they hauling, and who was it from? How did they know this cargo wasn't lethal to them, or being tracked by the Empire? If they got caught - servicemen or not - the Empire was not kind to smugglers, and a lighter sentence doesn't mean much when you're talking slave labor. Sarna cringed at the idea of servitude – that bothered her more than the idea of being worked to the bone. But of course - she was forgetting – this cargo might be stolen from another smuggler, and depending on who, that would be a fate far worse than slave labor.
"Ma'am? I've input the coordinates for our destination, and the nav computer is calibrated."
Sarna turned to her right to face Rezon Sog, a Duros mercenary who was both their medic & navigations expert. His face would appear menacing to most – a large head with a larger forehead, blue skin, red eyes, and a mouth seemingly stuck in a frown - but to anyone who knew him, it was almost ironic. He was more friendly and optimistic than Sarna could ever hope to be. Not that she would.
"That's great, Rezon – thank you for updating me." Lost in thought, she began to tug at her hair.
The silence didn't last. "I'm pretty excited to see Vaal," Rezon mused, looking out of the viewport. "I've researched it a decent amount in the past - mostly because I never thought I'd see it firsthand. It's such a remote planet – no sentient life, and from what I understand, a few dangerous species. We'll need to be careful if we set out on foot."
"I'm sure the animals are the last thing we'll need to worry about," Sarna said, not breaking gaze with the starport. Rezon always annoyed her with his levity, but she respected both his knowledge and competency, not to mention how his optimism had kept the group together in dire straits. Pondering this, Sarna felt a tinge of guilt for not returning his enthusiasm, but it faded when he began talking again.
"You know," Rezon began as he normally did before a monologue, "I wonder why this planet was never settled? It's warm, it's green, it has a Type I atmosphere. Of course, you could argue it's because of the predators, but the Twi'lek native home is Ryloth, and they have Gutkurrs – and Lyleks! Lyleks! Granted, they lived underground, so it's not like they lived with the Lyleks - though some of them do live near the Lyleks if they can find ways to deter them – but my point is that life finds a way, right? And there are numerous planets in the Gordian Reach that have been colonized under much worse conditions, so I just don't quite see how a planet like Vaal has never even seen one species of true sentient inhabitants – aside from the Empire, of course, but the - "
"Rezon! Please!"
Sarna's foot was tapping louder than ever, at a rhythm that could tell time.
"Oh – sorry! I didn't mean to ramble – I'm just looking forward to it. Should be a great experience!" He gave a smile to Sarna. She did her best to acknowledge it positively, and the two continued their silence. He seemed unfazed by the waiting, and even less fazed by her restlessness. He reminded her of a droid – a very talkative droid. She imagined an off switch on the back of his head.
The idea that someone so chatty could be so close with someone so silent as Argo Cuneen was beyond Sarna's understanding. The Sullustan technician Argo had spent most of their waiting time in various areas of the ship, fine-tuning parts of the Hammer that she didn't even know about…but even before that, she could've counted the words spoken by him since they met. He was a hell of a mechanic, but she didn't trust him - even though she had no real reason not to. Being laconic sure didn't help his case; at least Rezon spoke his mind – too much of it probably, but his cards were always on the table. Always.
Sarna dug her fingers into her now-messy bun of hair, caving in to her anxiety with a guttural groan. How it could be taking them SO long? It felt like she might actually start pacing again –
Who the hell is that?
A younger woman was walking around the outside of the Hammer, seemingly studying it. Sarna didn't recognize her, and this immediately put her on alert. Could this be about the cargo? They hadn't even taken off yet!
"Stay here, Staff Sergeant – there's someone snooping around our ship outside. I'm going to see what they want."
He nodded, and Sarna checked her holster for her blaster before heading down the cockpit corridor with renewed fervor. She retied her hair as she walked down the corridor, making sure her bun was taut and her uniform neat before walking down the boarding ramp. Once she got down the ramp, Sarna made a sharp left to intercept the stranger and ran right into her – face-to-face. The woman was brimming with youth; she was olive-skinned, had short, cropped hair, and hazel eyes that burned with intensity. If the girl had more manners and weren't in oversized military clothing, she'd almost be pretty. Almost.
Sarna spoke loudly, and with authority. "Is there a reason you're so close to our ship? What are you doing?"
The young woman straightened up her posture almost instantly – likely in response to the corporal's sharp voice. Despite this, she seemed unafraid. "Is the captain of this ship here?"
Sarna was on high alert now; this HAD to be related to the cargo. "Who's asking?"
"Someone who knows the captain, that's who."
Sarna did not like her tone. "Who are you? Who sent you?"
The stranger didn't answer her question. "Is the captain here, or not?"
"You're not really in a position to ask questions – you came up to MY ship, wandering around -"
"The Halo Hammer isn't YOUR ship; it belongs to Kam Bucca Sivora. Now is he here or not?"
Hearing the captain's name come out of this stranger's mouth was an unexpected shock. Sarna noticed that the woman hadn't broken eye contact yet; her stare was fierce, but she wasn't scaring the corporal.
"Look, little miss, I don't know who you think you are, but I do know that you can't come up to somebody's ship unannounced like that. Some people would blast you without a second thought…I had half a nerve to do it myself."
The girl sighed audibly. "If you're not gonna tell me where he is, I'll just wait out here. He has to come back sometime," she posited, before folding her arms and leaning upon a large cargo box.
Sooner than later would be great, Sarna grumbled internally. This brat was getting on her nerves. Where the hell is the captain?
"And you're sure we're gonna clear their security?"
Erim seemed doubtful of the captain, full of questions about the upcoming journey as the group made their way to the Hammer. Though Ziha wasn't thrilled about this wild-card transporter, he didn't mind her constant questioning; she was asking things he too was curious about, and he preferred to talk as little as possible when doing a job. He walked behind the woman and Sivora, keeping pace with the captain's large lackey, Carth. Neither spoke a word.
"Security is the least of our worries," Sivora affirmed, turning to face her as they walked. Their body language was subtle, but telling. "This outpost is isolated and small – only 3 personnel on it, all of which were very lukewarm on the Empire. Pretty cheap to keep in your pocket, honestly."
"Hm." Erim continued staring ahead; this answer seemed to satisfy her – for now.
"The real wild card here is Han Solo," the captain continued, his square jaw clenching as he spoke the name. "That bastard has been known to escape payment on more than one occasion. We are not to release the cargo until we get paid."
"That's why my employer sent me," Erim said matter-of-factly. "Solo won't be doing any escaping this time."
A brief moment of silence passed. "Right," the captain stated with a nod, after which he continued his steely gaze ahead.
Honor among thieves, Ziha thought to himself, meditating on the irony. Through his work, he had come across numerous evildoers of varying degrees – smugglers, hunters, gamblers, gangsters and drug dealers – and despite their wide array of vices, they all seemed to share a common thread of thought: that what they did had laws – some form of order to it, and thus principle. But Ziha Ridal saw through these supposed principles, only beholding nature and compulsion. Sentience has no natural law apart from the Force.
His seething was disrupted by the strong scent of motor oils that hung around Carth like an aura. The hulking man was way too close for Ziha's liking, but he couldn't seem afraid or hesitant near him – he had to appear comfortable, sure of himself. He tried again to focus his anger, never one to waste good silence. "Silence" was of course a relative term in this starport, as numerous noises, smells, sights and interactions vied for Ziha's attention, dampening his mental connection to the Force. He could feel it fading in and out, like a dim light in the distance of an eternal fog. Diligence was key to his practice.
As they neared their destination, Ziha felt shrill sounds pinging in his ears like angry insects. He discerned the sounds to be voices – human female voices, both soaked in vitriol.
"You've got some goddamn nerve kid, calling me an asshole – "
"You think you're hot shit just because you wear a uniform – "
"Your parents must've been Tusken Raiders with these manners – "
"Go to hell, you pompous – "
Carth's ears perked up - he seemed to have noticed the voices too. "Hey boss, is that - "
"I think so." Sivora's expression bore urgency. "Move."
The two soldiers began a brisk trot, and Ziha reluctantly picked up his pace, holding his robe off the floor as he jogged. Erim hustled along as well, keeping a firm grip on the case. The shouts grew in pitch and volume as they finally approached a Corellian light freighter then galloped around to the ship's starboard entrance where they found the two voices' owners – two women. One of them was in an officer's uniform – the same outdated style of uniform that Sivora and Carth wore. She was visibly flustered, her hair in a messy bun that only got messier as her head shook around. The second woman was a lot grungier, but equally livid, her short hair frozen in place as she continued barking a flurry of insults.
The captain was about to lose his cool. "Corporal, what the hell is going on?! Why are you –"
Sivora stopped shouting mid-sentence after the two women turned to face the group.
The officer spoke. "Captain, this lying sack of bantha fodder was trying to trespass on our ship – "
"Call me a liar one more time – "
"ENOUGH!" Carth's bellow resonated through the hangar, drawing some attention to the group.
At first, Ziha could see the Captain Sivora's face burning with anger. But as he continued to watch, something strange happened. When his eyes met the scrappy-looking woman, a wave of emotions swept his face almost too fast for Ziha to read, but it was clear that he knew who she was and was not planning on seeing her here. Numerous possibilities of who this could be ran through Ziha's head – an illegitimate child, a former associate, daresay an ex-lover - but whoever this was, she was changing the captain's energy for the worse. He seemed to be aging right before Ziha's eyes; his posture slouched, and his expression melted into that of a very vulnerable, tired man.
Ziha laughed to himself. This ought to be interesting.
"Jett?"
Sivora's heart dropped, then rose, then dropped again; he was face to face with a remnant of times long gone. She had aged considerably, no longer a young girl; her face was so familiar at its core, yet the machine of life had clearly chewed it up. Her familiar eyes were the same – beautifully hazel, burning with intensity no person could harbor. Her angry expression made this intensity palpable.
"You're taking me with you, Sivora. You owe me that -"
"Woah woah, slow down – you want to come with us?" His shock rang through his voice.
Jett walked a few steps toward him; Sarna reached for her holster – she was now behind Jett.
"You're going near someplace I need to be, and you're gonna drop me off there," Jett commanded, her pointer finger stabbing the air with each 'you're' she spoke.
Sarna tightened her grip on her holster, now visibly livid. "What the HELL does that mean? How could you possibly know where we're going?"
Erim didn't like this revelation either. "Kam, if this mission is compromised - "
"We don't know if ANYTHING has been compromised yet," Carth snapped, defending his captain. "For all we know, she could just be some vagrant trying to get aboard our ship."
"She knew our ship AND our captain by name," Sarna snapped back, "so clearly she knows something. Captain, do you know this girl?"
Sivora was speechless, desperately trying to both process the situation and keep his composure. When he finally did speak, it was with uncertainty. "Um, yes – I know her." His gaze then turned to Jett. "I - I don't understand. How did you find me? Why are you here? What's going on?"
He noticed Sarna's fiery expression had begun to cool, turning to confusion then worry. She could tell something was off, and her grip on her holster loosened a bit. He had already lost the 'composure' battle, and now just wished he could process everything.
Sarna spoke up. "Captain, I don't know what's going on, but if this little girl is trouble - "
"No, no, she's…she's no trouble." Sorrow seeped through his words, and he watched Sarna's worried expression morphed back to confusion. Carth was frozen in confusion, Ziha in deduction; Erim too remained still - aside & observant, as if she were watching simulations play out.
Now visibly sullen, Sivora faced Jett Elleon again; Ziha noticed Sivora was avoiding eye contact with her. "Jett, I don't know where you're trying to go, but we have a job to do. Our cargo hold is full, and we already have too many – "
"Then you goddamn well better drop some cargo, because I am GETTING on that ship, even if I have to evict one of your passengers."
Sivora noticed everyone perk up to her implied challenge, fight responses triggered. Sarna was squeezing her blaster again – seemingly hard enough to crush it - but Jett didn't even look back to notice. He might as well have been the only other person in this hangar to her. The captain sighed internally, slowly running a hand back through his hair. How could she have found him after all this time? Had she planned to track him down all those years ago – to exact some form of righteous revenge? To hurt him badly, maybe even kill him?
"Our time is not expendable." Erim's blade-like voice sliced through a wall of tension. "Make your decision, Kam."
This stirred the captain from his mental gridlock. He straightened up and tried to restore his commandant demeanor. "She's coming with us, but no one needs to be left behind. She'll stay in my quarters – I'll sleep in the cockpit."
The mass of tension sublimated, now a cloud of confusion. Sarna's mouth dropped in disbelief, and Jett folded her arms in defiant victory. The captain's hindsight suggested that was probably not the best thing to say in mixed company – most of which were dangerous; Ziha was now staring at him with yellow eyes that burned of careful calculation. Sivora might as well have written "weak" on his forehead.
"Very well, then," Erim said, her sharpness now cutting through a cloud of shared dubiety. "Let's get going. Direct me to your most secure hold."
Rezon met up with Sarna in the ring corridor as she stomped aboard the Hammer; he had been preoccupied inside the ship during the entire confrontation, and his cheery greeting was proof.
"Hello again, ma'am!" Rezon beamed with excitement. "Ah, I see the captain has returned!"
His gaze went past Sarna - down the boarding ramp, and his eyes widened with surprise when upon noticing the three strangers amongst the conversing group. "Is everyone here a part of the mission? I thought we were only hiring one enforcer?"
"So did I," Sarna growled. She had been so preoccupied with that brat Jett that she had barely noticed the other woman that had come along with the captain. Sarna bubbled with anger as she she turned her head to stare down this other stranger, with her cobra-like eyes and sleek blond hair. This was yet another variable adding to her overall distrust of this mission. No way this would go smoothly.
Rezon was, of course, unfazed. "Alrighty then – more company for the ride! Unexpected, but we can make it work. If you guys need help with anything, just give me a shout. I'm all done with the nav computer, so I'm headed to check on Argo – he's still in the engineering compartment. I'll await your instructions for take-off!" He briskly walked on past Sarna, and she continued her furious march toward the cockpit, each step falling heavy before she flumped into the co-pilot seat.
How the hell can this be happening? Sivora would have never taken that type of talk from anybody a decade ago, and he certainly never would have taken in total stranger to the crew so readily, never mind three! He was never this impulsive – he was always so organized, so airtight with his planning, such a hardass! What changed him?
Sarna Sereta wasn't wrong. She had known Kam Bucca Sivora for a long time, and he had changed since they were Republic soldiers serving in the carnage of the Clone Wars. They – along with Carth and the rest of their platoon – endured many battles, and countless close calls on many worlds. They had been together amidst a siege on Kashyyk when those religious zealots known as the Jedi tried to underhandedly take over the galaxy, only to be thwarted by the Republic – now known as the Galactic Empire. After the war, their unit was disbanded amidst the Imperial reform, and they were stationed on different systems, not seeing each other again for over six years until they fatefully crossed paths on Duro. When they reunited, they were each lacking direction in life, both having abandoned a decade of military service for civilian life – organized conflict for unorganized conflict. And though things had worked out nicely with them finding Carth and banding together once more, Sarna had noticed a huge difference in Kam upon finding him. He had of course aged, but his changes went beyond appearance; his firm resolve has softened, his fervor burned out, his liveliness smothered. She couldn't help but wonder if it had to do with why he left the Empire - especially since he was on track to become a very high-ranking officer, maybe even a Moff. She had her own reasons for losing faith in the Empire, but Kam had never told her why he had left, which made her believe something must have happened to him…but what?
Almost as if summoned, Sivora quietly opened the door to the cockpit. "Corporal, we're loading up our cargo, and I need your help ensuring everything is accounted for – especially with these three…unexpected guests in our midst." His last phrase came with a small sigh.
Sarna felt a burning urge to scream her head off at him – to retort that the 'unexpected guests' were all his doing, to ask him what the hell he was thinking letting them on in the first place, and to fess up on what happened to him while they were apart from each other…but something told her now wasn't the time. Perhaps it was empathy.
"Yes, sir – I'll be right out." With that, she followed her captain to the boarding ramp in silence.
As Sivora loaded the cargo, he couldn't help but feel that they had accumulated more boxes somehow…he made sure everything was scanned for explosives or traps, but he rarely would count exactly how much they were supposed to have – just that the correct cargo showed up from the correct persons. After all, if the client forgot to send everything, it was on them – Sivora and his crew got paid either way. It did seem strange that they would somehow end up with extra cargo, but it wasn't a massive enough difference to point out. Still, the feeling tugged at him as they guided the last hovering container to the ring corridor. It held particularly dicey contraband, so he stored it in the floorboards with the most illicit of goods while the rest was stored in the main hold. Under the watchful eyes of Carth, Erim and Ziha helped make the moving process quicker as Sivora stepped outside to do one last check around the Hammer before departure.
Jett was still outside, arms folded in a quiet refusal of helping the crew. She continually peered around the starport, as if looking for someone. He noticed the very familiar bomber jacket she was wearing – one that he wore long ago as a pilot; after all these years, she still kept it.
Sivora decided to break her silence. "Jett," he conceded, "why are you here?"
She continued to look around the starport as she answered him. "I told you – I've got somewhere to be." She took a moment before adding, "And I didn't inherit a starship when my parents died."
Sivora took this remark in stride. "But where are you going that's so important that you'd come to me - of all people?"
Jett seem to ponder answering this for a bit.
"I'm not with the Empire anymore, Jett – you can trust me," Sivora pleaded.
Jett scoffed and rolled her eyes, but chose to answer him. "You guys are heading near the Gordian Reach, right? I'm trying to get to Yavin 4. I've heard talk of a…I've heard there's a secret base there. A Rebel base, Kam. And if you send your Imperial dogs after me - "
"Jett, I'm not gonna do that - I swear to you. I left them a long time ago."
She still wasn't looking at him, but he pressed on. "Seriously Jett, I need to know how you knew we were headed that way. This is a covert mission, and if anybody else knows where we're headed, it could go south really quickly."
"Don't worry – nobody else knows where you're going," she assuaged, some annoyance in her tone. "I honestly didn't know, either. And believe me, I did not want to come to you, and wouldn't have if I felt there was another choice."
She finally turned to look at him. "I've been trying to find a way to Yavin 4 for a while, and when I saw your ship in the hangar earlier…I don't know, I just felt that you were my way there. I don't know – I can't explain it. I don't want your help Kam, but I have no other options. I trust nobody else, and I don't really trust you, but I'm pretty sure you're not going to double cross me."
"What an ironic twist of fate that would be," a familiar voice sneered behind her.
She whipped around and drew her sidearm and beheld a tightly knit pack of armed persons – humans, Rodians, Weequays and others. At the center of this ragtag junta was the twisted smile of Verrul Bral.
Ziha knew he was not going to like staying on the Halo Hammer for the next several days. As he assisted with the cargo, his eyes scanned the open rooms via the ring corridor, and nothing inside was either pleasing or promising. He normally valued interstellar travel for its meditative purposes, but space on the smugglers' vessel was limited, so they were going to be packed like Ewoks in a hut – certainly not a good place for centering one's mind. He also didn't necessarily care for the idea of being surrounded by so many unpredictable strangers; the count was now at seven, two of which were not expected by the crew either.
As they packed away the final unit and sealed the main hold, he couldn't help but wonder if he had made a mistake taking this job. Judging by some of the crew's antiquated uniforms, they were likely veterans of the Clone Wars, but the fact that they did not wear Imperial uniforms today implied a sort of disconnect from the Empire. Perhaps they were Jedi sympathizers, in which case they wouldn't bode well with Ziha's…particular skills. He would either need to win their respect or instill fear into them, lest he risk being turned on.
Pacing the ring corridor in anger, Ziha began to search the Force for answers to his dilemma. He was immediately rewarded for his fealty by the corporal hurrying towards him in a panic.
"We need your help," she panted, more or less as a command to Ziha. "Jett and the captain are in some sort of standoff. Come – now!"
She hurried off, blaster in hand, and Ziha heard several other pairs of footsteps following her down the boarding ramp. Several seconds after they hurried off, he quietly moved toward the ramp and down the decline, assessing the situation from afar. The captain and his associate Jett were definitely in a perilous situation; Ziha counted nine armed assailants holding the two of them at gunpoint, apparently led by a tall white alien with empty black eyes. They seemed to be some other band of smuggling thieves – perhaps the thieves he was with had stolen something from them? The captain and Jett had clearly been caught off-guard, as their arms were not drawn, though the remainder of their crew had come to their aid; even the blond-haired carrier Erim had her blaster in the mix. Mutually assured destruction, thought Ziha with a mirthless chuckle. He had initially planned to help, but now he was thinking he should leave them to their meaningless devices, allowing the Force to sort them out. He could maybe even take their ship for himself.
Although, if they kill each other, I'm out of a job for the time being…then what will I do? He had no other jobs lined up – not that he needed the money in the slightest. Ziha had other reasons for what he did, and it was those reasons that caused him to slowly approach the ticking time bomb of a standoff as a grin crawled across his face. The new band of thugs had formed a tight cluster, and Ziha had formed an idea.
Let's make an example of them.
"Even if you can't trust my word," Verrul Bral snarled in sardonic delight, "you CAN trust that if you do not hand those crystals over, there is no scenario that leaves you alive. That much is certain."
Jett hated to admit it, but she couldn't help but think, he might actually be right this time. Though Carth, Sarna, Erim, and two other crewmembers she didn't recognize all had their weapons drawn, they were not only outnumbered, but every single blaster Bral had on his payroll was pointed at her. They didn't seem to care if they were killed in the ensuing shootout, as long as they killed her first. She had no idea if any of Sivora's crew happened to be insane crack shots, but even if they were it was unlikely they could kill all of them before any one of them shot her…
…and there was no way she was getting out her blaster out this time.
"You can do what you want with that brat," Sarna exclaimed over her assault rifle, "but if you do ANYTHING to my captain you won't live to regret it."
"No one has to get hurt," Sivora haggled, half-turning his head toward Sarna's voice. "Jett will give you what you want if you just lower –"
"I'd rather rot in hell than give you what's mine, you bastard!" Jett snarled.
"And so you shall," Verrul Bral conceded, lining up his sights on Jett's forehead. Sivora's crew aimed their weapons in response.
"Do not fire!" Sivora beseeched, though he knew it fell on deaf ears.
"COWARD!" Jett screamed, more livid than she had ever been.
"Poor last choice of words," Bral sneered, and squeezed the trigger.
Carth Torpoli had seen a lot of things in his long war-torn life. A military brat, all the men in his family were soldiers, and he had seen some of them buried away in tombs or released into the deep reaches of space. He had seen the bloody aftermath of his platoon mowing down Separatist allies, and had collected tags off what remained of his squad mates. He had seen blaster bolts tear through heads like a hot knife through butter, and witnessed flechette launchers ripping organs to shreds, painting walls with horrific expressionism. He had even lost two fingers to the swipe from an assailant's vibroblade, though he was lucky enough to find them both, then find a medic quickly enough to have them reattached with a near-full recovery.
What happened in the next few seconds was unlike any of that. In some ways, it was worse.
Just as Verrul Bral began to fire upon Jett, an arc of pure electric energy struck his body, siphoning its conductive power to his close-knit crew. They each buckled under apparent excruciating pain, as the bursts seemed to bounce back and forth through them, forming a tortuous eternal circuit that singed hair and cooked flesh. He thought their screams were loud at first, but a second stronger surge sent them into full-fledged howls of horrible agony. One of the men lost consciousness to shock, and before long, all of them were silently convulsing, their bodies slowly warping under the stress of this horrible power like metal in a furnace. Carth wanted to turn his head – to find the source of this torrential barrage – but he couldn't turn away, enslaved by the gangsters' fate as much as they were.
After what seemed like an eternity, the electricity stopped flowing, and its violent webs of lightning subsided into sparks. If Carth had to guess, the assailants were dead long before the assault had ended, and this was made quite evident by how their smoldering carcasses collapsed the second there was no more electricity flowing through them. When the lieutenant could finally turn his head, there stood a familiar diminutive figure cloaked in a black robe, with his hood up and both hands raised in spread palms that pointed towards nine successfully hit targets. Carth couldn't see his face through the robe, but he could easily imagine the swarthy skin and black hair, all of which was a backdrop for a pair of fiery yellow eyes.
"I think HIS last choice of words was worse," Ziha Ridal added snidely.
Jett stared into what used to be the eyes of Verrul Bral, now more lifeless and hollow than they were before. Though her streak of bloodlust still wished she could have blown his head apart herself like she had imagined for so many years, part of her was just glad that he was gone. She had wanted him dead for so long that to see it finally happen almost had no real catharsis – rather, she could feel it creating a mental and emotional void in her head. Despite all these feelings, she was at some strange form of peace. She now realized that although Verrul Bral was a deplorable creature who had fashioned a hedonistic life of crime – some of which had come to affect her life gravely – she knew he was a mere slave to his compulsions, without thought or reasoning outside of the most basic desires of his ego.
Another thought crossed Jett's mind – a brief flash of a question...had the 'coward' been Bral, or Sivora?
Her gaze switched briefly to Sivora, who also was searching the Pau'an face for something…it seemed ironic that he couldn't recognize Bral, considering how they were connected. Amidst her spiraling thoughts, Jett suddenly remembered what caused this mass execution, and whipped her head around to where the flowing energy seemed to come from. She beheld the black-robed stranger that had come with the group following Sivora, and got a brief glimpse of two glowing yellow eyes under the hood before he began to approach them. As he moved, Jett felt an unsettling chill; the hangar had become silent of organic chatter, only filled by hisses and whirs of machinery as the cloaked figure floated down the boarding ramp, his footfalls silent. It painted the likeness of a haunting wraith – of a monster moving to the macabre chorus of grinding durasteel and compressing Tibanna gas.
The living robe hovered to a stop a few feet from Jett and Sivora; the entirety of the Hammer's crew still had their weapons raised as they stared at this ghostlike figure, frozen by what they had just witnessed. One of the crew that she didn't know – a Sullustan man – looked as if he might turn his repeater rifle and fire upon their decided savior.
The female officer – Sarna, they had called her – broke the silence, closing her gaping jaw before forming a phrase.
"Umm…what, the hell was that? Was that a blaster?"
"One hell of a blaster," Carth joked. "Literally – that thing is an earth-scorcher. But I didn't see blaster in your hands – where is it?"
"No blaster," the robe replied curtly, as if this were explanation enough for what they had seen.
"So, that came…from your hands?" Sarna once again spoke the group's shared awe & confusion.
"It came from the Force," the robe corrected her, unfolding its arms to reveal the dark skin underneath. The figure then lowered its hood, and now Jett could see the burning fire in his eyes – very sharp, but somehow not alive. The face had a strong nose, stark features and a fragile frame that was surrounded by long, black whispers of hair.
"Some Force," Jett remarked, turning to face the man. "Are you some kind of sorcerer?"
"I…am but a mere vessel for the greater cause I represent," the man doled out, his words bathed in arrogance. "And that cause," he dragged on, "is the Force."
"Be that as it may," Sivora chimed in, "I've never seen a Jedi do anything like what you just did. Why is that?"
"I am no Jedi," Ziha sneered, the word Jedi dripping with contempt. "I have chosen another path in the Force – a better path."
"You mean the Sith." Sivora turned to face him; Ziha's posture responded with aggression.
"Is that a problem, Captain?" Ziha challenged.
"Only because the Sith are an extinct religion. They died millennia ago – long before the Jedi did. How could you have possibly learned their ways, nevermind their powers?"
Ziha gave the impression of thought for a moment, but his response was mentally chambered. "One might argue that the greatest lessons in life are learned beyond the walls of a school – on your own terms."
And then he collapsed.