In the cargo hold of the freighter Dustman, Celia Durasha couldn't sleep, though the borrowed bedroll was comfortable. Sighing, she rolled onto her side, and blew long crimson hair out of her green eyes. The view was no better, two glowing dots reflected on the metallic cylinder keeping her awake.
Finally, the navigator rolled her eyes and stood up abruptly. "Do you mind?!" she demanded.
The assassin droid HK-47, nicknamed "Hakky" by his Corellian master, continued looking at her with his red-lit eyes. "Statement: I am a completely mechanical being and though I was created to appear of slight organic design, I do not possess a mind. Hypothesis: However, it is my experience that when meatbags like yourself use that expression, they are expressing irritation over an act - ."
"Can it," growled Celia, stepping over the footlockers and cargo containers scattered throughout the hold. "I'm going up top."
Hakky watched her ascend the ladder to the cockpit, wondering, as he had frequently for the past month since Imril rescued the woman from the Maelstrom Nebula, why humans were so complicated.
Up in the cockpit of the heavily modified Firespray, Imril D'Var slept, his feet up on the pilot's console. In sleep, the long-haired pirate looked younger than he was. Celia figured it was because his blue eyes were closed, conveying nothing of the roguish mind behind them. She silently slid into the copilot's chair and looked over the controls. Finding nothing to hold her interest, the young lady mirrored Imril's pose and stared out at the depths of hyperspace, a feeling of peace stealing over her.
Though she had known Imril for only one month, they became good friends, she navigating and he piloting and teaching her how to use the weapons systems on the Dustman. It was a partnership born from a chance meeting. Imril sacrificed a lucrative contract with the Hutts and defied an Imperial Intelligence officer to save Celia's life. Then, despite the danger of her extended company, the pirate offered her a partnership in his company. Celia accepted, uncaring that the company consisted solely of the pirate, Hakky, and herself. As Imril put it, the company endorsed "liberation of wealth from Imperial Authorities, forcible requisition of delicate information, the secret transportation of highly questionable materials, as well as vigilante service for causes of freedom."
Celia translated it from his dramatic manner, "Piracy, slicing, smuggling, and soldiering of fortune." Still, she welcomed the lessons, the reality of her hunted status all too present for her to laugh them off. However, one thing he didn't teach her was sword fighting. It was an ancient art, yes, but a romantic side of her wanted to learn it. He wouldn't teach it to her, though, and she began to suspect it had something to do with his past.
Other than the outlandish stories of his exploits before she became his partner, Imril was not one to talk of his personal past. True, he spoke of his experiences in the Imperial Navy but avoided questions about his family, save for what Celia was already privy to: he had had two sisters, the younger, Katira, killed by stormtroopers. The older one, Selana, had gone to Coruscant to study Art at the finest school there.
Often, Celia wondered why Imril didn't talk about his family much. The fact that they were heading to Corellia currently might have been reason enough for Celia to broach the subject. However, when Hakky asked Imril why they were going to Corellia, his master merely said, "Business." The shortness of his answer and the manner in which he said it dampened Celia's curiosity for the time being. She had a good hunch, though, that he'd be forced to tell her sooner or later. All she could do was wait.
Laughing like a crazy teenager in a T-16, Imril pulled the Dustman into a series of dizzying loops and rolls over the city of Coronet. Below, citizens of Corellia's capital city either looked up and cheered or shook their fists and swore.
"Freighter Dustman, you are leaving your approach vectors," came the air controller's voice in an annoyed bark. "Stay on the projected course or you will be subject to legal consequences."
The pirate made a face, unable to resist pulling one last "Insider Tumble" that made him run dangerously close to the top floor of a fancy hotel building. Finally, he brought the ship gliding in and set it down in a docking bay.
Unstrapping herself, Celia looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "Wasn't that a bit much? We didn't exactly maintain a low profile."
"Nonsense!" With a flourish, Imril stood up and buckled on his vibrosword. He grinned irrepressibly at her, evidently in a good mood. "One must satisfy one's fans, you know."
"'One's fans?'" echoed Celia, confused. "You have fans?"
"Of course! Coming?" he asked over his shoulder, beginning to climb down the ladder. "Hakky, stay with the ship." The pirate waited for Celia, then hit the controls to extend the docking ramp.
In the bay, an irritated official and his assistant were striding up to the ship. Imril positively swept down the ramp to meet them after linking arms with a surprised Celia.
"This is an outrage!" sputtered the official, clad in a spaceport worker uniform of gray and black, his salt and pepper hair neatly combed. "Flying that low over a highly populated area, frightening half of the city's population, breaking most of the air regulations – just who do you think you are? The Corellian Lancer?!"
"Ah, you mean the fifteen-year-old boy who won the Coronet Icewing Championship with no prior racing experience six years ago before going off to attend the Imperial Academy?" asked Imril genially, a smile flickering around his lips.
"Yes, yes, yes," dismissed the official impatiently. "He came in one minute before the second place finisher –."
"One point three minutes, to be precise."
The official did a double take and his jaw dropped. "You…he…" he said weakly. His assistant looked from his boss to Imril, confused. "You're him!" the official managed to say, respect gleaming in his eyes. He held out a trembling hand, gazing at Imril in awe.
The pirate laughed warmly and shook his hand. "Well, it was a long time ago…"
"I remember it like it was yesterday," protested the other.
Celia listened, bemused by the old man's enjoyment as he recounted every dip and bank of the pirate's ship in the race. Another bit of Imril's life was revealed to her and she could see that he must have been a handful as a child.
Imril managed to steer the conversation to an end, and, after another handshake, Imril and Celia left a very happy official and exited the docking bay.
Outside, they traveled down the crowded street, which Imril called "Treasure Ship Row," a market for all kinds of goods and quite a few bads. Stalls were crammed together with small prefab shelters, food sellers cooking meats next to blaster merchants who hastily covered part of their merchandise when CorSec officers came past.
Impressed, Celia watched how effortlessly Imril slid through the crowds of humans, furry Saccorans, short Drallians, and so many other species, all arguing, shouting, laughing, talking, and bartering. She stumbled over a drunkard's feet as he sprawled against a nearby shop wall. Imril caught her, giving her an apologetic smile. He continued to look all around, searching for something. They seemed to be heading toward the end of the street, deeper into the city.
Imril led her to a shabby, two-story building, a fritzy holo-sign reading "Rin's Place" on the front. On the bottom floor was a restaurant. They went inside. The interior was smoky and dimly lit, filled with the chatter of a dozen different languages. A Duros argued with a jowled Sullustan, his blue skin dark with agitation. Over by the bar, a Zabrak took long drags from a water pipe, his golden orange eyes flitting around. Many other unidentified shapes filled the outskirts of the room, the shadows concealing them. Imril went boldly up to the bar where the light was better and a short green Rodian was serving drinks.
The alien bartender looked up, spotted Imril, and his snout widened in surprise. Imril! You come back! Five years ago, you go to Imps! he exclaimed in broken basic.
Grinning, the pirate leaned on the bar, clapping the Rodian's shoulder fondly. "Kavis, you old skifter, how have you been? Looks like Rin let you tend bar at last. When I was still around, you were just pushing the sonic cleaner around."
I manager now! replied the Rodian proudly. What you want? Treat mine! His sucker tipped fingers hovered over the array of bottles.
"An Alderaanian ale for the lady, Kavis, and I'd like a favor."
Celia noticed Kavis sorted through the glasses to give her one that was clean and unchipped. For Old Friend Champion Lancer, anything! he promised, pouring the ale and presenting it with a polite bow to Celia.
Imril turned to Celia, a serious look coming over his face. "I need you to stay here for a while until I return. Kavis will look after you. The Imps don't come in here."
Yes. Too many aliens, chipped in Kavis, making a rude gesture. Don't worry, miss and Imril: I look after you good.
"Business?" asked Celia innocently, taking a sip of her ale.
"Business." For a moment, the humor died from Imril's eye and he looked grim. Then, he smiled at her. "Don't worry. I'll be back soon." Squeezing her hand reassuringly, he winked and strode out of the restaurant.