Zamila Ashrand approaches the lowered ramp that extends from the side of the black yacht. She feels that same sickness in the pit of her stomach traversing the steps as she had the other two times she was near the vessel, though it was not nearly as strong as before. That can't be a coincidence. She thinks.
Zamila had gone straight to the spaceport from the caverns. She'd considered stopping by the zeltron woman that her father had been seeing to tell her what had happened, but figured the news would spread soon enough. It hadn't occurred to her until she'd gotten to Anchevor and found it empty, but she would be presumed dead as well.
She bribed the port master, an elderly gran in filthy coveralls, for his silence and help with locating a pilot with her BARC speeder bike and about 40 credits. The yacht was the only vessel that remained docked but the port master assured her that there were several good candidates to pilot the vessel near Anchevor.
Zamila enters the ship onto the mid-deck where the state rooms and the main living area were located. She is immediately disgusted by the smell of mildew and stale body odor as she passes by what must have been the deceased slavers's living quarters. She opens each room, edging the doors open quietly with the barrel of her blaster. The rooms are a mess; clothes strewn about, food left out, bedding piled up. The rooms are empty so she makes her way back to the dinning area.
The room was dark, lit only by small red lights hanging above several small tables piled high with papers, parts, and plates encrusted with the remnants of meals. She is startled by a humanoid figure standing beside one of the tables. Zamila approaches and as she gets closer she can make out the large eyes and insectoid face of a LOM series protocol droid. She assumes he is deactivated until it begins to walk toward her.
"Stop," Zamila tells the droid leveling her blaster at the droid, "identify yourself."
"You made it back here and you are not bound. Though very unlikely, I am to assume that you have somehow incapacitated Master Andan and his men," the droid' s voice is deep and Zamila cannot determine if it is sadness or indifference that is emitted from his vocalizer.
"They're incapacitated for good," she smirks and stabs her blaster barrel at the droid, "Name?"
"I am 9-LOM," he says making a slight mechanical bow towards the twi'lek girl, "formerly in the employ of Andan Dosk. I am at your service, mistress?"
It takes the girl a moment to get that 9-LOM was asking for her name, "Oh… I'm Zamila. Zamila Ashrand."
"Mistress Zamila," he says taking another bow, "I will remain in your service for as long as you live or until the day my circuits go out," he stops and nervously shifts back and forth.
"It is so rude of me to ask and we've only just met," 9-LOM says anxiously, " but, if you would please give me a memory wipe."
"You want a memory wipe," Zamila asks with incredulity. She'd worked with droids her whole life and had never been asked for a wipe.
"Yes, Mistress Zamila.I have witnessed horrible abuses to sentient beings and have endured some abuse myself," 9-LOM informs her, "You have ended the life of my former master. Please do not let him live on in my processor."
"Of course," the young twi'lek says as she approached the protocol droid.
"Mistress Zamila," 9-LOM says putting up his hand, "I am eager but you may want to deal with Gurz up on the observation deck first."
"What! Why didn't you tell me sooner," Zamila scolds the droid as she rushes against the wall, aiming her blaster up the spiral staircase.
"Gurz had just gone upstairs and there was a ninety to one chance he would be up there for ten to fifteen minutes based on past behavior," 9-LOM explains, "We had plenty of time for introductions, mistress."
Zamila ignores the protocol droid, stalking silently toward the stairs. The staircase is lit much better than the dark dining area. She leans heavily onto the outside railing, pointing the blaster up the stairs as she ascends.
As Zamila reaches the top of the stairs it's as if she runs into a wall of hot, humid, and fetid air. The walls drip with condensation and the smell makes her gag a little. The scent is unlike anything she'd ever encountered; a mix body odor, stale sweat, and bodily wastes. The large observation windows had been painted over, allowing only a little daylight through. She peaks over the stairs and can see several durasteel cages welded together against the far wall. She counts eight female captives, mostly human but two were twi'lek like herself, and one was a zeltron. The captives all sit or lie on the ground while a shirtless quarren man goes from cell to cell dragging a hose with him.
A human woman of about 30 cycles in age walks towards the quarren carrying a black plastic pail. Her hair is a mass of dark greasy curls, her skin oily and grimmy, she is barefooted, and her frayed dress was at some point light in color, but now dark grey and dingy. The quarren's flabby torso jiggles as he excitedly paws at her. Stepping back defiantly, she holds the bucket as if she were going to toss its contents onto the slaver.
"Tooska chai mani," the woman spits angrily.
"E chu ta," Gurz grumbles as he quickly steps back, nearly tripping over his hose in the process.
The tense moment passes and the woman places the bucket on the floor where the quarren's hose sucks up its contents with a disgusting, wet, slurping noise. While the slaver is hunched over Zamila fights the urge to shoot him in the back. It didn't feel right to her for one thing, and also while she was a pretty good shot, she wasn't so good as to avoid hitting any of the prisoners.
Zamila creeps out onto the observation deck floor. Several of the captives saw her, but tried to act like normal, all except a young human with bright red hair who leaps to her feet and throws herself at the bars.
"Help us," the red headed woman cries.
Gurz drops his hose and runs to the airlock at the back. Zamila follows in pursuit briefly until the airlock closes behind him and the quarren leaps over the railing. She could try to chase him down, but she decides to render aid to the captives instead. His friends are dead, and he didn't even have a shirt on his back. How much trouble could he be?
The keys were nowhere to be found but fortunately Zamila located a plasma cutting torch on the engineering level. The women thanked her, some asked about where they were, most left the ship as quickly as they could. The human woman who had stood up against her captor was the last to be released.
While the other women moved about their cages like anxious monkey lizards, waiting to be let lose, this woman calmly watched as Zamila cuts through the latch. The door swings open and the woman steps out.
"Mistress Zamila, the captives have all left," 9-LOM informs.
"Where is here," the dark haired woman asks. She speaks with a thick accent and it is clear that while she can speak it, basic is not her primary language.
"Dargenas," Zamila replies.
"Never heard of it."
"That's not surprising."
The dark haired woman nods thoughtfully and then extends her hand, "I'm Jez."
Zamila takes the woman's hand and it is soft, not calloused like her own, and felt delicate and frail like a small bird, "I'm Zamila Ashrand."
"Ashrand? That's not a twi'lek name and you seem too young to be married."
"I was adopted," Zamila replies.
"Okay," Jez shrugs, "I'm calling you Zee."
"You're staying?"
"Yeah, if you'll have me," Jez smiles, her pale blue eyes lighting up, "Dar… whatever… doesn't sound like much. I figure you're the captain now and I kind of owe you. I can't do much but I'm a fast learner."
"Can you fly?"
"Me," Jez puts a hand to her chest, "I couldn't drive a landspeeder if my life depended on it.
But if you're looking for a pilot I heard these guys say they had a pilot on the engineering deck. They like to talk in huttese, gives them a false sense of security since not everybody knows it. I'm fluent so..."
Skeptical of Jez's ability, 9-LOM steps forward to interrupt, "De wanna wanga."
"H'chu apenkee," Jez answers back.
The woman and droid spar back and forth in the guttural tongue for a few moments until it appeared that 9-LOM was satisfied.
9-LOM turns back to Zamila, "The woman's huttese is better than her basic. She is certain of what she heard and I have little reason to doubt her."
"Okay," Zamila agrees, "I didn't see anyone down there when I got the torch but maybe I missed them."
The three head down to the engineering level. The two women exit the elevator with 9-LOM close behind. True to her word, Zamila initiates 9-LOM's memory wipe. The wipe would take some time so Zamila and Jez investigate engineering.
The level was in stark contrast to the rest of the ship. While the main level was disgusting by any measure, engineering was as if nobody had set foot in it since the yacht had been launched from the shipyards on Sullust. Every tool was in its place and everything was tidy and neat. The crew quarters appeared as though nobody had ever slept in them.
"Hey, maybe these guys didn't know all this was down here," Jez says jokingly.
"Maybe they were afraid of cleanliness," Zamila replied.
It was more likely that there wasn't anyone on the crew with any technical skills and they figured they'd leave everything in place for somebody who did.
Some people can have very organized workspaces but are slobs at home, or like her father, a workspace that looked like a rubble heap with dozens of current, unfinished projects, but his personal quarters were those of a career military man.
Jez steps in front of Zamila. It was obvious she'd spotted something. Zamila hadn't noticed on the upper decks and it wasn't until she was following her through this sterile environment, but the poor woman smelled terrible. Zamila had no idea how long Jez was in that cell. Zamila had narrowly avoided the same fate only yesterday.
The other girls Zamila had released from bondage seemed broken, but not Jez. Based on appearance, Jez had been there at least as long as anybody but it seemed to have little effect on the human woman. It had earned her the admiration of Zamila, but she decided to give her a little space for the smell to dissipate a little all the same.
"Oh, Zee," Jez says excitedly, "I think we found our pilot."
Zamila steps forward and in the cargo portion of the engineering deck was a dark metallic object, the features of a man protruding from its surface. She had heard of people being frozen in carbonite but had never seen it herself. She switches on the overhead light to get a better look.
The man looks to be in his twenties. He was human and his expression was somewhat unsettling. It wasn't unsettling because it was grotesque. Zamila imagined the process was painful, if not extremely frightening, but it looked as if he was in quiet meditation with a hint of a smile.
"He's kind of cute," Jez remarks.
The man did appear to be pleasant enough looking, but whether or not he was 'cute' and or a pilot, Zamila was still a little uneasy about releasing him. He was frozen down here for some reason. The men who did the freezing were a consideration, but still, he was a stranger and Zamila has had some recent negative experience with strangers.
Zamila's concentration was broken by a loud ringing. The communicator on the wall flashes red. It was an incoming call, but from who? She hesitantly approaches the communicator.
Zamila holds down the button, "Hello?"
"This is Captain Veltzir of the Imperial cruiser Defenestrator," a loud, very proper sounding man's voice blares through the speaker, " We are enroute and expect any occupants to disarm, exit the vessel, and await contact."
"Okay," Zamila says shutting off the comm.
"Poodoo," Jez remarks, "The Empire?"
It didn't make sense. Why would the Empire show up here on Dargenas now. The only thing she could assume is that Gurz was told her little secret when Andan and the rest of the gang regrouped for their assualt on her home. Gurz had to have got his tentacles on a long range communicator, and hailed the Empire in hopes of getting back the ship, and possibly a reward for turning her in.
The only long range communicator she knew of was in the port master's office, meaning that either the old gran betrayed her or had been incompacitated. In either event no pilot would be coming.
"Help me wake him, Jez."
"But…"
"Just help me," Zamila interrupts.
Zamila had some experience with carbonite repulsor sled controls since imported produce would often come on them, but she never had to do it for a frozen sentient before. She presses the buttons and the man's figure begins to glow orange and the carbonite that encloses him dissipates.
The man's beige tunic and loose fitting trousers are soaked. His skin is pale. He suddenly jerks to life and gasps for breath. After several ragged breaths he curls up and shivers violently.
"I was trying to tell you he was going to be real sick."
"What's that smell," the man remarks.
"Are you a pilot," Zamila asks anxiously.
"Is that you smelling like that?"
"Are you a pilot or not," asks angrily.
He peers out of heavy lids in Zamila's direction, "I'm a damned fine pilot," the shivering man declares, "Only one problem."
"If it's money you're after…"
"I'm blind. I can't see a damned thing."
Zamila's shoulders go slack and her head drops to her chest. Her grand adventure would be over before it began.
"I mean, I'm not blind-blind," the human male says, "It's just hibernation sickness. If you let me get a little nap…"
He is interrupted by the communicator beeping. Zamila walks over to it and holds down the receiver button.
"What are you still doing on board that ship," the Imperial captain growls angrily, "I am sending a squad of troopers and they will be on you any moment. You had better exit the vessel at once."
Zamila releases the receiver and the call ends.
"I see," the man says, "I'm going to have to talk you through it."
"What?!"
Zamila anxiously throws a glance to Jez whom already has her hands up, wearing an expresion that tells Zamila that it has got to be her.
"Help me up," the man says with outstretched arms, "I do not want to entertain the Empire today."
Jez and Zamila rush over and hoist the man so that he is leaning heavily on their shoulders.
"I'm Rast by the way," the sick man offers, "And one of you smells terrible."
The women ignore his comment and rush as quickly as they are able up to the cockpit. The open the door and Rast motions over to the right side of the cockpit where the copilot's seat was located. They drop the man into the seat and tighten the harness around him. Zamila sits down in the pilot's seat buckling up as well, and Jez straps into what would presumably be the navigator's seat as it was situated near large screens which look like they could be the controls for the nav computer.
A shadow is cast from above and it could only be the shuttle bringing a squad of stormtroopers.
"Now what," Zamila barks anxiously.
"What kind of ship you got here?"
"We got to hurry," Jez says gripping the arms of her set.
"SoroSuub 3000."
"Easy. Controls similar to a Fang."
Rast gives clear concise instructions walking Zamila through retracting the ramp, turning on the main power, and firing up the ion drives. Rast points and describes controls as clearly as if he could see them. By the time Zamila is engaging the repulsorlifts, they can hear a scraping noise which could only be the sound of the troopers putting cutting torches to the hull.
"Give her some throttle," Rast says, "The lever over here."
Zamila slides the lever and the ship lurches forward. The troopers on the ground begin firing but it has little effect other than making Zamila a little nervous. She pulls back on the controls and the ship begins gaining altitude until they pierce the cloud tops.
"You're getting a feel for it. I can tell," Rast says.
The compliment puts her at ease. She had never seen her home from this height and it really was beautiful, though she didn't know if she would ever see it again. Zamila is startled as the entire ship shakes. Thinking, or at least hoping it was turbulence she doesn't react. When it happens again she is certain it is not.
"What's happening," Jez yells out.
"We're gettin hit, stinky," Rast replies, "Push the throttle all the way and get us out of atmo," he tells Zamila rather calmly, considering.
Zamila does as she's instructed and a pair of bright green laser shots pass over them.
"Can you see what's chasing us," Rast asks.
Zamila looks in the rear display and sees two pods pressed together between wings that curved inward, "Tie Bomber."
"It's configured for transport otherwise they'd have hit us with something worse," Rast informs them, "It's a tug but so is this. If you keep your speed they won't catch up. Stinky?"
"Stop calling me that you wet pile…"
"Can you work that nav computer?"
Jez exhales, "I think so. Where should I try to set it for?"
Just then the ship shakes as if it would fall to pieces. Sirens blare in the cockpit.
"That wasn't the tie," Zamila exclaims.
"Yeah, no kidding," Rast scoffs, "How we doing on those coordinate, stinky?"
"E chu ta, sleemo! Where?!"
The ship is rocked by another volley of turbo lasers and Zamila sees a Gozanti-class cruiser, likely the Defenestrator, come into view.
Rast and Zamila cry in unison, "Anywhere!"
There is a moment of tense quiet before, "Okay I got it!"
Rast takes the controls and commits them to the mystery coordinates. The ship leaps into hyperspace as a fatal volley of turbo lasers from the Defenestrator finds empty space.
