Star Wars: The Dark Calling
By R. C. Carpenter
Chapter Two
Above the towering buildings of coastal Dundusk, a wealthy Cimmerian trading center, a small gathering of locals sat in an equally diminutive apartment in the wealthiest section of the city. In the room, there was little else than business happening, ever. There was a long, thick table in the center near the one-way windows, surrounded by a dozen, maybe more, of chairs of the same wood, upholstered in a scratchy bluish twine. In these chairs sat the owners of the building, most getting on in their years, but a few younger partners were present at the lesser end. They each riffled through stacks of very important papers, sipping on an exotic tea mixture, mumbling a few words to his neighbor at intervals and basically keeping busy and out of trouble. For the moment.
One, apparently the leader of the assemblage, rose cautiously from his seat at the head of the table, back facing the doors where two men stood at a silent guard. In his hand, balanced almost effeminately, he had perched a long spiral cigarette, which he sucked from now and then. He raised the pointed rod up to his sticky lips and then looked out across his throng of associates. After searching the vaguely familiar faces for a minute, he finally placed the stick inside his mouth, breathing deeply, killing his chance of long life with each inhale. He held the noxious gases inside his lungs, pulmonary phthisis flourishing in the crevices of the sensitive tissue, and then, seeing one of his sheep stray from the flock's directed attention, he blew the thick, blue cloud straight at the slick-haired young man. Instantly, the man spun to face his lecturer and coughed at the same time, trying to hide his distaste for the foul odorous cigarettes that were so often ingested around this office, lest he be expelled from the League.
The smoking man gave a sinister smile, the cracks in his worn face breaking into canyons. He cleared his throat, at once receiving all eyes in the chamber, stopping dead in their tracks of busywork. His lanky body twisted to its seat, the ashes snapping off the stick's end. His face was lit up by the faint glow, but the slight rays did not touch his thoughts even remotely. The chair tilt back ever so carefully and the smoking man raised his legs up, crossing them at his shins on the glass edge of the table. The cuffs of his suit, an old fashioned attire used in some primitively fashionable countries and planets to symbolize status, money and power, ruffled up at the legs.
Here on Dundusk, the suit was no laughing matter. The corners were sown tight together, a garish piece of fabric hung from the center of the neckline of a white button shirt and was tucked under the junction of the flaps of an outer jacket, sometimes adorned with a pocket or two due to stature and how many could be afforded. The ensemble was completed with straight-falling pants that were the same color as the jacket, and usually a nice set of footwear, somewhere in the vicinity of blacks or browns. No one would ever even dare to dream about wearing some excessively gaudy color like a deep red. Strict rules had been placed over the wearing of these suits; only men could wear them, only allowed to dye them black, brown, gray, or a navy blue, and only business men. The smoking man and his acquaintances just happened to *be* business men. Business men with great tastes, values, and minds.
He stared at the ceiling, watched his fumes float to the top and then disintegrate. He amused himself with this for a while, testing his limits on the others. A handful began to fidget, and there were sporadic coughing, or throat clearing, a pen tap here or there. Still attentive to the ceiling, he began to speak slowly, making sure each imbecile before him understood every word, "Gentlemen, I commend you."
His voice was nearly emotionless, it did not sound as old as it should, it should not sound as smooth either.
Gradually, the chair released him from his fixation with the ceiling, his eyes staring forward and in no particular hurry to meet anyone else's as the seat repositioned itself at a stable post. He watched the men before him anxiously, hoping that one would snap from the suspense, would break the silence and question 'What! What did we do?!'
A fresh faced man near the back of the room on the left side of the table was beginning to become agitated, whipping his head from one side of himself to the next. He raised his eyes to the smoking man's. The elder man's were black monstrous eyes that sunk into his skull and screamed from within their cage of flesh and bone. They met with the man's, a chill snapping throughout the other's body, forcing him to cringe as they ate away at his humanity.
The smoking man inhaled his foggy deathtrap and sent coiled loops floating gracefully towards the young partner. "Yes, Agent Deuens, what is it?"
"Ah, well, sir," he started with a shaky voice, "what exactly is it that you're commending us *for*?" He looked as if he was about to flinch away, like a child due for a reprimand, but for a reason they did not yet know. He tapped his pen in the palm of his hand nervously and watched the insect on the table that had caught the attention of a few others at the gathering.
The smoking man leaned forward to place his elbows onto the table top. As they met with the wood, his right arm slammed down, palm open. The insect writhed underneath the heavy fist, agonizing in its last few moments. The man pulled his hand away, making a display of the squashed bug.
"Tell me, Agent Deuens, what happens when one creature is bigger and more powerful than another creature?"
"Well, sir, the larger creature will sometimes eat the smaller--" The cigarette wielding man raised his eyes to meet Deuens'. Motioning with those black pits, he glanced at the speck of crushed goo on the table. Deuens quickly retaliated, "But usually, sir, the big one. . . squashes the small one."
"And why does the 'big one' destroy the 'small one'?" He asked sardonically, accenting the word small and big.
"Because the small one is the big ones competition. . .?" He didn't sound too sure of himself.
But the elder cracked a delighted smile none the less, "Precisely. That is why I have congratulated all of you today. For as of today, all of the League's 'small' problems have been eradicated."
There was a general murmur of delight from the group. The bearer of the news slid back into his chair and position, his hands clasped a few inches below his chin. The others were smiling and patting each other, and themselves, on the back.
"But!" his voice bellowed for a halt in the celebration and demanded attention, " But, there is one 'small' leak that must be taken care of before we can officially declare our independence from the Republic and rejoin the Galactic Empire."
Two or three of the men squirmed in the scratchy seats, dreading returning to Imperial rule so swiftly. Among them the young Agent Deuens. The smoking man noticed this movement from his ranks and became the stern leader ready to deal out the punishment that he usually was around the office.
"Can you sit here and sip your drinks, talk of your families and go home to your nice little houses and not realize that it is all here because the Empire allows it to be so?" his voice was filled with rage.
He had been around during the Imperial rule, he was only a young man in his late twenties, full of eagerness to serve his Emperor, when his world was shattered. Palpatine's death and the fall of his kingdom had shook him so hard that he went on a rampage across four systems, bombing Rebel aligned cities, hiring bounty hunters to kill public officials in the streets, murdering and raping their wives and daughters after burial ceremonies. Others joined him when they heard of a lone, strange, unidentified man on a spree of hatred, following the Imperial code of sworn spite against those who would restore justice to the galaxy. Or at least that's how tabloids depicted him and his band of merry-men and their escapades.
He had since settled down on Cimmeria, created his own *business* empire and converted his group into the senior partners of his government. The latest joiners were not so loyal to the ways he was raised up on, most not being alive during any time of mass Imperial rule. He was very cautious of them, even holding secret meetings with his trusted companions with whom he had been a marauder. But a scattering of things remained constant from his past life; his slavery to the Empire and his marital status.
"Sir, you can't honestly think that with the Republic on the move to incorporate Cimmeria into their system at this very moment would be the appropriate time to dispel our propaganda onto the populous?" came the voice of an over confident elder near the shadows.
The smoking man rotated towards the hefty gentleman to his right, stared closely at him, memorizing his face for when payroll came around. He placed the cigarette onto the notebook he had open in front of him. "Mr. Dwyer, would you explain this unnecessary outburst to the rest of us?" He was the only one allowed to talk, unless you were called upon, that was the way it worked.
Dwyer cringed and sunk into his seat. "No, sir. I only thought that--"
"You thought! I don't think so. It's quite evident that you did *not* think. But I shall recognize your statement," He turned to his left, "Ms. Szal, don't strike that from the records."
From deep within the shadows, near the guard on the left, a young woman, maybe in her early twenties nodded and typed incessantly at an old fixture the smoker had bought back in the day. She had brown hair that had been highlighted red in an amateur fashion, and a shapely, curvaceous body. She was most pleasing to look at in this dank, ill-lit office. She raised her head to face the men, her eyes catching Agent Deuens' momentarily, "It's been added into the database, sir."
"Very good, Ceda." He stated with much care and love behind his voice, a sound that had been absent from his tone only seconds ago.
He was pleased at his leniency towards Dwyer and allowed himself a pleasant smirk, "Now, gentleman, perhaps some of you share Mr. Dwyer's opinion. That's very admirable, I assure you. But before I give you a chance to receive your admiration," he said rather quickly, so none of the workers would catch on in time to say two words, "I shall explain myself to you.
"Here at C.G.H., it has come to my attention that this would be the most efficient time to spring upon them the news of our respectful decline to join their ranks, and that we are rather comfortable with our position as an Imperial affiliate." All said with great disdain.
"I agree whole-heartedly, sir."
"Yes, well put."
"When do we get started?" came the usual shouts towards the egotistical maniac as he puffed away on his death card. He stood before them all, a giant in the business world, and began to circle the table like a buzzard around his dying to-be dinner.
He spoke to them as he paced the room, "The leak which must be dealt with properly or not at all is that of the child we have been using to influence the actions of the other officials and businesses on Cimmeria. She is a valuable asset, but she is also a child. And children tend to talk when properly motivated. This is the concern that we should focus on, the silencing of Cadea Ciel." He inhaled his fumes and spewed them out at the shocked and almost disgusted faces before him.
Ciel had been used by the League for over three years to read the thoughts of visitors to Dundusk. She had uncovered many conspiracies and even helped to capture a spy from the rival city of Vyopul. She was only nine years old and her youth allowed her to approach the men and women who would seek to destroy the League and it's goals. But lately, she had begun to doubt the beliefs of her masters and mentors. This had been a low lying scare, but had manifested into much more over the past two months as she learned of the upcoming visit from the Republic's ambassadors. She had indulged in History texts, learning about the Empire, and Palpatine, of Vader and his children, Luke and Leia, who had grown up to be a powerful Jedi, what ever that was, and the leader of this new government. She wanted to know more and had appealed to the League for more books on the subject. She was flatly denied access, being told that she could learn more when she was older, for a nine year old had no place in the worlds of politics.
The smoking man knew of these men's bizarre affection for the tike and tried to use them to his benefit. He didn't know how to interpret their expressions, at least not the majority of them, they had become quite apt at masking their emotions. The younger partners, on the other hand, were open books. Their thoughts were laid out in neat little rows for him to forage through, their feelings were also the groups feelings, and that made him feel much better at knowing he had succeeded in hitting a soft spot.
"Does this conflict with any of your schedules?" he asked snidely. All faces were aimed at the table so as not to have to confront the black eyed monster. He chose a random victim, "Mr. Hseim."
Hseim glanced up, "Yes, your honor?"
"Would you do us the favor of appointing three of us here," he knew that did not include himself, "to dispose of our troubles?" The smoker had washed his hands of the job, placed the blame of the child's death on this poor soul. Hseim's body would be found outside of town limits within days. It didn't matter whom he chose now, no matter who, Hseim would be the one they accused in the smoking man's place.
Hseim rose to his challenge, hoping that the men he chose would not follow out the orders they were given. So many of them before had been given such unruly labors, they had talked of how they didn't want to do it, that they wouldn't if the time came again. The others who were not given the job talked of how they would've acted differently, that they were strong enough to defy their overlord. But all was untrue. Perhaps, among them, there was maybe one honorable, courageous young man who could step up to the challenge and withstand the torture and humiliation if they were caught resisting.
Sparring the older partners, Hseim's gaze fell upon the youthful end of the table.
In a loud pronounced voice he stated, "Toth the Younger, Agent Deuens, and Meola Xeujin."
His fate had been declared.
Toth glared at the partner, ready to strangle him if they ever met in a dark alley, his knuckles turning white. Meola just tapped his foot in agitation and rolled his eyes at nothing. The young agent, however, couldn't have been more pleased. Careful not to show this, he hung his head and tightened his eyelids to make like this was the worst possible scenario he could've fallen into. But in reality, this was the most wonderful thing he had ever heard! Now, the three would divvy up who would actually end up doing the dirty work. He was the youngest of the trio, he was bound to be the chosen one.
The smoking man, unaware of the conspiracy with his own rising from Deuens' end of the table, gave a tight smile and appraised the sickly comrade's choices. "Very well. If this is all the business needed to be discussed today, you are all dismissed"
Of course this was all the business to be discussed. Only he made up what was talked about and what was tossed aside. If it was from his wriggling mouth, it was talked about. Here it was. At home it was. He was in the habit of dismissing them early when one of them was about to die, this became only too routine.
The business associates slid back their seats simultaneously, bowed down low, the shortest almost touching the table top. The smoking man rose, his body supported by the chair arm rests. He gave a nod to each of the men present and then spun in one magnificent sweep to the door. He tilted his head at the saluting guards on either side of the door and exited, each at a close distance behind or his personal protection.
Those left packed their scant belongings, filed away papers in cabinets and with the secretary, and made a few calls to wives or friends. They became quite cheery now that the work day was over, even brushing aside Hseim's little misfortune. They laughed with each other, flirted with Ms. Szal, and looked forward to their next meeting with wealthy clients and such.
After less than half an hour, the office was quiet and only two souls remained inside the darkened room, the stench of the smoking man's cigarettes and plots still lingering in the air. The man, somber in his mood, lifted his dusty black jacket off his chair, tucked some notes into the folds of it and under his arms. He put it on, his notes ruffled as he shoved his arm through the sleeve. He heard a faint clicking noise coming from the back room. When he turned to the door, it was lit up with a bleary blue light. Curiosity taking hold of the best of him, he edged over to look into the other room, his possessions draped loosely over his right arm.
Away from her post and duties, at a rather overcrowded desk, sat Ms. Szal, typing up a furious storm of words. Though she was evidently not being paid for this awkward overtime, here she was, clicking away. Agent Deuens inched closer to her, her eyes fixated on the screen.
Deuens strained his eyes to focus in on the words as they popped up on the screen. He was almost directly over her now and couldn't understand how she hadn't noticed his presence, or over-the-shoulder reading. Breathing became heavier and standing became more tiring as he tried to balance on one foot. It was as he fell that Ms. Szal noticed him, and went crashing to the floor with him.
Flustered, she stammered out her words, "Why, what, where. . . what do you think you were doing!" She tried to keep her voice as low as possible.
Equally dazed, Deuens could only mumble incoherently.
When she finally got her wits about her, the secretary shove him off her, hiking up her skirt ever so slightly by the opposite reaction of the push. The young man caught notice of his strange luck and his face twisted into a boyish half-smile. "Why, Ms. Szal, I do believe your knickers are showin'." He stated in a mock western voice, a twisted smile stretching across his thin lips.
Ms. Szal sneered at him and shoved her skirt down over her knees. She hoisted herself up, grasping hold of the desk. She held out her hand and Deuens took it, gladly.
"Now explain yourself, Agent Deuens." She remarked flatly.
The gray eyes widened and he mouthed his denial, shocked that she thought he was trying to do anything. Hadn't she seen the way the smoking man had treated him? He was a nothing, a nobody. Nobody of any circumstances, that is. He ran his fingers through his silvery blond hair, his eyes back in their sockets and looking towards the floor, away from the accusations of the assistant .
She crossed her arms across her chest, ruffling the white blouse that covered her. She watched him shuffled his feet over the green shag rug. Impatient, she tapped her left foot, the heel of the shoe digging deeper into the fabric below. She coughed and he glanced up swiftly. Their eyes met, hers scorching for the truth.
"Fine! All right!" he tossed his arms apart and gave in, "I wanted to see what you were typing, OK?"
She nodded, disbelievingly. "Mm-hmm. Sure."
Ceda lifted up the chair from the ground, the shirt floating off her skin an inch or so. The young man had to give in, it would make her feel better to if he didn't have to lie about what he was doing.
He stretched his arms out to help her with the chair. She smiled her gratitude and allowed him to upright it. "Thank you."
He gave a brash grin of success, too pleased to do such a small job. He wrapped his arms around the back of another chair and rolled it up next to hers. He sat down backwards on it and hung his head over the back of the cushion. "So what *are* you writing?"
Ceda held back a smile, proud of her task. "This, Agent Deuens," she purposely used his title to annoy him, "Is the way that you *won't* have to kill Cadea Ciel."
Interested, he raised his eyebrows and nodded approvingly. "And?"
"*And*," she mocked, "you and I will be able to get off this intergalactic garbage heap unscathed. Free from everything that's here, everything that holds us down."
"V'ry interesting. . . but where does Ciel come in?"
"She's our ticket off."
"Even better! So she's out of here before she even realizes what she's getting away from, what a great life she must have!" He beamed inside of the dark room. His face was a lantern of hope.
"What wonderful guardians, too." She gave herself a moment to glow and then went back to typing.
"So how are we getting off here exactly?"
"Do you remember Dwyer's speech?" she brought up a site on the computer that held the county records of Cimmeria. She whizzed through the security with her override codes that she had been entrusted with when the smoking man had brought her to Dundusk from the orphanage that Ciel was staying at now. He had turned her into the planets smartest secretary. He also inadvertently turned her into a computer and mechanical genius. She retained everything she saw and heard and could've been a valuable asset, like Ciel, if she was younger and easily concealed like a child at meetings. But she wasn't. She was very beautiful against the common and when duty called upon her, she would be forced into elegant dresses and outfits of ambassadors, far too tight for her to enjoy keeping, but very enjoyable for any onlookers. She was also forced to dye her hair nearly every time she was used in one of the smoking man's little schemes.
The site conformed into a deeper archive inside the official buildings. A three dimensional image spilled into their eyes. It was the seal of Cimmeria, a spherical dome of waters washing up against the inside of the ball. Etched lightly onto the surface of the orb was a holographic dolphin in mid-jump.
They were in.
"Allow me to present, the National Archives. In this database," she slipped a cartridge into a form-fitted slot near the base of the terminal, "Which I am now downloading, lays every recorded action taken by any one at any time on this entire planet."
Deuens nodded, his silvery eyes swishing in the movement of the seal.
Hoping to see if he was paying attention to what she was saying instead of just the pendulum hanging before him, she brought his records up behind it. "Let's see what Agent Deuens was doing this morning before he came to work."
He continued to nod his agreement, unaware of anything.
"Okay. . ." Her fingers glided over the keys and a video recording of Deuens flashed onto the screen.
"Hey! Where'd it go?!" He shouted out as his fixation was wiped from the monitor. He was still oblivious to what was going on around him.
Ceda rolled her eyes and began to play the recording.
On the screen, a blurry blue image of Deuens focused in as Ceda increased the magnification terms one hundred percent. The security camera that was over five stories up, zoomed in on the specific area.
"Freeze." demanded the typist. The computer immediately halted its playback. "Look at the picture. What do you see?"
Deuens complied and leaned forward. He studied the frame momentarily.
With a saucy grin and announced his findings, "A good looking, single, working class citizen."
She glared at him, "No, not exactly what I was looking for."
She raised her right hand up to the glass and pointed to the jacket pocket that was visible. "Look right there. Do you see it?"
"No, what am I looking for again?"
"In your right breast pocket you have two tickets to the Tikku vs. Faix fight tonight. You also have on you a wallet stuck loosely into your bag, see?"
He did. "What's so big about that? Lots of people have their wallets in their bags?"
Ceda smirked, "Ah, yes. But not everyone has tickets for the professional fight tonight. And anyone who might happen to want to rough you up has the perfect opportunity to do so when you go. From this footage, they can also learn that you carry your wallet out in the open, this can be stolen easily and make a killing look like a robbery gone wrong."
The room was silent for a second as Deuens stared at Ceda.
"Are you telling me not to go to the fight tonight, or are just trying to get me to fork over my ticket?"
She groaned and went back to typing. "No, I don't mean any of that. My point is that *if* someone *wanted* to kill you, or whatever, they have the information that they need all right here."
"Yah," he said, "But not everybody has access to this kind of stuff. . . right?"
"But I do."
He was beginning to worry that maybe she was going to try to kill him. "I knew you had a point coming in here somewhere."
"Yup, somewhere." She searched through records, looking at most for only a split second as they whirled by on her computer.
"There are people here, now, on Cimmeria who can help us. They've tried to be secretive about being here," she smiled slightly, "But nobody can hide from random cameras. Cameras don't lie. If we can find where they came in, what docking bay or what hotel they're staying in, maybe, we can find them here." Then she saw them. "Freeze!"
There on the screen, though slightly distorted, were the images of two men and a tall, hairy fuzzball.
The Republic's ambassadors.
By R. C. Carpenter
Chapter Two
Above the towering buildings of coastal Dundusk, a wealthy Cimmerian trading center, a small gathering of locals sat in an equally diminutive apartment in the wealthiest section of the city. In the room, there was little else than business happening, ever. There was a long, thick table in the center near the one-way windows, surrounded by a dozen, maybe more, of chairs of the same wood, upholstered in a scratchy bluish twine. In these chairs sat the owners of the building, most getting on in their years, but a few younger partners were present at the lesser end. They each riffled through stacks of very important papers, sipping on an exotic tea mixture, mumbling a few words to his neighbor at intervals and basically keeping busy and out of trouble. For the moment.
One, apparently the leader of the assemblage, rose cautiously from his seat at the head of the table, back facing the doors where two men stood at a silent guard. In his hand, balanced almost effeminately, he had perched a long spiral cigarette, which he sucked from now and then. He raised the pointed rod up to his sticky lips and then looked out across his throng of associates. After searching the vaguely familiar faces for a minute, he finally placed the stick inside his mouth, breathing deeply, killing his chance of long life with each inhale. He held the noxious gases inside his lungs, pulmonary phthisis flourishing in the crevices of the sensitive tissue, and then, seeing one of his sheep stray from the flock's directed attention, he blew the thick, blue cloud straight at the slick-haired young man. Instantly, the man spun to face his lecturer and coughed at the same time, trying to hide his distaste for the foul odorous cigarettes that were so often ingested around this office, lest he be expelled from the League.
The smoking man gave a sinister smile, the cracks in his worn face breaking into canyons. He cleared his throat, at once receiving all eyes in the chamber, stopping dead in their tracks of busywork. His lanky body twisted to its seat, the ashes snapping off the stick's end. His face was lit up by the faint glow, but the slight rays did not touch his thoughts even remotely. The chair tilt back ever so carefully and the smoking man raised his legs up, crossing them at his shins on the glass edge of the table. The cuffs of his suit, an old fashioned attire used in some primitively fashionable countries and planets to symbolize status, money and power, ruffled up at the legs.
Here on Dundusk, the suit was no laughing matter. The corners were sown tight together, a garish piece of fabric hung from the center of the neckline of a white button shirt and was tucked under the junction of the flaps of an outer jacket, sometimes adorned with a pocket or two due to stature and how many could be afforded. The ensemble was completed with straight-falling pants that were the same color as the jacket, and usually a nice set of footwear, somewhere in the vicinity of blacks or browns. No one would ever even dare to dream about wearing some excessively gaudy color like a deep red. Strict rules had been placed over the wearing of these suits; only men could wear them, only allowed to dye them black, brown, gray, or a navy blue, and only business men. The smoking man and his acquaintances just happened to *be* business men. Business men with great tastes, values, and minds.
He stared at the ceiling, watched his fumes float to the top and then disintegrate. He amused himself with this for a while, testing his limits on the others. A handful began to fidget, and there were sporadic coughing, or throat clearing, a pen tap here or there. Still attentive to the ceiling, he began to speak slowly, making sure each imbecile before him understood every word, "Gentlemen, I commend you."
His voice was nearly emotionless, it did not sound as old as it should, it should not sound as smooth either.
Gradually, the chair released him from his fixation with the ceiling, his eyes staring forward and in no particular hurry to meet anyone else's as the seat repositioned itself at a stable post. He watched the men before him anxiously, hoping that one would snap from the suspense, would break the silence and question 'What! What did we do?!'
A fresh faced man near the back of the room on the left side of the table was beginning to become agitated, whipping his head from one side of himself to the next. He raised his eyes to the smoking man's. The elder man's were black monstrous eyes that sunk into his skull and screamed from within their cage of flesh and bone. They met with the man's, a chill snapping throughout the other's body, forcing him to cringe as they ate away at his humanity.
The smoking man inhaled his foggy deathtrap and sent coiled loops floating gracefully towards the young partner. "Yes, Agent Deuens, what is it?"
"Ah, well, sir," he started with a shaky voice, "what exactly is it that you're commending us *for*?" He looked as if he was about to flinch away, like a child due for a reprimand, but for a reason they did not yet know. He tapped his pen in the palm of his hand nervously and watched the insect on the table that had caught the attention of a few others at the gathering.
The smoking man leaned forward to place his elbows onto the table top. As they met with the wood, his right arm slammed down, palm open. The insect writhed underneath the heavy fist, agonizing in its last few moments. The man pulled his hand away, making a display of the squashed bug.
"Tell me, Agent Deuens, what happens when one creature is bigger and more powerful than another creature?"
"Well, sir, the larger creature will sometimes eat the smaller--" The cigarette wielding man raised his eyes to meet Deuens'. Motioning with those black pits, he glanced at the speck of crushed goo on the table. Deuens quickly retaliated, "But usually, sir, the big one. . . squashes the small one."
"And why does the 'big one' destroy the 'small one'?" He asked sardonically, accenting the word small and big.
"Because the small one is the big ones competition. . .?" He didn't sound too sure of himself.
But the elder cracked a delighted smile none the less, "Precisely. That is why I have congratulated all of you today. For as of today, all of the League's 'small' problems have been eradicated."
There was a general murmur of delight from the group. The bearer of the news slid back into his chair and position, his hands clasped a few inches below his chin. The others were smiling and patting each other, and themselves, on the back.
"But!" his voice bellowed for a halt in the celebration and demanded attention, " But, there is one 'small' leak that must be taken care of before we can officially declare our independence from the Republic and rejoin the Galactic Empire."
Two or three of the men squirmed in the scratchy seats, dreading returning to Imperial rule so swiftly. Among them the young Agent Deuens. The smoking man noticed this movement from his ranks and became the stern leader ready to deal out the punishment that he usually was around the office.
"Can you sit here and sip your drinks, talk of your families and go home to your nice little houses and not realize that it is all here because the Empire allows it to be so?" his voice was filled with rage.
He had been around during the Imperial rule, he was only a young man in his late twenties, full of eagerness to serve his Emperor, when his world was shattered. Palpatine's death and the fall of his kingdom had shook him so hard that he went on a rampage across four systems, bombing Rebel aligned cities, hiring bounty hunters to kill public officials in the streets, murdering and raping their wives and daughters after burial ceremonies. Others joined him when they heard of a lone, strange, unidentified man on a spree of hatred, following the Imperial code of sworn spite against those who would restore justice to the galaxy. Or at least that's how tabloids depicted him and his band of merry-men and their escapades.
He had since settled down on Cimmeria, created his own *business* empire and converted his group into the senior partners of his government. The latest joiners were not so loyal to the ways he was raised up on, most not being alive during any time of mass Imperial rule. He was very cautious of them, even holding secret meetings with his trusted companions with whom he had been a marauder. But a scattering of things remained constant from his past life; his slavery to the Empire and his marital status.
"Sir, you can't honestly think that with the Republic on the move to incorporate Cimmeria into their system at this very moment would be the appropriate time to dispel our propaganda onto the populous?" came the voice of an over confident elder near the shadows.
The smoking man rotated towards the hefty gentleman to his right, stared closely at him, memorizing his face for when payroll came around. He placed the cigarette onto the notebook he had open in front of him. "Mr. Dwyer, would you explain this unnecessary outburst to the rest of us?" He was the only one allowed to talk, unless you were called upon, that was the way it worked.
Dwyer cringed and sunk into his seat. "No, sir. I only thought that--"
"You thought! I don't think so. It's quite evident that you did *not* think. But I shall recognize your statement," He turned to his left, "Ms. Szal, don't strike that from the records."
From deep within the shadows, near the guard on the left, a young woman, maybe in her early twenties nodded and typed incessantly at an old fixture the smoker had bought back in the day. She had brown hair that had been highlighted red in an amateur fashion, and a shapely, curvaceous body. She was most pleasing to look at in this dank, ill-lit office. She raised her head to face the men, her eyes catching Agent Deuens' momentarily, "It's been added into the database, sir."
"Very good, Ceda." He stated with much care and love behind his voice, a sound that had been absent from his tone only seconds ago.
He was pleased at his leniency towards Dwyer and allowed himself a pleasant smirk, "Now, gentleman, perhaps some of you share Mr. Dwyer's opinion. That's very admirable, I assure you. But before I give you a chance to receive your admiration," he said rather quickly, so none of the workers would catch on in time to say two words, "I shall explain myself to you.
"Here at C.G.H., it has come to my attention that this would be the most efficient time to spring upon them the news of our respectful decline to join their ranks, and that we are rather comfortable with our position as an Imperial affiliate." All said with great disdain.
"I agree whole-heartedly, sir."
"Yes, well put."
"When do we get started?" came the usual shouts towards the egotistical maniac as he puffed away on his death card. He stood before them all, a giant in the business world, and began to circle the table like a buzzard around his dying to-be dinner.
He spoke to them as he paced the room, "The leak which must be dealt with properly or not at all is that of the child we have been using to influence the actions of the other officials and businesses on Cimmeria. She is a valuable asset, but she is also a child. And children tend to talk when properly motivated. This is the concern that we should focus on, the silencing of Cadea Ciel." He inhaled his fumes and spewed them out at the shocked and almost disgusted faces before him.
Ciel had been used by the League for over three years to read the thoughts of visitors to Dundusk. She had uncovered many conspiracies and even helped to capture a spy from the rival city of Vyopul. She was only nine years old and her youth allowed her to approach the men and women who would seek to destroy the League and it's goals. But lately, she had begun to doubt the beliefs of her masters and mentors. This had been a low lying scare, but had manifested into much more over the past two months as she learned of the upcoming visit from the Republic's ambassadors. She had indulged in History texts, learning about the Empire, and Palpatine, of Vader and his children, Luke and Leia, who had grown up to be a powerful Jedi, what ever that was, and the leader of this new government. She wanted to know more and had appealed to the League for more books on the subject. She was flatly denied access, being told that she could learn more when she was older, for a nine year old had no place in the worlds of politics.
The smoking man knew of these men's bizarre affection for the tike and tried to use them to his benefit. He didn't know how to interpret their expressions, at least not the majority of them, they had become quite apt at masking their emotions. The younger partners, on the other hand, were open books. Their thoughts were laid out in neat little rows for him to forage through, their feelings were also the groups feelings, and that made him feel much better at knowing he had succeeded in hitting a soft spot.
"Does this conflict with any of your schedules?" he asked snidely. All faces were aimed at the table so as not to have to confront the black eyed monster. He chose a random victim, "Mr. Hseim."
Hseim glanced up, "Yes, your honor?"
"Would you do us the favor of appointing three of us here," he knew that did not include himself, "to dispose of our troubles?" The smoker had washed his hands of the job, placed the blame of the child's death on this poor soul. Hseim's body would be found outside of town limits within days. It didn't matter whom he chose now, no matter who, Hseim would be the one they accused in the smoking man's place.
Hseim rose to his challenge, hoping that the men he chose would not follow out the orders they were given. So many of them before had been given such unruly labors, they had talked of how they didn't want to do it, that they wouldn't if the time came again. The others who were not given the job talked of how they would've acted differently, that they were strong enough to defy their overlord. But all was untrue. Perhaps, among them, there was maybe one honorable, courageous young man who could step up to the challenge and withstand the torture and humiliation if they were caught resisting.
Sparring the older partners, Hseim's gaze fell upon the youthful end of the table.
In a loud pronounced voice he stated, "Toth the Younger, Agent Deuens, and Meola Xeujin."
His fate had been declared.
Toth glared at the partner, ready to strangle him if they ever met in a dark alley, his knuckles turning white. Meola just tapped his foot in agitation and rolled his eyes at nothing. The young agent, however, couldn't have been more pleased. Careful not to show this, he hung his head and tightened his eyelids to make like this was the worst possible scenario he could've fallen into. But in reality, this was the most wonderful thing he had ever heard! Now, the three would divvy up who would actually end up doing the dirty work. He was the youngest of the trio, he was bound to be the chosen one.
The smoking man, unaware of the conspiracy with his own rising from Deuens' end of the table, gave a tight smile and appraised the sickly comrade's choices. "Very well. If this is all the business needed to be discussed today, you are all dismissed"
Of course this was all the business to be discussed. Only he made up what was talked about and what was tossed aside. If it was from his wriggling mouth, it was talked about. Here it was. At home it was. He was in the habit of dismissing them early when one of them was about to die, this became only too routine.
The business associates slid back their seats simultaneously, bowed down low, the shortest almost touching the table top. The smoking man rose, his body supported by the chair arm rests. He gave a nod to each of the men present and then spun in one magnificent sweep to the door. He tilted his head at the saluting guards on either side of the door and exited, each at a close distance behind or his personal protection.
Those left packed their scant belongings, filed away papers in cabinets and with the secretary, and made a few calls to wives or friends. They became quite cheery now that the work day was over, even brushing aside Hseim's little misfortune. They laughed with each other, flirted with Ms. Szal, and looked forward to their next meeting with wealthy clients and such.
After less than half an hour, the office was quiet and only two souls remained inside the darkened room, the stench of the smoking man's cigarettes and plots still lingering in the air. The man, somber in his mood, lifted his dusty black jacket off his chair, tucked some notes into the folds of it and under his arms. He put it on, his notes ruffled as he shoved his arm through the sleeve. He heard a faint clicking noise coming from the back room. When he turned to the door, it was lit up with a bleary blue light. Curiosity taking hold of the best of him, he edged over to look into the other room, his possessions draped loosely over his right arm.
Away from her post and duties, at a rather overcrowded desk, sat Ms. Szal, typing up a furious storm of words. Though she was evidently not being paid for this awkward overtime, here she was, clicking away. Agent Deuens inched closer to her, her eyes fixated on the screen.
Deuens strained his eyes to focus in on the words as they popped up on the screen. He was almost directly over her now and couldn't understand how she hadn't noticed his presence, or over-the-shoulder reading. Breathing became heavier and standing became more tiring as he tried to balance on one foot. It was as he fell that Ms. Szal noticed him, and went crashing to the floor with him.
Flustered, she stammered out her words, "Why, what, where. . . what do you think you were doing!" She tried to keep her voice as low as possible.
Equally dazed, Deuens could only mumble incoherently.
When she finally got her wits about her, the secretary shove him off her, hiking up her skirt ever so slightly by the opposite reaction of the push. The young man caught notice of his strange luck and his face twisted into a boyish half-smile. "Why, Ms. Szal, I do believe your knickers are showin'." He stated in a mock western voice, a twisted smile stretching across his thin lips.
Ms. Szal sneered at him and shoved her skirt down over her knees. She hoisted herself up, grasping hold of the desk. She held out her hand and Deuens took it, gladly.
"Now explain yourself, Agent Deuens." She remarked flatly.
The gray eyes widened and he mouthed his denial, shocked that she thought he was trying to do anything. Hadn't she seen the way the smoking man had treated him? He was a nothing, a nobody. Nobody of any circumstances, that is. He ran his fingers through his silvery blond hair, his eyes back in their sockets and looking towards the floor, away from the accusations of the assistant .
She crossed her arms across her chest, ruffling the white blouse that covered her. She watched him shuffled his feet over the green shag rug. Impatient, she tapped her left foot, the heel of the shoe digging deeper into the fabric below. She coughed and he glanced up swiftly. Their eyes met, hers scorching for the truth.
"Fine! All right!" he tossed his arms apart and gave in, "I wanted to see what you were typing, OK?"
She nodded, disbelievingly. "Mm-hmm. Sure."
Ceda lifted up the chair from the ground, the shirt floating off her skin an inch or so. The young man had to give in, it would make her feel better to if he didn't have to lie about what he was doing.
He stretched his arms out to help her with the chair. She smiled her gratitude and allowed him to upright it. "Thank you."
He gave a brash grin of success, too pleased to do such a small job. He wrapped his arms around the back of another chair and rolled it up next to hers. He sat down backwards on it and hung his head over the back of the cushion. "So what *are* you writing?"
Ceda held back a smile, proud of her task. "This, Agent Deuens," she purposely used his title to annoy him, "Is the way that you *won't* have to kill Cadea Ciel."
Interested, he raised his eyebrows and nodded approvingly. "And?"
"*And*," she mocked, "you and I will be able to get off this intergalactic garbage heap unscathed. Free from everything that's here, everything that holds us down."
"V'ry interesting. . . but where does Ciel come in?"
"She's our ticket off."
"Even better! So she's out of here before she even realizes what she's getting away from, what a great life she must have!" He beamed inside of the dark room. His face was a lantern of hope.
"What wonderful guardians, too." She gave herself a moment to glow and then went back to typing.
"So how are we getting off here exactly?"
"Do you remember Dwyer's speech?" she brought up a site on the computer that held the county records of Cimmeria. She whizzed through the security with her override codes that she had been entrusted with when the smoking man had brought her to Dundusk from the orphanage that Ciel was staying at now. He had turned her into the planets smartest secretary. He also inadvertently turned her into a computer and mechanical genius. She retained everything she saw and heard and could've been a valuable asset, like Ciel, if she was younger and easily concealed like a child at meetings. But she wasn't. She was very beautiful against the common and when duty called upon her, she would be forced into elegant dresses and outfits of ambassadors, far too tight for her to enjoy keeping, but very enjoyable for any onlookers. She was also forced to dye her hair nearly every time she was used in one of the smoking man's little schemes.
The site conformed into a deeper archive inside the official buildings. A three dimensional image spilled into their eyes. It was the seal of Cimmeria, a spherical dome of waters washing up against the inside of the ball. Etched lightly onto the surface of the orb was a holographic dolphin in mid-jump.
They were in.
"Allow me to present, the National Archives. In this database," she slipped a cartridge into a form-fitted slot near the base of the terminal, "Which I am now downloading, lays every recorded action taken by any one at any time on this entire planet."
Deuens nodded, his silvery eyes swishing in the movement of the seal.
Hoping to see if he was paying attention to what she was saying instead of just the pendulum hanging before him, she brought his records up behind it. "Let's see what Agent Deuens was doing this morning before he came to work."
He continued to nod his agreement, unaware of anything.
"Okay. . ." Her fingers glided over the keys and a video recording of Deuens flashed onto the screen.
"Hey! Where'd it go?!" He shouted out as his fixation was wiped from the monitor. He was still oblivious to what was going on around him.
Ceda rolled her eyes and began to play the recording.
On the screen, a blurry blue image of Deuens focused in as Ceda increased the magnification terms one hundred percent. The security camera that was over five stories up, zoomed in on the specific area.
"Freeze." demanded the typist. The computer immediately halted its playback. "Look at the picture. What do you see?"
Deuens complied and leaned forward. He studied the frame momentarily.
With a saucy grin and announced his findings, "A good looking, single, working class citizen."
She glared at him, "No, not exactly what I was looking for."
She raised her right hand up to the glass and pointed to the jacket pocket that was visible. "Look right there. Do you see it?"
"No, what am I looking for again?"
"In your right breast pocket you have two tickets to the Tikku vs. Faix fight tonight. You also have on you a wallet stuck loosely into your bag, see?"
He did. "What's so big about that? Lots of people have their wallets in their bags?"
Ceda smirked, "Ah, yes. But not everyone has tickets for the professional fight tonight. And anyone who might happen to want to rough you up has the perfect opportunity to do so when you go. From this footage, they can also learn that you carry your wallet out in the open, this can be stolen easily and make a killing look like a robbery gone wrong."
The room was silent for a second as Deuens stared at Ceda.
"Are you telling me not to go to the fight tonight, or are just trying to get me to fork over my ticket?"
She groaned and went back to typing. "No, I don't mean any of that. My point is that *if* someone *wanted* to kill you, or whatever, they have the information that they need all right here."
"Yah," he said, "But not everybody has access to this kind of stuff. . . right?"
"But I do."
He was beginning to worry that maybe she was going to try to kill him. "I knew you had a point coming in here somewhere."
"Yup, somewhere." She searched through records, looking at most for only a split second as they whirled by on her computer.
"There are people here, now, on Cimmeria who can help us. They've tried to be secretive about being here," she smiled slightly, "But nobody can hide from random cameras. Cameras don't lie. If we can find where they came in, what docking bay or what hotel they're staying in, maybe, we can find them here." Then she saw them. "Freeze!"
There on the screen, though slightly distorted, were the images of two men and a tall, hairy fuzzball.
The Republic's ambassadors.