Saints or Sienars
Author's
Notes: YES!!! For once, I actually own the characters! However, Mr. Lucas owns
the concept of SW, Chalmun's, Chalmun, the cantina patrons and
Luke-who-is-barely-mentioned. (I'm getting to the bare bones here, folks). But
I own the characters! Ha, ha, ha! (LP slaps sense into herself) Okay, feeling
better. Hope you like this story. We're all mature here (riiiiight) but I have
to say this for my personal beliefs: Drinking is not funny! Now then, on with
the show!
I try to be fair to my crew. I really, really do. But my first officer- don't even get me started on that guy! His name is Cheever Emory, and I have never known a more annoying man than him. Well, outside of my family at least. That's for later, though. For one thing, he hates the fact that I'm mortal and have flaws. Another, he hates that I'm a woman. As you can tell, he's a very hate-ful man. My second officer is better- he just dislikes me because I'm unorthodox. Everyone else tolerates me because the Rebellion pays them to. For their part, I'm actually quite proud of the New Republic on this one. They've actually not bungled things up for a change. That in mind, one must consider my background and life story. I was raised on Tatooine, and yes, I knew Luke Skywalker. He was okay in my book, a little bit of a loser like me, but still was my best friend. He was different from the others. The others were just plain stupid Rimmer trash, also like me. I was born right about 16 years before Yavin. I really can't put it anyway else. Arrested for treason at age 16 and a half, rescued because I'm a Force adept, albeit a woman, turned to the Dark Side by Vader. Turned to the Light Side by none other than my pal Luke. Turned back to the Dark Side by Vader after I was captured by him during the escape from Hoth. Sent to Kessel after regaining my conscience and naïveté and challenging Vader to a losing duel. I also got a big, distinguishing scar on my face from an all-too-familiar red lightsaber and a brand new tattoo courtesy of the Empire- numerical work number, of course. I escaped later on, when I was the tender age of 21. I got sick of mining spice. That's all there was to it. Oh, that and the fact that I had my lightsaber hidden in my baggy, tucked in shirt. Ten minutes and I'm gone. Hijacking the shuttle was a piece of cake. For all the fear and menace that the Imperials put into Kessel, it's all a part of the Tarkin Doctrine. I was wondering why I hadn't tried this earlier when a couple of TIEs followed us out. Easy enough to defeat, so I jumped back home. 'Home' for a long time had been the Imperial Palace on Coruscant, a sagging bunk back in the mines, or the cramped cockpit of a fighter. After getting debriefed and cleaned up, I headed home to my roots on Tatooine. When I arrived home, I was greeted by my mother and father who ever-so-lovingly slammed the door in my face and told me, their eldest daughter, and now an 'anarchist and a scheming ingrate' to pack up and go back. As I remember, our conversation went like this.
Me, a.k.a Rui: Mom? Daddy? I'm home! I've returned after 5 years of captivity!
My mother: Tommen tookh kahninne! ('We don't want anything!')
Me: You don't want me home?
My father: Eska tu butya, Rui? ('Is that you, Rui?' My parents refuse to speak Basic and only use Bocce until they know who it is.)
Me: Yes! You remember me!
My father: Kay potaa! Judduyt duffin! Thirr wyrrr cannichet! Tu shooj Imperia! ('Go away! Crazy anarchist! Scheming ungrateful urchin! You should have stayed with the Empire!)
So I went not 'home' to the Rebellion, but to Chalmun's cantina. This is the cantina of Mos Eisley, known not for tasteful décor, good food or drink, or even honest patrons. No this is the cantina where Ben Kenobi sliced off that fool Ponda Baba's arm, Han Solo splattered Greedo against the wall, the local non-Imperial law Feltipern Trevagg made the worst mistake of his life and the barkeep Wuher made the perfect liquor all in one day. I almost fit right in. And I made a new friend. Well, if you take it another way, I made two new friends. Chalmun the Wookiee and a bottle of vintage Corellian whisky. Boy, that stuff can clean the thrusters out of a ship and still be drinkable. I don't recommend it, now that I've kicked the habit. Don't touch it, is all I can say. Last week, the medics said that I've gotten slight liver damage and it would have been worse if I had kept on with the bottle. Chalmun, of course, will not deny it but won't condemn it either. I kinda have to wonder how I made it in that place. I did quit drinking, as in 'never touch the stuff anymore and never will' kind of quit. Mr. Emory, the first officer from Eternal Torment, refuses to acknowledge that fact and will not leave me alone about it. Speaking of my officers, if I didn't have to have them for their knowledge of star charts… My second officer is more to my liking except for the fact that he's about half-way toward insanity. At least until we were attacked by TIEs the other day. Now he seems fine. War usually does just the opposite to people. And then half of my crew is under 20, so they have these giant delusions of grandeur and think that if I ever get in trouble (my boot manages to trip me, we run out of quasi-stagnant warm water, the cooking doesn't agree with me) they'll be there to save the day. My one worst fear is not that the Imperials will attack us, or even that I won't make it back from this route.
My one worst fear, the one thing that keeps me up at night, is the fear that before the end of this route, is that one of these peach-fuzzes will try to follow me home.
Cheever Emory came by a little earlier to see how I was. He's not as bad as I thought. He's worse. He's young, Toprawan, and has a chip on his shoulder. A part of our conversation.
Me: Mr. Emory, if you don't shape up, I'll be forced into issuing you a court-martial. They wouldn't stand for this in the Empire. They'd send you home, if you get extremely lucky.
Emory: That doesn't sound too bad, Captain.
Me: In a 3X5 box and in pieces, Emory.
One of these days he's going to remember that if his blaster "accidentally" goes off and hits me, then he'll be unemployed. One of these days, I'll remember how to make a lightsaber, and then all bets are off. Maybe I'll just turn myself into the Imps and go back home to Kessel. Or maybe I'll have to live with Cheever. Something tells me that I'll be better off on Kessel.