STAR WARS
AN ALLIANCE AT NAR SHADDAA
2
Anzam's door slid shut behind him as he eagerly bounded down the front steps of his apartment. He nearly knocked an older Duros over in his haste, apologizing before starting on his way down the street to the metro station. The older man shouted angrily in response, but his voice had been drowned out by the deafening rumble of a repulsortrain passing overhead. Anzam hardly noticed either noise; according to his pad he was running late for the watch party at the Star, and his focus was forward.
The Star of Toydaria was a bit of an open secret on Nar Shaddaa. The owner, Sor'el, was an unapologetic long-time supporter of the Rebel Alliance. She had spent the waning years of the civil war harboring refugees and sympathizers in their attempts to join the Rebellion. The Imperials in the system were too restricted to spend time walking a beat, and the Hutt's simply didn't care about the war assuming nothing they paid for got blown up, so local security allowed it.
She also was a very old, close friend of Anzam's, sometimes more than a friend if their respective constellations happened to align.
Lost in thought, he nearly bypassed the lift to the metro platform above him. He doubled back and stepped on the metallic grate and punched the 'up' button. With an abrupt chug and a brief grinding of metal-on-metal, it began to rise.
The lift creaked to a halt at the top just as a repulsortrain came gliding into the station and slowed to a stop in front of him. Brand new trains had just come off the line, but to his dismay, it was one of the cars that predated the Clone Wars. Chunks of metal near its doors had rusted, crumpled, and in some places had entirely fallen off. The doors opened, but the one in front of him happened to open only halfway and he nearly walked straight into the unopened half. "Figures," he murmured. Anzam side-stepped, then forward into the car of the train.
The moment the door closed behind him, the deep, bellowing voice of a street preacher he'd wished he had noticed about two seconds sooner howled through the train car.
"Ignooooore the calling from these false prophets. Their three-horned symbol of death! Betray those who would harm our Empire!" The man, a Chiss, shoddily dressed in ill-fitting clothes, was gesturing to the onboard Holonet screen. Anzam hadn't noticed until now all the screens on the train were showing the same New Republic countdown he had seen at Oordo's shop. The driver must be a supporter, a daring one at that, he thought to himself.
The train suddenly lurched forward, nearly throwing the Chiss over, but he managed to grab a pole and continue shouting. Anzam opted to walk to the furthest opposite end of the car. He put his headphones in and positioned himself comfortably to stare out the window. Individual buildings were unrecognizable already due to the incredible speeds the train was moving at; the city had become a rainbow-smeared backdrop.
The imperial fanatic continued to scream and gesture silently against the music blaring through Anzam's head. What little love that remained for the Empire had grown borderline religious; the handful of loyalists Anzam himself knew saw Palpatine and Vader as martyrs, ignoring of course the fact that one had supposedly killed the other before dying themselves. Facts were irrelevant to a fanatic, however.
A piercing shriek echoed through the train as it rounded a corner, then resolved into a staticky voice. "Entering…Little Toydaria Station South…Doors open on the right," the intercom stated monotonously. One more stop. The train whirred to a halt and a regal couple drunkenly strolled onboard before being startled off by the same wall of shouting that had greeted himself. He watched them hurry along the platform past his window to an adjacent car.
Others decided to brave the situation and crowded down towards Anzam's end of the car. L0 would have gotten a kick out of this whole situation, he had a knack for badgering the fanatics, but he opted to stay home and plug in for the night. The new power-converter for the apartments charging station meant he was getting his first real 'sleep' in days.
The train accelerated again to untold speeds, and then pulled to a stop a couple miles from the last only a few seconds later. The intercom blared again, "Entering…Little Toydaria Station North…doors open on both sides." Anzam stood and lightly shouldered through the group that had boarded at the previous stop, then slipped through the same half-open door he had come through initially.
He stood for a moment and watched the train move off down the incline into its tunnel that would ultimately take it to the terminus at Nar Shaddaa's primary manufacturing district. He pulled out his pad and checked the time. Fifteen minutes, and the Star was just around the corner from the station. Plenty of time to slip in before Sor'el locked the doors. He punched the 'down' button on the lift to his left and let it take him to the glowing streets below.
. . .
"Password," the guard-droid stated, rather than inquired.
"Jabba no bagga," Anzam replied in Huttese.
The droid's artificial eye laughed and slid back into the wall next to the door frame, it's latch clanking shut behind it. The Duros stared dumbfounded, his red eyes wide in surprise.
"It's been a little while since you've come by after hours. We do change it every once in a twin moon, you know," a sardonic voice called softly as its source rounded the corner of the building. The individual was difficult to make out, but as she came closer, Anzam began to smile. She tossed what she was smoking to the side and threw back her hood, revealing the twirling blue-white montrals protruding from her head. The Togruda stepped closer and wrapped him in a hard hug, signified by the loud smack of their arms hitting each other's backs.
"Sor'el, I've missed you," Anzam muffled into her collar. After a moment they let go, and she staired at him with both arms fully extended, her hands on his shoulder.
"And where have you been, my strange blue friend?" she asked warmly. They started towards the entrance to the bar, taking their time as they exchanged life's recent mundanities, and its few excitements. It had been a while.
Sor'el was raised not far from the bar she now owned and operated. Anzam and she had gone to school together in youth. About five years ago she struck big at the slots on Nal Hutta, right around the same time the winged owner of the Star of Toydaria, where she worked, was looking to sell. Everything worked out for everyone in the end there it seemed; she had run it well since.
Sor'el held the door open for him and they stepped into the darkness. She locked the door behind her and flipped the open sign over. The space was almost solely illuminated by the twirling Republic insignias at the tables that were coming into focus; the timer read four minutes. One of the first changes she made upon gaining ownership was removing half the lights and importing dark, wooden furnishings. The bar itself had been replaced as well, an almost-black matte woodgrain. It had been questionably sourced from Kashyyyk, something Sor'el had neglected to realize until well after it was installed. In her own mind, she repaid that horror by accommodating the same rebels that would hopefully someday free the enslaved Wookies that had cleaved their sacred trees for this otherwise humble bar.
Sor'el led Anzam over to the end of the bar where she preferred to station herself if no one was immediately looking for a drink. There were eight or nine other seats around the bars corner, and as many tables scattered around. All of them were filled, with plenty of folks standing alongside, but somehow everyone appeared subdued. The room, full of all manner of rebel, were more focused on the timer than each other, as was Anzam himself.
He hadn't even noticed the glass placed in front of him which almost tipped over as he turned. Sor'el grinned at him wide eyed and raised her eyebrows, motioning him to take a sip, which he promptly did then loudly whispered "Alderaanian Ale?! Where did you fi-". She shushed him and put her hand over his mouth.
"Let's just say I know some very blasphemous refugees who were on their way to the Graveyard." She slid in next to him with her own glass in hand and gave him sly look, then nodded to the holoprojector. "We'll chat more in a bit, handsome," she said sarcastically, "let's see what they have to say this time." She put an arm around him and leaned close. He followed her gaze, looking from her eyes to the timer.
00:05, 00:04, 00:03…
. . .
…00:02, 00:01, 00:00. The deck-officer's finger dropped, giving General Crix Madine the signal. He cleared his throat then looked straight ahead into the camera and began to speak as the light went on.
"To the government of Nal Hutta, and to citizens of Hutt space, this is General Crix Madine of the New Republic Navy. I speak with the authority of the supreme leadership of the Republic at this time, and I would like all of your attention for the next few moments."
"As is common knowledge by now, our fleets have scattered in the galaxy to free systems formerly under Imperial rule, and to bid for their participation in our new galactic government. At this time, dozens of new systems have pledged their full support since the fall of the Empire at Endor. To these worlds, we have been able to provide food, bacta, and various resources and equipment to allow self-reliance in the wake of the Empire's fall, as well as to form the framework for participation in the new Galactic Senate.
In roughly twelve standard hours, the Republic Second Fleet will drop out of hyperspace near Nal Hutta. Our intentions in this endeavor are not to fight, conquer, nor disrupt anyone's way of life; we wish only to talk. To the Hutt leadership, and to the citizens under their rule, we extend an offer for mutual assistance and friendship in hopes that one day you will join us in the Galactic Senate.
To all receiving this transmission, we will see you soon."
The video cut and the light on the holocam went out. Crix sat back down and breathed a sigh of relief. While it was an intentionally anticlimactic message with few specifics beyond a time and a broad message of hope, it served the purpose. The Hutt's needed to remain in control, and most importantly, to not fall under the impression someone was aiming to undermine that control. This transmission met those criteria. As a sly, cunning people, with a proclivity to backstab and undermine others, the Hutts tend to view everyone else through that same lens. He didn't necessarily think they were going to open fire the moment the fleet dropped out of hyperspace, but he figured there was a distinct possibility they would be opposed to some of the more specific policies the Republic would promote.
Crix pulled himself back to the moment and looked around at the nods of approval as the other officers began to stand, some choosing to remain and converse with others, a few waiting for a moment with him, but deciding against it as they saw his tired eyes. Fey'lya, who was seated at his right, swooped in obnoxiously and rested his hand on Madine's shoulder.
"Well said, General. I believe this is going to at least get us into the system," he said.
"It better, you wrote it," Madine replied, glaring at him.
Fey'lya chuckled and turned to walk away before twisting his head back towards Madine, "I'm going to return to my quarters on the Cala Pearl before we jump into hyperspace, then retire for the night. I trust we have cadets on standby to begin processing early requests for assistance from Hutt space?"
Crix Madine straightened out and replied, "Yes counselor, one of the Corellian Corvettes has been made the primary comm-relay for return messages. I told them to collect all transmissions for analysis, and to send anything of significance here to the Wampa immediately. What I included under that umbrella of significance, per your request, were any private requests from citizens interested in enlisting in the military. These will be immediately filtered to your Bothan spynet for background checks. Any who pass will be contacted shortly after we arrive in the system, regardless of how those negotiations go."
"Very good general, I'll keep an eye out for those requests. We have a lot of empty ships in our hangers, with not enough pilots to fill them. The losses we've seen…" he trailed off and shook his head. "Yes. Very good. Tomorrow." The Bothan walked off towards the exit, muttering to himself.
Crix watched Fey'lya until the door finally slid shut behind the councilor, then turned around towards the stars and slackened his shoulders in relief. He had spent hours with one of the Republics greatest critics, and had somehow gone uncriticized. This success alone was worthy of celebration, regardless of how the rest of the mission went.
The ships out his window had reoriented themselves for their exit vector out of the Bothawui system, and he could no longer see the planet. Officers around him started punching in coordinates and relaying information. He overheard one say they would be entering hyperspace in ten seconds. Madine checked his pad and decided that he too would retire for the night. There was nothing left that could not wait until tomorrow, all that remained was the passage of time.
Casually, he turned towards the exit while logging out of his command station, an act performed with an elegant flick of his wrist and a couple taps of his fingers, leaving it available for the commander of the nightshift. Time indeed, he thought. With an almost imperceptible lurch, the Wampa and fifteen other ships jumped.
. . .
All eight of the Republic insignias above their holostations in the Star of Toydaria disappeared as if they were being zipped shut. Anzam was wide-eyed, staring at the now-empty space in front of him. His eyes were struggling to adjust to the now-darker bar. Looking around, he was surprised to see some moderately disappointed faces. His gaze continued scanning from left to right until it landed back on Sor'el beside him, who was grinning with her head crooked to the side staring at him.
"You're sending them a message tonight, aren't you," she said, trailing her hands along his shoulder. He chuckled and pulled away, shaking his head.
"Absolutely not," he replied abruptly, faking a stern expression. Yes, he was sending them a message tonight.
Sor'el punched Anzam in the shoulder and laughed, rising from her chair, and heading back behind the bar. A few patrons had walked up looking for another round, and she had let her bartender cut out early since the drinks were free tonight anyway.
He swirled his glass, watching the foam rings in his ale appear and vanish along its sides, lost in thought. The Republic. Here. Formally. Embassies. Recruitment! They didn't say it directly, but it was an obvious implication. He had steered from joining their cause for far too long. Stability offered normalcy; his life on Nar Shaddaa had been comfortable, but meager. Unglamorous. Uneventful. Now the norm could change, and the change was coming to him.
Anzam stood up and left his pad on the bar, signifying he would be back shortly. He grabbed a smoke and walked towards the exit, tossing the pack back onto the bar. Images rushed to his mind as he passed through the door. He thought of an academy, and of flying an X-Wing, or a B-Wing in an assault on a Star Destroyer. Maybe he could be a commando, infiltrating an old Imperial storehouse to recover unheard-of technology. Hell, he would be content with mopping the hallways on Home One.
Staring up at the stars from the alley next to the bar, he began to realize there was more to life than operating a garbage lift.
