/

This Little Piggie Went to Market

"Sgt. Jorgan?" Lt. Dur squinted. Despite her height, she could not see above the heads of the crowd. In fact, she felt decidedly small. Now, the Fleet always bustled with activity, but this was ludicrous.

"JORGAN?!"

No answer.

She gave up on Jorgan. A long-overdue move, to think of it. "Sgt. Dorne?"

No answer.

By the Coruscant's winged three-headed cockroaches! If Dorne is not where she is assigned to be by the Section 3. of the Reg… whatever Number, things had gone to the wampas!

"TREEEK!?"

Hopeless.

Glean Dur wandered a little, just enough to get tired of being bumped this way and that by the excited crowd carrying chairs, flags, huge crates and other furniture. A furniture sale?! On the Carrick Force-blazed Station?! The only piece of furniture Glean personally needed was a non-thorny patch of ground to sit on while she cleaned her new cannon. Now, that was an idea! She promptly sat down by the railing and a dreamy smile spread over her features. It was a very, very, very beautiful cannon.

"SIR! Sgt. Jorgan reporting in, SIR!"

"JORGAN!" Glean cried out, "I've started a MIA note to your folks."

Jorgan snorted. "I'd like to read it someday, Sir."

"Don't get torn up, Jorgan," Glean looked up at her closest associate and repressed a smile. "I put my name down on the bottom of the standard form. Just like a Summer Festival card."

"Your sig alone could make a grown-up man weep, Sir," the Cathar said earnestly. Too earnestly.

"REPORT!" Glean yelled, suppressing the familiarity.

/

Becchino snarled and lifted her hand. The flow of air to his windpipes got cut off. Malavai waited out his body's reflexive convulsions and willed away the darkness of a faint. Only just. She released him slowly, and Captain Quinn wavered on his feet, clutching the wall. He won't kneel like this, out of weakness, without intending to. Behind the window, the endless Kaas rain fell in slanted strands.

"Good morning, My Lord." He did not inquire after the score of the Huttball match. It was written on her not-so proud brow, give or take two or three points in favor of the other team. That's in addition to her cheerful greeting.

"Have you reviewed the Dur files, Lieutenant? What is she doing?" Lord Becchino asked quietly.

"Of course, and as far as I can tell, nothing, My Lord. She stands by the terminal on the Fleet, and had been for days. I have checked and the observation device was not tempered with. Her banking records show a significant inflow of credits, however."

Becchino smiled. "Credits. Good. Consider her out of the game for now. Wealth chasing does it to lesser races."

She looked around the apartment and took in chairs and shelves stacked close to the walls in a random pattern, and a crookedly laid carpet. "Did you have to defend our home base against a squad of womp rats, Lieutenant?"

"No, My Lord. Lt. Pierce and Broonmark had a home-decorating contest. I have locked away your suit before they could furnish it, My Lord."

"Well done, Lieutenant," Becchino admitted. "I trust you secured a bed for it?"

Captain Quinn bowed in response. It was a good bed; he tested it. Without further ado, Lord Becchino strode to her room, and a few moments later Pierce thundered in the same direction, giving Malavai a disgusting smirk before disappearing around the corner. Quinn secured the doors with a complex password, poured himself a glass of Corellian rose and put a recording on the holo. He had every intention of watching a certain Huttball match over and over and over again….