IT'S ALL COMING BACK TO ME NOW
A word to the wise: don't wear medical clogs when defecting from the Empire.
Dr. George swore by his favorite shoes. They held up when he spent hours on his feet as a medical resident, they were easy to clean when unspeakable things landed on them, and they kept his feet decently warm when the temperature plunged on night shift.
But when a squad of stormtroopers showed up with an arrest warrant, you want to wear something easier to run in.
George only got out of the hospital because a nurse saw what was happening and "accidentally" called a code, which clogged the hallway and slowed down the stormtroopers long enough for him to run down the back stairs. And he'd only gotten this far through the city because of his handler.
"Coat, badge, and scrub top go in the garbage," his handler ordered when George breathlessly told him what had happened. "Now get to the busiest place you can and lose yourself in the crowd."
He followed instructions to the letter. Match everyone else's pace, don't stare but don't not look at people, follow the flow of the crowd and blend in for all you're worth.
"The crowd's starting to thin out," he reported. "What do I do? I can't turn around."
"Just keep going along the most logical route. Give me your cross streets."
"Fourth and Rampart – this isn't working, I can't blend in! I'm in scrub pants, clogs, and a T-shirt, I look like a tramp."
"Okay, then you're a tramp. What would a tramp do? Where would he go?"
George sputtered. "Uh, stay to the side?"
"Then do that and commit to it. I'm almost there."
He messed up his hair to better sell the look and kept to the side, following a group of people.
"There's a patrol coming up."
"You're okay," his handler promised. "Keep following your group and keep your head down. You changed your profile so you should go right past –."
"There he is! Hands where I can see them!"
"Too late!" George bolted down the nearest alley, the troopers drawing closer by the second. He pulled every evasion trick he knew — throw debris in your pursuers' path, take an erratic course — but no matter how many turns he took, the stormtroopers had more numbers.
They backed him into an offshoot, and George realized it was a dead end a split second before he tripped over his traitorous clogs.
"There's nowhere to run, George."
That voice…
Something clicked in George that hadn't since the moment he'd decided to reach out to Defections. Fire behind his eyes, he picked himself off the ground and turned to face the man who had spoken.
"Alistair," he growled.
Administrator Alistair's mouth pursed like he was sucking on a lemon. "Where's the bacta tank?"
"Where's the bacta tank? Don't you mean, where's the patient?"
"That bacta tank costs millions of credits. It's certainly worth more than some indigent Bothan."
"That Bothan is one of us. You know who he is, and you know why he was in the tank." He glared at his former boss. "Scared, Alistair? You don't want the galaxy to find out that a patient almost killed an orderly and you covered it up?"
Alistair didn't reply. Good, because he didn't get to talk! He hadn't responded to Florrie's screams and pulled the patient off the orderly who had already been beaten to a pulp. Instead he told George that if he called the police to report the incident, he would be the one who went to jail for violating confidentiality.
"You knew he would talk if he ever woke up. He'd expose your whole shitshow. That's why the tank kept 'malfunctioning.'" He smiled triumphantly. "Doesn't matter now. He's somewhere you'll never find him, and if taking the bacta tank burns you up then I should have taken them all."
"Bold words for a man about to die in an alley."
"You think we're all replaceable. Prove it."
Alistair signaled the troopers. "Take aim."
I'm not afraid. George took a deep breath and looked his foe straight in the eye when the blaster bolt ran out.
But he didn't die. Alistair's eyes grew wide, and then he crumbled to the ground with a blue bolt in his head.
At the end of the alley stood a man with a still-smoking hunting rifle.
George had to be dreaming. "Lux?!"
Lux took out the troopers with a series of quick, well-aimed shots and lowered the rifle. "Are you okay?"
George nodded.
"Then let's go before their backup gets here."
They sped out of the alley and into the street, losing themselves in the crowd as best they could. Lux slung the rifle across his back and took out his comm.
"I've been compromised and can't get back to the spaceport before they tag my ship. The defector and I need a ride."
"Copy. I'm sending coordinates for a parlor on the north side of town. Lay low there and wait for further instructions."
…
"Uh-oh, that's your 'something went to osik' face. What happened?" Sloan asked.
Dalla sat at her desk, tapping at a datapad. "Lux went the distance."
"Lux?" He repeated. "Dang, I guess I theoretically knew he had it in him. What did he do?"
"All I know is there's a warrant out for his arrest. If I can break the encryption on it I can see the charges." She bent over her work to better focus.
"Just because there's a warrant doesn't mean it's a worst case scenario. He could have punched a stormtrooper – "
"Four counts of murder!"
Sloan choked on his own spit and dashed to see Dalla's datapad screen for himself. "How do you rack up four murders on a defection job?"
Dalla was searching the names on the warrant. "Stormtrooper, stormtrooper, stormtrooper … oh, this one's not good."
"Bigwig?"
"Yeah, an administrator. They're already wailing about what a senseless tragedy his death was and how much he did for the medcenters on that planet."
"Which if I know my administrators, means he was a crock of shit who deserved everything he got."
"Bingo. They're going to want Lux's hide nailed to the wall for this."
"What do we do? We've never had a handler need their own handler."
"Luckily for us they're on an export planet, so there's still outgoing spacecraft. If we get them on one, we can meet them in space with minimal exposure risk. We just have to get them on one."
Sloan checked the notes. "Is that why you sent them to a network parlor?"
"Ding, ding, ding."
Sloan raised his eyebrow. "Which means they're getting picked up by a network operative, not a handler."
Dalla groaned and planted her head into her folded arms. "Of all the handlers, why did it have to be Lux?"
A part of Sloan was enjoying the drama, but the part that loved his sister took pity on her. "Want me to make the run?"
"No, I'll have to deal with it anyway. I might as well deal with it directly."
"In that case, mind setting your comlink to record? I want to see this."
"I bet you do." Dalla made a face.
…
Lux didn't know what to expect from Mollymauk's hideout, but he wasn't expecting a dance-pop parlor owned by a teenage Hutt.
"Relax and grab a drink!" Their host Rotta shouted over the music. He didn't seem half bad, once you got past the slime and the smell of body spray and regret. "It's on the house. Anything for friends of Ahsoka's!"
"You know Ahsoka?" Lux asked.
"She saved my life when I was a baby, and then she put me in touch with Mollymauk to get this place started." Rotta slurped at a canned energy drink that gave Lux palpitations just thinking about it. "Coolest person ever, right?"
"On that we can agree." He made sure George was still with him, the doctor looking wide-eyed around the club like he couldn't believe they were there.
Rotta led them to a couple of seats at the end of the bar. "Wait here while I call Mollymauk. What do you guys want to drink?"
George finally snapped out of his fog. "Is that a Rancor Energy?"
Rotta nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, they're my favorite. You want one?"
"No…no thanks. You probably shouldn't drink more than one a day; they're really bad for you."
"Muja pop would be great," Lux stepped in and guided George to his chair. "Thank you, Rotta."
"Two muja pops, coming right up." Rotta signaled the bartender and slithered away.
"Are you sure we're in the right place?" George gave him a sideways look.
"This is definitely it." Only Mollymauk would invest in a dance parlor which screamed teenage cringe.
George nervously sipped his drink. "Are you sure your friends will come for us?"
"I am. Hang in there, we'll be safe soon."
Two muja pops later, Rotta came back with a fresh energy drink. "Okay, Mollymauk's on his way. Here's the plan…"
Then George and Lux were summarily stuffed into a packing crate.
"He said someone would pick you up at the shipping depot," Rotta reported. "Good luck, guys!"
Good luck indeed. Lux felt like he was holding his breath during the entire trip, listening carefully for the sound of approaching footsteps.
When they came, it was only one set of soft shoes instead of the characteristic clomp of military boots.
Mollymauk, he realized with a great sigh of relief. He was fine. He and George were with their allies, and they would be safe from the Empire.
Then someone pried the lid off the crate and he found himself looking straight at —
"Dalla?!"
…
It was only fitting, Dalla thought wryly, that the lingering smell of Rotta's body spray hit her nose at the same time Lux's voice hit her ears.
"Hello Lux." She reached into the crate for the defector, leaving Lux sitting up inside. "Are you guys okay?"
"We're fine," George said.
Lux coughed "What?"
Dalla had kept the crate shut until she got back to the museum, mostly because she was avoiding Lux. Now she thanked her lucky stars she'd made the immature decision.
She focused on the defector. "Dr. George, we have a base medical team waiting for you. We'll send you over as soon as we can arrange a ship."
"Thank you. And can you thank Mollymauk for stepping in so quickly?"
Lux must have suspected already, but the moment he heard "Mollymauk" he turned an impressive shade of white.
"What the kriff?" he whispered.
Time to intervene. Dalla shut the crate lid on him, then grabbed Dr. George and steered him into the hallway.
"Wait here," she ordered, and satisfied he wasn't going anywhere, returned to the room and opened Lux's crate. "Lux —."
"You?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Oh my gods! I can't believe I didn't realize sooner. Mollymauk? I bought you a shirt with a – you named yourself and your illegal smuggling network after your favorite animal?"
It sounded so dumb when he said it like that, that Dalla wanted to cringe. "I was short on time and had to think of something."
"Something that obvious? Everyone who knows you knows you love mollymauks."
"Lots of people love mollymauks."
"Yeah, but it's not like you named it the tooka network. Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because it's a great idea to go around proclaiming my identity to handlers, isn't it? That couldn't destroy the entire network and endanger all of our defectors in one fell swoop."
"Of course, but we're friends."
What was it about this man that had her acting like she was fifteen again? "We're exes!"
…
They stood and argued for fifteen minutes while George listened through the door like it was a soap opera. He was only picking up bits and pieces, but what he got was juicy. Something about Death Watch and an incident at a funeral.
Meanwhile, Dalla's comm was ringing off the hook. She'd left it on a crate in the hallway, and George saw every time it lit up. The calls seemed to be coming from the same ID, and the intervals between calls narrowed every time. This was…George counted. The fifth.
Dalla's voice brought him back to the argument. "And you're the one to talk about obvious. You, who was handling from the apartment you shared with your imperial wife!"
"I told you, we lived separate lives!"
The comlink rang again and George made a snap decision. He cautiously picked the unit up and accepted the call.
The person on the other end didn't wait for him to say hello. "Young lady, you may be an intergalactic fence but you are still my daughter! Stop ignoring my comms and tell me what in stars' name you want with murder warrants."
That didn't sound good, but it was all he had. George gripped the comlink. "Is this another handler?"
The man hesitated. "...Yes. May I ask why you have my daughter's comm unit?"
"She left it behind to talk with my handler, and I don't think it's going well."
"Not going well," the man repeated. "Would you hold up the unit so I can hear them?"
George went ahead. He cracked the hallway door open and held the unit aloft.
"You asked me all those questions when you already knew the answers?" Lux demanded. "What were you doing, prying into my life?"
"No, Lux, it was because I knew the answers. What better way was there to verify your story?"
"We fought together in the rebellion. Why couldn't you trust me?"
"Excuse me for exercising caution when you were married to an imperial!"
George heard the man sigh. "Thank you, young man. I'll take care of it."
The comm beeped as he terminated the call and George stared at the screen. What did he mean, take care of it? How could he take care of anything? He wasn't even here!
He got his answer seconds later, when a patch-eyed man clomped down the hallway and threw open the door without even knocking. "Alright, what's going on here? I got a comm."
Lux and Dalla stopped bickering.
"Sloan?" Dalla asked incredulously. "I thought you were doing inventory."
"I was, but then I got a call from guess who and good thing I did." Sloan laughed like seeing Dalla and Lux was the funniest thing in the world. "I'm not getting involved in this. You're adults, you deal with whatever's going on here. I'm taking Dr. George here to his accepting cell. Come on, doc."
"Yes sir." George hurried after him.
…
Once Sloan and Dr. George were gone, there were no more distractions. Just the two of them in the middle of the museum's storage room.
"I guess that's defection complete," Dalla said after a long, uncomfortable silence.
"I think I'm in shock." Lux blinked at the ceiling. "I just … this is insane. I thought you left the north and settled down, but no, you're a crime boss! Where did … what did … how did you get into it?"
Dalla silently counted to ten before answering. "Saw had pretty well cornered the market on rebellion and I couldn't just sit here. I'm good at this, and the rebellion needs me."
"I won't argue with you there, especially today. It's just a little difficult to reconcile the Dalla I know with the fence who has her finger in every criminal pie known to man."
She snorted. "Well that makes two of us."
He had the gall to look taken aback. "What do you mean?"
"It's a little difficult to reconcile the Lux I know with the guy who married an Imperial loyalist."
"It was a marriage of convenience! Are you seriously bringing that up again? What is it, are you still hung up on a teenage fling?"
"In your dreams; I'm married. We started out convenience married, actually, so I know all about that and I still can't imagine marrying an Imperial."
Lux didn't flinch. "Congratulations that your life panned out so well. Not all of us are so lucky to find someone to love."
It took everything Dalla had not to launch a comeback, but that wouldn't get them anywhere. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought that up."
"It doesn't matter; I don't suppose I'll be seeing her again." He cringed. "How bad is it?"
Best not to mince words. "You're charged with four counts of murder, treason, harboring a fugitive, and several parking violations."
"Seriously? Parking?"
"Apparently the Empire's pettier than I am." Lux grumbled, but made no comment. "All of which means you're officially a fugitive."
"Nothing new there."
"What's new is that you're not alone. We'll make you a new identity, find a place for you to lay low, and get your comm equipment set up."
"My comm equipment?" Lux repeated. "You mean my handler's comms?"
"Of course. There are still defectors out there who need help and you're a great handler. Things will have to be a little different now, but we're not going to bench you."
"So I don't have to stop."
"Of course not."
"Thank you." He sniffed. "Handling was all I had left. I couldn't lose it too."
"Well, you won't. And you'll always have Defections, no matter what. I mean, we're literally tattooed on you."
Lux traced the invisible lines of his handler tattoo. "Last I checked it's on you too."
She nodded and examined her own arm.
"Do you ever think about what we've done with our lives?" He asked. "We've worked so hard ever since I can remember, and what has it gotten us?"
What had it gotten them? Dalla knew what it had gotten her: a ridiculous comm bill and a workaholic complex which would take years to work through in the unlikely event she made it to therapy. But it had also given her a husband who loved her despite all her faults, and a son whose crayon doodles meant more than all the treasures in the museum. And she had them because being Mollymauk was the reason she'd met Yularen.
"I don't think we'd be the same people we are today if things had worked out differently. And the way things are, people are alive because of the work we do. If our lives going sideways is what it takes to protect them, then I don't regret it."
"We really grew up, didn't we?"
"Somehow." She shook her head and smiled. "Sure beats being fifteen."
"Anything's better than being fifteen," he agreed. "Well, I guess that's it. Where am I off to?"
"Somewhere the Empire won't bother to look. You can wait for the heat to die down and manage your defections in peace."
"I can't wait. I haven't had peace for a long time."
"I've heard it can get boring after a while. So when your defectors are on radio silence and you think you might go crazy if you stare at your walls for another second, give me a call. I might be able to alleviate the boredom."
"Might?" He cackled, "This conversation was the wildest thing I've seen in the past ten years, at least. If anything I'll need time to recover in between calls."