Chapter VI
Main Sails Set
Spinner stood beside a bustling intersection. In front of him, laborers and their animals pulled a variety of carts, loaded with food, ore, and just about everything else you could imagine. At the center, traffic stopped. A twi'lek father, trying to bring a bedframe back to his house, had suffered a broken wheel axle. The shaltawood frame had split along the center, leaving the aging cart stranded between four different lanes of a traffic jam.
To the north, a row of three industrial carts pulled by rontos, loaded down with K-ore; an unrefined ore that, when exposed to precise heat and pressure, would yield valuable kyber crystals. Ilum never had a refinery capable of this process, which is why the ore was shipped to Kuat. All three carts had to be stopped while the accident was cleared away. To keep the rontos from cramping their legs, the handlers had used the empty lane to their left to perform simple exercises. The beasts took a few steps in one direction, then stretched each leg with their handler's direction, before turning back in the other direction. Rontos were simply too big for a more complex workout.
Spinner looked on and leaned against a vendor's stall. Disgusting creatures, he thought. Why the Empire has any use for them, I may never understand.
Two Rodians had stopped to help the stranded father, lifting the heavy cart while he removed the broken axle.
Thieving little cunts. Insects crawling on our shit; suckling on our leavings for basic sustenance. He examined his service weapon, pulling out the clip and holding it to the side of his helmet.
If you rotate a tibanna gas clip just right, you can hear tiny air bubbles form in the sides. The bigger the bubble, the less juice in the clip. The slight fizz indicated it was nearly full. About thirty shots worth.
The clip snapped back in the weapon. It beeped slightly, indicating a small amount of moisture had gotten in the breech. It would need to be cleaned soon.
"Thirty," he mumbled, so quietly it could be drowned out by a pin drop.
He looked at the two bugs lifting the cart. "Twenty-eight."
The tail-head fumbling with the new axle. "Twenty-seven."
The handlers securing their animals back to the carts. "Twenty-six, twenty-five, twenty-four…"
The schutta walking down the opposite street. "Twenty-three." He stopped counting. She had dark, blue skin, wrapped tightly in a coat made for a much larger man.
She stopped to speak to a vendor, a quarren with cheap goods from the outer rim. Her arm barely moved from under the coat, only far enough to hand him a small pouch. Credits, presumably.
Spinner decided to stretch his legs. Traffic was about to start up again, so he stretched out a hand to halt the next cart, marching across the street like it was his own. He reached the sidewalk just as she finished her transaction, and started walking back the other way, right into his path.
He got a better look at her face in the crowd. She had to be somewhere in her twenties. She had her eyes to the ground, avoiding eye contact. Her lekku were bound by a traditional, brown leather cord. They were the same length as the thief from last night.
She brushed past him as she reached the intersection, crossing with the rest of the crowd. Spinner followed behind, blaster in hand. As they strolled from block to block, the crowd thinned. Faces came and went, merging and splitting with each turn, until only a few remained. She never looked back, even as the reality set in. Her breaths became louder, more panicked, yet she dared not say a word. Spinner simply followed, wordlessly keeping pace.
"That's far enough," he said at last.
She kept walking, pretending not to hear him.
"You in the coat." He didn't yell. His words were drier than the plains of Jedha.
She finally stopped in her tracks, slowly turning around with her hands in the air, panting frantically as her coat blew open, revealing another layer of coats beneath. "Sie batha ne beechee?"
"Basic, schutta."
She defensively held out her hands, shivering intensely. "Sor-ree," she pleaded. "Nobata wanga. Please. Don't… Don't shoot."
He advanced on her slowly, keeping the gun at his side. The expressionless helmet concealed any emotion he might have shown. "Step into the alley." He gestured at the alley to his left.
She hesitated, staring him in the eye. "Nobata," she pleaded. "I- I beg." She had heard actors using basic on the holonet, knowing little more of the language than a few misplaced words.
He gestured once more. "I'm not gonna hurt you," he intoned. "Just get in there."
Slowly, she turned into the alley, her hands still raised. A tear slowly welled up in her eye. Her breaths sped up, to the edge of hyperventilating. She followed his orders to the letter, inching into harm's way with every step.
Finally, he walked in behind her, and brushed some snow off an old workbench.
She stopped walking and knelt down, keeping her hands raised. "Please… Hi chuba da naga? What… yoo want?" Her heavy breaths fogged in the cold air.
Spinner sniffed loudly. "I think you know damn well what I want." He brushed off the last of the snow with a violent sweep of his arm.
She stared at the ground once more, failing to keep her fear in check. She shivered in the cold as her eyes openly wept. Warm tear drops melted holes in the frost beneath her legs.
"This looks like a good spot."
Kelleon's glass filled with brandy. Bothan brandy wasn't regarded as highly as its Alderaanian cousin, but it had its defenders. It was smooth, with a semisweet aftertaste. More importantly, it was cost-effective; and considered a middle-class spirit in the core worlds.
"Major, I apologize for my earlier absence." Thire finished pouring, and left the bottle on the table. An outdoor meeting wasn't entirely ideal, but the command center still needed some work. The city markets, next to a vendor of frozen meats, would have to do. "We've had difficulty settling in ever since we landed."
Kelleon tasted the spirit. "Haven't seen this for sale locally. Private stash?"
"I try to keep a bottle or two on hand."
"It's quite good." He put the glass down, and pulled out his datapad. "The General will arrive at 2100. He was delayed, but he still wishes to lead the assault in person."
"About that, Major. What 'assault' are you talking about?"
Kelleon took a sip of brandy, then leaned in closer. "I assume you're familiar with the ORLF?"
Thire had heard the name, in passing, during the war. "The Outer Rim Liberation Front?"
Kelleon nodded.
Thire scoffed, "What would they be doing here? They're on the other end of the galaxy."
"When the Separatists were defeated," Kelleon leaned back in his hard, metal chair, holding his glass, "the ORLF broke away from the rest of the Confederacy, found new leadership, and set up cells wherever they could. They never did fit in ideologically. The Separatists were mostly business interests and industrial worlds who opposed Coruscant's trade regulations; but the ORLF are a socialist faction."
"Can't imagine they have many friends."
"Even Mothma's denounced them. That old mynock's finally being agreeable." The Major took another, larger sip.
"Slow down on that shit." Thire nudged the bottle away. "It sneaks up on you."
"Bottom line, they've been a thorn in Palpatine's side since his senate race. Bombed a hospital in Theed during his campaign speech. That was twenty years before I was even born."
"And you think they're on Ilum?"
"The 105th has flown from system to system, destroying their enclaves from orbit. We have reason to believe this is their last stronghold; and they attacked your men last night." Something caught the Major's eye. The stall beside their table appeared to be owned by a Twi'lek, but the man chopping nerf meat inside was a Rodian. A rather young one, too.
Thire turned to see what the Major was looking at. "Something the matter, Major?"
Kelleon beckoned the Rodian over. "Bukee. Hay lapa no ya."
Imperials didn't commonly speak Huttese. Thire surmised the Major may have picked it up in the rim.
The alien put down his knife and hung up his apron, walking outside to see what the man wanted. "Hi chuba di naga," he asked, patiently.
"Achuta. An kava che tee-tocky chu ting?" Kelleon's grasp of the language was rough, but he believed he was asking the other his age.
"Mi donocha."
Twenty. Thire at least knew how to count in Huttese, even if the rest of the conversation eluded him.
"Mee jewz ku." Kelleon waved the Rodian off, and gave him a small credit chit for his trouble.
The man returned to work, walking back to the kitchen and slipping the apron back on. His knife had somehow fallen on the floor, and would need to be washed.
Kelleon looked back at Thire with almost insubordinate contempt. "Sixteen."
Thire thought he knew how to count in Huttese.
"What is a sixteen year old Rodian doing slaving away in a Twi'lek's shop?"
Thire sat up, ready to talk politics. "New initiative. We're paying reparations to the Twi'leks affected by Kahdah's crimes, and we're giving them land to build their lives."
"Whose land?" The other accused, "Whose money? Command did not approve a budget for this sort of expenditure."
"A small income tax, and the land was donated by the mining guild in exchange for a small crate of blasters."
"And all of this just goes to the people who killed your men last night?"
"They were persecuted by the Empire for years." Thire took an authoritative tone, subtly pulling rank over Kelleon. "They need some form of justice, or they'll never come to trust us."
"They don't trust us because they're in a feud with the Rodians!" Kelleon shot back, unimpressed. "The Empire didn't start this conflict, but we chose a side. You don't get to switch just like that."
"It's not a 'switch,' it's equity. I'm spreading the Empire's bounty to those who need it. In return, they will work harder, and we will have stability."
Kelleon shook his head. "I must report back to the General." He rose from his chair and buttoned his overcoat, cloaking his anger behind decorum. "If you turn your back on your allies, you will find yourself with few friends when you need them most."
Thire deadpanned, not dignifying the other with a response.
"Good day, Colonel." Kelleon walked off, signaling two passing troopers to escort him back.
"Four…" Iden held her position, gazing toward the setting sun, before she allowed her arms to relax, and her head to dip beneath the bar. No sooner did her arms stretch taut, then she pulled herself up once more. "Five," she recited as her chin cleared the bar.
The equipment in her tent was minimalistic and primitive. Machinery would be too complex to disassemble and rebuild after every move. A simple bar for chin-ups, and a basic set of weights, would need to do.
"Six…"
The ride on the star destroyer had disrupted her fitness regime. Working out in hyperspace was extremely dangerous, due to the possibility of turbulence. Two weeks of training were missed. Lost time had to be made up.
"Seven…"
Clouds parted on the horizon. Sunlight flooded her vision. She shut her eyes to shield her focus.
"Eight…"
The world fell away as she found herself in another time. Mother dressed in black. Father gently squeezing her hand. Small, wooden box on the funeral pyre. Family crest delicately carved in the side. Name carved underneath in futhark: Garrick Jr.
"Nine…"
9th birthday. Father remarried. Rori playing with blocks as 'mother' encouraged him. Iden seconds away from provoking a Vardosian Red Wasp.
"Ten…"
Ten days in infirmary. Rori sat across from her bed, playing with a hologram. Father arrived with candy.
"Eleven…"
11th year at the Academy. She opened her bedroom door; found Rori downloading notes from her datapad. Father did nothing.
"Twelve…"
Twelve hours until graduation. Rori pushed two years ahead on father's insistence. Fast tracked for special forces training.
"Thirteen…"
Section 13G: dereliction of duty. Father pulled strings to give him another chance. Regular army, stormtrooper corps. Iden objects. No more! Screaming. Shouting. A plate smashed on the floor. Shards cut her left leg. Rori took the speeder to meet his date.
"Fourteen…"
14 rounds left in her clip. Dropship taking off behind her. Salt sprayed in her eyes. The lieutenant deployed a DLT-19 on the mound she used as cover. Fired right beside her ear. Sounded like thousands of suns exploding in cacophonous succession. Ears ringing for next hour.
"Fifteen…"
15th confirmed kill. She put in for promotion. Family was little more than a far-off memory. Pauldron arrived in mail. She adjusts it around her neck before replacing her helmet. Sergeant.
"Sixteen."
Eyes wide open. The world came back into focus. The sun had hidden behind a cloud once more. The wind picked up, flapping the sides of her tent. Her palms were chapped and bruised; her biceps ready to give out. She released the bar. Her boots landed delicately on the frosted ground, shortly before her backside landed on the cot.
She picked up her helmet from the table, and slipped it back on. She took a minute to collect her breath, acclimating to the armored bucket in front of her face. Her breaths passed under the frame as the breather warmed up.
A trooper walked in front of her tent.
"You with the 9th?" She spoke up, stopping him in his tracks.
He seemed confused for a second, then finally answered, in a thick lower-coruscanti accent. "Ya'. Name's Butch."
She panted for air one more time. "Sgt. Iden Versio, 105th Attack Battalion." She reached out a hand, hoping he could help her up.
He tried to shake her hand, caught off guard when she grabbed his vambrace with her other hand, and pulled herself on to her feet.
"Thanks, Butch," she said, still out of breath. She stretched her back until she felt her spine crack. "Guess we're your reinforcements. You ever fight partisans before?"
"Naaaah, mos'ly jus' pirates back on Felucia. Nas'y li'le sods, they."
She took a second to understand him, unaware that such an accent existed. "Might want to brush up," she advised, "Find a holo about the Siege of Crait. That was us." She stepped outside as she stretched her legs. "You haven't seen real action until you've fought guys with nothing to lose. Pirates don't usually fight to the death."
Butch took a step back. "Rooiight…" Her thinly-veiled bragging wore on him. "I'll be sure 'a pass on the message." He walked away from her tent, ready to get back to his patrol.
Iden finished stretching, and sat down to clean her service rifle.
A rudimentary stage had been set up in the market square, its curtains embroidered with prurient imagery of a dancer with ruddy blue skin. Eyes shut, blouse open; loosely clad in a robe mimicking the fashion of a bygone order. A show had come to town; one tailored to soldiers, and their deepest fantasies. Attendants set up seating, as off-duty troopers filed in.
Backstage, the lady on the curtains sat clad in her robe, as a makeup artist put the finishing touches on her face. Subtle hints of eye shadow, and copious purple lipstick for a fuller look. Cream was applied to keep her skin from paling in the bright foglights.
The manager, a grumpy Toydarian, hovered beside her as the artist worked. "Take your time. Let the vendors warm up the crowd." He chomped a cigarra with his bare teeth, spitting the tip out on the floor. "And don't use too much of that powder. My supplier got his shit kicked in by the Hutts last week. It's gonna be hell finding a new one."
The artist worked off a crude hologram depicting a Jedi General from the Clone Wars… Or, at least an actress who played her in a holovid. Its accuracy would be in dispute if one could find an original holo, but such things were hard to come by. "You think this is really what she looked like?" The artist asked, as she wiped the dancer's face with a smooth cloth.
The Toydarian puffed his cigarra. "How the fuck would I know?"
The door slid open and the lights flicked on, revealing the newly renovated command center. Thire took his first steps inside, his eyes fixated on the mural across the way, depicting Imperial soldiers restoring order to the galaxy. To either side were rows of simple cubicles equipped with holo terminals and radios. The only weapons were a simple rack of small arms to the side.
Kelleon stepped in beside him, appreciating the heated air within. "I must say, your men clean things up quickly."
Thire loosened the padding on his armor. "This is only the beginning. With proper infrastructure, this planet could be pacified without firing a shot."
"Yes, well…" The Major ran his hand over a glass sculpture of Coruscant, "It's easy to forget the Separatists were beaten not by firepower, but running water." A glass cabinet caught his eye, holding no fewer than six bottles of Bothan Brandy. "Creature comforts, Colonel?"
"We all have a weakness." Thire led the other to an office in the back, utilitarian in space, with much of the original furniture and flooring left intact. The holoprojector in the center had been modernized, upgraded to the latest firmware, and cleaned from top to bottom. A photo had been hung in the corner, depicting Thire and his old platoon on Toydaria, under the command of Master Yoda. The Jedi could not be present for the photo, but the rest of the platoon was pictured. Thire and Gomen stood in the back, while Bly, the platoon leader, knelt in front.
Johan took a seat next to Butch, two rows from the front. "Check this shit out. Finally something to do on this rock."
Butch responded in his usual manner. "I'll do ye one better." He opened his messenger bag to reveal a small, glass bottle. No label. "Think it's whiskey. No bloody idea where from."
Johan unscrewed the bottle and took a swig. "Shit." Definitely whiskey, but unlike any he'd ever tasted. "Could strip paint with this crap."
In the distance, Rori walked beneath a foglight, newly discharged from the infirmary. He kept his eyes to the ground, trying not to get noticed.
It didn't work.
"'Ey, Neppy!" Butch taunted. "Getcher arse over here. Oi got somethin' a' show ye."
Rori sighed, then walked over to the other two and grabbed a seat to Johan's right. Music started playing softly from the direction of the stage. Johan handed him the bottle.
"Give it a try."
Rori cautiously, wordlessly removed his helmet and sipped the bottle. A split second later, he had spit it out on the ground, where it melted the snow beneath. "God damnit…"
The other two laughed. Rori wiped off his mouth with one hand, and handed the bottle back with the other.
"How's the war treating you, Neppy?" Johan broke the ice, nudging 'Neppy' with his elbow. "Last I saw you, you had tubes sticking out your arm."
"I don't want to talk about it," Rori said simply. He rubbed his thumb over the flashlight on his E-11, wondering what might have happened had he followed orders.
"Your sister sure did."
Rori snapped out of his trance. "My what?"
"Yeah, soon as she got off the shuttle. She ran right over to the infirmary to check up on you."
Rori rubbed his face. "I must have been out of it." His sister was on Ilum… and he was the last one to find out. "They had me on… something. For the pain."
The music picked up. Spotlights in the back row roared to life, lighting the stage bright enough to see from space. Troopers in the audience started cheering as the Toydarian's voice boomed over the speakers.
"From the deepest reaches of Ryloth, to the tallest towers of the Core; feast your eyes on a legend resurrected from certain death. The Jedi Master who led her men through the darkest times, and… 'soothed' their hardest moments."
The audience lightly chuckled, and cheered in anticipation.
"A Jedi who gave her life for the Republic, and now gives her body for the common soldier. Gentlemen, put your hands together for…"
Butch took another sip, as the announcer butchered the Jedi's name. The curtains pulled back as the music intensified. Behind stood a simple plywood stage, and a Twi'lek in a simple robe, waving her hips to the beat. On her belt, a piece of a speeder that looked vaguely like a lightsaber. The costume wouldn't pass close inspection, but it worked on men who never knew the real woman.
"You knew Commander Bly, sir?"
Thire gazed at the photo. "Briefly. After Toydaria, he joined the ARC Troopers. Never saw him again."
Kelleon acknowledged. "He survived the war, you know. Retired. He has a place on Corellia now."
Thire patted the cushion in his new chair, before allowing himself to rest in it. "I'll retire when I'm dead."
Kelleon plugged his datapad into the holoprojector, and keyed up a map of the world. He noticed several outdated references, but ignored them as he punched in the coordinates to a seemingly empty patch of land. "We believe this to be the location of the ORLF's regional stronghold. Orbital scans have been unable to confirm the exact location, however, elevated heat signatures point to a network of caves carved into the cliffside to the north."
Thire studied the map. "Is there a reason you haven't just bombed the damn thing from orbit? A few turbolaser shots, and the whole place collapses."
Kelleon pulled up a map of global weather patterns. "Two streams of cold wind intersect at this location, creating a near endless series of snow storms. Visibility is abysmal, and our targeting systems have nothing to lock onto. A ground assault will be necessary."
The main door slid open in the foyer. In walked a well-dressed man in his late forties, flanked by two regal guards in crimson robes.
Kelleon knelt down to greet him. "General Lottlief."
She stepped forward to the beat, keeping her stilettos straight and in line with her robe. Strutting along the stage, she undid her belt, allowing the robe to part ever so slightly. Underneath, a skimpy leather tube top and matching skin-tight pants. An intricate headdress bound her lekku, connected to the rim of a cannibalized flight cap. The robe flew around as she danced, the hot stage lights keeping her from freezing to death.
A few crowd members whistled at her. Butch noticed several of them with the same unmarked bottles. Apparently they had the same idea.
The music picked up again.
"TAKE IT OFF!"
She moved to the next stage of the routine, as a stripper's pole extended from under the stage. The robe dropped to the ground as she adjusted her top. She reached down to grab her 'lightsaber,' held it in her teeth, and wrapped her legs around the pole.
"At ease, Major." The General freshened his pipe and dismissed his guards. "I assume the Colonel has been brought up to speed on the current situation?"
"I was just explaining the-"
"Good man," Lottlief interrupted. He walked past to shake Thire's hand personally. "I trust the Major hasn't been boring you with detail. He can be a bit overdramatic."
Kelleon sneered, briefly, then leaned on a wall behind the general.
The General keyed a command in the holoprojector, clearing away the weather patterns. "The enemy relies on concealment. This is their weakness. Poor visibility gives us the element of surprise. They have no room for radar equipment in those caves, so we can bring the gunships as close as we please. From there, we split our forces into three platoons, which will attack from the south, east, and west."
"What about bomber support?" Thire asked.
"Unavailable, I'm afraid. If we bring in bombers too early, we risk sending the partisans into hiding. Too late, and we might collapse the caves on our own men." The General continued. "Instead, we use ground teams to infiltrate the main entrances, while gunships patrol the area looking for stragglers coming out of secondary exits. The goal is to force them to evacuate through this fourth tunnel." He keyed the terminal once more, zooming in on a smaller tunnel to the north. "Once they pour out from here, we blast them from the gunships 'till they surrender. It's foolproof."
It was at that moment Thire realized there were only two people in the room.
The crowd got rowdier with time, with one man trying to climb the stage, held back by the man beside him.
The 'Jedi' took a step away from the pole, and gently slid her thumbs in the sides of her tight pants, gradually peeling them off her slender legs. Underneath, only an immodest, stringy cloth covered her lower reaches.
A man in disheveled officer's garb stood to the side of the stage, drinking from a much larger bottle than the other men had. A couple of the men recognized him. "Kelleon?" One man asked.
"TAKE IT OFF! TAKE IT OFF! TAKE IT OFF!" The chorus chanted in time with the music.
Seductively, she laid in the center of the stage, stretching her legs outward and teasing with her top, pulling it up to show just as much skin as she wanted. She stood up and faced away from the crowd, much to their approval.
Kelleon walked up next to the stage. In the light, his bottle was recognizably the same spirit from the command center. He had helped himself during the General's presentation.
"Sir, you okay?" One of the men asked him.
Kelleon ignored him, and fixated his eyes on the dancer.
The show was drawing to a close. Music reached a crescendo as her top fell to the ground. She covered her chest with her arms as she turned back around to face the crowd. The drunken legion screamed as loud as they could. A bottle flew at the stage, shattering mere feet away from her. She continued, unphased, teasing them with subtle movements and lustful gestures.
Kelleon dropped the bottle on the ground, and threw his arms onto the stage, attempting to climb up. A trooper got up to pull him back, only for the Major to shove a pistol in the man's face. The soldier backed down, leaving him to do as he pleased.
He climbed away from the spotlight. Most, including the dancer herself, couldn't even see him as the finale continued.
Raising one arm above her head, she dropped the 'lightsaber' between her breasts, catching it without missing a beat.
Butch noticed the major on the side of the stage, and nudged at Johan. "Whatcha s'pose that bastard's up ta?"
Johan took a closer look, and saw Kelleon fiddle with his blaster. "Nothing good." He rose from his seat, and briskly walked toward the front. As he walked, he noticed other men start to squabble amongst themselves. A strange, sexual rivalry had already developed between the men of the 9th, and their reinforcements from other units. Tense words, shoves, and even the occasional punch went completely unnoticed by the wider crowd.
At last, the show reached its climax. The music faded to a tense drumroll, as she ran to the front of the stage with her arms over her chest.
Johan climbed up to confront the Major.
Reaching the end of the stage, the dancer flung her arms to her side defiantly, shaking her blue chest from side to side as the music boomed and confetti streamed down in front of her.
Kelleon gripped his blaster, not noticing Johan climbing up behind him. The world before him was a misty blur, as he took his first step into the light; the Corporal lunging to stop him.
The General slammed his glass on the table. "Spectacular! Simply spectacular, Colonel. Haven't seen a man hold his brandy this well since before the war!"
"You're not so bad yourself, General."
Lottlief puffed his pipe and returned to the holoprojector. "We can launch the attack at first light, wipe out the ORLF, and finally get back to… subtler fights."
Thire looked at the other, confused. "I don't get involved in politics, sir."
"The Army is little more than 'applied politics,' truth be told." The General chuckled. "You've been involved since you were born."
Thire shirked away and took another sip, hoping to derail the conversation.
"The Republicans could use a man like you. Veterans play well to a crowd. Especially ones who remember the good old days." His cordial tone underpinned the sincerity of the request.
"The good old days?"
"Before all this madness with the Emperor. Sure, things aren't quite so bad just yet, but can you imagine what that man will do once he's gotten rid of the senate? We need to push back. Get a man on the ballot who truly cares for the Empire's future."
Thire sighed. "Sir, I…"
"I'm not asking you to run, don't worry. I only ask for your endorsement. What do you-"
Thire's commlink beeped its emergency signal. A tiny red light blinked on the side of the device.
A shrill scream of terror, a laser blast into the air, a fumble against the thin wooden frame, splintering under the combined weight of two men. She fell off the stage into the crowd. A drunken gunner of the 9th caught her in his lap, taking the opportunity to cop a feel. The man beside him, a corpsman from the 105th, took this as the last straw, sucker punching the gunner in the face.
She fell off his lap, running for safety as fast as her bare legs could carry her.
The gunner wrapped his hands around the corpsman's neck and pushed his head into the next man's chestplate. Behind them, soldiers brawled with bottles, chairs, their bare hands… everything but their blasters, for the time being.
Butch found himself flat on his ass with a broken bottle inches from his neck, wrestling against him with all his might; rescued when Rori kicked the assailant in the teeth, knocking him out cold.
The relief was short-lived, as Butch watched a brawler wrap his arm around Rori's neck, squeezing like a hungry dianoga. Thinking quickly, Butch jumped to his feet and ripped the brawler's helmet off, followed by a quick pound in the nose with his armored fist.
His nose cracked under the pressure, and he collapsed, holding his nose to keep from bleeding out.
The commotion broke up as blaster shots rang out across the courtyard.
"STAND DOWN!" barked an order from somewhere outside the brawl, echoed off every surface in the square. "BREAK IT UP!" Several more shots fired into the air. A few troopers got hit with stun blasts, one of whom took at least 4 shots before going down.
Rori cautiously rose to his feet with his hands raised. Several armed (and sober) troopers had arrived from the west to break up the fight. In front, a woman with a Sergeant's pauldron and a voice he heard in his nightmares. "Iden," he called out, "It's me. Don't shoot."
Iden briefly acknowledged her little brother, then moved her men into the crowd to pacify anyone still causing trouble. A dozen men ended up stunned and cuffed. Dozens more were wounded.
One man announced he'd found the dancer hiding in a shed, wrapped in a blanket. She was cold and scared, but unharmed.
Iden finally lowered her gun as she looked back at Rori. "What the hell happened here?"
Rori stammered, searching for the right words.
Butch interjected. "We was drinkin', was all. Blows off steam."
Rori nodded, sheepishly.
"Sergeant." One of Iden's men walked up, "We haven't been able to locate Kelleon."
"K- Ke-" Rori shook in his boots, struggling to get a word out. "We- we saw him up on the stage. H- he m… m- might have fell through."
Iden nodded, and directed her men to search the hole in the stage. Three men climbed up, their armor shining in the bright spotlights, and gazed into the hole.
Inside, a disheveled and drunken officer, covered in splinters, lay gasping for air on the cold ground. Johan sat a few feet away, breathing heavily.
Nobody had died, this time.
Rori steadied himself long enough to sit on one of the still-standing chairs. A cold, wet breath was trapped in the back of his lungs. Could have been blood; no way to know. Each breath felt deeper than the last, yet less nourishing, as if the air simply had less oxygen than it did 20 minutes ago. A shadow crossed over his face. He looked up to see the face of his sister blocking out the foglight, a subtle halo around her head. In her hand, a piece of tissue paper.
"You've got some blood on your face," she stated, simply.
Wordlessly, he took the tissue, wiping it hard against anything that felt wet. His lip didn't stay clean, as more blood leaked out no matter how hard he wiped.
She sat beside him, leaving her gun on the floor. Both looked forward, at the broken stage, not wanting to look each other in the eye. "When…" She tried to stop herself, fruitlessly. "When they said you'd been shot…"
Far away, bat-like creatures chirped a simple mating call in the night. The wind had died down to a light breeze. Little else could be heard, as the night fell once more into a calm.
Rori put down the cloth, having barely cleaned half of his face. "It's okay. It's history."
She turned to face him. "I thought I'd lost you."
He let these words hang in the air, as someone finally deactivated the spotlight. The bloody tissue fell from his hand as it caught the wind, the little splotch of red on white soaring against the navy blue of the night sky, catching stray particles of snow along the way.
Through the market square, a single sound penetrated the silence: the strained note of an unidentifiable instrument, waving low and high, against the backdrop of the moonless night.