I once met a young girl, filled with fire that saw through my front to the shell of a man She knew I'd be a handful from the start, this strong-willed woman with an angel's heart
The deep orange of a dying Socorran sun reflected and glinted off of the obsidian-black sand of the Doaba Badlands. It also glinted off the body of the speeder cruising back from the Vakeyya annual fair, towards a ranch house near the edge of the wilderness. At its controls was Torill Hendyker.
Torill Hendyker had spent the last seven years of his life as a normal (if somewhat affluent) husband and sometimes-writer for the local newsnets; now in his late 30's, he appeared to be a made-rich, half-retired man returning to his home planet to raise a family.
For the previous ten- a fact which he tells only those who need to know- he was part of the near-mythical criminal empire of Black Sun. One of Black Sun's most elite troopers: the "expeditors," high-level agents who served as the front-line troops in the war between the various Vigos after the death of the Underlord Xizor. With the fickle, egomanic and brilliant cyborg Zolar, his assassin droid companion Ramses and Torill's Twi'lek copilot Tu'ebb, Torill had been part of the Rameseum Crew, all serving the gruff and calculating Vigo Sprax in his bids for underworld power. It was a time when Torill was jumpy and (seemingly) cowardly, working out of a demented form of criminal loyalty; quick to pull a blaster, quick to take flight. Together, they had wreaked halfway-unintentional havoc across the criminal underworld... until it had all fallen apart.
Due to the actions of the Crew, Sprax and many of the other Vigos were killed or driven into hiding; Black Sun fractured into hundreds of warring factions. Torill himself was badly wounded in the final fight, which left his world shattered. Abandoning the gun, he married his partner and New Republic agent Saalia Hans, who despite their occasional antipathy had developed a bond during their fights.
Torill had returned to his home planet of Socorro with Saalia, putting his past with Black Sun behind him and hanging up his gun. Instead, he and Saalia suddenly had a new challenge ahead of them: bringing up a little girl named Kit Hendyker.
It was Kit who sat in the passenger's seat of the speeder now, her lap filled with carnival prizes. A little sprite of 7, she had close-cropped black hair and a fiery and outgoing personality. She was precociously smart and fast as a sirocco... in fact, these had been the reasons for the streak of winnings she had at the fair. Her true prize, however, to her at least, was a pair of orange sun shades, which now perched (several sizes to large for her small head) on her forehead. To Torill, they reminded him of the sun goggles he wore back in his glory days, now melted from a blaster bolt.
Seeing Torill glancing at her, Kit beamed and stretched.
"Thank you Daddy," she said, "I'm tired!"
Torill smiled and adjusted his glasses (another new addition). "I won't bother asking if you had fun-" Kit sniggered- "but whether you actually managed to miss anything in the whole fair. I could barely keep up with you, young lady! Did you manage to not see anything at all?"
Kit sighed. "There was the whole antigrav-playground," she said dismissively, "but that was for little kids an' stuff. I'd rather play the games." Judging by the pile of winnings she had, there was a reason for this.
Torill laughed. The dry wind and dying heat of the evening felt good on his face, and home was in sight. He felt good.
*********************
So distracted were Torill's instincts that he didn't realize anything might be amiss until the sandpopper was firmly parked in the garage and father and daughter had entered the laundry room that stood as the threshold between the garage and the house proper. Only then did he realize that the lights in the main hall were dark. In fact, he realized, none of the lights in or around the house had been on as they drove up. He'd been so preoccupied with Kit that he hadn't even noticed.
Maybe Saalia had gone to bed early.
"Sal?" he yelled, as he slipped out of his sneakers- the ones he'd worn when he left this planet a almost two decades ago- and then knelt to help Kit, who was having trouble trying to hold on to her booty and unbuckle her sandals at the same time.
There was no response from the house. She would have left at least one light on, right?
"Sal, you up?"
Maybe she had a migraine, and had turned off all the lights in the house.
"Seenine?" he asked to the house, a little softer and cautious this time. He told himself he was doing it because yelling might wake Saalia up. "Seenine? Hey Niner, where are ya?" It was odd that Seenine, the old R2 unit that used to serve aboard Torill's ship and now helped to try and divert the little hellion of Kit from getting herself into TOO much trouble, hadn't met them at the door. Very odd.
Kit had succeeded in removing her footwear with only a moderate amount of dropped loot, and at the mention of her favorite playmate's name perked up. "Seenine?" she cried, beginning to run towards the door, the house echoing her cries. "Seenine, look what I got at the fair! Look-"
Torill's hand grabbed her shoulder. "No, honey," he said. "Wait a minute."
She looked up at him, surprised, and appearing a bit hurt. "But-"
Torill winced. He hadn't meant to be so abrupt.
"Well, I mean, uhÉ just wait a minute, Kitty. Mommy might be trying to sleep."
Her mouth became a childlike "O" of shock. "I'm sorry Daddy... I..."
He smiled. Such a sweet girl. "It's ok Kitty. Just wait here a minute and I'll go find Mommy and Seenine, and then you can show them all your stuff. Ok?"
She smiled. "Ok, Daddy." She reached up and hauled herself on top of the laundry unit, its two inactive loading arms framing her like a picture. "Daijobu." Suddenly she cracked up giggling. The word was Old Corellian for "I'll wait," but like many of the pieces of Corellian Kit and her playmates had learned it had acquired a double meaning as a bit of schoolyard potty humor.
The childish joke broke through Torill's tension, and he laughed in spite of himself. He shot her a fake "I-am-not-amused" glare and replied "Deskane-ja," which meant 'little sand demon.' He had used the word as a pet name for Kit, mostly to tease her, but now it only caused her to laugh more.
He smiled and reached over, removing her new shades from her eyes and replacing them so they sat on her forehead. "Now be a good little deskane-" her giggling fit intensified- "while I go find your mother."
She nodded, unable to speak through the childlike laughter.
Torill smiled once more and turned to the door. By the time he had reached the threshold, all teasing was gone from his soul.
Too many odd things piled on top of one another. Just like in the old days. He had always hated too many odd things piling up. If this were the old days, he'd probably already have his gun in hand, his gut filling with that mixture of half abject terror and half pure adrenaline-
But these weren't the old days, and the Torill Hendyker of 37 was a much different person from the Torill Hendyker of his mid-twenties. Things had changed, and as far as Torill considered it, this was for the better. The times of Black Sun and his world in it had moved on, and he wanted no more part of what had happened to him.
Besides, what could it be? He was at home, on Socorro, far away from those things. He had a family, had not touched his gun in years. It wasn't as if Avvin Darrst
That terrible accusing look in his dead eyes
or Hobbes
Tell my son I'm sorry
had come back from the dead to avenge themselves, right? Savan was vaporized in space, Xizor was long dead, the other Vigos were either dead
Wake up Mr. Sprax wake up
or too busy fighting it out amongst each other to worry about him.
Right. Saalia was in bed, Seenine was recharging.
But the feeling persisted.
He crept without realizing he was doing so into the main hall. For some reason, his leg was beginning to ache again... the old wound where he'd been shot was throbbing, as if it sensed his fear. He hadn't walked with a cane in several years now, ever since his therapy ended, and the return of the pain was an ominous coincidence. He began limping slightly as he moved.
Sure enough, not a light in the house was on. He briefly considered calling them on, but something told him that might be a very bad idea, indeed.
Instead, he limped past the staircase and towards the back of the house.
"Daddy?" So loud and unexpected in the tense atmosphere that Torill whirled around viper-quick, his hand unconsciously grabbing for the Sentinel that wasn't there, was sitting in the case overlooking the living room, unused in almost ten years. But it was just Kit, sitting on the stairs, her oversized orange shades still perched on her forehead.
"Kitty!" he whispered sharply. "I thought I told you to stay in the laundry room!" His leg was crying out in unaccustomed thunder from the quick move he had made, but he had a feeling that wasn't the only reason it hurt.
"Where's Seenine?" she asked in response, lowering her voice to a whisper unconsciously. "Where's Mommy?" She sounded nervous and scared. Torill didn't blame her.
"I'm finding them," Torill whispered. Now you just sit there and be good, alright? Everything will be fine."
She sighed. "'K," she said, slouching against the agafari-wood bars of the staircase.
Torill relaxed a bit and began to creep further into the house. Ten years ago, he might have noticed the shadow in the darkness behind his daughter begin to move... but then, the Torill of 37 was not the Torill of his mid-twenties.
The house was unnaturally silent as Torill crept down the main hall. Once again, he found himself wishing for his gun, nerves jumping even at the sound of his bare feet on the hall floor.
Maybe it's a surprise birthday party. Had he forgotten his own birthday?
The living room was ahead, darkened. He thought he heard the beginnings of a sound, the start of a warning-
Torill had lived to (albeit early) retirement on a career path that met most with early mortality. A combination of many things had led to this: his friends, Zolar and Tu'ebb and Ramses; his not-inconsiderate gunslinging skills; his ability to think (or, more often, simply react) on his feet; and the tendency of his enemies to mistake his bedraggled appearance and hypertensive-squirrel mentality as signs of weakness. Most of all, however, he had survived as long as he did because he felt the hair on the nape of his neck rise.
A Jedi would have called it "the touch of the Force." Zolar, for a reason known only to him, had insisted on calling it "Torill's spidey-sense." Whatever it was, it told him to duck, to leap, to backhand, to fire or simply to run whenever his conscious mind was concentrating on worrying about how much pudu Zolar had gotten him into this time. When the hair on the nape of his neck rose, it was a sign for his lizard-brain to kick in and keep him alive. It had saved his life, most of the time.
He ducked a moment before the fzznt of an activating stun baton registered in his forebrain.
But this time, it didn't help.
*********************
Saalia Hendyker couldn't stifle a groan of despair when the two invaders led a reeling and bleary Torill into the main room of their ranch. It looked like he had been thwacked upside the head with a stunner of some kind; he was having trouble standing and looked like he had just been sucker-punched by a Herglic. The stun baton that now hung at the Nikto goon's side confirmed her suspicion.
But Kit wasn't with him. Where was she? She had heard no sounds of struggle. Maybe- hope against hope- Kit was staying the night with a friend they had met at the fair. Maybe she wasn't here. It was the only thing going for her right now.
It had been two hours since the invaders had come in, busting the sophisticated security system and surrounding the house, demanding the surrender of Torill Hendyker from a loudspeaker mounted on their speeder, a huge transport more accurately called an APC. Only Saalia and Seenine had been there, and fighting was hopeless; they had all escape routes cut off, were armed to the teeth. Saalia had no choice but to surrender. They had shut down Seenine and taken him away, had concealed their speeder and all signs of their presence, and now had been waiting in the darkened living room for an hour, awaiting Torill's return.
Saalia had hoped that Torill would have been more careful, but the years of peace had dulled his reflexes just as they had hers.
She had a gun to her head, a disruptor; nasty and far more illegal than a blaster. Her captor- obviously the ringleader- was a Rodian. He was dressed well... too well for an average syndicate head thug. Yet there was also something desperate about him; he seemed too thin, too ragged. His right hand moved deliberately and mechanically; probably cybernetic.
Something was going on here.
Torill was still reeling, and blinked painfully when the lights snapped on at a signal from the Rodian. He tried to say something, but it came out as a muddled slur.
"Take your time, Mr. Hendyker," said the Rodian, in an unaccented Basic. "I know this is something of a shock."
Torill was regaining control. "Who...?"
Before there was an answer, there was a shout from the back. A little girl screamed, followed by the bellow of a large alien as he was presumably kicked and pummeled by the same girl.
There were heavy footsteps in the hall, and a Gammorean trudged in, holding Kit in the air at arm's length. She was doing her best to twist herself from its porcine grasp, raining blows on him with balled fists and screaming at the top of her lungs.
Saalia's last hopes for a happy conclusion fell.
The sight seemed to focus Torill's attention. "Let go of her, you bashtd!" he slurred.
"Tell the child to be quiet and we will," said the Rodian.
Torill looked at him as if for the first time, a funny shadow falling across his face. Then, he said "Alright, Kit, be quiet, it's ok now. Be good."
"DADDY!" yelled Kit. "MAKE HIM PUT ME DOWN!"
"Stop yelling, Kit. He'll put you down."
Kit stopped at Torill's tone, looking at him as if hurt. But he was still staring at the Rodian. She stopped hitting her captor, who with a nod from the Rodian put her down. She gave him a swift kick in the shins for good measure.
The Rodian looked satisfied. "Now that that's over with, I believe there was something you were going to ask?"
Torill squinted at him. "Who are you? Why... why are you doing this?"
The Rodian smiled, his snout crinkling. "Don't tell me you don't recognize me, Mr. Hendyker..." He flexed his right hand. It made slight clicks and whirs as it did so.
Torill's face suddenly lit up in perplexed recognition. "You're... you're Prevaro, aren't you?"
Prevaro smiled again. "Very good."
"Savan's... you were Savan's lieutenant, weren't you?" His brow creased in confusion. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"House call," deadpanned Saalia, unable to resist.
She felt sure Prevaro was going to hit her- saw Torill wince in anticipation- but he did not. Instead, he said "Something of the sort. Have you heard anything of Black Sun recently, Mr. Hendyker?"
"You know I'm out of that. Have been for a long time." Torill shot a look at Saalia, one that she returned. It communicated a lot on both sides.
"Well, seeing as how neither of us have much time, I'll spare you all the ins and outs of the business nowadays. Suffice to say that I have taken up Savan's reigns, and my organization has... suddenly found the need for experienced talent. Things have become considerably more complicated of late, and I saw the need to... find someone who can help us."
This didn't sound good to Saalia, and obviously not Torill either. "What're you saying?" he asked warily.
"I'm suggesting your comeback, Mr. Hendyker. I want you back in Black Sun."
For the first time in the encounter, Torill's face completely dropped. His mouth moved, but nothing came out, To Saalia, it looked like Zolar had dropped another of his bombshells... Torill suddenly looked very young.
"You... you want me to go back? Back to Black Sun? Are you serious?"
"Dead serious, Mr. Hendyker."
"Don't call me Mr. Hendyker. Only Mr. Sprax did that."
"That old fool is dead now," Prevaro sneered. "As will you be, if you don't cooperate. As you may have noticed, this is not an optional proposition." As if to accentuate the point, he pressed the gun closer to Saalia's head.
Torill's tone quickly turned conciliatory. "Look, Prevaro... why now? Why me, why not some newer talent? I left that all a long time ago, I don't want to be digging it up now."
"Let us just say that situations have changed recently... and I find I have use for your unique abilities in my organization." There was a pause. "Decide, Hendyker. Silence will be taken as a no. That would be unfortunate, as I really have no wish to go through the trouble of slaughtering your pretty family and burning your house to the ground."
"What are you scared of, Prevaro?"
An icy silence froze the room. Oh, shit... thought Saalia. Torill, you'd better know what you're doing...
"Coming in here armed to the teeth... holding my family hostage... are you really scared of a retired, injured old has-been like me? Or are you just scared I won't accept? Are you that desperate to get me on your side? You can't fool me, you wouldn't go out and do this personally- go through all this hostage-taking villain shit- if you weren't getting your ass kicked out there."
Saalia was tensed, ready to do anything in case Torill had miscalculated Prevaro. She didn't want to make her move just yet, not until she knew Torill was ready...
But Prevaro just chuckled. "Things have changed since your days, Hendyker." Suddenly, he got up, but before Saalia could do anything one of Prevaro's lackeys took his place. Prevaro began pacing around the captive Torill with the ease of a bhalir circling its prey. "You and your generation were the knights errant, running around fulfilling the petty wishes of those old idiots the Vigos. Things are more... complex... now..."
"You mean brutal," Torill cut in rapidly.
"I mean that the world you fought in has-"
"Become some kind of chaotic bloodbath, one which you're losing and you somehow expect me to-"
"Turn it around, make new, restore peace? Why not Hendyker, it's what you say you fight for all the these-"
"I fought for Mr. Sprax," Torill snapped, "and against megalomanic two-bit has-beens like you who think they know how to run the galaxy. Savan was like that too. You act like you can control Black Sun, like it's a machine or something. You don't rule Black Sun... it rules you."
"You and your loyalty," Prevaro growled. "Perhaps I don't need you as badly as I thought." He stepped back suddenly and leveled his disruptor at Torill.
Before the fear could register in Saalia's heart, there was a shout. "DON'T YOU HURT MY DADDY!"
Somehow Kit had freed herself from her captors, and was now rushing headlong at Prevaro, seven-year-old girl on a mission versus an armed and dangerous Rodian criminal.
"Kit, NO!" Saalia screamed, sure that her foolish little daughter was charging to her death.
Kit tore towards Prevaro, all fists and prepubescent fury, and yet Prevaro did not move, shocked perhaps. At the last moment, his hand came out and swatted her backhand, hard. She cried out, stumbled from the blow and landed in a heap.
"Kit!" Saalia screamed again, unable to say anything else. She made to move, but Prevaro's disruptor swung back down and she froze. She saw out of the corner of her eye that Torill was struggling mightily against his captors, his eyes boring holes through Prevaro.
"You son of a bitch," he growled. "You stupid son of a bitch."
Prevaro didn't respond. In fact, he looked somewhat discomposed. He was rubbing the back of his hand uncomfortably and eyeing Kit, who had picked herself up off the floor, tears glistening in hate-filled eyes, the blow an angry red mark on her temple. She almost looked ready to charge again.
"I see the brat has spirit," he said, somewhat falteringly. A brief silence passed as Torill made another half-attempt to free himself. Then, with an abrupt gesture to Saalia: "Tend to her if you wish." The gun was removed from her forehead once again, and she immediately moved over and hugged Kit.
Prevaro whirled, his anger and frustration scouring the room. "Hendyker!" he announced. "Surely you know my way is best. Your Mr. Sprax is dead; the Vigos' time has passed. I seek to salvage what remains of Black Sun, to make it a galactic presence again, and I seek your help to do it. Accept and I will make you my lieutenant; refuse and die along with your family."
Prevaro had missed it, but Saalia had not. The glance Torill had given her. It was a sign for her, given many times over their partnership. Now.
"Go to hell," Torill growled.
Prevaro sighed, and leveled his disruptor.
Saalia moved.
She swung up, both hands clenched into a fist, crashing into her guard's crotch with maximum force.
He gave a grunt of surprise and crumpled unceremoniously.
Prevaro and the remaining thugs in the room turned in surprise at the noise.
Torill lifted his arm over backwards his shoulder, to the goon standing behind him. Years ago, Torill had lost his left arm to an Osakan blood eater. He had it cybernetically replaced, but in a business like Black Sun it was always wise to carry a backup sidearm. Installed in the forearm was a concealed blaster. It flipped out now, appearing with a mechanical clunk and the grotesque rearranging of Torill's forearm.
The blast roared in the concealed space of the room. The Nikto screamed, clutching his face, and fell to the ground.
Prevaro whirled, his face twisted with rage, and tried to blast Torill.
Torill moved. He ducked low- there was the fsszht of Prevaro's disruptor going over his head- and whirled around with a vicious spin kick. The disruptor went flying. He carried his spin, his good fist connecting heavily with Prevaro's gut, provoking a whistling groan and sending the spindly Rodian sprawling.
Saalia had worked free the downed guard's blaster. But by now the three stunned guards on the opposite side of the room had realized their predicament, and had opened fire on the two.
"Hold on, Kitty!" Saalia cried as she grabbed the child in her arms and rolled behind the holoviewer set. Blasters chewed up the floor where she had been a second ago.
Torill threw himself sideways, avoiding death by sheer dumb luck and reflexes. He hit the ground hard in the cover of a massive, gel-filled chair.
One of the more alert goons began yelling for backup. He began making for the back door, firing wildly as he went. Saalia risked exposing herself and downed him with two quick blasts... and then hit the deck as she barely avoided being shot herself. She was splattered by melted plastic from several shots that hit the set.
"Saalia!" Torill yelled, scrunching up behind the quickly-disintegrating chair. Blaster fire was roaring in the confined space, making communication difficult. The air was stinking of ozone.
Saalia glanced at Kit. The child was huddled up against the backside of the set, hands over her ears to block out the fire, her eyes wide with terror. "Stay here," she hissed, and ran for it.
Blaster fire roared past her as she broke cover. She heard Kit yelling after her.
The door- cover- was 5 yards away.
Something burned past her stomach.
"CATCH!" she yelled over the din.
She jumped, and landed hard on her shoulder. She had not been hit. The goons continued to fire at the doorframe.
Meanwhile, the blaster spun through the air. Torill reached up and snatched it out of the air, the pass completed.
He rolled out from behind the chair, came up, and fired twice: once with the pistol and once with the blaster in his arm. They sounded like one shot. Both goons dropped, smoking holes in their chests.
Saalia got up. "Did we-"
More blasters came from the back hall. A Twi'lek came tearing down the hall, blaster carbine blazing, screaming obscenities.
Torill had stood and turned, but now he instantly spun and dropped to his knees. Three shots rang out in quick succession. The Twi'lek was thrown off his feet and to the floor. All three shots had found their mark.
Silence thudded down over the room.
A moment passed, the Hendyker family staying frozen. The only sound was heavy breathing and the hiss of cooling blaster burns.
"Good god, Torill," Saalia breathed. "You haven't lost your touch."
Torill looked up at her, his face registering a kind of blank surprise. He looked like he had no idea of how he had gotten there.
Then he laughed, hesitatingly. "I got 'em," he said, a little crooked survivor's smile inching its way over his face. Suddenly, he looked very young again.
Then it washed away, the present reasserting itself. "Are you alright?" he asked, standing.
"I'm fine," Saalia said, taking Kit's hand, who was breathing in short little gasps, her hair unsettled, her face a look of fearful shock. She still had a hand over one ear, blocking out the blasts of the gun. "Kit's not hurt, I don't think-"
"Good. Are there-?"
"More, yeah. Prevaro sent a bunch out back, to the shed. They took Seenine with them. You should have seen it, Torill, he had a small army with him. At least twelve, counting these nerfherders." She kicked one of the dead bodies for emphasis.
Torill flipped his hidden gun back into his arm (Kit stared wide-eyed and silent), and crossed over to the mantle where his old Sentinel hung. He took it down now, tossing the borrowed pistol back to Saalia with a word of thanks, and placed his hand on a spot on the wall. It unlatched with a click and revealed a small box, filled with small, shiny metal shells, resembling bullet casings from the days of slugthrowers. These were no primitive gunpowder-and-slug shells, however, but tiny blaster packs, each containing enough spin-sealed Tibanna gas for a single shot. Only in function did they resemble their primitive ancestor.
"That's 'cuz cowards like Prevaro only feel safe in groups," he muttered sardonically. He clicked a release on the Sentinel and the chamber of the pseudo-revolver clicked open, sending six spent packs skittering to the floor. He grabbed a handful more and started flicking them into the chamber. "One good hit and they all scatter like Jawas."
"I remember a time," Saalia said, "When I would be the one saying that, and you would be the one trying to hide behind the couch."
Torill looked up, a bit startled. His concentration broken, he fumbled the last shell and it clattered to the floor. Despite the night's terrible events, despite the past and what was yet to come that night, they both managed a laugh.
Torill suddenly sagged. "I'm sorry Sal. This is all my fault... this shouldn't have-"
"Shhh. It's alright." She kissed him on the cheek. "We both chose the life of the gun, and we've accepted its consequences ever since. What matters is we're all still ok, and that we were able to keep that bastard Prevaro from pulling you down with him."
Torill smiled ruefully. "I remember a time," he said, "when I'd be saying that, and you'd be yelling at me for not seeing it coming."
This time it was Saalia's turn to be taken off guard. Then she laughed.
After that, the kiss just happened.
But suddenly, as if on cue, there were shouts from out back. Several of them. It needn't be said that these were voices with guns attached.
The kiss broke. Husband and wife looked into each other's eyes.
"Trouble," they said in unison.
"Took their bloody time," muttered Torill.
Saalia grabbed Kit's hand again. "Come on, we've got to get going."
"I'm staying."
Saalia halted. "Torill, don't be stupid. You're not a kid any more. You got the ones in here, sure, but you can't hold them all off by yourself."
In response, Torill reached into the ammo stash and grabbed a handful of shells, dumping them into his pockets.
Saalia sighed. No time for this shit. "Fine. If you're so set on it, you'll at least need backup. At least let me-"
"Then who would take care of Kit?" Torill gave her a rueful grin. "Sorry Sal. I'm the reason for all of this. Let me finish what I started." He flicked his hand back, chambering the rounds and cocking the hammer. "Besides, I've done enough running in my life."
Saalia felt a rush of frustration. "You stubborn-". But she couldn't argue with him. Kit needed to be protected. And that was the most important thing. Torill was right; he could take care of himself.
The goons had reached the back doors, and now were pounding on it. In a moment, they would use their blasters.
"We don't have time to argue this, Sal."
She decided. "Fine. But be careful. I'll have the speeder running for you."
Torill had overturned the couch and now crouched behind it, making it a makeshift barricade. "Good idea. I might be in a hurry." He paused, then turned back to her. "Just take care of yourself." Saalia knew he wasn't just talking to her.
She turned to go, bringing Kit with her. Suddenly, something stopped her. She turned and kissed Torill again, with a fierce passion even she couldn't account for.
When it ended, she looked into his dark green eyes once more. So filled with surprise, love, fear, strength... embers of all the times past flashed plaintively out at her.
"You too," she said. Then she turned, grabbed Kit's hand and made for the garage at a run, even as the first goons entered the room behind her and Torill's gun bellowed its fiery vengeance out at them.
*********************
Saalia ran with Kit into the garage, the door hissing closed behind her and muffling (barely) the blaster fire from the other room. She collapsed against the door, hugging Kit to her. Sudden exhaustion mixed with relief threatened to overwhelm her. I'm getting too old for this...
Stupid Torill, grandstanding like that. But even as she thought it, she knew he had rescued her, had rescued all of them... more than that, he still had a lot of his old fire, tempered now by wisdom. He could handle himself... had already done more than that.
I still love that man, she thought with a twinge of pride.
"Mommy..."
For the first time since before the firefight, Kit leapt into Saalia's mind. Now that they were out of immediate danger...
"Oh, Kitty," she said, gathering her up in her arms and hugging her fiercely, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry this had to happen..."
Kit clung to her, tears soaking into Saalia's shirt. "Where's Daddy? What happened to Daddy, why are they doing this..."
Saalia tenderly shushed her. "I don't know why they're doing this," she said, making another of the thousands of little lies we tell our children to make things easier. "But you can just be sure your Daddy is teaching them all a lesson. He'll be along in a minute, Kitty."
Kit stepped back and looked Saalia in the eye. "Promise?"
Saalia smiled sadly. "Kitty, Daddy is protecting us both now. I couldn't do that for you tonight." The Marshal's Oath suddenly came to mind... to serve and protect. "But now we're both working to keep these bad people from hurting you any more. So yes, I promise that everything will be fine."
Kit managed a smile. "'anks Mommy," she sniffed. Her head lowered, and the orange shades which were still (against all probability) perched on her forehead fell down over her eyes.
Saalia had to laugh, and put the shades back to their rightful position. Then she leaned over and kissed Kit on the forehead. "Everything will be better after tonight," she said, "but only if we can get all of us out of here." She stood and walked around the speeder, preparing to open the door. "Get in the car Kitty, Daddy might be coming through soon-"
"I wouldn't be moving any farther, Mrs. Hendyker."
Saalia whirled instinctively, gun swinging up to the ready.
God damn it. Prevaro. Somehow he had gotten away from the carnage in the main hall, had waited in ambush here, for them to come back to the speeder to run. He was leaning against the doorframe, breathing heavily. The gash on his forehead where Torill had hit him earlier oozed black against the green of his skin.
But most importantly, he had a gun to Kit's head.
"Surprised?" he asked, as if amused that his plan had actually worked.
"Drop it," Saalia hissed. "You don't have anything to gain by killing her. Drop it and you might live."
Prevaro laughed, a laugh that was cut off by a sudden coughing fit. "You sound so professional," he said when recovered. "You'd think you were never a mother."
Saalia's trigger finger twitched. "Final warning," she growled.
"Are you afraid?" Prevaro's snout twisted into the Rodian equivalent of a malicious smirk. "Afraid I'm going to kill your little girl? I may have nothing to gain, but I also have nothing to lose, Mrs. Hendyker." The smirk morphed into a snarl. "Though I can't say the same for you. Unless you really don't care about her..."
Saalia hesitated. Her marshal's training told her the Rodian was bluffing. She caught how his hand trembled, how his eyes betrayed his insecurity. When Kit had charged him, she had seen how loath he was to hurt a child. She knew he wouldn't fire. Probably.
But could she take the chance that he was desperate enough to shoot anyway?
"Mommy..." Kit cried softly.
"Shh, Kitty. Everything's going to be alright." She had a bead on Prevaro's head. If she shot now, she couldn't miss. But would he have time to pull the trigger? Saalia suddenly wished she remembered more about hostage situations.
"Yes, little one, everything will be fine," Prevaro hissed. "You see, your mother here is going to put down her bad gun, and you and me will go away for a little while..." He fixed his eyes on Saalia now. "Until I decide to return her."
Saalia's heart sank. He wasn't going to return her until Torill agreed to work for him... if he could be trusted at all.
But what choice did she have?
"Bastard," she hissed. The gun wavered. Her daughter. She had a gun pointed at her daughter.
"Do it, Mrs. Hendyker. No one wants anyone to get hurt here. Do we, little one?"
Kit shook her head. She was obviously very scared, but wasn't crying. Brave little Kitty.
"Put it down."
Slowly, Saalia lowered her pistol. She set it on the hood of the speeder and stepped away.
"Very good. Now come over here, and keep your hands on here." He pointed to a shabby storage shelf by the door, which held sets of various hydrospanners and other tools.
Saalia did so, watchful for any quick moves from Prevaro.
"Excellent. Now, little one..." Saalia heard Prevaro get up and open the door to the speeder. She heard Kit get in, and then the ominous sound of the blaster readying. "Your father will regret he ever crossed me so."
Saalia's eyes widened. He was going to shoot her- maybe just in the leg, to prevent chase, maybe not- and take Kit hostage. He was going to take her little daughter hostage... HER beautiful little Kit.
No, he wasn't. All her maternal instincts and all her marshal training told her what to do. She could still protect her daughter.
A steel expansion rod sat on the shelf in front of her. Her hands closed around it, and she spun. "NO!" she cried.
The swing was good. There was a sickening crunch as the bar impacted and caved in Prevaro's skull. Black Rodian brain matter spattered over the room, speckling Saalia and a stunned Kit with bits of gore. Prevaro's body spun and collapsed on itself, a making a wet smack as it hit the floor.
Kit was screaming.
Something began to burn on Saalia's stomach. The garage was filled with the tang of ozone.
Oh, shit.
The pain hit suddenly, and Saalia's legs gave out from under her. Kit cried out again and climbed out of the speeder, running over to her mother. Saalia tried to sit up, but only fell back more.
The pain was incredible, even with the endorphins surging through Saalia's body. He had been trying to shoot out my knee, she thought dreamily. I knocked his aim off. Thoughts were hard through the fog of pain. So this is being shot.
Kit was shaking her, trying to get her to open her eyes (had they been closed?). She did, and looked out on her daughter. Saalia had never seen her so bad. Her normally bright eyes were filled with terror and pain, her face smudged with dirt and Prevaro's bruise, her hair mussed. She seemed about ready to die herself of childlike fear and confusion.
My poor Kit. My poor, poor Kitty. How will you live now?
She had to tell her something. "Tell your..." she coughed, realizing with a kind of detached fear that it was hurting too much to talk. "Tell your father..."
...I love him?
Her vision of Kit faded. For some reason, now she was seeing Torill. He stood as he had when she fell in love with him: stripped of all but his gun, deep in the cargo bay of Zolar's cruiser; facing down Avvin Darrst, standing on a leg so charred and festering it looked ready to fall off. Stripped down to the core of his being, he was in the midst of a disintegrating world and yet stood.
He had stood...
My poor Torill. How will YOU live now?
Things had happened too quickly. Images passing by her, too swift to catch but lasting an eternity. She saw Kit as an infant. Torill, looking naked without his gun, limping after a shadowy figure. Thousands of dead eyes and limbs and disembodied heads, floating in a hangar bay; her Marshals stared out at her. Torill on the day she met him, looking as pathetic and bedraggled as a swamp rat. Their first kiss and night together, two former warriors fumbling around the new experience of love. Stars, pulled and stretched out in a hyperspace infinity. Kit being born. A pair of orange sunglasses, lying on top of a broken blaster. She saw Torill, older and sadder than he was now, watching her with haunted eyes. His shadow stretched for miles. Blaster fire echoed and reverberated in her ear. Her vision was taking on a bluish tinge, losing definition, black and white losing their meanings, becoming blue.
Things seemed unreal now, like they never existed to begin with. Was it all a dream?
The pain was gone.
Why me?
Poor Kit.
Poor Torill.
Things dissolved, and then it was only the Blue.
*********************
Blaster fire seared the air around Torill, shredding the protective couch and wall behind and filling the air with the stink of ozone. The Sentinel kicked and roared furiously in his hands again and again, blowing holes through furniture, holotubes and Black Sun goons alike.
It had been years since he had been in a firefight, and the experience came back to him like slipping on a much-loved but long forgotten coat. Adrenaline was pouring through his body, bringing with it everything he felt whenever he held a gun or smelled the metallic tang of blaster gas: anticipation, a rising of hackles, the twitching of extremeties... fear too, but a different kind of fear, a complex and textured fear. When he was in a gunfight, the world concentrated and simplified itself: point and pull and run and dodge. He had spent a decade living by these rules of the trigger, though he had always appeared to be cowardly, jumpy and fractured. All of this forgotten- some intentionally- when he had settled down. Their return was perversely comforting. Things were made so much easier this way.
Thoughts of family and defense were gone, necessity of survival gone, friends and hated enemies gone. His leg had stopped hurting. He was in the air now, and the Sentinel sang its deadly song. A Gammorean twisted and fell; Torill's shoulder crashed into the ground, and a searing fusillade of gunfire tore over the top of the barricade.
Looking back on it, it was perhaps the last part of his life he felt so alive.
Things were getting intense. The initial shock had worn off the goons, and it was getting harder for Torill to get shots off unmolested.
It was time to leave.
Out of his pocket came a stun grenade, taken from the ammo stash. He flicked the safety off and jammed the primer. And held it. 5... 4... 3... he ignored the digital counter on the stunner itself, instead letting his physical memory time is throw.
He let it run for an extra heartbeat. Now. The grenade sailed backhand over the couch. There was a shout as the goons saw it coming, but thanks to Torill's patience they had no time to get out of the way. There was a screaming blue fash from over the barricade, followed by the cries and dropping guns of several mercenaries who suddenly found their muscles wouldn't obey them.
Torill took off for the door. Only a single potshot followed him.
"Sal, I'm coming!" he yelled as he tore down the hall. Things were okay now, we can escape now...
We can escape...
There was dead silence from inside the garage. He wheeled around the door at top speed, his foot skidding on something slippery and black in the process.
"Saalia?"
*********************
Funerals always unnerved Zolar. He was a forward-thinking kind of person, always moving life along. The somber atmosphere of paying respects to the dead just didn't square well with his mindset. It made him vaguely uncomfortable in a way he didn't like at all.
And of course, this time it was personal. That made it worse.
The air sat still and baking over the assembled crowd at the Judges of the Dead. The place- a circle of ancient, eroded rock formations that eerily resembled shrouded, mourning women- had stood for centuries as a kind of communal burial ground for distinguished Socorrans. Now it stood as the final resting place of Saalia Hendyker.
Zolar stood, in full New Republic Navy dress uniform, at the front rank of the crew of the Rameseum M4, the custom cruiser originally designed to serve as mobile base for Zolar, Torill, Tu'ebb and Ramses in their work for Sprax. Later, with the help of Saalia, it had become a ship in the New Republic Navy... in fact, had only recently gotten a short reprieve from combat after Zolar himself had been captured by the brilliant Grand Admiral Thrawn in his recent invasion of the galaxy. He had hoped to get some shore leave for his crew, to visit Torill and Saalia and his "niece" Kit and get out from under the thumb of the Republic stiffs for a few weeks (besides being the only ship of its kind, the M4 also had a (deserved) reputation as being the most independent and troublemaking military vessel in the fleet, a fact undoubtedly created by its often fickle and antiauthoritarian captain). The metal dome of his cybernetic unit, the result of a near-fatal speeder accident early in his career, sparkled in the sun, the tuft of fiber-optic hair tuned to a respectful shade of black.
The rest of the crowd was a motley array of Socorran friends, former SpecOps compatriots, and well-wishers. Some of the survivors of the CS Marshals had managed to assemble to pay tribute to their late leader. Even Tu'ebb stood in front of the crowd, wearing his mirrored shades even now. Zolar didn't want to know how he had gotten away from the set of Drunken Jedi Master 2, what with the furor surrounding the last film. Tu'ebb had really hit it big; his skill with martial arts and his iceman personality had unintentionally gained him fame, fans and action holomovie deals. Zolar was grateful Socorro was remote enough to keep the paparazzi away, at least for a time.
Ramses lurked on the outskirts of the crowd, a gleaming black humanoid droid. Originally designed for assassination, Ramses had served Zolar and the Rameseum Crew (which had been named after him) for years now. His sheer combat power had been enough to arouse the ire of several Weequay fundamentalists, who identified him with their demigod of death. Most of his weapons had been removed for the funeral, but still the droid had never been fond of large groups of people. He had trouble distinguishing between hostiles and friendlies.
And there, directly across from Zolar, distanced from and yet a part of the rest of the crowd as if by a field of grief, stood Torill. He was dressed in a simple black formal suit, with a white collar and buttons down one side of his chest. His spectacles, recovered from the burnt-out husk of the ranch house, now reflected the glare of the sun, hiding his eyes from his friend. At his side, holding his hand, stood Kit. Her hair had been done up in ribbons, and she wore a black dress. She was very quiet, and showed no signs of tears.
Zolar had never seen his old friend so bad. No, actually he had. It was when he stepped out of his speeder and saw him for the first time in months: holding Kit in his arms, stumbling blindly away from the house, his once-screaming voice now reduced to a hoarse howl, his face reflecting fear and confusion and pain and loss; the way he had rolled over the hood of the speeder, crumpled to the ground and lay there, sobbing miserably and hugging his daughter, even after Zolar had killed the rest of the thugs chasing him, just laying there sobbing for hours.
Now he looked simply sad, sunken-in. Something of the Torill he knew had disappeared. Obviously, he had gone through a lot... it was certainly tragic. But somehow Zolar got the feeling that wasn't all. He had a lot of metal and plastic in his brain, but that didn't change the feeling that something in Torill would never really be right again. Something had been blown away from him along with Saalia, something Zolar would probably never understand. But Torill was no longer the person Zolar had had adventured with for eight years.
God, he hated funerals.
Saalia's former lieutenant, Beldon Carlisle, finished his eulogy to her. He stepped forward and tossed a small holocube onto the growing pile of mementos over her grave. It was a group picture of the Marshals in their prime. Saalia was in front, standing rigidly to attention and saluting, a small smile of triumph on her lips.
It was Zolar's turn. He cleared his throat and stepped forward. "Most of you know I'm not one for being succinct," he said, and got a chuckle out of his crew, who knew his rambling pep talks and orders. "But I think this one time it might be best to be brief. Saalia was a great woman, with a great heart and more spirit than a Jedi. She would be the first to face down Darth Vader, if it meant saving what she believed in and who she loved." He glanced at Torill, who didn't respond immediately. "I can only say that we were honored to have worked with her, and her loss is the greatest blow to the heroism of the universe since the death of Yoda."
He extracted a datapad from his cloak. "This is the letter of marque that Saalia managed to obtain for us," he said, "making us a part of the Republic navy." He tossed it onto the pile.
Respectful silence followed his remarks. Now only Torill himself was left; the last speaker for the dead.
There was silence for some time. Then, finally, he began to speak. Not to Saalia, or of her... but to Kit.
"Kitty." The voice was little more than a whisper, but the winds carried it through the graveyard.
"Kitty, I know you probably hate your daddy for this." Torill's eyes were hidden, but he appeared to be simply staring across the sand. "And there's nothing I can tell you that would bring back your mother, or make what happened right or at all justified."
He paused for a moment, wet his lips. "Kitty, your mother was a strong woman. Much stronger than me, in some ways. She gave her life to protect you, and had I been able I would have too."
Kit was not crying. She looked aged beyond her years, her face a blank.
"I would say you'll understand better when you're older, but I think you understand perfectly well now. What it is to lose one person you love most, to have been let down by the other... to have your little world torn up." He sniffed here, looked at the ground, seemed to lose his track in the flood of emotions.
"I'm sorry," he finally managed. "You deserved better than this. You shouldn't have had to live my life. I tried to put my life behind me, tried to protect you..." Another pause. "I'm sorry I couldn't."
He stopped, staring numbly at the swirling black sands. Kit never said a word.
*********************
The Jedi's Pint cantina had become the scene of a traditional Socorran funereal send-off.
Mugs of lum and local raava were stacked in military rows and columns on the cantina bar, the accosted Ishi Tib bartender and his serving girls shuttling between a sea of M4 crewmen and hangers-on, all drowning the memory of Saalia Hendyker in a wash of alcohol and commiseration. No sabaac tables were open, nor were there any brawls between inebriated mourners; all were united by their connection- no matter how tenuous- to the dear departed, and their dedication to giving her a send-off to remember. It was the Socorran way.
Zolar mingled professionally among the throng, socializing and slipping through the crowd as easily as a mynock in a crowded spacelane. It was his element; with a drink in one hand and a cigar in the other, he glided through the cantina. It was hard work being one of the most popular (among his crew) captains in the New Republic, and he always had to keep it up.
Suddenly, a clearing in the crowd revealed to him Torill.
He sat in a corner of the bar, off on his own. He was hunched over a shot glass of raava... not drinking, just hunching. Zolar was suddenly struck by how old his friend had become. He sat almost exactly like that a decade ago... only now there was the early creeping gray in his hair, the bit of weight he'd put on, the sag in his shoulders. It's been so long... Zolar mused. We've all grown up. One way or another.
And now the phantoms of Saalia's death seemed to hang over Torill like a dark shroud.
Zolar moved over. He couldn't leave a friend like that.
"Torill."
Torill looked up. There were red rims around his eyes. "Zolar."
Zolar sat down. Torill returned to staring into his reflection.
Quiet descended between the two companions.
"Y'know," Torill croaked. "How comes we only ever meet at funerals anymore?"
Zolar made a noncommittal noise. "Guess that's how the business works."
"...yeah."
Zolar looked over. Torill was still staring into his drink like it was a window into the past. Zolar felt over his head. He wasn't very good at consoling people in ways that didn't involve large amounts of beer. Somehow he didn't think that would help here. Torill's wounds went beyond the reach of beer.
And when one of the Rameseum Crew had wounds that couldn't be healed by beer, they were deep wounds indeed.
Zolar decided to give conversation another try. "So where's Kit?"
"Hm? Oh, she's with a friend of Saalia's. Seenine too."
"I don't suppose you're going back to the house, are you?"
Torill shook his head. "No. I think I'm going to find a place in town. I don't know. I'll do something." He looked at his drink again.
"I'd offer you a bunk," Zolar said ruefully, "But we've only got another-" he checked his chronometer- "6 hours before they send out the signal and we'll be missed. We need to be at Neftril in two days; the 'Pub is making a push into Moff Viltar's holdout sector."
A bitter, sardonic smile inched its way onto Torill's lips. "AWOL, huh? That's our Zolar." He finally took a drink. "So I hear you were captured by Thrawn."
"Yeah."
"What'd you think?"
Zolar considered the question for a moment. "He was ok," he said finally. "For an Imperial."
Time passed. Torill had retreated back into his shell. Zolar felt obligated to say something.
"Look... Torill... it wasn't your fault. You couldn't have known this was going to happen, and..." He trailed off.
"I told her to go on."
"What?"
"I had to wait. I wanted to shoot again. Like in the old days." Torill's voice was a soft monotone, clipping the phrases out. "So I told her to go. And then she g-ggot..." he began to choke on his own words.
Zolar reached over and put his hand on Torill's shoulder. It was quivering. "Hey..."
Torill's grip on his glass tightened sharply, then suddenly slackened. His shoulder stopped shaking.
These were wounds that not only went deep, but were making themselves deeper. Zolar had a very bad feeling about that. Somehow he didn't think Torill would quit blaming himself for Saalia's death anytime soon.
After a minute, Torill asked quietly, at the same monotone, "Ever have that feeling where you begin to think you've been alive so long only because you're already dead?"
Zolar nodded. "All the time."
"You're a cyborg. You already fell off a cliff and died; hell Zolar, you're almost half droid already." Zolar didn't take any offense at this; for the eternal techie inside of him, it was almost a compliment. "I don't mean that feeling." He sighed. "Never mind."
Zolar didn't like where the talk was going, so he let it drop. He felt profoundly uncomfortable. This wasn't his thing.
Another moment of quiet passed between the two.
"So," Zolar said finally. "What are you going to do now?"
Torill shrugged, slowly.
"You could always come with me. Bring Kit along. Be part of the Republic for a while; best thing to help you forget."
Torill shook his head. "No, I've got to stay here. I'm not ready to leave yet." He took another sip of his drink. "I don't know. I'll manage. I've got enough money to quit my job at the newsnets and bring Kit up. Maybe I'll move into the city or something." He hung his head. "I guess I don't want to know. Not yet."
Zolar nodded. Sensing it was time for him to go, he stood. "Just as long as you watch yourself." He put his hand out. "Clear skies, Torill. You sure you're going to be alright?"
Torill returned the shake. "Yeah," he said. "I'm always alright."
Zolar nodded, and turning his back on Torill left the rapidly-clearing bar. Outside, Umino had already somehow managed to assemble most of the crew- in varying stages of intoxication and unsteadiness- and had them prepared to head back to the M4 for flight.
The cold and dry air of a Socorro night greeted him outside. Up above, stars, seemingly shining through the city's light pollution, shone bright as points. A drifting blue flame from a high-up smuggler's craft cut across the sky.
Zolar inhaled deeply, letting the air clear his mind and his conscience. Up ahead; the future was where he lived.
"Alright, 'beings," he yelled to the (dis)assembled crowd. "We've got five and a half hours before The Man checks on us. Let's jet!"
A cheer went up, and the crowd of crewmembers began following Zolar back to the dropships. As they left the bar, one of them started a song. The whole group quickly picked it up, and the dirge thundered raucously through the Vakkeya night:
The song reached back into the cantina, where Torill Hendyker still sat in the shadows and stared into the past.