You’re no longer offering contracts to the likes of them. Or the likes of me. You’re a kept dog now. On the Alliance’s leash. Really quite sad.”
Her muscles tighten. This isn’t working. She makes one last plea: “You need to watch the stars, Surat. The galaxy is wheeling on its axis. It’s turning against the Empire. Don’t tie your fortunes to that ship, because it’s about to come crashing down. The New Republic—”
“Is a bastion of fools!” he suddenly screams, foul-smelling saliva flecking her cheeks. She pivots on the ball of her foot—
A blast from one of the Narquois hits her in the side. Her foot skids out—she crashes down on a table full of spacer parts. Metal clatters against the floor as she slides off. Her body, slack. Her mind, suddenly disconnected from her muscles. A stunning shot, not a killing one.
Surat stands over her, hands clasped in front of him. He seethes: “The New Republic will make no room for the likes of me. I will not face extinction at the hands of a choir of overly moralistic do-gooders. The Empire allows me to work, and so the Empire remains my friend. And now, as it turns out, I have a new gift for my friend.”
He claps his hands again, and suddenly his cohorts are picking her up. The Herglic tosses her over his slick, cartilaginous shoulder. She wills her hands to move. Her legs. Her
teeth.
Anything at all. But it’s all for naught. Her efforts are futile.
As they carry her out, she thinks:
You should have killed me.
—
Sinjir steps out of the fading light of day and into the dank underground—well, what to call it? It’s a cantina, probably, at least in part. The name hanging on the door outside says: THE ALCAZAR . But it’s more than just a cantina. By the look of it, it’s also a gambling house. And a house of ill repute. Probably also a slaver market, and black market, and—it’s a whole damn compound, frankly. In this room sits an elevated stage on which plays some warbling gang of so-called
musicians.
Along the far wall is a long black bar carved out of some dead hunk of lacquered driftwood—and everywhere else, tables of gamblers sit, all praying to catch a little of that magic, whether at pazaak or rolling sheg-knuckles or yanking the lever on the One-Armed Smuggler.
Gambling. Sinjir never understood it. He had to take punitive measures against any Imperial soldier or officer attempting to gamble in the bunks, the mess, on a long and lonely shift. He decided that gambling was never about the credits. It was always about the risk.
The risk, and the thrill it brings.
Sinjir has no love of that thrill.
He wants to get off this planet as soon as possible.
“Come on, Ogly,” he says, waving his new friend farther.
“Orgadomo.”
“Uh-huh. Let’s get a drink.” His own sogginess is starting to dry up and wear off—now’s a good time to replenish that pleasant feeling. And of course find out a little information. He grabs a length of the Twi’lek’s head-tail and pulls him up to the bar. Sinjir gives the bar top a good, wet slap.
The bartender—a human man, as scruffy as a Wookiee yet somehow slimy like a worrt—turns, popping some kind of thin green leaf in his mouth. He chews it. Green fluid runs down his chin and he licks the one good tooth in his mouth. “Wuzzat?”
“Two drinks. I’ll have a…” He turns to the Twi’lek. “You first, friend. What are you having?”
“An…ale?”
The Twi’lek looks nervous.
Sinjir makes a face. “He’ll have an ale. I need something stronger. You got ahh, let’s see. Jogan fruit brandy?”
“Kind of a fancy place you think this is?” the bartender rumbles. “I got ale. More ale. Other ale. Different ale. Grog. And starfire ’skee.”
“I’ll take that last decoction, then. A jorum of ’skee for me.”
The bartender grumbles. Begins pouring a glass of something brown and muddy before sliding a bottle of foaming ale to the Twi’lek. “That’ll be ten
Her muscles tighten. This isn’t working. She makes one last plea: “You need to watch the stars, Surat. The galaxy is wheeling on its axis. It’s turning against the Empire. Don’t tie your fortunes to that ship, because it’s about to come crashing down. The New Republic—”
“Is a bastion of fools!” he suddenly screams, foul-smelling saliva flecking her cheeks. She pivots on the ball of her foot—
A blast from one of the Narquois hits her in the side. Her foot skids out—she crashes down on a table full of spacer parts. Metal clatters against the floor as she slides off. Her body, slack. Her mind, suddenly disconnected from her muscles. A stunning shot, not a killing one.
Surat stands over her, hands clasped in front of him. He seethes: “The New Republic will make no room for the likes of me. I will not face extinction at the hands of a choir of overly moralistic do-gooders. The Empire allows me to work, and so the Empire remains my friend. And now, as it turns out, I have a new gift for my friend.”
He claps his hands again, and suddenly his cohorts are picking her up. The Herglic tosses her over his slick, cartilaginous shoulder. She wills her hands to move. Her legs. Her
teeth.
Anything at all. But it’s all for naught. Her efforts are futile.
As they carry her out, she thinks:
You should have killed me.
—
Sinjir steps out of the fading light of day and into the dank underground—well, what to call it? It’s a cantina, probably, at least in part. The name hanging on the door outside says: THE ALCAZAR . But it’s more than just a cantina. By the look of it, it’s also a gambling house. And a house of ill repute. Probably also a slaver market, and black market, and—it’s a whole damn compound, frankly. In this room sits an elevated stage on which plays some warbling gang of so-called
musicians.
Along the far wall is a long black bar carved out of some dead hunk of lacquered driftwood—and everywhere else, tables of gamblers sit, all praying to catch a little of that magic, whether at pazaak or rolling sheg-knuckles or yanking the lever on the One-Armed Smuggler.
Gambling. Sinjir never understood it. He had to take punitive measures against any Imperial soldier or officer attempting to gamble in the bunks, the mess, on a long and lonely shift. He decided that gambling was never about the credits. It was always about the risk.
The risk, and the thrill it brings.
Sinjir has no love of that thrill.
He wants to get off this planet as soon as possible.
“Come on, Ogly,” he says, waving his new friend farther.
“Orgadomo.”
“Uh-huh. Let’s get a drink.” His own sogginess is starting to dry up and wear off—now’s a good time to replenish that pleasant feeling. And of course find out a little information. He grabs a length of the Twi’lek’s head-tail and pulls him up to the bar. Sinjir gives the bar top a good, wet slap.
The bartender—a human man, as scruffy as a Wookiee yet somehow slimy like a worrt—turns, popping some kind of thin green leaf in his mouth. He chews it. Green fluid runs down his chin and he licks the one good tooth in his mouth. “Wuzzat?”
“Two drinks. I’ll have a…” He turns to the Twi’lek. “You first, friend. What are you having?”
“An…ale?”
The Twi’lek looks nervous.
Sinjir makes a face. “He’ll have an ale. I need something stronger. You got ahh, let’s see. Jogan fruit brandy?”
“Kind of a fancy place you think this is?” the bartender rumbles. “I got ale. More ale. Other ale. Different ale. Grog. And starfire ’skee.”
“I’ll take that last decoction, then. A jorum of ’skee for me.”
The bartender grumbles. Begins pouring a glass of something brown and muddy before sliding a bottle of foaming ale to the Twi’lek. “That’ll be ten
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