credits.”
Sinjir catches the man’s wrist—a gentle hold, and the man’s skin is, as its appearance suggests, sweat-slick and slimy. The man gives Sinjir’s hand a poisonous look as another squirt of green fluid runs down his chin. Sinjir laughs, withdraws his hand, and says, “One more thing.”
“Go on.”
“I need to see the man in charge of this establishment. Surat Nuat.”
“Oh, do you?”
“I do. And I will pay.”
The bartender’s eyes flit about. “Then let’s call it a hundred.”
Sinjir winces.
That’s valuable drinking money.
He reminds himself that now, it’s also valuable
escaping
money. He unpockets the credits and slides the small cairn of filthy lucre across the table.
“Now,” he says. “Where can I find him?”
The bartender gets a big, nasty grin across his face. Like a smear of mud across the wall, that grin. “He’s coming in the door right now.”
Sinjir sighs. He turns and looks.
A Sullustan is coming in the door. Milky eye. Smug, self-satisfied look. He’s trailed by a pack of punks and thugs. The way all eyes turn toward him—a mix of genuine awe and utter fear—tells Sinjir that this alien is the real deal. That this is, indeed, Surat Nuat.
He’s about to turn and demand his credits back.
But then he sees someone else.
A woman. Zabrak—or is it Dathomirian? Or Iridonian? He’s not sure of the distinction or if one even exists. Those pale eyes. The dark tattoos forming spirals and knots on her cheeks and brow and chin.
His breath catches in his chest—
—
Sinjir stands there. Ferns up to his hips. A fallen tree across the soft, spongy moss of Endor. Beneath him, a rebel. Dead. The man’s outer clothes—vest, poncho, camouflage pants—now hanging on Sinjir’s frame. He puts the helmet on, too. Blinks. Swallows. Tries to focus.
A bead of blood drips down Sinjir’s head. To the end of his nose. It hangs there before he sneezes it away.
His ears still ring from the sound of the shield generators going up.
His hands are filthy with dirt and blood. His own blood.
Superficial cuts, he tells himself. Nothing deep. He’s not dying.
Not today, anyway.
Then: the snap of a stick.
He turns—and there she is. An alien. Sharp thorny spurs forming a crown on her moonlight-blue skin. She turns and sees him. The tattoos on her face—whorls and corkscrews of black ink—almost seem to turn and drift, like snakes entwining with other snakes. But when he blinks again, that stops. Just an illusion. He’s still shaken up. Maybe she’s not even real.
She nods at him.
He nods at her.
And then she yanks on what looks like a vine—and a whole swath of netting, netting woven through with sticks and blankets for purposes of hiding something in plain sight—pulls away. Underneath is a speeder bike.
The woman cinches a rifle up on her back.
She gives Sinjir one last look. Then the engine of the speeder bike revs and she’s gone, whistling through the underbrush and between the trees.
—
—he knows her.
“I know her,” he says. Low enough so that only his new friend hears.
The Twi’lek grunts in confusion.
“Her,”
Sinjir clarifies. “The one with Surat’s thugs.”
I saw her on the moon of Endor.
“I don’t
know
her know her. Never mind. Come on.”
He hops off the stool—
Then quick darts back to the bar, and slams back the ’skee. It tastes like he’s drinking pure laserfire, and it carves a hot, burning channel deep through his core. Sinjir shakes it off, then pursues Surat and his entourage.
Out the window, past the endless black, a repair droid totters past, carrying bits of scrap, its welding torch dangling by a long, black tube. Even after these many months,
Home One
still requires a last few repairs from the battle over Endor. Ackbar thinks:
It is a good thing we won that battle.
It was their last true shot. They gambled everything. And they almost lost it all. By the grace of the stars and the seas and all the gods and all the
Sinjir catches the man’s wrist—a gentle hold, and the man’s skin is, as its appearance suggests, sweat-slick and slimy. The man gives Sinjir’s hand a poisonous look as another squirt of green fluid runs down his chin. Sinjir laughs, withdraws his hand, and says, “One more thing.”
“Go on.”
“I need to see the man in charge of this establishment. Surat Nuat.”
“Oh, do you?”
“I do. And I will pay.”
The bartender’s eyes flit about. “Then let’s call it a hundred.”
Sinjir winces.
That’s valuable drinking money.
He reminds himself that now, it’s also valuable
escaping
money. He unpockets the credits and slides the small cairn of filthy lucre across the table.
“Now,” he says. “Where can I find him?”
The bartender gets a big, nasty grin across his face. Like a smear of mud across the wall, that grin. “He’s coming in the door right now.”
Sinjir sighs. He turns and looks.
A Sullustan is coming in the door. Milky eye. Smug, self-satisfied look. He’s trailed by a pack of punks and thugs. The way all eyes turn toward him—a mix of genuine awe and utter fear—tells Sinjir that this alien is the real deal. That this is, indeed, Surat Nuat.
He’s about to turn and demand his credits back.
But then he sees someone else.
A woman. Zabrak—or is it Dathomirian? Or Iridonian? He’s not sure of the distinction or if one even exists. Those pale eyes. The dark tattoos forming spirals and knots on her cheeks and brow and chin.
His breath catches in his chest—
—
Sinjir stands there. Ferns up to his hips. A fallen tree across the soft, spongy moss of Endor. Beneath him, a rebel. Dead. The man’s outer clothes—vest, poncho, camouflage pants—now hanging on Sinjir’s frame. He puts the helmet on, too. Blinks. Swallows. Tries to focus.
A bead of blood drips down Sinjir’s head. To the end of his nose. It hangs there before he sneezes it away.
His ears still ring from the sound of the shield generators going up.
His hands are filthy with dirt and blood. His own blood.
Superficial cuts, he tells himself. Nothing deep. He’s not dying.
Not today, anyway.
Then: the snap of a stick.
He turns—and there she is. An alien. Sharp thorny spurs forming a crown on her moonlight-blue skin. She turns and sees him. The tattoos on her face—whorls and corkscrews of black ink—almost seem to turn and drift, like snakes entwining with other snakes. But when he blinks again, that stops. Just an illusion. He’s still shaken up. Maybe she’s not even real.
She nods at him.
He nods at her.
And then she yanks on what looks like a vine—and a whole swath of netting, netting woven through with sticks and blankets for purposes of hiding something in plain sight—pulls away. Underneath is a speeder bike.
The woman cinches a rifle up on her back.
She gives Sinjir one last look. Then the engine of the speeder bike revs and she’s gone, whistling through the underbrush and between the trees.
—
—he knows her.
“I know her,” he says. Low enough so that only his new friend hears.
The Twi’lek grunts in confusion.
“Her,”
Sinjir clarifies. “The one with Surat’s thugs.”
I saw her on the moon of Endor.
“I don’t
know
her know her. Never mind. Come on.”
He hops off the stool—
Then quick darts back to the bar, and slams back the ’skee. It tastes like he’s drinking pure laserfire, and it carves a hot, burning channel deep through his core. Sinjir shakes it off, then pursues Surat and his entourage.
Out the window, past the endless black, a repair droid totters past, carrying bits of scrap, its welding torch dangling by a long, black tube. Even after these many months,
Home One
still requires a last few repairs from the battle over Endor. Ackbar thinks:
It is a good thing we won that battle.
It was their last true shot. They gambled everything. And they almost lost it all. By the grace of the stars and the seas and all the gods and all the
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