“You, there! Leave her alone!”
Dewell Bronk’s entreaty was barely more than a whisper, and it was no surprise that the toughs didn’t hear him. He looked urgently across the aisle of the transport at the delinquents, a pair of young, horn-headed Devaronians. They’d been hassling the poor old Twi’lek woman since she’d boarded. When they had first yanked at her satchel, she had resisted briefly, but now she looked on meekly as the youths pawed through her belongings.
Dewell wanted to tell them to stop. Louder, this time. He could: he had an authoritative voice, one he was famous for. But that was in a different world, one where his small stature meant very little. No one was going to listen to a meter-tall, pudgy Kedorzhan in the lower hold of a passenger transport.
He looked around in desperation. The Tallaan Clipper had no security personnel on this level, just the frightening-looking first officer that Dewell never wanted to talk to again. He missed his bodyguards, who could have sorted this out in an instant. But he hadn’t seen them since he hurriedly left his apartment on Coruscant. He expected he would never see them — or the apartment — again.
No, for the first time in ages, Dewell Bronk was alone and without help. And worst of all, he was unable to help — a new experience for the three-time recipient of the Coruscant Benevolent Society’s Good Neighbor of the Year award.
Life had changed. And he already hated it.
One of the Devaronians looked directly at him: an angry stare. Feeling his public-spiritness flee with his courage, Dewell instantly looked away. His whiskered jowls sagged, and he sank low in his seat. He was being foolish. How could he be anyone’s rescuer now, when he was trying to avoid attention?
Worried, he felt again for the weight by his feet. Everything he owned was in a sack, tied with a small rope that he had looped around his ankle. Since leaving on the first leg of his odyssey, he had kept the bag mashed between his heels; he didn’t want to wake from sleep to find it stolen. Not that there was anything much to take. The credits he’d planned to use in his escape were already gone; spent, to pay for his seat on this transport and the next one, and for the single meal a day that was supposed to come with the fares.
It was a sad predicament for someone who had lived his life close to the bright spots of the galaxy, traveling at will and, occasionally, in style. That moment had passed — and might never return again. Now Dewell, someone who had fought for justice his whole career, was reduced to doing nothing as thieves harassed an elderly fellow being. He could hear it: they were pulling rudely at her head-tendrils now. Dewell’s heart ached. There was nothing he could do.
“You don’t want to disturb that woman,” a nearby voice said. Its tones were warm and confident. A human voice, Dewell thought, but he didn’t dare to look up. Some poor hero was about to be thrashed.
“We don’t want to disturb this woman,” a gruff Devaronian voice responded.
Puzzled, Dewell leaned over and peeked across the aisle. The two hoodlums had dropped the Twi’lek’s pouch and were walking to the ladder leading to the upper level. The person who had spoken first was the human who had boarded at the previous stop — the one Dewell had mentally labeled “the Young Father.”
Dewell didn’t know if the human was father to the child. Nor did he really know how young the man was. Kedorzhan eyes were sharp in the dark, but most other species lived in the light. Kedorzhans seldom opened their eyes beyond a crack in daylight. Dewell had always refused to wear a visor, feeling it better to be able to look directly into the eyes of his listeners, even if it meant he often had trouble telling one person from another. To Dewell, people tended to become shapes, happy and sad, cruel and innocent. In the harshly lit cabin, the Young Father was a kindly blur, his face obscured by a
Dewell Bronk’s entreaty was barely more than a whisper, and it was no surprise that the toughs didn’t hear him. He looked urgently across the aisle of the transport at the delinquents, a pair of young, horn-headed Devaronians. They’d been hassling the poor old Twi’lek woman since she’d boarded. When they had first yanked at her satchel, she had resisted briefly, but now she looked on meekly as the youths pawed through her belongings.
Dewell wanted to tell them to stop. Louder, this time. He could: he had an authoritative voice, one he was famous for. But that was in a different world, one where his small stature meant very little. No one was going to listen to a meter-tall, pudgy Kedorzhan in the lower hold of a passenger transport.
He looked around in desperation. The Tallaan Clipper had no security personnel on this level, just the frightening-looking first officer that Dewell never wanted to talk to again. He missed his bodyguards, who could have sorted this out in an instant. But he hadn’t seen them since he hurriedly left his apartment on Coruscant. He expected he would never see them — or the apartment — again.
No, for the first time in ages, Dewell Bronk was alone and without help. And worst of all, he was unable to help — a new experience for the three-time recipient of the Coruscant Benevolent Society’s Good Neighbor of the Year award.
Life had changed. And he already hated it.
One of the Devaronians looked directly at him: an angry stare. Feeling his public-spiritness flee with his courage, Dewell instantly looked away. His whiskered jowls sagged, and he sank low in his seat. He was being foolish. How could he be anyone’s rescuer now, when he was trying to avoid attention?
Worried, he felt again for the weight by his feet. Everything he owned was in a sack, tied with a small rope that he had looped around his ankle. Since leaving on the first leg of his odyssey, he had kept the bag mashed between his heels; he didn’t want to wake from sleep to find it stolen. Not that there was anything much to take. The credits he’d planned to use in his escape were already gone; spent, to pay for his seat on this transport and the next one, and for the single meal a day that was supposed to come with the fares.
It was a sad predicament for someone who had lived his life close to the bright spots of the galaxy, traveling at will and, occasionally, in style. That moment had passed — and might never return again. Now Dewell, someone who had fought for justice his whole career, was reduced to doing nothing as thieves harassed an elderly fellow being. He could hear it: they were pulling rudely at her head-tendrils now. Dewell’s heart ached. There was nothing he could do.
“You don’t want to disturb that woman,” a nearby voice said. Its tones were warm and confident. A human voice, Dewell thought, but he didn’t dare to look up. Some poor hero was about to be thrashed.
“We don’t want to disturb this woman,” a gruff Devaronian voice responded.
Puzzled, Dewell leaned over and peeked across the aisle. The two hoodlums had dropped the Twi’lek’s pouch and were walking to the ladder leading to the upper level. The person who had spoken first was the human who had boarded at the previous stop — the one Dewell had mentally labeled “the Young Father.”
Dewell didn’t know if the human was father to the child. Nor did he really know how young the man was. Kedorzhan eyes were sharp in the dark, but most other species lived in the light. Kedorzhans seldom opened their eyes beyond a crack in daylight. Dewell had always refused to wear a visor, feeling it better to be able to look directly into the eyes of his listeners, even if it meant he often had trouble telling one person from another. To Dewell, people tended to become shapes, happy and sad, cruel and innocent. In the harshly lit cabin, the Young Father was a kindly blur, his face obscured by a
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