Star Wars - When the Domino Falls (2 page)

“I guess so,” Seth chuckled deeply, “what with the bounty being offered for free Wookiees.”

With mention of a bounty, the Wookiee bellowed fiercely, snatching her bowcaster and anything else she could grasp as ammunition. Dodging an assault barrage of tin cups, storage containers, and power packs. Seth flipped over, shattering the chair beneath his substantial bulk.

“Nikaede!” Drake scolded gently, prying a smoke grenade from her large hands. “He was kidding.” Scowling at the security official, he demanded, “You were kidding, weren’t you?”

“Honest Wook!” Seth grinned, remaining under the table. “No love for the Empire here.”

Successfully retrieving the grenade, Drake asked. “What have you arranged?”

“Transport to Tatooine.”

“Mos Eisley?”

“It’s an agreeable atmosphere,” Seth grunted, struggling to his feet. “And if she’s really a good tech, I can set her up working modified ships out of port.”

“Tatooine’s a good place to hide,” Drake whispered. “No Imperial paperwork. And if you’re handling ship modifications for smugglers, no one will bother, not even tracers.” Then, reminded of the seclusion that often plagued him, he selfishly added. “But I know an even better place. You could come back to Socorro with me.” The Wookiee yowled inquisitively. “My dad’s the best pilot in the business, but an average technician. He could use a good mechanic.”

Nikaede howled immediate appreciation, sweeping the young Socorran into her massive arms. Feeling his rib cage bending beneath the Wookiee’s might. Drake croaked, “Sure Nik, we just need to figure a way to get you offworld.”

“Leave that to me,” Seth almost sang with great ceremony.

“Boss!” crackled a voice over Seth’s comlink. “Boss!” Briefly, the sound of blaster fire echoed outside the door.

“Stormtroopers!” Drake cried, recognizing the distinctive pulse of Imperial-issue weaponry. Quickly taking the bowcaster from the chair, he stowed it beneath a pile of discarded flight suits. “Stay calm,” he whispered to Nikaede, pinning the Wookiee between himself and the wall.

Rattling like predatory teeth against the metal, white-armored fingers forced their way through the blast door. Visibly stunned, two starport guards slumped to the floor. “I’m in command here,” Seth’s operatic voice boomed. “By whose authority …”

Outflanking each other, the stormtroopers hurried into the room. Their squad leader marched through the blast door, violently thrusting his rifle into Seth’s sternum. “This station falls under the jurisdiction of…” his voice trailed off, shocked into silence by the Wookiee and the boy standing in the back of the compound. Two other stormtroopers stepped into the room, flanking the walls. “Cease your fire!” the ranking soldier screeched, as they leveled their weapons at the Wookiee. “You might hit the boy.”

“Yes, you might indeed hit the boy,” Seth grumbled. “And cause an incident that would take millions of credits to hide. Not to Mention embarrass your superiors …”

“Quiet!” The stormtrooper moved away suddenly, then returned, thrusting his rifle butt into the security official’s chest. Drake was helpless to act as Seth collapsed to the floor. “You!” the stormtrooper pointed to Drake. “Where’s the permit for that animal?”

“Permit?” Drake piped, his voice raising an octave higher than he expected.

Breathless, Seth groaned. “The boy hasn’t got a permit. What do you expect? His uncle only purchased the creature a few moments ago.” He pointed to the stacked cases of Corellian ale in the corner. “I was acquainting the child with commands and important hygiene instructions. There’s no crime in that.” The security man hesitated, staring at the stormtrooper. “Or is there?”

“What’s going on here!” demanded a gruff voice.

“Uncle Ancher!” Drake whined. Mustering all his energy for a childhood tantrum, the boy cried, “Uncle Ancher, tell the soldiers. You bought the
chumani
for me! They want to take her away.” Silently imploring Ancher to play along with the ruse, he added. “You won’t let them, will you? After you paid for her. Twenty-four cases of Corellian ale is a lot, isn’t it, Uncle Ancher? That’s what you told me. You said nothing was worth 24 cases of your Corellian ale, not even an Imperial bribe …”

“
Koccic sulng!
” Ancher spat to silence the insipid prattle. Despite the rough indignity of a blaster rifle wedged against his spine, he turned on the stormtroopers, feigning a disgruntled Imperial citizen. “Since when did the Emperor allow his forces to traumatize children and helpless animals!”

“This creature belongs to you?” the squad leader demanded.

“I bought her for the boy, his
chumani
.” He hesitated, staring into the soldier’s unreadable face. “
Chumani
, gentlemen, is Old Corellian for companion; or so I’ve been told.” Ancher leaned toward the stormtrooper, whispering, “Come, come man, have a little compassion. The boy just lost his mother day before last.” Pulling a chit of credits from his pocket, he straightened, saying, “I understand there is a question of tariffs to pay, permits …”

“All licensing takes place at the Bureau of Customs. You will accompany us there immediately.”

Ancher hesitated. “I see,” he sniffed, glaring at Drake. “Lead on my good man.”

Though the presence of stormtroopers was a common phenomenon on Omman, a culturally diverse planet, the presence of a Wookiee, a boy, and an older man being herded between a squad of Imperial soldiers proved to be something of a spectacle. During the brief walk across the starport intersection, the stormtroopers pressed through throngs of curious tourists who stumbled across their path. Never breaking formation, they led the prisoners through the narrow streets and into the Bureau of Custom’s antiseptically clean front station.

An Imperial clerk was sitting behind a spacious desk as they were brought into the building. “Hold please,” he snarled, never bothering to glance up. Drawn into a long frown, his gnarled, haggard face wore the unpleasant expression of overwork and general dislike for the public.

Safely eclipsed by Nikaede’s shadow, Drake leaned against Ancher, whispering, “Did my dad get off the dock?”

Cautiously, Ancher hummed impatiently, nodding positively to acknowledge his request, while effectively getting the Imperial clerk’s attention.

“What can I do for you?” the agent asked in a low nasal tone.

“These people need to register an exotic animal,” the stormtrooper replied, shoving Ancher toward the desk.

“Type of animal?”

“A Wookiee,” Ancher growled.

“How will the animal be used?” the clerk continued, punching the necessary codes into the datapad. “Concubine. Laborer. House servant. Hunting. Breeding stock.”

“
Chumani
.” Drake replied.

The Imperial agent looked up, managing to glare down his protracted, irregular nose. “A
chumani
?”

Ancher curbed his temper and whispered. “A companion.” Then glaring at Drake, he added, “A child’s companion.”

The clerk rolled his eyes, exasperated, then scanned the datapad before him. “That will be 1,000 credits for a temporary offworld permit. Vaccinations, physical examinations, and temperament adjustments are extras. Do you wish to …”

“No.”

“Then that will be an additional 500 credits.”

“But I don’t want the vaccinations or …”

“The fee is not for any of those services. It’s a calamity insurance surcharge.” The adjutant began formatting the temporary registration, officially notarizing the documents with the Imperial seal. “If the animal should get loose and injure someone, you’ll be partially covered.”

“If the animal gets loose, you won’t have to worry about injury!” Ancher snapped. “You’ll be dead, along with anybody else fool enough to get in a Wookiee’s way.”

“Ancher,” Drake cautioned him.

The Corellian relented, retrieving the credit chit from his pocket.

“Thumb imprint here, please,” the clerk directed, handing the datapad to the irascible tourist.

Drake stifled a protest, recognizing the personal identification unit. Designed to tap into a galactic reservoir of information, the mechanism granted access to background data, criminal records, or military status. Though Ancher’s reputation among peers was a topic of envy, worthy of emulation by would-be smugglers, his record as a galactic felon was, without exception, on the verge of legendary proportions. The young Socorran felt faint with the realization that one imprint would lead authorities and bounty hunters right to the Corellian.

Casually reaching up to scratch his ear. Ancher pressed his thumb against the sensor pad, throwing Drake a mischievous grin. Almost immediately, the machine bleeped in protest, unable to register the print. “That’s the third time today!” the clerk hissed, snatching the datapad from the civilian. “We’ll have to do it manually! Get their names,” he snapped at the nearest office aide.

“No need,” another officer cooed in an even baritone. Approaching from the rear, an Imperial official entered the front room, followed by an entourage of stormtroopers. Obedient to the snapping of his fingers, all the stormtroopers raised their rifles, targeting the subjects at the desk.

“Colonel Veesle!” the clerk gushed, finding himself in the line of fire.

“Talk about being put on a hurt vector,” Ancher hissed through a half smile.

The Imperial straightened, his tall, thin figure framed by broad shoulders. Sparse insignia, pinned with meticulous regard, betrayed an insidious nature. “His name? Karl Mathieu Ancher. Homeworld? Corellia. Age? Oh, I’d say 57 years. Occupation? Illegal trafficking of controlled commodities.” Thoughtfully, Veesle slapped a leather thong against the polished sheen of his boots. “The data from his criminal record could disable or destroy the processing systems of a
Victory
-class Star Destroyer.”

“Colonel Weasel!” Ancher grinned, purposely mispronouncing the name. “After all these years, you still remember me. Boy, meet an old friend of mine, Colonel Weasel.” He winked, “By the way, Weasel, how’s that pretty wife of yours?”

Still indignant with the Corellian’s illicit affair with his then newlywed bride, Veesle balled his fist, striking the smuggler in the mouth. Stunned by the officer’s sudden violence, the stormtroopers were slow to react, closing to restrain Drake and the Wookiee.

Temper in check. Ancher recovered, rubbing his bruised jaw. “Well,” he spat blood on the polished floors, “still meaner than a rancor with a bad tooth.”

“Lt. Criss,” Veesle addressed the clerk, “every purebred hound has fleas. I want you to meet one of mine.” Arrogantly, he took the identification pad from the agent’s slack hands and rubbed the sensor face against Ancher’s coat. “Watch very carefully Lieutenant.” he warned. “You’re about to learn a very important lesson; a critical lesson every successful smuggler inherits from his mentor.” Veesle snapped his fingers, waving his hand toward the Corellian. Two of his stormtroopers shouldered their weapons and grasped Ancher’s arms, restraining the smuggler between them. “When processing any type of background information, never take your eye off the suspect. Never let them touch their eyes,” he wiped at his narrow eyes, “their ears,” he scratched inside his ears, “or behind their ears. Don’t even let them touch their mouths or noses.” Rubbing the thin layer of ear wax and grease across the surface of his thumb, he pressed it against the sensor pad. Immediately, the machine bleeped inconclusive results. “Any type of oil or waxy residue will disable the scanner and without knowing it, you could give important documents to a known galactic felon.”

“I had no idea,” Criss groveled, fearing repercussions.

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Veesle replied snidely, wiping the grease from the disabled scanner. He pressed Ancher’s thumb against the clean surface. “I spent the whole of my junior grade tracking down this and other scoundrels, learning the tricks they employed.” Gloating, the haughty officer whispered, “There’s a terrible price to be paid by the hunter who, in order to be successful, becomes very much like his prey.”

The ID sensor blinked erratically, correlating the processed information. Criss examined the garbled muddle of codes and the returning message. “This could take some time,” he whispered. “We’ve been experiencing some interference with the signal. If there’s any information, it should arrive by morning.”

Veesle’s face darkened. “Until then,” he hissed, “I want him held.

“And the boy?”

“I’m staying with you, Ancher.” Drake whispered, glaring at the Imperial officer. “Nikaede?”

The Wookiee bawled, delivering a scathing insult to the stormtroopers as they cautiously moved toward her.

“If only a third of the Emperor’s citizens would show the loyalty found among these criminals, the Rebellion would have been crushed years ago. Take them to the holding cells,” Veesle directed. “I’ll return in the morning for Karl Ancher. As for the boy and the Wookiee, you may deal with them in any way you wish.”

Veesle and his armed entourage retreated into an adjacent section of the Bureau. Wary, the Bureau security guards herded Drake, Ancher, and Nikaede into a separate passage, leveling their weapons primarily at the Wookiee. “Well ain’t that a heinous thing to say to me?” Ancher grumbled. Avoiding the low bulkhead, he walked into the darkened cell. “I’ve been called many things in my time, but never a flea.”