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You want details, Qui-Gon? Fine. Always take note of the details. They might be the difference between life and death. Not that there were many to take note of on this sand-blasted ball.
The wall of the sandstone docking bay filled the viewscreen and the twin suns, directly overhead, mercilessly beat shadows into hiding and bounced off every surface to glare into my eyes. I sat in the pilot's seat of my VG-23, furiously tapping my teeth, as thoughts ran through my mind at light speed.
I had received the message on the third day after the kidnapping. Left two days later. A total of 22 days lost to travel. Not to mention, seven days sitting on Sullust, radiating arrogance and intimidation, saying little or nothing, while that trade dispute was settled. I heaved a sigh. A Tanaabian ritual kidnapping allowed 40 standard days for settlement to be reached or the victim to be killed. At least they didn't plan to kill her - just consign her to a living death as a slave.
That left six days to scour a whole planet and find one person. A sister who'd been born three years after I had begun my training at the temple. All I knew was what my mother had told me in the message - a female version of my father, with ash-blond hair, golden skin and green eyes. And, hopefully, without his personality. Named after a great-grandmother. Rein-Ishera cy Nerac. And about to be united with a young man from a very well-off family. Would my father allow any other kind through the door? Not likely.
The impending union of two wealthy families might explain the outlandish ransom. But what explained spiriting Rein here - to Tatooine? I hadn't lied to Master Yoda. Twice in Tanaab's history kidnapping victims had been taken off-planet. Both times the demands had been exorbitant. Both times the purpose had been to lure someone else in the victim's family to his death.
The trap was set, with Rein as the bait. Who was the intended victim? My father? Undoubtedly, he had many enemies. You couldn't be rich and successful on Tanaab without collecting a lot of those. But the kidnappers didn't know him at all if they thought he'd chase after a daughter. A son, maybe. If he'd had one. His five daughters - correction, his four daughters - were nothing to him but large doweries and potential political connections. His fifth daughter (me) didn't exist - in his eyes.
If not my father, ... my mother? No. I stopped tapping. I really should break that habit; I know it annoys you terribly, Qui-Gon. I blinked repeatedly as the harsh light bored into my eyes and a thought wormed its way to the surface of my mind. Could the snare be meant for me? But who? Who on Tanaab even cares or remembers that I exist? Who could hate me that much?
My father.
A shiver crawled over my skin, despite the resemblance the ship bore to an oven. I had turned off the climate controls a little too soon, and the sweat beading on my forehead suddenly felt clammy.
I jerked to my feet and retreated to the small living quarters situated directly behind the cockpit. My mind was blank as I neatly folded my cloak and stowed it in a locker. I stripped down to my underclothes and donned slightly baggy, brown coveralls. My Jedi utility belt and lightsaber went back on, as did my boots, to be covered by a mud-grey pilotsuit that had seen better days.
Changing my mind, I reached inside the suit and retreived my lightsaber. I stashed it in a long pocket running down my right thigh, then loosly lashed a holster to my other leg. A cross-over draw would slow me a micron, but it wasn't as if I'd be facing any Jedi. The blaster was heavy, more awkward than my lightsaber. Hopefully, I wouldn't need either one. Right, Alee. Tell yourself another one.
Vibroblade in my lower pantleg. Mini holdout blaster in a compartment on the back of the belt, flanked by extra power packs. I felt like a walking arsenal. Like every other pilot on Tatooine. Well, almost every other. I doubted anyone else packed a Jedi weapon. But then, Jedi Knight Hett had disappeared into self-exile in this part of the galaxy, and you never knew who might be waiting around the next bend in the path.
Qui-Gon, you would say, we must be cautious. Always a good piece of advice. I should heed it more.
I strode down the landing ramp and halted on the ferrocrete as the ramp rose behind me. The air was ... stark. The heat had sucked all the extra oxygen out and barely left enough for a being to survive. After the lush environs of Sullust, my lungs were clamouring for cool moist air, but inhaling dust. The coveralls were soaking up my sweat and clinging to my skin to rub uncomfortably at my elbows, under my arms, behind my knees.
How did anyone survive on this desert wasteland? Why did anyone want to?
But the only thing that was going to happen if I remained at my ship was I'd melt into a grey puddle with auburn hairs floating in it - for the minute, or less, it took for total evaporation to transpire. Midday was no time to be out and about on this rock.
I punched in the security code assigned to me as I locked the bay entry and headed toward the nearest cantina. A pilot hangout was a sure bet for finding out if a craft from Tanaab had landed recently. I approached the nearest watering hole with the vain hope that they might have at least one liquid that didn't require a durasteel stomach.
The windowless building was an inverted bowl with walls a meter thick. It was like stepping from one climate-controlled bio-dome to the next. Desert to cave. I suppressed a shudder. Dark and cool like a cave. Even smelled like a cave - one with feral inhabitants.
As I descended the two steps from entrance to cantina and headed to the large oval bar, a hand grabbed my arm and yanked me down to table level. I glanced at sausage fingers and raised my gaze, ever so slowly, to scan the face of the beefy human that had latched onto me. His front teeth were rotting and he smelled like a dianoga's main course. Beady eyes, set in a bald scabby head, stared back at me. Like I said: feral.
"How's about you join us, pretty pilot." He motioned at the empty chair by my leg.
It didn't sound like a request. Judging by descriptions I'd heard, I guessed his companion was a Dug. Reptilian snout with dangling rubbery whiskers. Skeletal body with wiry arms and legs that were apparently interchangeable for movement or doing tasks. Not the sort I wanted to get mixed up with, now or ever.
I looked at the slab of nerf digging his fingers into my arm and raised a brow. "How about you letting go of my arm?" I asked. Quite politely, I might add.
His black eyes squinted until they almost disappeared in fat folds of skin. "I said I want you to join us, pilot-lady. Now."
I whipped out my blaster and pressed it into the flabby chins piled below his mouth. Nice and deep so he could feel it.
"You know," I pointed out, "I'm not actually left-handed, but I'm pretty sure I'd hit my target from this distance. Though a brain the size of a tree tick might be tricky, even at ten centimeters. Are you a betting man?"
Beads of sweat popped out of his forehead and he released my arm. "What are you? Crazy? I just wanted to buy you a drink."
I flipped the blaster to my right hand. "Some other lifetime, Slimo."
As I walked away, holstering my blaster, I sensed rather than saw the movement. I side-stepped and pivoted. The Dug's feet-first lunge missed me, but my foot caught him square on the jaw. His neck snapped to the side and he cracked his head on the table.
Scanning his inert form, I sensed his lifeforce, strong and vibrant. I knew he could hear me. "You aren't the only one who knows how to use their feet, Dug. Stay out of business that doesn't concern you."
I pinned the beady eyes of my hopeful drinking buddy. "Translate what I said for your friend if he doesn't understand Basic. And add this thought: keep your distance."
Letting the barkeep know I was paying for information about shipments from Tanaab, I retreated to a corner booth to nurse the weakest lomin ale in the Outer Rim. Must be the precious water they diluted it with that made the drink so pricey. 90 minutes later I was still waiting.
Maybe I overdid the don't-mess-with-me scene. I really don't like that 'tough female' act, even if it does avoid a lot of messy encounters in dives like this one. Well, maybe I enjoy it once in a while. Like with Slimo over there. I caught a smile slipping onto my face and wiped it off. Someone was headed my way.
A swarthy, scruffy human, a little past prime, slid onto the bench across from me. Judging by the deep furrows in his brow, his scowl was permanent. Like the wrinkles in his dirty white flight suit.
"Heard you're looking for data about incomings from Tanaab." His gruff voice matched him perfectly.
"That's right," I replied.
"Might know something. What's it to you?"
"The pilot took something that's mine. I want it back."
"Innocence lost can never be regained, lady," he said.
The Force save me from wise-cracking philosopher-pilots. I glared at him for a micron. "No one steals from a shipment of mine and gets away with it." Shipment. Family. Whatever.
He leaned back and draped his arm across the back of the seat. "You trying to tell me you're a smuggler with that pretty little VG-23 parked over in Bay 37. What could that little pleasure cruiser ever smuggle?"
I leaned forward and sneered. "You'd be surprised how many little nooks and crannies there are to conceal ... precious cargo on my ship." I copied his posture. "Big doesn't always mean valuable. Sometimes small is more so."
It was hard not to smile. I could almost see visions of jewels and rare stones dancing through his head. Never mind that the most precious thing he'd find on my ship was my cloak. Greed is a powerful ally. I pulled a pouch out of an inner pocket and hefted it in my hand before dropping it on the table.
The pilot's eyes sparkled. He reached for the pouch and I clamped my hand over his. I stared hard and shook my head slowly until he withdrew his hand with a careless shrug.
"Had a direct flight come in just over a month ago. Two passengers. No cargo. But if what you deal in is small ..."
"How do you know so many details?" I asked.
"I only fly Outer Rim and Mos Eisley is home base." He curled his lip. "And my brother is the Portmaster. I make it a point to know. Information can be a profitable thing."
I turned inward and touched the Force. This was the right ship. I was sure of it. Besides, it only made sense that if someone were laying a trap, they'd make the trail easy to follow.
Scanning the pilot's features, I asked, "Any others?"
"One. A quick layover about two weeks ago. No one got off."
I studied him speculatively for a moment. "Who got on?"
He glanced down at the small pouch and back up at me and raised his eyebrows a notch. I added a second pouch to the pot. Both packets actually did contain small jewels - of very little value - that I had found stashed in the ship with some others when it was delivered to me on my 20th birthday. Anonymously. Though I'm sure my mother was responsible.
The pilot cleared his throat. "Middle of the night a heavily cloaked figure boarded. Stayed for 30 minutes. Left." He paused, as if expecting me to melt with appreciation. His brows drew together and he added, "It was one of the two passengers from the first flight."
"How could you tell if the figure was cloaked?"
"Surveillance holo. Got a real good look at the being's hand. Very distinctive. It was the same passenger, all right."
I narrowed my eyes. "You know who it is, don't you?"
Alarm flashed across his face as a wave of fear touched my senses. "You got what you paid for. I'm out of here."
As he reached for the pouches, I snagged his wrist. "For what you're getting here you can, at least, tell me where the passengers went."
"What makes you think I know?"
"It pays to know. Remember? Besides ... Small planet. Sparsely populated. You know."
He looked away for a micron, then jerked his hand out of my grip. As he turned away I heard him whisper, "Mos Espa."
I watched the pilot's back as he plotted a direct course to the exit. I never did get his name. What had made him so jittery? What, or who? Unease was curling at the base of my spine, remote and indefinite and linked with my thoughts concerning this cloaked passenger. Who did my father hire to guard Rein? My stomach seized up like a droid in need of an oil bath. Could he really hate me this much? Could he really be seeking to ... to eliminate me? I knew he'd destroyed all traces of me on Tanaab after I left. I had checked when I was eleven. With the help of a friend at the Temple, we'd sliced into the Tanaabian records to find (surprise, surprise) that I was never born. Imagine that. What did my father think? That wiping out a few records made me any less his daughter? Did the merest whiff of my existence taint the Nerac family so much he felt driven to destroy me?
The Force help me, I had to stop this line of thinking before
I started crying. Wouldn't that impress this crowd? I took a cleansing
breath and massaged my forehead until the surging sadness was
pushed aside and the Force was soothing my ragged thoughts. What
was wrong with me? A blood connection, thin as a strand of shimmersilk,
shouldn't have the enduring strength of transparasteel. Oh, Qui-Gon.
I was driven to my feet by a desire to step into your embrace
and feel your strong arms wrap around me. You are my family
- you and, yes, even your antagonistic Padawan, and the all the
Jedi at the Temple. The sooner I got this mission behind me and
got back to my life on Coruscant, the better.
