Star Wars - When the Domino Falls (4 page)

“Seth arranged for a small diversion on the other side of the planet.” The co-pilot’s disembodied voice snorted mirthfully over the comm. “We have a free ride.”

Exhausted, Ransom slid to the floor, holding his head between his arms and knees. “Yhew!” he exclaimed. “This ought to put a hefty price on all our heads.” Turning to Drake, he ruffled the boy’s hair. “Congratulations, kid, you just made the billboards.”

Beneath the shrewd, cloudless skies of his beloved Socorro, curled beneath his favorite woolen blanket, Drake shivered in the cold air blasting from the circulation vents. A drowsy smile curled over his lips as he lay against the pillows, reliving those exciting moments in the cluttered confines of his mind. Exhausted, he stretched beneath the warmth of his comforters, savoring the grainy sensation of Socorran sand between his toes. Nearby, he heard Nikaede’s gentle snores and he sighed, wondering what new adventures tomorrow would bring for him and the overly sensitive Wookiee.

Momentarily startled, the young Socorran was fully awakened by Tait Ransom’s charismatic voice, echoing from the main sitting area beyond his bedroom. Fumbling through the darkness, he stumbled over the sleeping Wookiee. Nikaede yawned, exposing a mouthful of glistening fangs. Rolling to her side, she embraced the bowcaster protectively against her chest and fell back to sleep. Relieved, Drake tiptoed to the wall, easing into the shadows. As his consciousness sharpened, he focused on the whispered voices and heard his name, his father, and something about the
Miss Chance
.

“Are you sure. Tait?” Ancher groaned.

“I’m telling you, Ancher, as soon as we broke from hyperspace, we picked up his signal and followed it into the asteroid belt.” Ransom growled irritably, forcing the words from his throat. “We kept getting closer and closer, until finally we were sitting right on top of the signal.”

“He was hiding then,” the old guard argued. “Some of those asteroids are enormous. You might have been sitting right on top of him.”

“We were sitting on top of him. Ancher.” Ransom slumped into a nearby chair, cradling his head beneath his knees. “On top and right in the middle. There wasn’t much left.” Distraught, he sat up, unable to shake the images of the gutted freighter, drifting through the erratic course of the asteroid belt.

Ancher closed his eyes, guarded against tears. “I told him not to go. Warned him there’d be trouble.”

“What about the boy, Ancher?” Tait whispered.

“Drake?” Ancher gasped. Firmly shaking his head, he blurted. “I can’t tell him. I … I wouldn’t know what to say.”

Drake felt his heart clench, his chest tightening beneath his hands. “You don’t have to say anything. Ancher,” the young Socorran whispered. Forcing a breath into his lungs, he walked into the main room.

“Drake,” Ancher cried. “I don’t know … sorry isn’t enough, boy.”

Numb, Drake moved into the inner antechamber, avoiding Ransom’s intense gaze.

“Drake,” he heard the Corellian whisper, a note of command in his voice. Before Ransom could stop and reason with him, he snatched his boots from the outer wall and sprinted into the cold dawn. Socorro’s ever intruding sands sucked at his feet, weighing him down as he raced up the face of the dune to the empty landing field beyond the compound. There were no signs of the
Miss Chance
. Exaggerated by the ascending sun, the desert swells formed false mountain ranges against the stony surface of the planet.

Breathless, Drake sank to his knees, beating his fists into the sand. Raised on a gentle zephyr, a spray of sand sifted into his eyes, summoning immediate tears. “I won’t let you go!” Drake screamed to the sun. “I won’t let you go,” he cried, surrendering to the embrace of the black sands.

It was eventide before Drake stirred. Stretched out on the sweltering sand, he lay face down with no shelter or shirt to protect his shoulders and back. His skin burned with intensity, inflamed by Socorro’s unrelenting sun. Gritting his teeth, he endured this selfinduced punishment, a purification meant to burn the guilt from his heart, if not from his mind. Dazed by the extreme heat, the boy sat up, startled to find Nikaede sitting nearby on the dune.

Perched on the ridge, she seemed no more out of place than the sand, her black pelt blending into the Socorran landscape. Drake rose to his feet, wincing as the burns across his back pulled and twinged with every motion. Walking with deliberate slowness, he moved up the crest, momentarily staring into the Wookiee’s eyes. Close to tears, injured both physically and emotionally, he sat down on the dune beside her.

Nikaede tipped her head back against her shoulders, howling in a low, mournful voice that echoed within her throat. Growing steadily louder, it was not an unpleasant sound and seemed to linger, reverberating against the dunes and the clear sky.

“Is that how Wookiees mourn their dead?” Drake asked, intrigued by the bizarre act. He listened intently as Nikaede explained how her people gathered by honor families, howling, wailing, even challenging death, to bring solidarity to the survivors. The grieving boy shrugged against the tightening burns across his shoulders, in silence, he listened to the names of Wookiee uncles and cousins, grandparents and playmates, marking them all in memory, as was the tradition. A little smile forced its way to his lips when the Wookiee howled an odd melody that vaguely resembled his father’s name.

“Drake!” Ancher called. The Corellian appeared just over the dune crest. Behind him, Tait Ransom stiffly navigated the unsteady ridge of sand, leaving his landspeeder humming nearby on the desert floor. Sullen, the rogue smuggler paused self-consciously, staring into the young Socorran’s face. Abruptly, he took Drake’s hand, pressing a 1,000 credit chit into the boy’s palm. “Before my old man took off for the other side of the galaxy, he put 1,000 credits in my hand and told me to go burn in rancor pit.” He shifted uneasily in the sand. “There was no love lost between us — but that’s the way it usually goes with those of us who run the shadows.”

Shaking his reckless black mane. Ransom stared into the setting sun, as if gathering his courage. “I learned the runner’s trade from Ancher. Right here on Socorro. I left to make a name for myself, outside the shadow of Kaine Paulsen. Don’t much matter what the untold histories will write about yesterday, today, or tomorrow.” He thrust his hands into his pockets. “I’ll always be second best to him …and you.” Ransom chuckled, clucking the boy on the chin. “I don’t have it in my genes to be the greatest pirate in Socorran history.” He cleared his throat of tears. “They’ll be watching you, Drake. Jabba, Abdi-Badawzi, from Nal Hutta to Tatooine, they’ll have their eyes on you ’cause they want what you’ve got… what your father had. Take that 1,000, it’s a rough start, but that’s the one thing we all have in common.”

Staring at Ancher, Ransom forced a breath through his wide nostrils. “You were right to put ole Ancher in his place. There is something different about Socorrans, something that separates them from the rest. If it’s heart, then go where your heart takes you. kid.” The smuggler retreated, starting back down the dune to his vehicle. “Don’t never regret what you’ve done or what you will do. And don’t never look back.” Ransom hesitated as he climbed into the landspeeder. “Clear skies, kid.” Revving the engine a few times, he sped into the badlands, leaving a billowed, black cloud in his wake.

“He’s a good man,” Ancher whispered, moved by Ransom’s gesture. “Not much of a pilot, but one feisty fighter.” Cradling Drake against him. he asked. “How are you feeling?”

“I don’t feel anymore, Ancher. There just doesn’t seem to be any reason,” he replied incredulously. “No cause.”

“The only good cause is a dead cause, I’m afraid. It’s the only kind that brings people together.”

Staring across the darkening horizon. Drake asked. “Will I know my cause?”

“When the domino falls, it’s every man for himself,” Ancher replied. “When the time comes, you’ll know it, boy.”

Drake sank weakly to his knees. “But what if I make a mistake? What if I don’t listen when I should? Take on a job that’s too big?”

“Drake,” the old guard smuggler chuckled softly, “making choices is all about making mistakes. Everybody’s guaranteed to make a few. That’s why they call it living.” The smuggler shuffled away, leaving Drake and Nikaede alone with the coming night wind.

Staring into the expansive badlands, Drake contemplated Socorran traditions, whose intricate ties with the tragically short lives of pirates and smugglers left no room for dramatic ceremony. There would be no savage wild fires or elaborate rituals to celebrate the death of Kaine Paulsen. No moment of silence, not even a scream in the night, to commemorate the spirit of a dead pirate. There would just be memories, offworld memories, and hushed whispers of fallen glory.

Abruptly, the wind was still. For one tranquil moment, no grain of sand shifted. The ever-changing face of Socorro remained unchanged. Then, as abruptly as it had ceased, the breeze swept in-from the badlands, carrying a chill. “Nikaede, I need your help,” Drake whispered. “I have to do something,” he hesitated, “and I can’t do it alone.”

Nikaede pounded a fist against her broad chest, bellowing a staunch oath of fealty to the young pirate. As if daring the waning glory of Socorro’s sun to challenge the integrity of her honor, she raised her bowcaster and uttered a tremendous war cry to the dimming skies. Intrigued, Drake grinned, whispering. “Was that a life debt?” His smile widened and a deep sense of completion began to swell within him. Shaking the sand from his leggings, the young Socorran stood up. “Come on,” he whispered and started walking into the ominous stretches of the Doaba Badlands.

It was nearly dawn when they reached the hidden entrance to the dormant volcano. Filtered sunlight illuminated the volcanic crown, sifting down through the darkness. In the basement hollow, the delicate rays faintly sketched the silhouette of a Ghtroc freighter. Moored on a modified set of strut supports, the radiant visage of the
Steadfast
stirred Drake’s memories of late-night flight schedules with his father, prepping the ship for her first smuggling runs.

Intrigued by the customized renovations, Nikaede examined the quiet, exterior lines of the freighter, impressed with the power boosters jutting from the tail section. “You can play with the engines another time,” Drake chuckled, guiding the mesmerized Wookiee toward the bridge. In the narrow corridor, he shivered as the cooler air aboard the ship blew over his bare skin. Pulling his father’s flight jacket from the console, he shrugged the rough fabric over his inflamed shoulders and slowly sat on the edge of the pilot’s chair. In the familiar interior of the
Steadfast’s
flight cabin, he thought he could hear his father’s voice, echoing starchart calculations and instructions.

“Go ahead,” he chuckled, offering the co-pilot’s chair to the anxious Wookiee. Leaning into the plush leather chair, Drake suddenly sat upright, feeling a discomforting bulge against the small of his back. Reaching behind him. he felt the warm heel of a heavy blaster against his palm. “By all the moons of Nal Hutta!” Drake gasped, echoing one of Ancher’s preferred expressions. Raising the blaster from its holster, he recognized it as Ancher’s most prized possession, the only weapon to survive 30 years of the Corellian’s dangerous lifestyle. Brought out for only the most auspicious ventures, the modified blaster was formidable, even without its power pack. “How did he know where …” Drake grinned mischievously, knowing that the tenacious smuggler had ways of knowing everything that transpired above or beneath the sands of Socorro.

Beneath the blaster, inside the customized holster. Drake found an antiquated, personal datapad. Before the days of keypads and data-punch boards, the obsolete instrument used a magnetic stylus to imprint information directly onto the dim screen. Perusing through the entries, Drake was astounded by the neat calculations and astrogation maps scrolling before him. Every route that Kaine Paulsen had ever explored and used for smuggling, from the most bizarre entries to the routine, were recorded there.

“These were the short cuts,” Drake whispered. The last entry was a detailed schematic of the Thrugii asteroid belt. “Nikaede, what’s on the cargo manifest?” he asked, staring blankly through the ship’s viewscreen. “Not the main cargo bay, ship’s stores.” Distracted, the Socorran stood up, strapping the blaster around his waist. “Six months of consumables? Emergency rations.” Grinning roguishly, he ordered. “Realign the relays and set the proximity alarms to maximum. We’ll need a constant-active sweep to avoid the sector authority sensor tags.”

The astute Wookiee recognized variations in the codes, modifications radically opposed to the normal coordinate planes of space. Shrugging, she input the peculiar heading and barked to her captain, adding a sharp yowl to punctuate her inquiry.

“Yep, we’re going to the Thrugii outpost,” he replied.

Listening to the gentle whistle of the
Steadfast’s
engines, Drake toggled the lift controls, guiding the freighter through the narrow crown of the volcano. Socorro’s sun met them at the rim, throwing an acute glare across the unsullied hull, as the starship sped across the dark shadow of the Doaba Badlands. “Bring up the running lights,” he ordered, “all of the them, including the search beacons.”