Chapter 33
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CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE:        Admiral James Rumsfield emerged onto the bridge of the FELIX at 0512, drawing bewildered stares from the mix of night watch and daytime bridge officers on duty. On any other starship, twelve minutes of tardiness was a notable lapse for a commander, but hardly anything that would give an entire bridge crew pause. Rumsfield, however, was notorious for running an extremely tight watch. Since he had assumed command of the FELIX he had always emerged from the turbolift at exactly 0500 and wouldn’t hesitate to raise hell on anyone who was more than a single minute tardy.

When 0500 had come and gone, a few of the younger ensigns had jokingly suggested running an internal sensor scan to make sure “the old warhorse” was still onboard. Cyber had smiled at that, amused enough by the sentiment to refrain from chiding them about showing the proper respect to absent superior officers.

Rumsfield noted each of the eyes fixed on him with no small amount of annoyance, but he gave no outward sign of his chagrin save for a mild twitch of his left eyebrow. He waved his cup of coffee at them and spoke in a low growl, “What are you all staring at? Pay attention to your stations.” His gaze wandered aside to Cyber, who was looking curiously up at him. “And you, Lieutenant Hare, get the hell out of my chair.”

The blue-furred hare jumped out of the command seat and the other bridge officers returned wandering eyes to their stations as the admiral stepped down to the command platform. Rumsfield wrinkled his nose and looked briefly at the main viewscreen before sitting down in the command seat with an aggravated sigh. He took several sips of his coffee and then spoke again, “Is there anything to report?”

Cyber took a bewildered moment to consider him, one of her ears flopping slightly to the side. The admiral was often stern, even abrasive, but he wasn’t one to let such an angry outburst slip unless seriously provoked. It struck her idly that something must be the matter, and she made the unwise choice to ask him about it. “Sir,” she ventured, cocking her head to the side. “Are—are you all right?”

Rumsfield lowered his coffee with a sideways glare. “I asked you a question, Lieutenant Commander,” he snapped crossly.

The intensity of his reply took her aback and for a moment she faltered, recoiling from his temper. “N—no, sir.” Her voice fell involuntarily quiet. She was now even more certain that something was amiss, “It was a fairly uneventful night—well, except—“

The admiral perked an ear and returned his eyes to his coffee, “Except what?”

“A minor computer glitch—“

Rumsfield took another swig of the drink, “What kind of glitch?”

“Sensors,” she explained with a dismissive shrug. “The ship registered a false proximity reading at about 0304. We ran a diagnostic and found nothing was wrong.”

The blood in the admiral’s veins suddenly ran cold, but Rumsfield was a master of hiding emotions like shock, uncertainty or concern—sentiments he felt a commander under pressure should never show. He took another gulp of his coffee, finishing it, and pretended to muse curiously about the lieutenant’s report. “Probably just a systems bug,” he said with practiced nonchalance. “Let me know if it pops up again.”

Cyber nodded, completely taken by the performance, “Aye, sir.”

“Anything else?”

She shook her head, “No, sir.”

Rumsfield nodded, his mood seeming to calm. “I relieve you, then.”

Cyber nodded, “Thank you sir.”

The admiral’s eyes followed her until she left the command area, passing out of his peripheral vision as she headed up the steps toward the turbolift. A few moments after she left he stood and stepped forward to the helm station, leaning over an especially green-looking young ensign who was busily checking the readouts of his console.

The officer looked up momentarily at the admiral and then turned back to his station. For a terrified moment he wondered if he had the misfortune of looking the least busy of all the officers on the bridge, and that Rumsfield was going to reprimand him for it. But when a few awkward moments had passed with the admiral hovering silently over his shoulder, he ventured another glance. “Um, sir . . . uh—is there a problem?”

Rumsfield patted him on the shoulder and turned around, stepping back toward the command chair. “No,” he shook his head after a moment. “No, ensign. Not it all.”

————————————

“What? Are you planning on leaving or something?”

The displaced StarFleet captain and his Lemorian companion were meandering through a field filled with blue grasses tall enough to reach their shoulders. Light winds whipped through the lanky stalks, brushing their wheat-like kernels into both Marc Xavier and Zannah Lyles’ faces as they trudged onward.

The acres-wide crop they waded through was called dak aru’loa, which in the Daktian’s native tongue roughly means ‘field of the people,’ an ancient parkland half a kilometer north of the palace mount. When they first arrived on the planet, Zannah had picked a clearing in the field as an ideal place to land, as it was relatively out of the way but still close enough to the Sovereign’s palace to make it feasible to travel there on foot.

Upon hearing her call behind him Xavier stopped and turned on a heel, waving aside a stalk of blue grass from his mouth. “Leaving?” he echoed, “Where would I go?”

Lyles took the opportunity to catch up to him, looking at the captain with a similar kind of curiosity to when she first sensed the Force in him. “That’s what I was wondering,” she said. “What could there possibly be in that shuttle that you want? The Imps don’t exactly furnish these things with all the luxuries . . .”

“I’m hardly interested in luxuries . . .” Marc muttered to himself as he turned about, pressing onward through the grass. “How much longer?”

The Lemorian sighed in exasperation and started after him, “We should be there anytime—“

But the captain made her answer moot before she could finish it. He stepped out into the clearing to find their Lambda-class shuttle resting several dozen feet away, undisturbed.

Zannah emerged from the grass stalks a few seconds later, finishing her answer with a distinct tone of irony, “—now.”

Xavier brushed his clothes briefly in a vain effort to dust off the fine layer of blue powder that had collected on him. It was a vain gesture, however, and he quickly put the thought out of his mind as he walked over to the side of the shuttle, his eyes searching over its grayish-white hull for a sign of a hatch control or opening lever.

Lyles stayed back, standing and considering the perplexed brown fox for a moment. After awhile she shook her head with a small grin, producing an identikey from her pocket and activating it’s remote. The craft promptly let down its boarding ramp, and Marc wasted no time hopping onto it and scrambling inside. Zannah’s curiosity only deepened as she heard the sound of rummaging around and cargo containers hitting the deck, prompting her to amble forward and have a peek inside.

She found the captain standing on top of a duraplast crate and rummaging through the depths of a storage locker, tossing out field rations and bacta pads over his shoulder as if they were used candy wrappers. When he realized that what he was searching for wasn’t there, he turned his attention to a set of cargo containers near the far wall, throwing them open one by one and dumping their contents out onto the floor.

The Lemorian made a wry face, “You know we have to fly in this thing again eventually, right?” she quipped. “Try not to rip apart something important, like the navicomputer, okay?”

But Marc ignored her, his mind focused on a more important pursuit. After several more minutes of rummaging through the cargo compartments, officer lockers and overhead storage areas he found a reinforced container with a series of Basic letters etched into it. He dragged the crate into the main compartment and offered the writing to Zannah. “Here—“ he pointed, “What does this say?”

Lyles raised an eyebrow, “You can’t read that?”

Xavier finally let his impatience get the better of him, “Just tell me what it says.”

The Lemorian persisted, however, “You can speak Basic but you can’t read it?” This was definitely strange to her as even the poorest children of the most backwater Outer Rim worlds at least knew how to read.

Marc growled lowly and shoved the box down, letting it hit the deck with a loud dull thud. “Spare me the Hooked-on-Phonics lesson and just tell me.”

Zannah crossed her arms, visibly miffed. She glanced down over the lettering and then turned a harsh glare to the captain. “It says ’Classified Equipment.’”

“Bingo.” He crouched down and inspected the opening mechanism, and after a few moments tried to open it. But the container stubbornly refused to reveal its contents, shut tight with a magnetic seal. Much to Xavier’s annoyance, no amount of pulling, yanking, or prying on his part could convince it to change its mind.

Lyles leaned back against a nearby bulkhead, hiding a smirk as she watched him struggle futilely with the container. She contented herself for the next five minutes letting the captain make a fool of himself as she brushed her fingers lightly over the hilt of her lightsaber. It was only when he started asking her about explosives that she unclipped the weapon from her belt and ignited it.

Marc fumbled backwards onto his haunches at the sudden flash of sound and light. The brilliant, humming blade of the lightsaber hovered a few feet from him. He glanced from the shifting colors of the saber to Zannah, then back to the weapon before a thought came to him. He’d seen something like this before. His thoughts wandered back to a report he had skimmed over while he was still aboard the FELIX. Something from Engineering about a weapon they’d found on that redheaded kitten who had attacked his chief of security.

The Lemorian twitched her tail slightly and raised the saber up a bit. “You need to get into that case, right?”

Xavier nodded hesitantly.

“Tell me what’s inside.”

He frowned. “I can’t.”

Zannah made a face. “Can’t or won’t?”

Marc settled forward and looked at the box. If he didn’t say anything, he’d never get to his equipment and it might fall into the hands of someone it shouldn’t. That’s too big of a risk, he thought. Either I secure it or destroy it. Since Zannah seemed to be the only one who could help him do either, and he felt he could trust her to some extent, he elected for the former. “Tools, all right?” He made a face, “A chronometer and some—other devices . . .”

Zannah arched a brow.

“. . . and a weapon.”

She nodded, looking him in the eyes, “What kind of weapon?”

“A rifle.” He admitted, and then added quickly, “It’s only used for self defense.” Marc stood. “Look. Either you’re going to open the crate for me or cut it up with that . . . thing.”

“Lightsaber.”

“Whatever.” He shook his head. “I have to attend to this.”

Zannah nodded and glanced down at the box, considering it a moment. “All right, I’ll get your stuff out. But on one condition.”

Xavier already knew what it was.

“You start telling us where you’re really from. Enough of this ‘it’s classified’ garbage.”

Marc took a breath and looked at her with a hardened gaze. “Alright.” 

————————————

 Somewhere deep in the hazy twilight that separates reality from the realm of dreams, Germani Walker found himself adrift in a foggy black abyss. He was alone in a quiet place, and everywhere infinity seemed to yawn out before him. The belated realization that he was not where he last remembered being struck him suddenly, causing him to start.

More accurately he would have started, had he a body with which to be startled. It dawned on him with no small sense of terror that he was without body and without form, a hazy apparition that could not move or speak. Paralyzed in that darkness, he began to wonder frantically, Am I dead?

His thoughts seemed to echo around him, but the void surrendered no answer save for a host of distant and haunting noises that danced into his nonexistent ears.

Hello? Walker could feel the fear growing heavier within him, like a cold lump of ice. Hello? Is anyone there?

Still there was no answer, but the sounds grew more disjointed and Germani grew more frightened. Try though he did he couldn’t orient himself or identify where the noise was coming from. All he knew was that it was growing louder and closer.

Please, somebody help me. Can anyone hear me?

And then a voice finally came to him, though it was not the reply he was seeking. Its sudden reverberation through the ether gave him pause. “Fluid pressure?”

What? Germani thought.

Another voice, female, came after. “Nominal, sir.”

“Synaptic interface?”

“Looks good, sir.”

The rabbit only grew more confused as the conversation echoed through his mind. What? What are you talking about? Can you hear me?

“Good. Wake him.”

The dark abyss suddenly split into a wash of pure white light—so bright and strong that he wished fervently that he could look away from it.

 Germani Walker opened bloodshot and pigment-drained eyes to the world, his expression unnaturally blank. He sat slumped back against the support of a restraining chair, his hands and legs cuffed down. A brown leather belt was fastened around his head, taut enough to hold it up but not to keep it from leaning awkwardly to the side. Several thin silver wires ran from the head restraint and the chair into an insidious looking machine behind him, which was alive with a steady series of hums and beeps.

A small group of people were standing around him, studying the young man as he roused to semiconsciousness. Two wore bleached lab coats, while the others were dressed in the austere ebony uniforms of the Imperial Ubiqtorate. The white-coats held notepads and were intently scribbling onto them while the rest of the group spoke quietly amongst themselves.

Their nonchalance was broken by a sudden high-pitch alarm from the machine. Germani leapt against his restraints with a kind of violence that only comes through drugs or insanity. Every muscle in his body tensed sharply and the force of his motion was enough to scoot the chair forward a few inches against the cold steel floor.

The white-coats hurried around to the machine behind him, expertly adjusting the dials and controls. After a moment, the alarm cut off and Germani relaxed, again slumping against the restraints.

One of the intelligence agents shot a stern look to the doctors. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” one of the two assured him haggardly, “His mind is adjusting to the new input levels . . . just a shock-hiccup.”

“He seems to be responding, sir.” The other white-coat nodded as she scrutinized a small readout on the side of the machine. “His perceptions have been satisfactorily altered. The chemical levels are holding.”

The commanding Imperial Intelligence officer watched the rabbit as his expression gradually returned to that distant blank, giving a satisfied nod after a few moments. “When can we begin?”

“Now, sir.” The first doctor nodded. “The psychological overlay is in place—he should perceive the input as someone he knows.”

            Germani Walker flinched again, blearily lifting his head off his forearms and glancing around. His vision was hazy and phantoms swam before his eyes as he tried to get focus. The sound of people surrounded him, dozens of people talking and joking and jiving at each other.

“Where—what? Where am I?” he mumbled. What he thought were remnants of his hangover pounded through his brain. He braced his hands against the table to steady himself.

The sensation of a hand on his shoulder caught him unexpectedly and he jumped, yet again, whirling around and nearly slipping out of his chair.

            “Whoa—whoa . . . easy there, ‘fella.” Someone caught him before he tumbled headlong onto the floor.

            Walker pulled away and grabbed at the air, luckily catching a nearby counter to steady himself. “Who the hell are you?”

            That brought about a chortle, a sound immensely familiar to him. When the room stopped spinning Germani turned his eyes toward the person beside him and squinted in disbelief. “Dargo!? Dargo Starspeeder?”

Walker’s ‘friend’ gave a wide grin. “Who else would it be?”

            It took a moment for the rabbit to recover from the surprise. “What—h—what have you been up to, y’old thief?”

            “Ah, you know. The usual.” Dargo frowned at him. “We found you passed out in a ditch yesterday morning, just outside Salis D’aar.”

            Germani took a breath and looked up, back into his mind, trying to recall the previous night. Disjointed sounds and images of the casino came to him, half drowned in that old alcohol daze. “Oh yeah,” he said, giving a nod. “Yeah, had a bad string of luck at the Emerald Star . . . they threw me out.”

            Dargo grinned. “When’s the last time you’ve ever had any kind of good luck?”

Germani flashed a grin. “I guess that’s true.” He paused again, looking at the counter and then the rest of his surroundings. It was easy to tell that he was in some kind of tavern, not seedy enough to be Mos Eisley. After a moment, he motioned to the barkeep and ordered up a light drink to clear his head. The rabbit finished the drink quickly and set the glass on the table, mulling something over. “Hey Dargo,” he said as he turned to his friend, “How’d you ever get out of prison on Bespin? I thought Lando refused to grant pardon to anyone involved with the heist . . .”

One of the doctors frowned and shook her head. “Increase scopolamine levels ten percent. We want to keep close tabs on the higher cognitive functions.”

“We don’t want him turned into a vegetable,” one of the Ubiqtorate operatives warned.

The white-coats both gave him a momentary glare. “Hardly, sir. We know what we’re doing.”

Germani’s world lost some of its definition, the conversations around him turning to garbled murmurs as his vision blurred. The only thing that remained clear was Dargo, sitting steadily beside him as if nothing had changed. He dismissively shrugged off Walker’s question. “Just a stroke of luck, I suppose.”

Had his brain not been swimming in a wash of drugs, the rabbit would have questioned such an ambiguous answer further. “Oh, well,” he said dazedly, “I’m happy for ya. You’re not . . . mad or anything?”

Dargo chortled again, giving Germani a good-natured slap on the shoulder. “No, not at all . . .”

The door to the interrogation chamber opened suddenly, drawing the eyes of everyone in the room except Germani’s. The imposing form of Admiral Sher Khal’Saad stepped inside, his head and shoulders washed in sterile light from the hallway. As the doors slid shut behind him, he folded his arms behind his back and turned to the Ubiqtorate operatives with a slight nod.

“Admiral Khal’Saad.” The senior most operative stood up, clicking his heels together and nodding. “We—I hadn’t been informed you were coming down.”

The tiger held his hand up for silence, “It’s all right, commander. I am not here to evaluate your progress . . .” That brought a muted sigh of relief from all in attendance. “. . . simple curiosity struck me as I passed nearby.” He motioned toward Germani, who was obviously unaware of his presence. “Who is this?”

One of the other intelligence officers stood aside and gathered a file off a nearby table. “His name is Germani Julius Walker; Corellian-born but apparently a citizen of Cloud City . . . Bespin, sir. His record includes a smattering of small-time offenses, petty theft, illegal possession of high-grade starfighter weaponry, smuggling, vandalism; your typical freighter-scum.”

The tiger’s brow furrowed slightly. “If he is so ‘typical’ then why have you taken the time to interview him in such a high level facility?”

“According to one of our field agents he claims to have extensive knowledge of Amazon space, having performed bounties in their territory for some time.”

Khal’Saad stroked his chin, “I see.” He motioned toward Germani and the machinery behind him, “and what is this? Some form of mind-control equipment, I take it?”

One of the doctors stepped forward, “Not exactly, milord. It’s a perception-altering machine . . . it uses drugs and electrical stimulus to convince the brain that it is in a familiar setting, among friends.”

“We could have used such a device before Yavin,” Sher mused to himself. “Perhaps the princess would have been more cooperative . . .”

“It’s a new experimental device, sir. Only Ubiqtorate operatives are authorized to use—“

The admiral waved his hand dismissively, “Yes yes I’m aware of the special protocol.” He stepped forward, interest still in his eyes. “What will happen if I approach him?”

“He will perceive you as a friend as well. But I would not reccom—“

“Stand aside.” One of the Intelligence operatives grabbed the white-coat by the arm. “If the admiral wishes to speak with the subject, he may.”

Khal’Saad gave an abbreviated nod and took a seat in front of him.

Germani looked aside suddenly, seeing someone approaching from a distance. He squinted his eyes and then started as the apparition took the form of another familiar face. “Gador?! Wow, this is amazing! It’s a party!”

Gador and Dargo exchanged momentarily glances, but the rabbit was too loopy to notice. “Wow this is great, you guys!” Walker continued, “Imagine all of us here at the same place!”

“Yes, indeed,” Gador’s demeanor was stolid, “Quite the coincidence . . .”

“So,” Dargo went on, “How’d you end up at a place like the Emerald Star, anyhow? That’s a pretty ritzy locale . . .”

Gador followed his lead, “Yes, seems quite a bit out of your league.”

The rabbit gave a proud grin and playfully shoved Gador on the shoulder, “You wish!” He teased, “You’re thinking of the old Germani. That casino was middle-of-the-road as far as I’m concerned.”

Gador did his best to hide a faint hint of amusement. “Is that . . . so?”

“Sure!” Germani continued, laughing good-naturedly. “I had the run-in of a lifetime and now I don’t have to worry about creds anymore. It’s the good-life, lemme tell ya.”

Dargo leaned back, mentally noting the improved rapport now that Walker’s other ‘friend’ had joined them. Germani was feeling more comfortable now, and that was exactly what they needed in order to improve their chances of getting any useful information out of him. Dargo folded his arms, goading the rabbit to elaborate. “I don’t believe it.”

“No, really,” Walker insisted with a nod. “Great stuff. Repaid my debt to the syndicate, paid off the loan on my ship . . .” He glanced around suspiciously and then motioned his friends closer.

Dargo and Gador leaned in.

“Amazons,” Germani said in a whisper. “I found ‘em.”

Gador glanced away from the rabbit and gave his comrade a meaningful look. Impressive, he thought.

“Really, now?” Dargo looked more interested. “They’re supposed to be a myth.”

“Yes,” Gador added for effect. “Nothing more than a rumor.”

“No, not at all,” Walker shook his head. “They’re as real as those 20,000 creds I blew at the casino last night. They have no concept of what things are worth out here, so I get paid a fortune.”

“Is that—“ Dargo began.

Gador cut him off, however, eager to get to the point. “Where are they?”

Dargo looked over at Germani’s other friend, concerned that his impatience might damage the façade.

But the rabbit only grinned, picking up on that tone and taunting him, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Khal’Saad gave an involuntary growl, breaking character. The officer motioned to him behind Germani’s back and shook his head, pleading with him to be patient.

“I can’t just go giving away my secret now . . .” Walker chuckled, “Knowing you guys, half the Outer Rim territories would know about it by nightfall.”

“We wouldn’t tell,” Dargo nodded. “Come on . . . we’re buddies.”

“Yes,” Gador agreed. “We are friends.”

Germani looked at them both suspiciously and for a moment they each wondered if he were seeing through the illusion. “No—why should I?” He said after awhile. “Even if you didn’t blab to the whole galaxy I don’t have a reason to give up my monopoly on the market.”

“We—“

“We’ve fallen on a bit of hard luck,” Gador stepped in. “Trouble with the wrong people, you know . . . the syndicate . . . we don’t want to muscle in on your territory . . . just skim a little off the top to take the heat off of us. After we get what we need . . . we’ll leave.”

Germani eyed him seriously, as seriously as he could given the dreamlike circumstances. The mention of the Black Sun syndicate struck home with him, bringing up a series of unpleasant memories that the rabbit would have been happy to have forgotten. The thought that his friends had gotten themselves tied up with people like that softened his disposition, and after a moment he nodded. “Alright . . . I’ll tell you how I got in. But it stays between us three, okay?”

Chapter 33
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