The Jedi Pirate

My name is Captain Beacon Sardis. You may or may not have heard of me. They call me the Jedi Pirate.  I am not a Jedi.  I'm recording this so I maybe you can learn a thing or two from my mistakes. This is my holocron.

[beaconsardis]

Miserable Binary

After the Battle of Exegol, Rey and I correspond more frequently and more openly. With the First Order a diminished and disappearing threat to the galaxy, she no longer feels like she has to hide her whereabouts.

"It's one thing for someone to track me down," she says, "it's another thing entirely when it's my friends and the fate of the galaxy."

I sit in my cabin, in front of her flickering hologram.

"Did you get the books I left for you on Batuu?"

She may not care if someone tries to track her down, but I still live very much outside the law. I hold up the books.

"I did."

"What do you think?" Rey sits down, cross-legged, eagerly waiting my review.

"This may be my own bias," I admit, "but they confirmed what I already believed?"

"Yes! Exactly!" Rey says, stabbing a finger in the air. "When I read them, especially after some of our talks, I couldn't help but feel like they didn't contain a universal truth about the Force, but instead contained only a certain, slight, perspective!"

"The Force is bigger than any one of us." I nod.

"The Force is bigger than anything you can imagine." Rey says, wonder and awe in her voice. "And your culture may have a completely different understanding and relationship with it than literally every other culture in the galaxy."

"So how then," I ask, "do we decide what belongs to the Light and what belongs to the Dark?"

Rey doesn't respond. She internalizes the question. It's clearly something she's been meditating on and hasn't come to a conclusion yet.

"Here's where I am with it," I say, "and how I've landed here."

"Okay."

"I don't know if I strictly believe in a Dark Side and a Light Side of the Force, but if there is one, they should be defined by intent."

Rey thinks about this.

"You lash out in anger." I say. "Traditional Jedi beliefs would say that is bad and wrong and leads to the Dark Side."

Rey nods.

"But what if you're angry because of the way someone is being mistreated?"

"Injustice."

I nod. "Shouldn't injustice make you angry?"

"It does me." Rey admits.

"A man came into my mother's pub when I was younger. I'll never forget him. Big, round human with dark skin and big hair. He had been exiled from his home planet because he was campaigning for free education for any citizen that wanted it." I hold up a finger. "Hold on." I turn away and call, "Fordsy!"

The droid enters the room. "What can I do for you, Beacon?"

I pull him into the holoprojection. "You still have that recording of Vich Lugo?"

"Of course."

"Play it."

Fordsy retrieves the audio file from his data banks and plays it. The exiled poet's voice comes out of Fordsy's mouth. Rey tilts her head to the side, listening.

"No society should be built on ignorance," Vich says through Fordsy. "Society and those who run it are culpable in not providing a free education for all and must answer for the night which they create. If a soul is left in darkness, laws will be broken. Sins will be committed. But the guilty one is not the one who commits the crimes, but those who cause the darkness."

The recording ends and Fordsy asks if there's anything else I need. I excuse him and turn back to Rey.

"It's an idea that has stuck with me," I say. "And while he wasn't talking about the Force, I can't help but apply it to it. Why do we have this binary view of the Force when, as you say, it's so much bigger than us? Are we just upholding up and defending old battle lines?"

"The Jedi Code, old as it may be, was about removing yourself from the equation. It removed distractions and temptations so you could focus on the needs of others."

"But by benefiting the galaxy, do you not benefit yourself?"

"A Jedi fights to end the fight," Rey counters, "but a Jedi would rather not fight. A Jedi would rather not need to fight."

She smiles. "From what I can tell, the difference between the Light side of the Force and the Dark side of the Force is not what you do, but why you do it. But it is something I'm going to have to meditate on."

"Let me know where you land on it," I say.

"Don't be surprised if I call you up to have Fordsy play that for me again."

"Oh, I'll give you a direction connection to him," I say. "I can't be bothered by more time spent with that droid."

Rey laughs and I laugh.

"'Till next time, Captain," she says.

"'Till next time, Jedi."

[beaconsardis]

Life Bonds: Part 2

Rey talks like a Jedi. I wonder if she knows that. Her words, her feelings, is that of a Jedi.

"I am not a Jedi," I start. "I have learned the ways of the Jedi and they have helped me understand and connect with the Force, but I disagree with many, if not all of their teachings."

Rey finds this curious and I can see her making a note to come back to this. "I am not a Jedi either," she says. "I think it's possible we may have seen the last of the Jedi."

She says it, but she doesn't believe it. Neither do I. Neither does Humaira. We might not say it out loud, but we are each hopeful people. We all believe there will always be a light in the dark.

"I'm not a Jedi but I mediate like one," I say. "There are practices and rituals that come from the Jedi that help me connect with the living Force. But I do not see the galaxy the way the Jedi do. So when you say there is a rising darkness, I don't feel that."

Rey's brow furrows in frustration and disappointment.

"But," I say, "there is something swirling out there. I feel it, too. But what it feels like to me is not darkness, but chaos."

Rey leans back, thoughtful. "I wonder if there is a difference," she wonders.

"When you say darkness, I hear evil -- something with malicious intent." I hold out one hand and then the other. "When I say chaos, I mean anarchy. Lack of order. Loss of control."

Rey's eyes drift towards the stars and then close. She raises her hand, as if she were interacting with a datapad. Her fingers start to flick and I realize it's not a datapad that it looks like she's scanning, but a book. Under her eyelids, her eyes dart back and forth. She's reading something.

"There is a difference," she finally says, "between who the Jedi were, what the Jedi became, and what the Jedi set out to do." Her fingers stop flicking and then she bats something away. Somewhere, I imagine a book was thrown across a room. She flipping through pages again, stopping to read, "the Jedi were guardians of peace, seekers of knowledge and desired harmony in all things. They stood against chaos and ignorance . . ."

"And passion and emotion," I add under my breath.

Rey continues to read. "Wherein the Sith and the Dark Jedi fought for strength, power and control."

Rey's eyes open. They dilate as she comes back to the present and turns to me.

"I think we've felt the same thing," she says. "We're just coming at it from two different places."

"What do you think it means?"

"It's the First Order," she says. "They are trying to take control of the galaxy, but only peace can calm chaos. Forced order only spreads it. It may look like harmony, everything may appear uniform, but underneath it is fear, isolation, and chaos -- which can only lead to more suffering and more death."

I'm startled by Rey's tone and her words. She speaks as one who has experienced this before, not someone who is fresh to the fight. It makes me feel small, like I've not been using my connection to the Force -- and those who came before me -- to its fullest potential.

"This darkness is spreading and no one is standing up against it." Rey knows she's supposed to be the hopeful one, but she can't help but feel that, "there is no light. No spark in the dark."

I can feel Humaira looking at me. She doesn't have to say a word, I know exactly what she's thinking. She's thinking it so loudly I don't know how the entire valley doesn't hear her.

This is meant to be. This is fate. The Force called you here just like it called you to your lightsaber. Don't be foolish. Don't turn your back on her.

If I look at Humaira I know I'll agree with her. But I also find myself unable to loo at Rey. My eyes fall down to the fire. The flames dance, eager to spread the fire. They crack and pop the wood, sending embers into the night, hoping they ignite something, anything, beyond the fire pit.

"Well if he's not going to ask it, I will." Humaira leans into the light. "What can we do?"

"However this war ends," Rey says slowly, "we can never stop resisting. We can never stop fighting. Fight for those who can't and resist for those who won't." Then, looking at me with a knowing look in her eye, she says, "bring balance to the galaxy, just like the Jedi before you tried to do."

Before I can reiterate that I am not a Jedi, nor do I have any intention of every becoming a Jedi, Rey smiles a big, toothy, grin. "Sorry this couldn't have been more fun."

"Fun?" I ask.

"I've fought stormtroopers, gangsters, smugglers, monsters and droids." Rey says shaking her head. "I've never dueled a pirate."

She hasn't punctuated her sentence and we're on our feet. With an excited snap-hiss my lightsaber bathes the clearing in pulsing gold light. Rey doesn't have a lightsaber. She's holding a staff. A plain, wooden quarterstaff that she has crafted from a fallen branch or small tree. She's holding it tightly in her hands and is, somehow, pushing against the blade of my lightsaber with it.

"How . . ."

"Haven't you heard?" Rey's eyebrows twitch with bravado. "The Force makes the impossible possible."

She swings the butt of the staff up and I twist to block it. No sooner have we made contact, she's swinging the other side of the staff again. I just barely manage to block it and I feel the Force pushing against my chest. I stumble back into the jungle as she leaps through the fire at me.

I block another attack and then go on the offensive. Rey's not holding back. She's has a staff, not a saber -- she doesn't have to hold back. She fights ferociously, but with no discernible style. She has had no formal training. Necessity and Survival were her teachers and through them, she has honed her fighting skills well. She parries my blows with ease. We're moving quickly now, slashing our way through the jungle, away from the fire and further beneath the canopy.

I'm swinging my lightsaber in quick, tight arcs. Trees, bushes, and vines are falling all around me. The only thing stopping it is Rey's staff.

The Force is flowing around us. It guides our attacks and our blocks. It tells us where to step and when to move. The only thing lighting our way as we spin through the vegetation is the light of my saber, but not once do either of us trip or stumble.

The duel comes to an end near a waterfall. My foot hits a wet rock and I slip. Rey hooks the back of my foot with her staff and pulls it out from under me. As I tumble backwards she reaches out through the Force and snatches my lightsaber away from me.

I splash down into the cold water and she laughs. "That was a fantastic pirate duel," she says. "Thank you."

The last Jedi considers my lightsaber for a moment, spins it over the back of her hand, and catches it. "It's heavier than I was expecting," she frowns at it. "Heavier than the ones I've handled, anyway."

"Everyone says that," I say, pulling the water out of my beard. "Where's your lightsaber? Haven't I heard stories of you cutting your way through hordes of stormtroopers?"

"Heh." Rey turns my lightsaber off. "I'm kind of between lightsabers at the moment." She offers me a hand and pulls me back onto the land. Handing me my lightsaber back, she apologizes. "I didn't mean to sound so . . . apocalyptic back there. I'm actually quite hopeful for the future."

"I wish I could see your light at the end of this tunnel," I say.

"It's not my light," she shakes her head. "It's Amelia's."

"Who?"

Rey rolls her eyes. She's gotten ahead of herself again. "Have you ever been to Batuu?"

"Of course," I clip my lightsaber away.

"I was there not that long ago . . ." She pulls a datapad out of her satchel. She taps at it a couple times and then hands it to me. "Here. A slicer grabbed these for me off the security cameras. See that little girl?"

There are three images, three screengrabs, on the datapad. I see Rey down on one knee. She's looking at something I can't see. But she's smiling. She looks genuinely delighted. I see a little girl with short hair. She's standing proudly behind a purple BB unit. She's posing, smiling directly into the security camera as if to say look what I did and get used to seeing this face. The last is of Chewie, clearly unhappy to be on camera.

"That little girl with the yellow hair," Rey says, "had just built herself a droid. Kind of reminded me of me when I was her age. It was incredible, though. She had managed to find all the parts and put together this little BB unit. I stopped and I asked her what her droid's name. She doesn't have a name yet, the little girl said. Well we need to fix that, I said. What's a good droid name, she asked. I've not ever really had to name anything before so I, uh . . ." Rey shakes her head.

"I asked her her name," she says. "Amelia she says. And what's your favorite name, Amelia?" Rey laughs. "Do you know what she said to me? It's a secret."

I laugh.

"Well that's going to make this a little bit harder, I say. Two, she finally says. So I say, then I think we should call this little droid AB-2. Amelia's BB Unit Number Two -- Abbey for short." Rey looks down a little sheepishly. "It wasn't the most clever of names, but the little girl liked it."

Rey takes the datapad from me and looks down at the flickering images. "She's already in a better place than we were when we were her age. She knows she can't go it alone. She's not afraid to ask for help -- and that gives me hope."

Humaira calls me over the commlink and tells me she's back at the camp. Rey and I head back. The stress and worry that had filled the base when we arrived is gone. In its place is laughter and loud music. They're dancing and reminiscing and swapping stories and jokes -- reminding themselves all the things they're fighting for.

Rey and I and find Humaira sitting in front of an energetic young human with olive skin, dark floppy hair, and a well-groomed goatee. He's on one knee in front of her, working on her cybernetic leg. From a distance, he could be proposing to her. Humaira calls us over and the young man jumps to his feet.

"Oh man, hey." He offers me his hand. "Hi. I'm Ado Tham and I was just working on her leg. I'm not like proposing or propositioning or anything, just trying to lend a hand and do my part -- you know?" He talks quickly and his hands are as fast as his words.

I recognize his accent. "Are you from Cantonica too?"

"I am!" Ado says with delight.

"Did you know she's the princess of Cantonica?" I love putting Humaira on the spot.

Ado spins on his heels. "Oh my holy stars that's where I know you from! You're the lost -- the runaway -- princess! I thought you looked familiar!"

Humaira glares at me.

Ado falls back down onto one knee. "Then I really do have to fix this leg of yours. It's my honor." His head pivots back and forth from the work he's doing, to me, to Humaira and back again. "I saw her scratching her leg and then I noticed she was moving kind of stiffly and when I saw she had a cybernetic leg I was pretty sure I knew what the problem was because my sister, she had one of these too and if it's grafted right, it can give you all sorts of trouble."

I'm laughing. Rey's laughing. Humaira is trying to be gracious. She wants to laugh but she doesn't want to hurt young Ado's feelings.

Rey turns to me and in a lowered voice asks, "you don't speak Shyriiwook, do you?"

"No," I say.

"I didn't think so." Rey smiles. "I was having a bit of fun with you before, with Chewie, but there is a word for what the two of you have, there's just not a word for it in Basic."

I nod. I assumed as much.

"A direct, literal translation would be love-friendship-loyalty but as a single word." Rey rolls the words around in her head a bit more before saying, "if you wanted, you could call her your claa and she could call you her daagh, but . . ."

"Yeah," I shake my head.

Rey laughs.

"There! Try it now!" Ado Tham leaps to his feet and takes a step back.

Humaira stands, flexes her leg, and spins on it. "I think there's only one way to give it a proper test. Beacon," she extends her hand to me, "come dance with me."

As we spin our way onto the dance floor, we can hear Ado still talking. "We can get you synthetic skin for that if you like or some kind of ornamental casing. I know this Quarren who . . ." His small, excitable voice fades into the background as the music takes over.

We dance. We sing. We eat, we drink, we do our best to make each other laugh. Tomorrow the fight will resume. But tonight, we can be free.

When Rey's not looking, I slip Oh Lin's holocron into her satchel. The Jedi Peacekeeper has taught me all she can and I think Rey would really appreciate being able to meet her.

Humaira looks really happy. Being around people makes her happy. I should start making plans for life after piracy.

[beaconsardis]

Life Bonds: Part 1

I'm on Quantxi. Finding one's self on Quantxi is never the result of a series of good choices. Quantxi is a moon of Ord Mantell and the whole thing is a junkyard. We're safe from prying eyes, which makes it a favorite spot of disreputable people. There's no honor among thieves, so I want to do this drop off and put this moon behind us as quickly as possible.

"The Resistance thanks you," says the Togruta pilot who had introduced themselves as Temer Darm. He holds out a pale, coral hand. In it is a datapad.

"What is this?"

"It's a datapad." Temer responds dryly.

"What do you want me to do with it?"

"I want you to take it."

"Why?" We're not usually paid by the Resistance.

"I was told to give it to you."

"By who?"

Temer sighs, "would you just take the blasted thing?"

I take the datapad. I activate it. I'm looking at what appears to be an inbox for data transmissions. There's no account name listed, no information on what I'm looking at, just one blinking little rectangle. I tap it.

Instead of a stream of text appearing, I'm suddenly looking at the unmistakable face of Rey.

"Hi," she says, "I know we had discussed earlier the possibility of you and I getting together at some point, but as much as I would very much like to, it just doesn't look possible. Not for the foreseeable future. Unless . . ."

Rey pauses. She pauses like she's just had an idea. She pauses like this isn't the reason she sent me this datapad. She turns her head to look at me through the corner of her eye.

"Unless you want to come here. I can't tell you where we are and I can't give your coordinates. The First Order is absolutely relentless and we can't be too careful. Not now. So, if you think you could spare us -- me -- a bit of your time, the Resistance pilot before you can bring you to us."

Rey hasn't finished speaking and Humaira is looking up at Temer. "Yes," Humaira says. "We'll go."

"I've only got clearance for one of you," says exhausted Togruta.

"Then no," I say quickly, offering the datapad back.

"I wouldn't say I know Rey overly well," Temer says, "but she did make it sound like it was extremely important that you meet."

"I don't know Rey and I don't know the Resistance." I shake my head. "Just because we're scratching each other's back doesn't mean I trust any of you."

"And you're pirates," Temer reminds us. "You don't exactly have the moral high ground. Why should we trust your lot to not to sell us out first chance you get?"

It's a fair question. Humaira touches me. I know she's about to say it's fine and that I should go, but I speak before she does.

"Then just us two," I say, indicating Humaira and I. "Everyone else stays here."

The pilot isn't excited by this idea, but he is excited to end this conversation. "Fine," he says.

I explain the situation to Bomba and put him in charge. I don't particularly want to stand out, so I change into a tan shirt, a green vest and some dark pants I tuck into a pair of old boots. Humaira goes the opposite direction, changing into flowing red dress with three-quarter inch sleeves and a thick black sash around her waist. We grab what few necessities we think we'll need, stuff them into an overnight bag, and climb aboard the Resistance starship.

It's a massive, Baleen-class heavy freighter. I'm surprised they're using it. They're big, slow, and easy to track. You'd think they'd stick with smaller, lighter freighters. Something with some maneuverability.

Humaira does not like it at all. Every time she sits down, she stands right back up. She's fidgeting with her hands and looking out the portholes. I distract her with a game of sabacc.

"Sorry it can't be strip sabacc," I say, dealing the cards with a smirk, "stupid semi-private room."

"We're stuck on a big, fat, easy target of a tug boat." Humaira frowns. "The only way we arrive in one piece is good luck."

As she grumbles, Humaira's absent-mindedly scratches her leg. She's been scratching it a lot lately. She notices me noticing her and stops quickly, pulling her hand back.

"Your leg been giving you trouble?"

"It's fine," she says. She doesn't want to talk about it -- not because it bothers her, but because she knows it bothers me. She knows I blame myself for what happened over Ryoone.

Humaira shifts her right leg, sliding it through the thigh-high slit in her dress. I can see where she's been scratching -- half way between her knee and her hip, where her prosthetic leg meets the residual of her right leg.

It's a top-of-the-line cybernetic replacement. We shouldn't be having these problems with it -- but six months after its grafting, the synthetic skin began deteriorating and sloughing off. The leg works, but the skeletal durasteel calls attention to itself. And now it's irritating her skin where it's connected.

"It's fine," she says again. "It doesn't bother me."

Humaira's telling the truth. Having a cybernetic leg doesn't bother her. The itching is irritating, but she's thankful to be alive and grateful to live in a galaxy where a synthetic limb such as this is possible.

I drop the subject. Two hands of cards later, the pilot's voice screeches over the intercom.

"Buckle up," they say, "we're coming in for a landing."

We set down and the doors open. We don't wait for an escort, we show ourselves out. We haven't landed on landing pad. The ground is soft beneath our feet. We're in a clearing, one carved out of the surrounding jungle.

Flood lights blind us and, as our eyes adjust, show us the way. We're in the heart of a Resistance base camp. Like all Resistance base camps, and the Rebel bases before them, it's clearly a quickly thrown-together operation. One they could quickly pack up and take with them, should they need to leave in a hurry. Cables and vines cover the ground and the jungle animals keep a wary distance from the soldiers, mechanics, politicians and pilots now scurrying around.

It's a carefully controlled chaos and there is a feeling that permeates it that is unlike other installations I've been on. I've been around soldiers. I've been on military bases of every stripe, faction, and order. These people are more than soldiers. They're family.

Humaira's eyes go straight to the stars. She's trying to pinpoint where we are. She clocks the two moons and then, judging by the stars says, "wherever we are, we're not far from where we were."

"Welcome to Ajan Kloss," says someone standing much closer than I thought anyone was.

I turn and stop in my tracks, just barely missing colliding with a top-ranking official.

No.

Not a top-ranking official. The top-ranking official.

I recognize her immediately. I grew up being told her story. I feel as though I know her as well as I know myself. She has no idea who I am but who I am is, in large part, because of her.

I grew up wanting the strength, the resolve, and the resilience of Princess Leia Organa. I still want it. More than any other hero of the Galatic Civil War, it was her I wanted to be.

Now she's standing in front of me as General Organa. Not a myth, not a story, a real person. A real person who's tired of fighting, tired of being backed into a corner, tired of being out of options. I see it in her eyes, though, she will always rebel against tyranny. She will always resist evil. This is who she is.

I fall to my knees.

"Will someone get this idiot on his feet?"

I can hear her rolling her eyes.

I try to explain, "my parents fought with you."

She taps me on the side of the head. I look up. There's a twinkle in her eye as she smiles. "You're going to have to be more specific than that. I fight with a lot of people."

I stand up, knowing how foolish I probably look and sound but completely powerless to do anything about it. "In the Rebellion!" I say. "The-they were at Hoth and Endor."

"Oh," she softens slightly, "and how are they now?"

"They're, uh . . ."

She smiles understandingly. "Mine too. What's your name?"

"Beacon Sardis."

"Glad to have you on our side, Beacon. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm apparently late for a committee I didn't even know I was on."

I watch General Organa leave, followed by an entourage of soldiers and officials. My mind is a whirling, fizzing blank. I'm absolutely speechless. I slowly turn back and find Rey standing right in front of me. She's grinning from ear to ear.

"I know," she says. And I believe her. She grew up on the same stories I did. And then she looks past me and sees Humaira. "Oh, hi. I don't know you. I'm Rey."

"Humaira."

"You're very pretty."

"I love your hair."

Rey runs her fingers around the three loose buns holding her hair out of her face. Her smile is appreciative but also a little awkward, like she's not used to receiving compliments and isn't entirely sure what to do with them. She turns her attention back to Humaira.

"And you are, uh . . ." Rey's pointing at me.

Humaira looks at me, her hands on her hips. "What are we? We need a word for it."

Rey turns to see what I'll say. I know what we are but I don't have an answer.

"We don't know what we are," Humaira muses.

"Well," I say, not liking how that sounds, "maybe you can help us. We're looking for a word. We don't know how to introduce ourselves."

"Okay." Rey's eyes squint. She's up to the challenge.

"We are more than friends," Humaira starts.

"We are more than partners." I say.

"We are more than married." Humaira says.

"We pledged life debts to one another." I explain. "I owe her my life."

"And I owe him mine." Humaira finishes.

"Oh," Rey nods, understanding. We don't know how she understands. We don't understand. She turns, searching for someone and then calls out, "Chewie!"

A tall, brown Wookiee jogs over to us. I scan the jungles to see if any of my other childhood heroes are hiding nearby.

"Chewie," Rey says, "what do you call it when two people have a life debt to each other?"

Chewie snuffles and barks.

Rey points at Humaira and I. "Yeah, these two."

Chewie responds with something between a purr and a bark and Rey nods.

"Yeah," she says, turning to us and pointing at Chewie. "I'd call it that."

Humaira and I laugh. Chewie growls questioningly at Rey and she rolls her eyes.

"Yes, I know, but that is going to have to wait."

Chewie groans.

"I'll come see you when I'm done. I have to talk to these two."

Chewie accepts this and strides off.

Rey turns back to us. "Thanks for coming. Follow me."

She leads us away from the camp, into the jungle. It doesn't take us long for the flood lights to no longer reach us and it's not so far beyond that, that the only sounds we can hear are our own breathing and the life that calls this moon home.

We find ourselves in small clearing and Rey invites us to sit as she lights a fire. Sitting down opposite us, she takes in a few, long, calming breaths before continuing.

"Thank you for coming," Rey begins. "I've needed someone to talk to and . . . I'd talk to Leia but . . ." Her lips tighten. "It's about Kylo Ren."

"The Supreme Leader of the First Order?"

Rey nods.

I don't understand. "Why can't you talk to General Organa about him?"

A look crosses Rey's face. She doesn't know if she's supposed to say what she's about to say. With a certain level of difficulty, she explains, "he's her son."

Humaira swears to herself, but not quietly. "This family is going to be the death of us all."

"It may not have anything to do with him at all," Rey says quickly, "I don't know. But I have felt something and I need to talk to someone who is sensitive to the Force and you're . . . you're the only living person I know."

"What have you felt?"

"Darkness," Rey's voice is solemn. "An incredible darkness that threatens to engulf the entire galaxy." She looks at me through the fire. "Please tell me you've felt the same."

[beaconsardis]

The Last Kyber Crystal

After the mutiny on The Night Wind, Fordsy and I pack our bags -- well, pack my bags, and strike out on our own. Siom Lech, for all of his failings and frustrations, took care of his crew. In the six years I was on his crew, I didn't have to spend a credit that I didn't want to. He fed us, armed us, and would occasionally dress us. I am walking away from him with a very cozy some of money in the bank.

I buy a ship. Nothing special, nothing to brag about. Just a little junker, an old Imperial scout ship. I'm not looking for anything fancy, just something that can get me from one side of the galaxy to the other quickly. The sales droid is programmed with an overly enthusiastic personality and insists the ship needs a name.

A ship's name should speak to its place in the galaxy. It should speak of its purpose. It should be created, crafted with intention and care -- not at the insistence of pushy sales droid.

Mom wouldn't let me name the animals she bought. They were to be slaughtered and served to our patrons. If I named them, I'd get attached to them and wouldn't want to sauté them. I have no intention of keeping this ship. It's only here for, what I hope is, a very short chapter of my life.

But the droid won't process my credits until I give it a name so I half-heartedly put two words together. "Star . . . grazer."

"Stargrazer," repeats the droid. "Very good. May she serve you well, always taking you where you want to go, arriving in exactly the amount of pieces you want to arrive in."

"Why would I ever want to arrive anywhere in anything other than one piece?"

"I do not pretend to understand humans," the droid says, its tone chipper and overly enthusiastic. "Happy journeys!"

I place Oh Lin's holocron on the control console and I tell her my plan.

"I am going to finish fixing your lightsaber. When I found it, the emitter was broken and the crystal was shattered. I have fixed the emitter."

"Now all you require is a kyber crystal," Oh Lin nods understandingly. "I am afraid I cannot help you with that."

"Didn't you say you found your kyber crystal on Ilum?" I'm doing my pre-flight checks, shooting glances at the hologram of the Jedi Peacekeeper.

"Yes. Padawans and younglings are often taken to the caves of Ilum for to find a kyber crystal of their own." There's a touch of melancholy to her voice. "There, Professor Huyang would guide them in the creation of their lightsaber."

"Right, so-"

Oh Lin interrupts me, which she is not prone to do. "I will not be able to guide you to the caves. Nor will I be able to help you find a kyber crystal beyond what I have already told you. If the Force wills it, you will be shown the way and your crystal will call to you."

Fordsy plots our course and we're off.

It's been nearly four years since I found Oh Lin's holocron and lightsaber. For four years I've sat at the glowing, flickering feet of the Jedi, listening and asking questions. My understanding of the Force, and who I am, has grown in ways I never could have imagined. I've done everything I can to repair the lightsaber, and I think I very nearly have it, but kyber crystals aren't sold at markets. I've also not had the time or ability to venture off on my own to find one -- until today.

We drop out of hyperspace over Ilum. It's a large, ice-covered planet. What isn't covered in ice is covered in snow. A few rocky mountain ranges can be seen from orbit, but the marble is mostly a cloudy mix of whites. A big, thick gouge wrapping around its equator.

I let out a low whistle. It's clearly not a naturally formed chasm. It yawns open like a gaping wound.

"According to records," Fordsy reports, "after the fall of the Old Republic, the Galactic Empire occupied the planet and excavated it for its vast supply of crystalline -- the kyber crystals."

"Why?" I wonder aloud.

"The crystals were what powered the Death Stars' weapons."

I chill goes down my spine.

"The overmining of Ilum caused its core to crack open into the canyon you see before you now."

"Well," I take control of the ship, "let's see if they left us any."

I close my eyes. I listen. I wait. I feel the current of the Force and I surrender myself to its flow. In the vague distance, I can hear the servos inside of Fordsy whirring. I can tell he's looking back and forth between me and the windscreen. I keep our ship in the Force's soft tide, flying us over the frozen wastelands and forests. The Force is pulling me somewhere. I begin to feel it pool. It swirls and pulls me down.

Only then do I open my eyes. The Force has brought me to edge of a forest and the foot of a mountain. I spot a clearing and set down.

I knew we were headed for Ilum. I knew Ilum is an ice cube masquerading as a planet. One would think I would prepare for this by packing warm, winter clothes. I did not.

I fasten my duster shut and step down into the snow. I may as well not be wearing a jacket for how quickly and completely the cold cuts through me. The wind is sharp and unrelenting.

"Do you feel that?"

"You know I cannot." Fordsy replies, exasperated. "I am, however, equipped with a thermal scanner and thermometer, if you'd like to know-"

"No, no." My hands are tucked into my armpits to stave off frostbite. I don't know if it's actually cold enough for frostbite. I have almost no experience with snow. What I do know is, "this doesn't feel natural."

"What do you mean?"

"It feels like," I squint, "like the planet doesn't want us here."

"There is no recorded evidence," Fordsy pauses to admit, "that I have found, to suggest the planet is sentient."

"No," I correct myself, "it's not the planet . . . it's something else. A presence, a . . ." I smile as I realize, "Force."

It's lurking beneath the surface and behind the wind. It's hurt, wounded. Something bad, something wicked, has happened here. It wants me to leave. It's pushing me and I am tempted to listen to it. But then something small reaches out. Something tiny, something hopeful.

I have to block out the noise. I have to ignore the cold. I have to tune my senses to it and nothing else.

There's a pulse, a heartbeat. Each one microscopically smaller than the last. It's here, it wants to be seen, but it's dying.

It's not coming from the mountains or the caves, it's coming from the forest. I turn towards the trees. I cannot understand how they live in this climate. They're skeletal and dark, without a single leaf on them. And yet, I can feel the Force flowing through them. They live.

The snow crunches beneath my feet as I weave through the forest. The wind can't quite reach me here, but it's trying. An occasional gust stabs with an unseen icicle.

"I know this is important to you," Fordsy says from behind, "but how much further are we going to go? My joints are freezing over and I can't imagine you'll make it much longer."

I know he's right but I refuse to admit it. I'm supposed to be here. I know I am. I've been called here, pulled here. I can't turn back. I can't leave. Or maybe I'm just fooling myself. Maybe I want this so badly that I've convinced myself of this fantasy. I'm about to say something when I see something.

There's something in the woods. I can barely see its shape through the fine fog the snow has created. It's moving slowly, purposefully. Each step is a struggle, though. It's shaking and wobbling.

"Hey!" I call. "Hey you!"

It stops and turns, its movement jittery. It's a droid, a humanoid droid. It stands at a slouch and looks like the next stiff breeze is going to knock it over. Its yellow eyes iris, as if to squint, as it tries to focus on me. It moves like an old man, waving me away as it turns back to its path.

I trudge through the snow; catching up to it isn't hard. "Hey," I say again, "do you think you could help me?"

"No," says the droid, "probably not." Its voice is old and tinny, creaking in a way that makes me think a voice can gather rust. "Can't imagine what . . . what . . ." The droid straightens up to stand taller. "Can't imagine what . . ." Its head swivels around in a complete circle. "Can't remember where . . ."

"Its on its last cycle," Fordsy says. "Show it some kindness and shut it down, so it can stop whirring and worrying and finally rest."

If the droid heard Fordsy, it makes no indication of it. The faded yellow droid is more even more hunched over as it marches away from us. "Follow me," it says weakly, "let's get you out of the cold."

Fordsy doesn't want to, but something pushes me forward. I follow in the droid's footsteps. He leads us to a -- I'm not sure the word for it -- if it were a forest, I would say it's a clearing. But it's at the foot of the mountain, a natural semi-circle where the mountain didn't form and the rocks didn't fall. It doesn't stop the snow from falling on us, but it protects us from the wind.

This is where this droid has been living. There's a power generator between two rocks and a couple other pieces of equipment -- I spot a scanner -- strewn about the rocky enclave.

Enclave? Is that the word I'm looking for? Or is it conclave? No. You can have a conclave in an enclave but an enclave is not a conclave.

"So what brings you here?" The droid sits down. It plucks a cord up out of the snow, brushes it off, and inserts it into an open panel on its chest. Behind us, the power generator whirrs to life.

"I'm looking for a kyber crystal."

"Well you're too late," the droid says sadly. "The Emperor . . . may he rust in pieces . . . has already gutted the planet . . . nary a crystal left."

"Oh," I feel myself slump. Disappointment chokes me as I try to breathe. I try to see a way around this. I try to imagine another route to completing my lightsaber. But right now, all I can see is this immovable rock wall.

"What do you need a kyber crystal for?" The droid turns curiously. "Not much call for those these days."

I reach into my long coat and unclip the lightsaber from my belt. The lightsaber shines as I hold it out. Even on this overcast day, it reflects the sun, dancing silver and gold prisms across the snow. The droid sits up straight, as if activated for the first time.

"Where did you get that," the droid asks. "I know that lightsaber. That is not your lightsaber. That lightsaber belongs to the great Jedi Peacekeeper Oh Lin."

"What?" If I hadn't been sitting, I would have stumbled back. "How do you know that?"

"I know every lightsaber I helped craft." The droid takes the lightsaber from me. It deftly disassembles it, inspecting every part and every mechanism as it does. Finding the kyber chamber empty, the droid nods and reassembles the saber.

"Who are you?" I ask.

"I might be asking you the same question," the droid returns.

"I asked first."

"I am Huyang," the droid says, "and for over a thousand generations I helped padawans and younglings on their way to becoming Jedi Knights. Together, we would find their crystals and together we would build their lightsaber. I remember this lightsaber. I remember when Oh Lin came to me, just a wee thing. She was full of wonder and curiosity. It's no wonder her crystal was blue." The droid turns its attention back to me. "And so I ask you again: How did you come by this?"

I tell Huyang my story. I hold nothing back. I start from the beginning, with the strange feelings I would get as a child and how they led me to Oh Lin's destroyed starship. I tell him about the holocron and how I fixed the lightsaber. Huyang nods along, listening intently.

"So you are a Jedi in the making . . ." Huyang says, "but with no formal training and no teacher. A lightsaber is a very dangerous thing in unskilled hands."

"But-"

"But," the droid holds up a hand, "it is not my place to judge who the Force chooses. And if the Force brought you here and to me, then it is for a reason."

I suddenly realize the droid has four arms, the two in the front most humanoids have, and then two smaller ones high on its back that fold in on themselves. One of those smaller hands plucks something out of a compartment in the droid's back and hands it to Huyang's right, front hand.

"If the Force wants you to have this," Huyang holds up a small, dark sliver of a crystal. "Then it is yours. But! It is useless, just another shiny rock, if you can't awaken it."

The droid places the dark crystal in my hand. It's lighter than I was expecting. "Awaken it?"

"Yes."

I can hear the smile in Huyang's voice. This is all the help I'm going to get. The professor here might have helped thousands of generations before me, but the last couple of decades have made the droid wary.

I roll the kyber crystal in the palm of my hand. I feel its smoothness and its sharp edges. I feel its potential.

I feel its life.

I've never felt a rock like this before. Rocks are connected to the Force, but I've never felt one that seems to be emanating the Force. Its inside it, desperate to break free, but need someone to reach in and pull it out.

I see the crystal in my mind. I search its every surface, feeling for cracks or weaknesses, anything to let me inside. I see something else. I see a stalactite made of ice. I feel a warm current of air swirl around it. A single drop of water forms at the tip of the stalactite. It grows larger and larger until it can no longer hold on. It falls, breaking the surface of a pond below, sending ripples spreading out over the entire body of water.

"Ah," I hear.

I open my eyes, not realizing I had closed them. The crystal is no longer dark, its heart no longer muddy. It glows and shines in my hand a vibrant yellow.

"I wondered whose kyber crystal I was carrying," Huyang says. "Turns out its yours. And yellow? That's a color you don't see every day."

"What does that mean?" I ask.

"That's for you to decide." Huyang says. "Every lightsaber is unique and gains something of a reputation and legacy of its own."

I slide the crystal into the hilt of my lightsaber. I flip the switch. I've fiddled with the switch thousands of times, often unconsciously moving it back and forth between the on and off position as I've sat there, fidgeting. This is the first time, though, turning on my lightsaber it worked.

With a snap-hiss, a yellow blade slides out of the hilt and for the second time in my life, I feel as though I have finally found where I belong.

The blade hums and then sizzles as snowflakes fall on it.

"Use it well," Huyan says, "the Force is with you. Listen to it and it will never lead you astray."

[beaconsardis]

A Princess of Cantonica

A hologram of a Crolute in brightly colored, loose fitting and flowing robes at my console. His name is Shyakill. He looks uncomfortable and he hasn't figured out what to do with his hands. He weaves his fingers together and then separates them, drops them to his side and then picks them up and puts them on his hips.

Like the Mon Calamari, Crolutes are an aquatic species, but unlike the Mon Calamari, they have not quite adapted to life on land. It makes the poor things all look uncomfortable in their own skin.

"You have the princess?" His voice is deep and full of gravel.

I nod. "I do."

"Let me see her then." He eyes me suspiciously.

I lean back and motion for Humaira to be brought forward. I have our biggest, bulkiest, most intimating crew member shove her into view. Mawlo, a Gran whose parents were too small moons, looms over Humaira. She glares at him and then straightens her posture, fixing her hair the best she can with hands bound together at the wrists. The Cantonican constable looks her up and down.

"How do I know she's not a . . . you know . . . changeling of some sort?" His eyes shift from me to Humaira and back to me again. "I've heard your kind has one on every crew."

I give him my most disarming shrug. "You're just going to have to trust me."

"Bah!" Shyakill coughs a single, throaty laugh.

I already don't like this guy so it's easy to feign annoyance. "I don't really have the time for this. If you're not interested, I'll sell her to a brothel on Ryloth. It's less pay but it's on the way to my next gig and I won't have to jump through whatever hoops you're putting up."

"No, no." Shyakill holds up a hand. "That won't be necessary. You have to excuse my paranoia. One can't be too careful these days." He picks up a datapad and begins tapping at it. "Here are the coordinates for the landing pad and here are the security codes."

My datapad reports the transmission has been received. I give a nod to the constable. "We are in enroute."

The small hologram of the constable withers away.

"I hate that man," Humaira recoils.

Bomba looks at me from the other side of the console. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"I'm not sure where it ranks in the History of Bad Ideas," I say as a stand, "but it's easily my worst."

We descend down to the Seocanto, the planet's capitol city. The outskirts of the city are a lined with factories, belching fire and flame. Once you punch through the smoke and the steam, you're treated to a loud and garish color palette. Everything is bright and bold and flashing to you get your attention, as if the city itself is trying to sell you something.

Humaira becomes more and more uncomfortable, more and more restless the further we go in. I pilot the Nexu towards one of the royal palace's landing pads. Our security codes check out and we are allowed to land.

The ramp descends. Fordsy takes the princess by the arm and leads her down. I casually follow behind, making a show of double-checking that both my lightsaber and blaster pistol are at my side.

The Crolute is waiting for us, flanked by armed guards in gray and white. He sees us and holds up a finger. "No, no," he says. "No weapons. And leave the droid. You come alone. Just you and the girl."

It's my turn to let a single burst of a laugh. "No. The droid goes everywhere I do. He's unarmed. He's just here to keep an eye on the princess while the grown-ups do some business."

"Drop the blaster pistol." He points at my holster.

I look at Shyakill. I look past him, to his contingent of guards, and then back to him. I unholster my A-180 blaster pistol. I set it on the ground. I think about asking him to remove his guards, or at least have them fall back, but he hasn't noticed or made mention of my lightsaber and I like it that he thinks he's in control of the situation.

"There," I say, holding my hands wide, "now we can be friends."

"We are not friends," the constable barks. "Bring her here."

"We're not friends?" I signal Fordsy to stay where he is. "If we're not friends, then you're going to transfer the money to my account before she takes a single step in your direction."

Shyakill turns and one of the guards in the back steps forward with a case. He takes the case, sets it on the ground, and kicks it. It slides across the durasteel and comes to a stop halfway between me and him.

"Meet me halfway," he says with a laugh.

He didn't let me see what was in the case before he sent it my way. I don't like that. Anything or nothing could be in that case. I don't detect deceit in the air, so I reluctantly give Fordsy my consent.

Fordsy prods Humaira to start walking. Humaira doesn't look back. She's laser focused on the constable and the destiny he represents for her. Fordsy stops her when they reach the case. Fordsy places his foot on the case and with a single thrust, sends the case directly at me.

I open the latched grey box. I don't count the individual credits but, at a glance, they all appear to be there. I look back up to see Shyakill with Humaira's chin in his hand. He's turning her head this way and that, inspecting her.

He chuckles. "Yeah, that's her. You can't manufacture spite like that. Alright, let's go."

The guards take Humaira. It's the first time she looks back at me. She's trying to stay neutral in this, but I can clearly see "this had better work" in her eyes.

"Your services are no longer needed," Constable Shyakill says, waving me off. "May our paths never cross again."

Fordsy joins me and we retreat back to the ship. Bomba meets us on the ramp.

"We got a problem," he says. "The engine's not doing the thing it's supposed to be doing."

"And what's that?"

"The thing where it starts and lets us take off?"

As if on cue, the Nexu coughs and sputters in a way to suggest it's shutting down, not starting up. I nod. It doesn't sound good.

"They're working on it," says Bomba, "but if I was a betting Dug-"

"Which you are," I interrupt.

"I wouldn't bet on us leaving any time soon."

"Alright," I pick up my blaster pistol and holster it. "Let me know as soon as we're ready."

I sit down on the ramp and wait. Bomba goes back in side and Fordsy follows him, case of credits in hand. This is all for show. We don't know what the Cantonicans can hear or see, but it's hard to imagine them not having every square inch of the planet monitored and surveilled.

I pull a deck of cards out of my pocket and begin playing sabacc solitaire there on the ramp. It doesn't take long, only about half a hand, for a guard to approach.

"You can't park here," she says.

I apologize and "we had some business with the constable earlier and now our crikking engines won't start."

She doesn't know how to respond so explains, "we need this landing pad clear."

I return to my card game. "We'll get out your hair as fast as we can."

"Now," she says.

"I don't know what to tell ya'," I don't take my eyes off the card game. I let the grumbling, sputtering engines of the Nexu explain things for me.

The guard frowns, about faces, and quickly retreats. She's going to get reinforcements, maybe her commanding officer. They will return here, repeating everything she just said. Our ship will continue to be broken. They'll give us until the top of the hour. They'll threaten to blow our ship into scrap. They'll be back at the top of the hour, threatening to have us towed. I'll draw it out as long as possible, but in the end, they'll call a tow service.

We have maybe an hour. I check the time. I check the skies.

"Anything?" I ask into my commlink.

"Not yet," Fordsy relays.

I start a new game of sabacc and everything plays out exactly as I thought it would. The guard returns with her commanding officer and I explain everything to her that I explained to the first guard. I apologize profusely but also play it like I don't understand why they're so upset. These things happen.

The commanding officer checks the time. "You have until the top of the hour to get this piece of junk off my landing pad or I'm blowing it into oblivion. Not even the scrappers will be able to put two pieces of it together. This is your only warning."

It escalated faster than I was expecting but we're still about where I thought we would be. We just have less time on the long end of things.

I try to go back to my card game but I can't focus. I keep checking the time. I keep wondering what's happening to Humaira. I go from imagining them torturing her to imagining them making her presentable to the queens of Bonadan.

Three minutes are left in the hour when my commlink crackles to life. "Here they come!"

I look up. Descending in a gentle arc around the palace is an ostentatious royal starship. The golden ship bears the intricate Bonadan royal insignia on its belly. The deep maroon of the seal looks like blood.

I can see the commanding officer exiting the palace, glaring in our direction. The Nexu's engines roar to life. I cheer and gather my cards. The commanding officer still looks annoyed, but she gives me a satisfied nod of approval. I give her a wave, stick my cards in my pocket, and climb the ramp back inside.

"Fordsy! Get us airborne and track that ship!"

As we slowly lift off, the landing pad on the other side of the palace becomes visible. I grab my quadnoculars and zoom in. Two columns of guards ceremoniously lead the constable to the Bonadan ship. Humaira follows him in a black dress. They've dressed her to look remorseful. They want her to be a supplicant. I laugh.

Fordsy takes us up above the clouds. I make my way to the back of the ship. One of the modifications Fordsy and I made was to the cargo bay. Where there should be a cargo lift, we installed a bomb hatch and an armament of tow cables.

"The Bonadan ship is in the air," Fordsy reports over the comms.

"Get us out of range of the palace guns," I command, taking position over the bomb hatch.

Mawlo pushes into the cargo bay, followed by Liittii, Zola, and Xil. They look like kids on Boonta's Eve, barely able to contain their excitement.

"You'd do this for free, wouldn't?" I ask with a smirk.

"I mean," Xil Vee shrugs, "the money certainly helps." The small Ardennian juggles his three blaster pistols between his four hands, checking each one's charge. "But I get to jump out of starships and bork stuff up? And I get paid to do it? Life don't get better than this."

The rest of the group laugh in agreement. The ship lurches and we grab something to balance ourselves.

"Here we go!" Fordsy calls. We break through the clouds, barreling down on the unsuspecting starship.

"I don't have to tell you this-"

"But you will anyway." Liittii shoots a sarcastic grin at me.

"We're gonna have to be quick."

"Hey, it's become something of a specialty of ours." Xil quips nonchalantly.

"Something goes sideways," I say seriously, "that ground is going to come at your fast. Get down there, grab what you can, get back up here."

"This girl must be something special," Liittii says. The orange Twi'lek looks at me mischievously as she ties her lekku behind her head.

I open my mouth to defend myself but the bomb bay door opens. The blast of wind that hits us, followed by the roar of the starship below us, makes any attempts at communication beyond hand gestures futile.

The tow cables fire, grabbing onto the hull of the Bonadan starship. They latch onto the tow cables and with a shout and a cheer, slide down. I jump down after them, using the Force to slow my descent and guide my landing.

The wind pushes and shoves me. When I don't fall over or trip, it claws at me, grabbing me, trying to pull me over. I stand against it. I feel it coming, hitting me in constant, unending barrage. Behind me my crew holds onto their tow cables.

I raise my hand. First I hold it flat. I feel the Force surging through me. It feels as though I'm collecting it, absorbing it, the wind being the unwitting conduit for my power. With a slow and deliberate twist of my wrist, I slice through the wind. I don't block it, I don't stop it, I tell it to go around me -- and the Force wills it so.

Mawlo sees it first. He lets go of his tow cable and stands up straight. Liittii, Zola, and Xil follow suit. They now exist in a world with no wind. I see the marvel in their eyes. No matter how many times they see the Force at work, they can never get over it.

They detach the tow cables. Mawlo opens the emergency hatch and they drop in. I release the wind and it shoves me back. I fly down the length of the starship, using the Force to push me down into the emergency hatch when I'm over it.

I drop into the middle of a firefight. It's no surprise a royal cruiser is heavily guarded. The cacophony of blaster bolts pauses at the snap-hiss of my lightsaber. Long enough for my crew to take a couple of well-placed shots and for me to throw myself down the corridor.

"A distress call has gone out," Fordsy reports over the comm.

The ship banks sharply to port. I don't know what the pilot is trying to do. Are they trying to make our life more difficult? Are they taking us back to the Cantonican palace?

A human with an undercut of purple hair bursts out of the cockpit -- the co-pilot, I guess. He fires on me. The Force guides my hands and I deflect his shots, sending them harmlessly into the bulkhead. He panics, backing away as he continues to squeeze off shots that I bat away.

I'm not particularly interesting in killing the co-pilot. He looks young. I can imagine his excitement to being assigned to co-pilot the royal starship. I see him telling his friends, his loved ones.

"Kid," I say, "stop."

He backs into the cabin door. He shoots at me again. I swat the bolt back at him, doing my best to arc my blade downward. The shot goes into his leg. He grunts in pain. His pistol clatters to the floor as he falls over.

"Where's the princess?" I ask.

The co-pilot is reach for his blaster pistol. His finger tips are just barely touching it. He's gritting his teeth. A slight whimper breaks through. I step on the pistol and slide it completely out of reach.

"Kid," I bend down, "I'm not here to kill you. We're here for the princess. Ain't nobody gonna hold this against you. You did your duty. You can't help it you were boarded by the Dread Jedi Pirate Captain Sardis."

"Crew quarters," he finally says. "Starboard side. It's locked."

"Think I'll manage."

I walk away. I don't give him back his gun, but I don't take it away either. I've given him a scar and a story. He won't have to buy himself a drink ever again.

I find the crew quarters. I slice through the door. Humaira is waiting on the other side of the door.

"See?" I say, "I told you this would work."

The starship is suddenly and violently rocked. I catch Humaira as I fall back against the corridor wall.

"What was that!?" I yell into my commlink.

"Palace guns," Bomba says, "seems they've decided if they can't have the princess, no one can."

I swear under my breath. "Get back to the ship," I command.

They're already climbing the escape hatch. They pause at the hatch itself, though. They need the tow cables to be fired back down. They'll each clip on to their own cable and then will be reeled back up.

The starship rocks again. Alarm sounds start blaring. I look back down the corridor, to the cockpit. They're doomed. The Cantonicans are going to blow them out of the sky. If I save them, the royal courts will assume they were in on this plot and they'll be executed.

I swear again.

"Firing tow cables," Fordsy says. "Make it fast people!"

The tow cables ch-thunk against the hull. Mawlo leads the way out. This is the most dangerous part. All they have to do is clip on to a tow cable. The ship takes another hit. Over the commlink, I hear Bomba swear.

If the Bonadan starship goes down, it's going to take the Nexu with it.

Everyone's out. I'm heading up the ladder with Humaira directly beneath me when we take another hit. The pilot of the Bonadan ship jerks the ship to port, which in turn jerks the Nexu, twisting it off course. The two ships are now spinning in opposite directions, in a dual tailspin, each spinning the other faster and faster.

I hear Xil Vee scream. I leap out of the hatch. My entire crew is airborne, flung from the ship. They're still arcing upwards and outwards, they haven't started to fall yet. Before they can, I plant myself in the Force.

I lash out at them, grabbing them in midair. They stare back at me, eyes wide and mouths agape. I feel my feet sliding down the hull. It's too much. I'm not going to be able to hold them. The centrifugal force is about to knock me down.

I reach down, to the planet itself. The Force flows through and from every living thing and I need as much help as I can get. But this planet is not alive. There are people below, but they're swallowed up in a tangle of durasteel, rubber, and plastic. All I have is what I carry with me.

I try to block out everything around me. I try to ignore the precious position I'm in. I do my best to only let the lives of my crew occupy my mind. They're reaching out to me. The Force within them wants them to live. It's desperate for me to pull them in. I connect with it and through it, them. I just need them close enough to grab the tow cables.

I'm lightheaded. But they're too far away. They're going to fall.

The ship suddenly rights itself. We're still flying, the wind is still pushing me, but we've escaped the death spin we were in. It's just enough relief for me to train my entire focus on getting my crew back on the ship. They scramble across the hull, not wasting any time clipping onto their tow cables.

As they're reeled back aboard the Nexu, I turn back to the escape hatch. I don't see Humaira. Sliding over to it, I look down the ladder and she isn't there. I'm about to go down after her when she suddenly appears, running up to the ladder and pulling herself up.

"Where'd you go?"

"Someone had to save your ass!" Humaira shouts back.

She had been the pilot to pull us out of the spin. I marvel at her pulling her up and out of the ship.

"I bet you look at all the girls like that," Humaira smirks.

"I don't," I say, clipping her onto the last remaining tow cable. "I really don't.

I grab onto the tow cable and it detaches. We swing through the air as Fordsy pulls us away from the other ship. For the briefest of moments, I see myself as if in a holovid, tow cable in one hand, Humaira in the other. Ten year-old me would not believe it. It's something out of the myths and fables. I'm pulled back to the present as the Bonadan ship is struck by another blast from the palace guns. A plume of smoke bursts out from its underbelly.

I'm exhausted. I just want to get out of here. But I know what I have to do.

I release my grip of the tow cable. I hear Humaira shout in surprise, then the wind is whipping past me and I can hear nothing else. I close my eyes. I listen for and then to the palace's guns firing. Their shots sizzle through the air. I see them. They're below me, coming up fast.

I cushion my landing and ignite my lightsaber. The gunners yell and fall back, going for their weapons. I slice and chop through the palace's cannon and then fling myself down the parapet. I sling my lightsaber through the air and it connects with the next cannon before I do. I snap the lightsaber back into my hand. I turn and leap away before the gunners are able to respond.

The Bonadan pilots will live to fly another day. No king or queen or commanding officer could possibly blame them or hold them accountable for this happening.

I land outside the palace and stumble into a crowd. I'm too tired to run. My feet are heavy. My shoulders burn. It hurts to breathe. My entire body aches.

"Beacon?" Bomba says into my commlink. "You still there?"

I nod before remembering he can't see me. "Yeah. I'm still here."

Not two blocks from the palace I find a cafe. There are chairs and tables outside. I collapse into one of the chairs. I can't move. If I have to buy food to stay sitting here, that's fine, because I'm not going anywhere.

"That was the stupidest thing you've ever done," he says.

I can't argue with him so I don't argue with him. If I can't convince myself that my stupid feelings and morals are going to get me killed some day, I'm not going to get into a shouting match with a Dug.

"But," I reason, "we got the bounty, we got a small haul, and we got ourselves a pilot."

Across the street a musician begins singing a space shanty. It becomes the soundtrack of my dreams, a swirling, murky mélange of fearful memories and hopeful futures.

I wake up with Bomba's hideous face in mine.

"Wakey-wakey poodoo," he smirks.

I'm still groggy. My head is swimming. Fordsy appears and takes me by the arm.

"Let's get you back to the ship," he says.

They lead me to a docking bag. Bomba reports they've found me. We all meet back at the ship. Everyone's standing outside, looking at me. They're shaking their heads. They can't believe I'm alive.

"That was wild!" Xil Vee erupts. "Absolutely wild! Is there anything you can't do? I don't think there is!"

"How long was I out?" I ask.

"It has been thirteen and a half hours since the dramatic rescue of Princess Humaira," Fordsy responds.

Liittii pulls me aside. "That was the most thrilling thing I've ever been a part of," and then leans closer to whisper, "maybe a little too thrilling, if we could dial it back a notch . . ."

I clap her on the shoulder, telling her I agree. Then I turn to the rest of the crew. I see Fordsy.

"You," I say, legitimately momentarily blanking on my oldest friend's name, "divide the bounty evenly amongst the crew. We're not sharing a credit. They've earned it."

I hear my speech slurring. I need to lay down. The crew cheers. As I stumble towards the ramp, I grab Fordsy by the shoulder, both for stability and to pull him closer.

"Give 'em my cut too," I whisper.

Fordsy's head tilts to the side. "Are you sure?"

I nod. I'm happy with today's outcome, but it was too risky. I endangered the crew to a degree that I am not comfortable with. It would have been too easy to lose everyone today. Fordsy nods back. The droid understands.

"Where we headed next?" Mawlo calls.

"I don't know about you," I begin up the ramp of our ship, "but I'm going straight to bed."

I'm actually headed straight for the floor. My head is swimming, stuck in a whirlpool that is spinning everything around me.

I do not remember what happens next, but according to my entire crew, Humaira grabs me, catches me, and steadies me. My arm is around her neck. Her hand is on my chest. "How about you," I ask her. "Where are you headed?"

"I'm going wherever you're going."

"Well I'm going to bed."

"Lead the way."

I don't hear what she's saying, so I say, "we'll find you a room. I'm sure-"

Humaira cuts me off. "I'll just use yours."

That's what they say and who am I to argue? What happens next clearly suggests they're telling the truth. Save for one feeling, it's all a blur to me.

All I can remember is feeling like I had found something I didn't know I was looking for but had always needed.

[beaconsardis]

Night of Firsts and Lasts

I've given the crew port leave. It's been too long since I've let them stretch their legs and they were all showing the early signs of cabin fever.

Vaynai is not a planet I've visited before. It's a resort planet for families and for business looking to seal the deal with new clients. There's a single spaceport, located on one of the handful of mesas that poke out of the single ocean that covers the entire planet.

The crew scrambles off the ship and I only follow them as far as the Greemesa Market. It's a vacation destination, so the stalls are filled with distractions, entertainment and food. The prices are double what they should be, but with my mastery of the Force, I have never felt comfortable haggling. I buy two bowls of glaavyuk, four bottles of Endorian mead, and head back to the ship.

I relieve Fordsy of his guard duty. He insists he stay. Then he sees the two dinners I'm carrying. "I've gone longer than the recommended amount of time between shut downs," he admits. "Please reactivate me should something happen or we leave the planet."

Humaira's door opens with a beep and a whoosh. She's surprised to see me. I offer her one of the bowls of glaavyuk and nod for her to follow me. "Want some fresh air?"

We sit on the loading ramp of the Nexu, eating our spicy noodles and fish as we take in the oceanic panorama. We eat in silence, listening to the gentle lapping of the waves. Gulls caw overhead, circling us in the hopes we'll toss them some glaav.

"So what does a princess have to do to get a thirty thousand credit bounty put on her head?"

Humaira smiles. She knew this question was coming. "I was sacrificed on the altar of commercialism."

I'm not sure what that means, so I say, "I'm not sure what that means."

"What do you know about Cantonica," she asks.

I shake my head. I've got someone in Canto Bight, who keeps an eye out for purses that need pilfering, but I know little to nothing about the planet itself.

"We have a sister planet," she takes a sip of mead, "Bonadan. To show that there were no hard feelings about a business transaction that went sideways, I was given to Prince D'wonel."

"Given?" I don't like the sound of that.

"For his collection," Humaira nods matter-of-factly. "He had a harem of playthings from all across the galaxy. I didn't take too kindly to that, so on the night he called me to his chambers, I took a sword and stuck it so far into his stomach that I pinned him to the bed." She presents herself like the prestige of a magic trick, "thus the bounty."

I don't want to believe her. I want this to be a ruse, an act. I want her to by lying, trying to get on my good side so I'll think twice about collecting on her bounty. But she's telling the truth. She's as imperfect as anyone else, but the actual and complete victim here.

"Five hundred years ago this corner of the galaxy was given to a collection of corporations to govern and control, creating an oligarchical fiefdom of planets." Humaira spits every word with disgust. "Greed is their creed and life is cheap."

"What'll happen," I ask.

She doesn't respond. Her eyes are distant, disappearing into the rhythm of the waves. "They'll make a big show of it," she finally says, her voice as distant as her gaze. "Thanks for the final meal, I've never had glaavyuk before." Then, as almost an afterthought, "I've never been to the ocean before."

"That means you've never swam in the ocean before," I astutely realize.

"Never been in a body of water that wasn't manmade," she answers, finishing her mead.

"Well then let's make your last night a night of a couple of firsts, too." I stand and use the Force to whip the empty bottle of mead out of her hand. "Let's go."

I lead her down the ramp. We circle under and around the ship, walking the length of dock. With the ship between us and the rest of the port, I strip down to my undergarments. She follows my lead, slipping out of her dress and diving in behind me.

The water is warm and salty. The current gently flows around us. It's just shallow enough that we're able to touch the soft sand beneath us as each lolling wave sets us down.

Humaira laughs, a moment of natural joy washing over her. She lays down, floating on her back and letting the ebb and flow decide where she goes. She hums to herself, a peaceful smile sliding across her lips.

"So how do you make peace with being a Jedi and a pirate?" She opens one eye to see my reaction. "I thought Jedi were supposed to not have material possessions."

"It's actually really easy," I say, "I'm not a Jedi."

She sits up, splashing into a standing position. "What?"

"The Jedi Order was a religion," I explain, "and the Force is bigger than any church. It's universal. It flows through us and around us. It connects every living being to one another. It's like the tide of this ocean, pushing and pulling us and with the right practice, you can use it to your advantage."

Comparing it to the being caught in the current of a river or ocean is the best way I can think of to explain what it feels like to be me. I feel the flow of the Force so profoundly that I have to remind myself that others don't feel it at all.

"Sometimes I tell it what to do and sometimes it tells me what to do."

I can see the question forming. It's on her lips so I answer it before she voices it.

"I believe there is a great imbalance in the galaxy. The rich and powerful are only getting richer and more powerful while the poor and weak are only getting poorer and weaker. I'm trying to bring some balance to the galaxy by taking from the rich what they don't need and giving it to those who do." I present myself like the prestige of a magic trick, mirroring Humaira. "Hence the piracy."

"Can you mind control people?"

"I don't like to," I say uneasily.

"But you do."

"I can."

"So you do."

I frown. "I don't like taking away people's ability to choose, but," I admit, "there have been times when if a guard could just look over there for a second, I could get away."

"Could you convince your crew to just look over there so I could get away?" Humaira asks. There's a smile on her face, so she can claim she's joking, but the question is clearly sincere. "Or could you, I don't know, convince them to let me join the crew?"

"Join the crew?" I almost laugh. "What can you do?"

"Oh," she says very seriously, "I can fly circles around your best pilot."

She believes this. It's not up for debate with her. She is the best pilot she's ever known.

I nod back to the Nexu. "Show me."

Humaira sits down in the cockpit. She pulls her hair back and stabs one of the chopsticks from dinner in it.

"This is a Corellian freighter," she surmises. "YT series?"

"YT-2000," I nod.

Her eyes dance across the controls and then with a nod, she looks back at me. "Okay."

I couldn't convince a single person on my crew that this is a good idea. Handing over the pilot's seat to a prisoner who knows their life is over if they're turned in is the sort of thing I would never be able to explain to anyone, ever. But Humaira's intentions are pure. She just wants to show off. She wants to impress someone.

The Nexu lifts off the landing pad. But instead of nosing up and heading for the stars, Humaira keeps the ship low and punches it. We rocket out over the ocean, spraying water in our wake. She puts us into a spin before pulling back suddenly and sharply, sending us skyward. The timing on the maneuver is impressive.

She kills the engines, putting us into freefall. We plummet downward, going faster and faster as the planet pulls us down for a tight embrace. My stomach is in my mouth and my eyes are shut. She waits a second longer than I think she should before bringing the engines back to life and sending us straight for the horizon.

We're flying upside down, with the ocean above us and sky below. We bank a long, slow arc to the starboard, putting the resorts directly ahead of us.

"Oh no," I hear myself say as I realize she's about to get us into a lot of trouble.

Humaira laughs as she increases power to the thrusters. The resorts are coming up fast. They're too small and we're moving to fast for me to see them, but it's easy for me to imagine vacationers stopping what they're doing as they see a freighter barreling down on them. They turn to one another, wondering what they should do. Bomba chokes on whatever he's eating as he recognizes the foolhardy ship.

I watch in silence, in horror, and in amazement as Humaira weaves us through and around the resort's buildings and towers. We never come close to even grazing one of them. She is incomplete control. She is one with the ship.

Humaira points at me. "There it is. That's the face I was going for."

She sets us down on the landing pad and spins around in her chair to face me. She holds out her hands to ask, "well?"

I can't look her in the eye. "Thirty thousand credits is too much," I say. "They would mutiny."

Humaira sighs a long, low sigh. It's not the answer she wanted but it's the answer she expected. "I'll show myself back to my room."

"I'm sorry," I start to say, but then stop. A plan is starting to form. It's less than a plan. It's a thought, the vaguest of ideas.

Humaira is standing at the door, one foot out. She's looking down at me, an eyebrow cocked. I see the curiosity and desperation in her eyes.

"I think I have a terrible idea," I say.

[beaconsardis]

The Scorekeeper's Delight

I have no love for Zygerria. The grudge they hold against the rest of the galaxy for cracking down on their slave trade is galling and obnoxious. However, the rocky planet is located at the crossroads of the Listehol Run and the Shaltin Tunnels.

Any pilot needing to pivot from the Run to the Tunnels (or vice versa) has to drop out of hyperspace, adjust their trajectory and plot their new trajectory before hitting hyperspeed again. In the few minutes it takes them to do this, we can swoop in and disable their engines with a well-placed ion blast. New navcomputers are closing our windows of opportunity. They can plot and program multiple jumps, queueing up the next leg of an journey well before you reach it.

We have to be quick and we have to be accurate, which is why I have Fordsy on the ion cannon. No one can match that droid's speed and precision.

On certain trade routes, we have to hide. We position ourselves behind an asteroid or moon or if there's a debris field, we can look like a convincing piece of garbage. When our scanners light up, we punch the sublight engines and are (hopefully) bearing down on our prey before they realize they're not alone.

There's no cause for that at the crossroads. We can just wait for them to drop out of hyperspace and disable them before they get their bearings.

"I have to admit," Bomba grumbles, "when I joined the crew, I did not foresee so much sitting around, doing nothing."

"We're not doing nothing," I correct, "we're waiting."

"Waiting for nothing!" Bomba growls. "If we were plundering the Byss Run or the Guu, we'd have our pick of prey!"

I laugh. It's an exhausted, exasperated laugh. Bomba knows I'm not going to get into it with him. It's a risk versus reward argument that I and the Dug will never see eye-to-eye on. He's willing to risk the wrath of the New Republic if it means more booty or a higher payout while I contend we'll make more in the long run if we stay in the Outer Rim, far from the New Republic's scanners.

"We have incoming!" Fordsy squawks over the comm.

A crescent-shaped slides out of hyperspace.

"That's a Corellian JumpMaster," Bomba says and then, checking scanners, "The Scorekeeper's Delight. Registered to a Trandoshan bounty hunter called Kassah."

I watch the silver ship sail past us. "They've got somewhere to be in a hurry. Fordsy, take the wind outta their sails!"

Fordsy fires a leading ion blast and the craft collides with it. Pearlescent energy crackles over it, disabling it -- but it doesn't stop moving. Its momentum continues to carry it forward.

Bomba sees the problem as soon as I do. "It's headed for the moon."

I punch the engines and stab the comm. "Look alive everyone! We're on a timer with this one!"

"Fifteen minutes before it hits atmo," Bomba estimates.

"13.25," Fordsy corrects.

I send the Nexu on an intercept course. "Is there anyway you can buy us some time?"

"Another blast from the ion cannon could alter the ship's course . . ." Fordsy suggests.

Bomba shakes his head. "Those Corellian ships are glorified kites. Another blast would obliterate it."

"Take the controls then," I order. "Boarding party on me in two minutes!"

Bomba flies us in close, matching the speed and trajectory of the doomed JumpMaster. He locks the ship in our tractor beam pulls it up against the belly of our ship. Normally would pull up beside the ship and dock with it, but the lightweight craft we're about to board doesn't have a docking ring.

"Is our tractor beam strong enough to-"

"No," Bomba interrupts.

I open the deck hatch. The other ship's hull is just a meter beneath us. I ignite my lightsaber and drop down. I sink the blade into the hull. It gives little resistance as I cut a hole to match the size of our hatch. I kick the cut-out in. It doesn't fall down, it tips and falls flat.

I step and fall through the hole and then slide across the cold, steel floor of a tight corridor. A blaster bolt whizzes past me, burning a scar into the wall. I roll to my feet and hold the lightsaber in front of me, its yellow glow lighting the way.

Fordsy's voice crackles through my commlink, "you have 8.3 minutes."

"I'm already on my way out," I respond.

My crew doesn't have to be told what to do. They split up, a handful heading towards the front of the ship and a handful flank me as I make my way to the back of the ship.

I stop. The wall next to me doesn't feel right. I point to it and then keep inching my way towards the back. Those following me down the corridor know what that means. They inspect that panel until they find the button that opens it.

"Weapons cache," one of them calls out.

I give them a nod, but my mind is not with them. I've stepped into a miasma of conflicting feelings and I'm trying to sort my way through them. Fear, desperation, anger, hope, regret . . . They can't all be coming from the same person, can they?

"Kassah?" I call out. "Is that you?"

Trepidatious silence responds, followed by something muffled.

"Come on out," I say, "no one has to die today."

"6.2," Fordsy warns.

"Nothing up front," comes the report.

"Get back to the ship," I respond.

Then -- slowly, cautiously -- a pale green Trandoshan steps out of the dark and into the yellow glow of my saber. In one of his clawed hands he has a pistol, but it's not pointing at me. The reptilian bounty hunter has the gun pointed at the head of the human woman he's holding in his other scaly hand.

The woman's hands and feet are bound behind her. The binders around her ankles and wrists are connected by a bar. Its by this bar the Trandoshan is holding her, as if she were little more than a piece of luggage. She's flexing and squirming, trying to take the weight off her shoulders. It's clear she's in pain, but her protests are muffled by the gag in her mouth.

The Trandoshan snarls something, his tongue flicking against his sharp teeth.

"Who here speaks Trandoshan?" I shout over my shoulder.

Zola, a Weequay, steps forward. "He says he'll split the bounty with you fifty-fifty if you let him board your ship."

"Kassah?" I ask.

The Trandoshan nods.

"Why would I do that?" I ask him.

"Something's gotta be better than nothing," Zola translates for Kassah.

"Who is she?" I demand, pointing at the young woman bound at Kassah's side.

The young woman is put on her knees between us. He pulls her head back roughly by her dark hair. Tears, painted pastel by her makeup, run angry rainbow swirls down her face.

"I present to you Princess Humaira of Cantonica," Zola translates.

"Four minutes!" Fordsy screeches.

"Huh. A princess. I didn't know they made those anymore!" I muse.

The Trandoshan snaps and hisses.

"The bounty on her head is only good if she's brought in alive," Zola says.

"Great." I flick my middle and pointer fingers towards me. The bounty hunter's pistol spins out of his hand, whips past my head, and clatters across the floor somewhere behind me.

"SSHHHEDI!!"

I don't need Zola to translate that. I backhand the bounty hunter without touching them. He hits the wall and crumples to the floor.

I step over the imprisoned princess. "Hold still." With a quick flick, followed by a more careful one, I slice through the bar holding her binders together and then the binders around her feet.

I put a hand under her arm and pull her to her feet. "Back to the ship! Go! Go!"

We race back to the door I cut earlier, climb through it, and slam the hatch shut. As the iris spins shut, I can hear Fordsy yelling at Bomba.

The Nexu groans and shutters as we pull away from the bounty hunter's ship and fight against the the increasing pull of gravity. I pull myself up to my feet as Bomba pulls us up, up, and finally away from the Zyggerian moon.

I breathe a sigh of relief. I turn just in time to see the JumpMaster crash against the atmosphere, breaking and then burning up into nothing.

"That was very nearly us," Bomba shakes his head. "And for what?"

"Get us out of here first."

"Where to?"

"Anywhere."

Checking the star-charts, Bomba shrugs. "I've always wanted to see Vaynai." He enters the coordinates and we go into hyperspeed.

I motion for Bomba to follow me. I lead him to the portside bay. He goes straight for the weapons cache we discovered. "Nice, nice," he says, inspecting them. "I don't know if I would have risked my life for them, but they will make nice additions to our collection."

It's only then he sees the woman. He looks back at me as he points at her with a thumb. "Who's this?"

Standing barefoot against the dull gray bulkhead, surrounded by a dingy crew that can't remember the last time they showered, she is a shock of color in a flowing, backless, prismatic dress. She's tanned, but it's not the tan of someone who has had to work long hours under the suns. This is a soft tan luxuriated into existence. Her hair is so dark, so black, it's very nearly blue.

Her amber eyes are darting around the ship. She's taking it in and trying to decide how she's supposed to feel about this new situation she's in. Has she been rescued? Or does she just have a new captor?

"Rumor has it she's a real-life princess." I say and then to her, "Humaira of Cantonica?"

This gets Bomba's attention and he snaps to. "What? Princess? Are we going to hold her ransom? I didn't think you had that in you!"

"There's apparently a bounty out for her," I say, locking eyes with her.

She studies me.

"Yes," she says. "I am Princess Humaira of Cantonica and my father is offering a reward for my safe return." She sounds annoyed, frustrated. "What are you? Smugglers? Bounty hunters?"

"Pirates," I say.

I can feel her settling into this information and accepting what that means for her. "So I guess it's your bounty now." Her tone is one of resignation, but there's something else -- a different feeling -- buried beneath it.

"Thirty thousand credits!" Bomba shouts at his datapad. "He's offering thirty thousand credits for her! Ho, Beacon, I'll never doubt you again!"

The crew is buzzing with excitement, but Humaira doesn't seem to notice. She's locked eyes on me. There's something percolating in the back of her brain. I don't go poking, though. I can tell I'll know what it is soon enough.

Humaira sighs. "I assume you have some kind of compartment or room you're going to stow me away in for the rest of the trip?" Her Cantonican accent gently bobs her words up and down as if they are caught in the lazy ebb and flow of a pond on a still summer day.

"Brig," I say. "The word you're looking for is brig. Bomba here will show you the way."

Before turning her over, I remove her binders. She rubs her wrists and thanks me with a silent smile. As Bomba leads her away, I wonder what her story is and what she's planning.

I turn to Fordsy. "As we are not typically bounty hunters, we do not typically traffic people so we do not have anyone accustomed to being on guard duty."

"It's a simple enough task," Fordsy says. "I can't imagine it being-"

"I don't want her talking to anybody," I interrupt. "Stand outside her door and don't let anyone near her."

[beaconsardis]

Tools of a Jedi

Every chance I get, every moment to myself, I'm in my cabin, sitting on the floor in front of the chest I found in the derelict Jedi ship. It's a mystery, a puzzle, that I am determined to solve.

The white robes inside the chest are clearly meant for someone taller and thinner than me. There is no way, in no direction, that they'll fit me. Tagiss wants me to sell them.

"They'd fetch more than a fistful of credits on the collector's market," he says greedily.

But I refuse. There's something special, something mystical, something holy that surrounds them. I can't part with them. I fold them delicately and place them at the bottom of my footlocker, threatening the Gand with every awful thing I can think of, should he even touch them.

The lightsaber won't start. Prying open the hilt, I find an empty chamber inside it. The chamber looks like it should hold something, but all that's in it now are what looks like shards of a blue crystal and a fine blue dust.

The biggest mystery of all, though, is the cube. I have no idea what it is, but it keeps calling me back to it. This is what pulled me to the derelict ship -- but what is it? My finger trace the intricate designs. There are no hinges, no latches, nothing that would suggest it opens. There are no ports or sockets or anything that would let something plug into it.

Maybe it plugs into something, I think. The old myths always seemed to have temples with strange keys or blocks that, when put in a special order or slotted a certain way, would open a secret door. Maybe this is one of those? Maybe it's the key to a hidden Jedi temple?

Something keeps tugging at me, though. I'm holding the cube and I feel something in my chest being tugged. So I tug back. It's not audible to anyone else, I'm not even sure if I heard it so much as I felt it, but there's a vibration from inside the cube.

I close my eyes and I imagine this cube is trying to talk to me, trying to convince me something, and I need to know if it's lying to me or trying to hide something.

First, all I can see is the back of my eyelids. But then slowly, coming into focus, is something strange and ancient that almost looks like a harp. I reach out to touch it. I pluck the strings and listen to the thrumming of each string. I strum them in no particular order but then something stops me. Like a mentor's hand guiding me, I am shown which strings to play and in what order.

The cube comes to life. A blue light pulses from within. I very nearly drop it as the eight corners turn, revealing themselves to be triangular pyramids. Stretching up and out of the cube comes the hologram of a tall and elegant being.

"Hello," she says, "I am Jedi Peacekeeper Oh Lin. Is there anything I can help you with?"

Her voice is slow, smooth and soothing. She has long, elegant limbs that are such a pale shade of blue that they are very nearly white. She has wide, dark eyes with white pupils. I recognize her species immediately from my history lessons. She's from Kamino and she's wearing the white robes I found inside the chest.

I stammer for words. "Wh-what is this?"

"This is my holocron." She says, sweeping a graceful arm towards the cube in my hands. "Within it you'll find everything I have learned of the galaxy and of the Force. All you need do is ask."

From that moment forward, every change I get, every moment to myself, I'm in my cabin, sitting at the feet of Oh Lin, listening to her answer my every question. Day by day I inch closer to solving the mystery, the puzzle, that is my existence.

[beaconsardis]

Recruiting Bomba

I need someone who could fix a hyperdrive with one hand and strangle an enraged Wookiee with the other.

I'm in a holding cell, behind bars, on the floor, flat on my back. Everything is going according to plan.

I groan. The air is hot, thick and wet. I'm lying still and have sweat running down my back. I can't believe people choose to live here.

"Oh, look who's decided to join the land of the living!" The guard is an Anx. His voice is deep and full of gravel.

I try to stand. I'm still not used to Gravlex Med's high gravity. It makes me feel like I'm moving underwater.

"Whaddam I doing here?" I slur. I'm not as drunk or hungover as they think I am.

"We have public intoxication codes," says the guard.

"Oh," I say, "I'm so very sorry." I run my hand back and forth across the bars of my cell. "I haven't s'n bars on cells 'n ages! I love 'em!"

"Sober up, pay your fine, and you can be on your way," says the guard.

"Your head looks like a knife," I stroke his tall forehead through the bars. He recoils sharply. "Like a lizardy, leathery knife!"

The Anx groans and walks away. As soon as he's disappeared around the corner, I turn to the cell next to mine. Specifically, I turn to the Dug lying on his cot and trying to mind his own business.

"You're Bomba the Dug!"

"What of it?"

"You're wanted by the New Republic and the First Order!"

"Lucky me."

I lean against the bars. "Who do you think the Anx are going to turn you over to?"

Bomba sits up, eyeing me suspiciously down the length of his snout. Sweat is beaded across his brown, leathery skin.

"Preferably the New Republic, I would imagine. But the reward the First Order is offering is higher. And I would imagine the penalty stiffer. Slavery if you're lucky. I hear they need more diggers for their mines on Ilum." I rub my chin. "If only there were some third option."

Bomba smacks his lips. "If only."

"You're a hard Dug to track down."

"You been following me?"

"I'm assembling a crew. I need people I can trust but who don't mind living on the other side of the law. Word has it as quick and cruel as are, your word is your bond."

"Didn't realize I had a reputation."

"So when I heard Anx Security picked you up, I hyperspaced over here to get locked up with you as fast as I could." I squat down to be on his level.

He slides off his bunk and catches himself with his hands. Walking over on them, he looks me in the eye while twirling one of his tendrils between his toes. "To do what exactly."

"To look you in the eye. To see if you could be trusted."

"And?"

I see him. I feel him. He's dangerous. He's short-tempered. He won't break his word but if presented an opportunity to enrich himself, he will find a way around it.

"My name is Beacon Sardis," I say, "and I believe there is a great imbalance in the galaxy. The rich and powerful are only getting richer and more powerful while the poor and weak are only getting poorer and weaker. It's my plan to bring some balance to the galaxy by stealing from the rich, taking a small cut for ourselves and giving the rest to those who need it." I offer my hand.

"As I live in breathe," he laughs a deep, throaty laugh, "a pirate with a heart of gold!"

"Whatta ya' say? Wanna get rich and help some people along the way?"

"What's my cut?" The Dug eyes me. I have his attention.

"Same as everyone else," I say. "Doesn't matter who you are or what you do, the plunder is split evenly amongst the crew."

He frowns. He's not a fan of that idea. "It's a beautiful dream," he snarls. "But they're not going to just let us walk out of here."

I agree. "We'll have to fight our way out. But it'll be easier than you think."

"How's that?"

I raise my hand over my head. "They don't know I can do this."

FWAP!

My lightsaber was confiscated by the guards and left on one of the desks on the other side of the room. Thanks to cells being barred and not encased in a ray shield, the weapon spins across the room and slaps into the palm of my hand.

"The galaxy has forgotten about the Force and they've let their guard down." I smile.

"You're a Jedi!"

"I'm not." I ignite my saber, its yellow blade screaming to life. "But don't tell anyone that."

It hums as it slices through my holding cell's bars. I raise an eyebrow at Bomba.

"So it's a pirate's life for me then," Bomba says with a big, evil grin.

[beaconsardis]

Boarded

I'm trying not to panic.

We're about be boarded.

We're running blaster rifles for Toydarian antiracists and we're about to be boarded by soldiers of the New Republic.

We were not expecting to run into the New Republic. While it's not uncommon to run into the New Republic in the Mid Rim, it is out of the ordinary to run into them in Hutt space. The Hutts and the New Republic have something of an understanding in which neither bothers the other and both try to respect the boundaries and of the other.

Or, at least, that's how it's been explained to me.

Yet, as we approached the green planet of Toydaria, we found ourselves in the shadow of a Mon Calamari capital ship. They hailed us, asked for our identification, and then told us to prepare to be boarded.

"What's the New Republic doing out here anyway?" Palial hisses.

I'm trying not to panic.

I'm only fifteen years old.

I've been a smuggler for less than a year, but that's not going to matter to them.

Smugglers are sent to prisons or mines or thrown into pits where no sun can reach them. They key is thrown away and no one remembers them.

I shouldn't be here.

I shouldn't have come.

Of all the ways I could have tried to get off that miserable rock, why did I choose a smuggler's ship?

Was I even that miserable?

Pasquaal VI is a fine place. I could have made a life there and found some happiness. Maybe marry a barmaid or-

I feel the patient hand of Siom Lech on my shoulder. He looks down at me. He tries to smile. He tries to wordlessly comfort me, but the Utapaun only succeeds in looking like every single nightmare I had as a child.

"Happens all the time," Siom says. "Nothing to worry about."

There's a knock at our door. We're inside their ship and they're knocking at our door.

Palial activates the door. It opens and the ramp descends. Moments later, two soldiers of the New Republic are on our ship.

"What can I do for you," Siom asks politely, bowing slightly.

"A ship matching your description was recently seen on Tatooine," says the first soldier.

Were were on Tatooine a few months ago.

"It is believed the ship is owned by a smuggler who is working for an Ithorian spice dealer by the name of Qew Dak," says the second soldier.

We met with Qew Dak. I didn't like him. I let Siom know and he decided we were not going to do business with him.

"Ah," Siom says, tilting his head back, "I understand now. There has been a misunderstanding. Several, actually."

The New Republicans shared knowing glances. They're ready for his excuse, his lie, they've heard them all.

"That was us on Tatooine," Siom admits to their surprise. "We were just there. I have no doubt it was our ship your scanners picked up. And we met with the spice runner you spoke of, Qew Dak."

The soldiers are confused. They were not expecting a full confession. One of them drops their hand to their holster.

"The first misunderstanding is yours. We are not smugglers. We work in the antiques market," he lies through his pointed teeth. "We find, purchase, trade and sell every sort of rare antiquity. The second misunderstanding was the Ithorian's. Not only did he think we were for hire, he assumed we would be willing to courier illegal substances for him. We declined his offer and left immediately. Which leads us to your, most understandable misunderstanding. You were presented a connect-the-dots picture with no information on what picture you were supposed to be drawing." Siom smiles. "You connected the dots, you've just drawn the wrong picture."

The soldiers are speechless.

"You are welcome to search my ship," Siom offers with a welcoming gesture. "And if you give me a moment, I will find my papers, which you will find are in perfect order."

It is a masterful performance and I am, frankly, in awe. The soldiers are still a little confused, but mostly they are disappointed. They had hoped to make an arrest today, they are both very eager to prove themselves to their commanding officer. Everything they had been feeling, and everything they are feeling, is being overtaken with their belief that Siom Lech is telling them the truth.

The first soldier nods. "We'll need to do a sweep of your ship."

"Of course," Siom takes a grand step backwards, letting them pass.

The soldiers work their way through the ship. I watch them walk over the secret compartments. They poke their heads into our cabins, but what they're searching for, what they're hoping to find, is much larger than anything we might have tucked in our foot lockers.

They pause occasionally when their scanners make a sound or a noise, but they never for long. They adjust the settings of their scanners, shake their head, and move along. I can't believe it. We're going to get away with this.

"Right," says the second soldier. "Sorry for the misunderstanding."

"No apology is necessary," Siom says courteously, "you are doing your jobs, your duties, to keep this galaxy safe. And speaking not just for myself, but my crew, thank you."

The soldiers nod politely and disembark. Palial closes the door behind them and stares at Siom.

"It doesn't matter how many times I see you do that, it never gets old."

Siom drops the act. "Get us out of here. Put as much space between us and this ship as quickly as possible. Any commanding officer worth their salt will question their findings and will keep us here for a more thorough investigation."

The New Republic ship drops its shields and Paliel takes us planet side immediately. The anarchists are on the opposite side of the planet, but he wanted us off their scanners and out of their visual line of sight as quickly as possible.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I am able to breathe again.

[beaconsardis]

Fencing

Ord Mantell is just about as far into the Interior as you'll ever find me. The planet is conveniently located next to several hyperspace lanes, and it being so close to the Interior means you can often find things that don't always make it out to the Outer Rim.

If you're looking to modify or fix your starship, it has what you're looking for. Perhaps you're looking to upgrade your droid with weapons or programming most governments would find questionable. Or perhaps you're like us, possessing plunder recently relieved from unwilling well-to-dos you would like to sell quickly, with little to no questions asked -- Ord Mantell is the place you go.

There is a Devaronian I know who works in the ruins of Ord Mantell City. I met him when I was still in Siom Lech's crew and he quickly became the face of person I could trust.

"I'm here just like you," he often says, "trying to put a little jingle in my pocket. I can't always offer what you want, but I will always offer you what I can."

His name is Grith Cesask and he is waiting for us as we step off the ramp of the Nexu and into our docking bay. He's dressed in dark clothes, making his crimson skin look all the redder. Over his dusky attire is a golden shawl of a cape. It's wrapped around him, hanging off of him and giving him a hood.

"Well look who decided to pay his Uncle Grith a visit!" He pushes his hood off, revealing the large black horns that curl back over his bald, red head. "You know, Beacon," he waves a red finger at me, "it's starting to feel like you only come see me when you want money from me."

I laugh and he hugs me tight.

"What have you brought me this time?"

I step out of the way so Fordsy and Xil Vee can present our plunder. But before I can tell him about the Bardottan silk we had managed to procure, he holds up and hand and tell me to shut up.

"Who is this?" Grith says, gesturing to our pilot, who is descending the ramp.

Humaira is wearing a pink double-breasted tunic she has only half-buttoned, creating a plunging neckline that very nearly connects with her black, high-waisted wrap pants. The ankle boots she stole from Liittii, the impish smirk she was born with.

Grith cocks a devilish smile and runs his hands over his horns as if he were straightening his hair. With a flourish and a bow, he extends his hand to Humaira.

"This may be the Bright Jewel System, but nothing here shines brighter than you."

Humaira looks at him and then up at me. She doesn't voice it, but the look on her face is clearly, "is he serious?" Then something washes over her. She becomes someone different, someone I have never seen before. She stands a little straighter and there is a regal tilt to head. As a princess, she must have played this part in this exact scene a thousand different times. She offers Grith her hand, raising him from his bow.

"Humaira," I say apologetically, "this is Grith Cesask."

"The Devaronian Fence," Grith stands with a flourish, flinging his cape back over his shoulders. "Buyer and seller of secondhand and aftermarket items. I won't say where I bought them if you won't say where you sold them."

"Grith, this is Humaira. She is our pilot."

"And I like your cape," Humaira says.

"I love your accent," Grith says. "Cantonican?"

"Where'd you get it?"

"It's one of a kind, I'm afraid." Grith shows it off. It's a light, golden fabric and on closer inspection, there is an intricate, flowery design sewn into it.

Humaira shakes her head. "I could probably find ten like it and not leave this docking bay."

"Capes, yes." Grith nods. "Shawls, cloaks, absolutely. But this? This is an Alderaanian cape. Not to be callous, but these aren't being made any more. It's vintage."

Humaira's eyes light up. "How much do you want for it?"

"It's not for sale."

"Everything is for sale," she counters quickly.

The Devaronian smiles a playful, wicked smile. "Well let's see what you brought me, shall we?"

Humaira points to the long wooden crate Xil and Fordsy had carried down the ramp. "We have nine of these crates. Each crate has three reams of Bardottan silk. That's twenty-seven reams of Bardottan silk in various shades and colors."

I look over at Xil Vee to see if he's seeing this. This is usually my role. The Ardennian shrugs his four shoulders.

"Bardottan silk is a high-quality fabric sought after by the upper crust of, she pauses to roll her eyes, "the entire galaxy. Each ream has about one hundred meters of fabric that can be sold for ninety credits a yard." She snaps her fingers. "Fordsy! How much money does our Devaronian friend stand to make?"

"Roughly 243,000 credits."

Humaira looks at Grith. "I don't have to tell you that's a lot of money."

"I won't be able to sell it for that."

"That's not our problem," Humaira puts her hands on her hips. "But that is what it's worth."

"You couldn't sell it for that."

"No," Humaira agrees, "but that's why we're here. To sell it to you. For, let's say, 120,000 credits. Now, I don't know if you know this, but we don't keep that money. Not all of it."

Grith makes eye contact with me. "I do know that."

"First we take 10% for fuel, repairs, supplies -- anything we need to keep the operation afloat. From there, we take another 25% and divide it equally amongst the crew. They've earned that. What remains is sent to a cause in need or is used to purchase things for a people who can't afford it. Are you with me so far?" Humaira look at the Devaronian like a school teacher looks at an unruly class.

"Yes," Grith growls.

"Fordsy, what would be my cut for this?"

"4,950 credits," the droid responds quickly.

"I need a little something for my trouble, so I'm going to keep 950 of those credits and return 4,000 of them back to you."

Grith's bald eyebrows rise. "4,000 credits?"

"You see it as 4,000 credits, I see it as my cut." Humaira says. "For my part in this heist, I would like that cape."

"So 116,000 credits for all your silk," Grith turns to me.

Before I can respond, Humaira raises a hand. "No. That's not how percentages work. You lower the amount you pay us, and everyone's cut goes down. You pay us 120,000 credits. I will then return 4,000 credits back to you. You can see it as only having spent 116,000 credits or you can see it as having already made 4,000 of your credits back."

Grith looks at me and points at her. "You need to keep this one. She's good."

"I'm from Cantonica," Humaira smiles. "I could do this in my sleep."

Grith unwraps the cloak and folds it up. Holding it one hand and extending to me his other, he smiles, "that works for me."

It happened so fast, my brain is still trying to catch up. Math and money has never been my strong suit. I feel like I've missed something, but the thing I keep running into is, 120,000 credits is more than I was expecting to make and Grith didn't even bat an eye at it.

I give him my hand. He shakes it enthusiastically. "Alright, I'll call my boys and get you unloaded in two shakes of a damgo."

Humaira takes the cape from Grith and with a curt nod says, "it was a pleasure doing business. I believe Fordsy will take it from here."

"That was incredible," I say to Humaira as we leave the docking bay.

She wraps the long shawl around her. "Feel how soft this is," she says. "It's so soft it almost makes me want to cry."

"I didn't expect you to do that," I steer us back to the conversation I want to have.

"I'm sorry," Humaira says, "I hope I didn't overstep or-"

"No, not at all." I shake my head.

"I want to hold my own," she says. "I want to be a valuable member of this team."

"You are." I say.

"I know you think that, but I want to make sure they do too." Humaira stops. She smiles at me. "We are quite . . . smitten with one another, I think it's fair to say. I don't want them to think that's the only reason I'm here. And piloting is . . ." Her head bobs back and forth. "Everyone thinks they can do it. It's a hard thing to prove you're the best at. What is easy to understand is money. They now have more money in their pockets because of me. We are going to help more people because of me. What I said, I said only partly in jest. I am a Princess of Cantonica. I understand business. Give that responsibility to me and I will make us more money."

She hears no argument from me. I dub her the Treasurer and Chief Haggler on the spot.

"Now," she says, "I've always wanted to explore Ord Mantell. Let's go find things for you to buy for me."

[beaconsardis]

The Derelict Ship

I'm sixteen years old. I'm making my way to the front of the ship. We've dropped out of hyperspace early. Something's up.

"What's going on," I ask as I step into the cockpit.

"Nothing to worry about," says Palial, The Night Wind's Ishi Tib pilot. "Hyperscanners picked up something that shouldn't be there so dropped us out of hyperspace before we collided with it. Re-plotting our course now. We'll be on our way in half-"

"Wait," I say.

Currently no bigger than a fist, but floating our way, is a ship. It's old, pre-dating anything I had ever seen before.

"Scan it," I say.

"Why?" Palial looks up at me, his green eyes blinking. "It's not a cargo ship it looks like . . ." He squints, peering at it. "It looks like one of those old CloakShape fighters. Older model."

Something is pulling me towards the ship. I can feel it in my chest.

"Pull us up next to it," I say, "I want to get a better look at it."

"No!" Palial almost laughs. "We're behind schedule as it is!"

"What is the meaning of this?" Siom is suddenly in the cockpit with us. "Why have we stopped and why haven't we started back up?"

"I want to take a closer look at that ship," I jump in before Palial can.

"Why?" Siom considers me, his cybernetic eye irising down.

I open my mouth and close it again. No words that will make sense come to mind. I can feel his eyes on me, studying me. Finally I just say it.

"I don't know. I just . . ."

"Hmm," the Utapaun rubs his chin. He leans over, to get a better view of the derelict ship. After a moment he nods, "Palial, take us closer."

"But-"

Siom silences the Ishi Tib with a flick of the wrist. "I've come to trust Beacon's feelings. If he feels something and I can't explain it, more times than not, something larger is at play and he is often proven right. Take us in."

Palial does as he's told. As he does, I scramble into a flight suit. To show my gratitude, I want Siom to know that I appreciate his time and do not take it for granted.

The Night Wind slows to a halt and I step out of the airlock. Before pushing away from our ship, I make sure my tether is secure. Then I shove off, letting my momentum carry me through space. I land on the hull of the other ship with a dull thud I feel in my bones.

"The ship's so old it's not in any databases," Palial's voice crackles through the commlink. "I was right, though. It is an older model CloakShape fighter."

There's a single scorch mark, directly in the center of the spine of the fighter. It looks like it took a single laser cannon blast.

"That's where the power generator should be," Palial explains, probably studying a schematic. "You blow that and . . ."

He doesn't have to say it. Without the power generator, you don't have propulsion, you don't have weapons, you don't have light support.

"CloakShapes usually had pretty strong shields," Palial sounds confused. "There's no other scorch marks or burns."

"What do you think that means," I ask as I approach the cockpit.

"A single, precise shot to the power generator? I think whoever this was, was stabbed in the back. Probably shot while they weren't looking by someone they trusted."

The pull is stronger, somehow louder, the closer I get to the cockpit. I want to run. I want to get down on all fours and scramble my way up the ship as fast as I can -- but I take it one easy step at a time.

"Aw man," Palial moans.

I don't have to ask what. I see it at the same time he does. The cockpit is wide open. The canopy is gone, probably opened from the inside.

In an instant, I know what happened. I don't imagine it, but I see it as clearly as if I had been there when it happened.

The engines are dead. Life support is gone. Death isn't inevitable, it's imminent. The pilot closes their eyes and calms themselves. They take in a deep breath, slowly let it out, and then raise a hand. Their fingers splay and the canopy flies off. The vacuum of space then pulls the pilot into the void and they become one with the Force.

This was a Jedi starship.

I pull myself into the cockpit, which is wider and longer than I was expecting and I see it almost immediately. Wedged beneath the seat is a chest. It's a small chest, about as wide as my shoulders. I kick it loose and pull it out.

My gloves make it difficult to unhook the latch, but I manage to open the chest. Wrapped in a white cloak I find a fist-sized cube with intricate detailing curling around the corners and covering its sides. Beside the cube is a silver cylinder. It has gold and copper swoops and spirals arcing up and down it. I touch it. I can't believe I'm touching it.

It is clearly and unmistakably the hilt of a lightsaber. I hold it away from me and flick the switch. Nothing happens. I examine the it a little closer and can see something inside it, inside the emitter, is broken.

"What did you find," Palial finally asks.

"Finders keepers," I say.

I once again find myself in the position of knowing I am not going to be able to explain this. I'm not going to be able to explain that this lightsaber and this cube were calling me. I'm not going to be able to explain how something that wasn't built fits so perfectly in my hand or how something that was handcrafted by someone with intense care for themselves has finally found its home. It belongs in the palm of my hand. It always belonged in the palm of my hand.

"No, seriously, what did you find?"

I tuck the lightsaber back into the box "I didn't find anything." I latch it shut. "It found me."

[beaconsardis]

Spark in the Dark

It's been three days since our escape from Cantonica. I've shuffled out of my cabin once or twice, in search of food and to check on the crew, but I'm always sent back to my quarters in fairly quick order.

I am exhausted. I am completely and thoroughly drained. I feel empty, hollow, on the inside. I'm supposed to be resting. Humaira is not helping.

She lays in bed beside me, on her stomach and not facing me. She's humming something, a playful little tune I've not heard before and she is staring. She hasn't been fixated on it for the last three days. As we lay here, talking and laughing, I keep catching her eyes wandering over to it.

I float the holocron from its shelf and place it in front of her. Humaira gasps and quickly sits up, crossing her legs in front of her.

"Can I touch it?"

I laugh. "Of course."

"I didn't know. I've heard about these but I didn't want to assume and I wasn't even sure if I -- since I don't have the Force -- if I could . . . I don't know . . ." She gingerly picks it up and holds it both her hands. "It's heavier than I thought it would be."

I watch as she slowly turns over and inspects its every side. She shakes her head, murmuring to herself at how beautiful it is.

"And the Jedi who taught you, is in this?"

"It's a storage device," I explain, "the Jedi would record their lives, their teachings and store them in these cubes. Then, when activated . . ."

I reach out to the palm-sized cube. I reach inside it. I feel its inner workings, the mechanisms that bring it to life. There are six strands that have to be plucked in the correct order. I find them. I pluck them.

The holocron begins to pulse with light. The inner workings come to life and the corners of the cube, which had appeared solid, suddenly unlock. They turn and springing out of the top is the hologram of a Kaminoan in Jedi robes is projected out of it. Reading its placement in the room, it zooms in from a full-body projection to one that is just from the waist up.

"Hello," she says, "I am Jedi Peacekeeper Oh Lin. Is there anything I can help you with?"

"It's fully interactive." I scoot in closer. "You can ask her anything and she'll answer you."

"To the best of my ability and knowledge," Oh Lin smiles. Her voice is soft, slow, and soothing. "I've learned a lot about the galaxy, but I cannot claim to know everything."

"Uh . . ." Humaira searches for a question, "I don't know . . . What's the Force?"

The Kaminoan's head sways back and forth at the end of her long neck. "You start with the biggest question of all."

"I'm sorry," Humaira looks back at me and then back at Oh Lin, "I just . . ."

"No," Oh holds up a gentle, reassuring hand. "You have nothing to apologize for. I like it. I like the big questions. I devoted my life to answering the big questions. It's where I started as well."

She takes in a small breath before answering, "the Force is many things and every culture and every being, it seems, interacts with it differently and understands a different aspect of it. Some have called it the Spark of Creation. Others, the Life Current. The Tide. The Sight. The Great Presence. What we all have agreed upon and discovered, in our own ways, is that it connects us. It connects every living being to every other living being. It is both life and created by life. It surrounds us. It flows through us. It holds the galaxy together. Through much training and perseverance, a Jedi can learn to interact with the Force." Oh's head dips slightly as she admits, "I do not like to say we control the Force, the Force is so much bigger than us, but that is the current, common understanding of it. By learning our place in the Force, we can exert a certain level of control over it." She smiles, "again, not words I am entirely comfortable with."

"I am not a Jedi," I remind Humaira, "as I said before."

Oh turns her attention to me, tilting her head quizzically -- as she always does when I say this.

"I appreciate and am thankful for the understanding you have shared with me," I say to the Jedi, "and while I agree with you on a lot of things, I do disagree with the dogma of the Jedi Order."

Oh Lin considers this. "The ways of the Jedi are not for everyone," she nods slowly. "But for Force-sensitive individuals, our rituals, our beliefs, our chosen lifestyle is one that shields us from falling to the Dark Side."

"But at what cost?" I counter. This is an argument she and I have had many times.

"If you do not control your fear," the Jedi tilts her head, "how do you stay in the Light?"

"I control it by confronting it," I explain. "By identifying it and refusing to let it control me."

"Is this not the Jedi way?" Oh asks.

"No," I respond simply. "The Jedi fear fear. And in doing so, let fear run and ruin their lives."

Oh Lin does not understand.

"A Jedi's life is one of complete abstinence. Fearing your emotions might get the better of you, you abstain from anything that might spark any actual feelings within you. You teach it's dangerous to feel pride in the the things you do. Curiosity is dangerous -- and so are friends and family! Anything that might connect you to someone or something, you abstain from. To avoid one extreme, you've swung to the other."

It's something I'm very passionate about. It frustrates me that I can't ever convince Oh of these things. She's not here. She's not alive. She can never change her mind.

"I don't believe in abstinence or indulgence, which is what you would have me believe are my only two options." I say.

I suddenly feel naked. I've only had a fleeting relationship with clothing these past three days, but this is the first time I have felt exposed and vulnerable in front of Humaira. I look over at her. She's listening to me, hearing me, weighing my words. I am being judged. I look back at Oh Lin.

"True discipline can only come from moderation," I say. "Acknowledging who you are, what you can do, what your weaknesses and strengths are, and keeping yourself in a state of balance . . . that is where knowledge comes from."

"You must trust your feelings," Oh says calmly. I can hear the monologue she's revving up for. "But emotions are fickle and unchecked can-"

I cut her off. "Moderation is the act of checking and re-checking yourself.I've searched my feelings and I know it to be true. And, it's as you say," I point at Oh, "the Force is so much bigger than us. Which means it's bigger than our understanding."

"I will not argue that," she concedes.

"Perhaps existence is not so black or white, good or evil. Light or Dark. Maybe, perhaps, there's just the Force and how you use it."

Oh's brow furrows. She does not like this. She never likes this.

"This is dangerous thinking," she says, "perhaps you should make your way to the Jedi Temple, where a Jedi Master would better instruct and guide you."

I reach out and deactivate the holocron. "I've told her before that the Jedi Temple no longer exists, that there are no more Jedi. She doesn't know what to do with that information. It's a possibility she never considered and doesn't have anything to say on the subject. She glitches and goes back to the last question you asked."

"She thinks you're dangerous."

I bite her shoulder. "I am dangerous."

"Can I hold your lightsaber?"

"Is that a euphemism?"

"No." Humaira points at the lightsaber on the other side of the room. "I want to hold your lightsaber."

I laugh. She takes that as a yes and bounds out of bed. Picking it up, careful to point the emitter away from her, she feels its weight.

"It's heavier than I thought it would be," she says.

"Maybe you're just bad at guessing the weight of things," I return the holocron to its shelf.

With a snap-hiss, Humaira fills the room with a golden yellow glow that I have always felt comforting. She waves it back and forth, listening to it hum. Her smile could not be any bigger. She deactivates it and watches the blade disappear into the hilt.

"You're the first person I've ever let touch that," I say as she sets it back down.

"Really?"

"You're the first person to ask," I chuckle. "I think most people are scared of it."

"Why?"

"A lot of people don't know what to think about the Jedi." I theorize. "I don't know if we, as a galaxy, ever really got to sift through everything that happened when the Old Republic fell. We were too busy trying to survive the empire and then a civil war and then rebuilding the Republic and . . . We haven't had time to study our history and learn from it."

"Does it bother you," Humaira asks as she crawls back into bed, "that if the Jedi were still around or if you had been alive back then, that they would brand you a Dark Jedi?"

"Neither side would like me very much." I lean back and take Humaira in my arms. "I'm too dark for the Light and too light for the Dark. I use my power to make money. And protect my friends. And, if I can, help others. I'm simultaneously too selfish and not selfish enough." I shrug like it doesn't bother me.

I'm trying to not let it bother me. I know the truth of the matter is that both sides would think I was undisciplined and weak. I tell myself I don't care about dead men's opinions of me but in the stillness of the night, it haunts me and makes me question myself.

Humaira lays her head on my chest. "You're a spark in the dark."

I smile. I like that.

[beaconsardis]

Humble Beginnings

I’m fourteen years old and I’m convincing the smuggler Siom Lech to let me join his crew.

“I feel things,” I say.

“That doesn’t make you special,” hisses the Utapaun, his right cybernetic eye whirring as it focuses in on me.

“No, I feel things,” I say.  “I can tell when someone is lying. I know what people are going to do before they do them. I can find and see things that no one else can.”

“Hmm,” the smuggler rubs his long, gaunt chin with a long, skeletal finger.  His voice creaks and groans like an old tree caught in the wind.  “Have you always been able to do this?”

“For as long as I can remember,” I say.  “And I just found out that not everybody else can.”

“There are stories,” he says, “from long ago of people who could do what you claim to be able to do.  Tell me,” he lowers his voice to a hoarse whisper, “what do you know of the Force?”

I shrug.  “Just the bedtime stories.”

“Hmm,” Siom Lech is not what one usually imagines when they hear the word smuggler.  He’s thoughtful, methodical, and precise.  He cannot and will not be rushed to any decision.  But once his mind is made up, it is set -- and in his crew, his word is law.

“We have a potential new client in Mos Espa on Tatooine,” Siom says. “New clients make me nervous. I need to know if they can be trusted. I will take you to meet them. You will decide if we take the job or not. How the job goes will dictate whether or not you can remain a part of my crew.”

I want to jump up and hug him, but even the thought of smiling seems to make him uncomfortable. I smile, I nod, and tell him he won’t be disappointed.

I’ve been dying to get off Pasquaal VI.  Mom moved here and set up shop after the Galactic Civil War when she found out she was pregnant with me. She likes it here. I do not.

I am a restless being. I cannot sit still or be in any one place for very long.  I was born nine months after the destruction of the Second Death Star and I’ve long credited that to my restless nature. When I look up at the stars, I just see endless opportunity. Had I been born under empire, I have to imagine the the galaxy would have felt darker, more dangerous and less welcoming.

Mom is sad and worried to see me go, but she’s not going to say no.  She’s still a rebel at heart.  She and Dad met during the evacuation of Hoth.  They were medics and served on a series of ships, finally finding themselves on the Mon Calamari Star Cruiser Home One during the Battle of Endor.

They went in together and bought The Crater, a pub on the outskirts of the Pasquaal VI spaceport.  They ran it together until Dad disappeared one night.  We still don’t know what happened to him.

Mom has a few requirements that I have to agree to before she will let me go:  I have to contact her regularly.  I have to stay out of trouble.  I have to take Fordsy with me.

F4-DC, or Fordsy, is our family’s A9G droid. We bought him to help serve drinks and run the bar. He has developed quite a personality. I beg Mom to keep Fordsy, pointing out she’ll need the help with me gone, but her mind is made up.

I don’t have much, but what I have, I pack.  

“Welcome aboard The Night Wind,” Lech tries to smile.   Lech’s ship is an XS stock light freighter painted a matte black with glossy blue highlights.  I hear myself gasp.

“It’s beautiful,” I breathe.

Lech doesn’t smile, but I can tell he is pleased -- pleased and proud.  I board the ship and he shows me to my quarters.  It’s a small, cramped room with a bunk bed that I’ll be sharing with a Gand called Tagiss.

I feel the rumble of the engines.  The old ship creaks and groans as it lifts off. I’m pushed against the back of my seat as the thrusters kick in. We break atmosphere and my porthole is filled with stars.

I’m grinning and laughing and there’s tears in my eyes because I’m finally where I’m supposed to be.

[beaconsardis]

Resisting the Resistance

I receive a transmission.

They’ve encrypted it so I can’t tell who sent it or from where, so I have to take the transmission at its word that it was sent from someone in the Resistance.  They want to meet.  They give me coordinates and a time frame in which I will find them there.  I don’t take meetings.  They’re never not traps.

I move to delete it but something needles me.  A wordless something in the back of my brain is telling me to respond, to take the meeting.  The galaxy’s a dangerous place, I reason.  And I’m the captain of the ship.  Taking the meeting would not only be putting me at risk, but I’d be endangering every single one of my crew.

I type back my response.

I take the meeting.

I’m pleasantly surprised that I don’t have to explain myself to the crew.  Turns out they’re used to the reckless and unexplainable things I ask them to do.

I plug the the coordinates into the navicomputer and plot our course.  There’s something about the coordinates.  Something familiar, but I can’t pull what it is.

“At least tell me why you’re doing this,” Fordsy says from behind me.  “So I can explain it at your funeral.”

I don’t have an answer for him.  I can’t explain why I feel compelled to do this.  I throw the ship into hyperspace and turn to face my oldest friend.  F4-DC is a white and blue A9G-series droid I inherited when I was left home at fourteen.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“It’s most certainly a trap.”

“I know.”

“Seven of the last eight meetings you have taken were traps.”

“I know.”

“Then why go?”

I shake my head.  I still don’t have an answer for him.  A warning signal goes off, rescuing me from this conversation.

We drop out of hyperspace.  Something must be in our way.  This is why people travel the space lanes.  They’re clear of debris.  Our ship, the Nexu, is dropping out of hyperspeed to prevent a collision that would atomize us.

I sigh.  We have come face to face with an asteroid field.  I hear the servos in his neck whirring as his head slowly turns to face me.  He plays a flat, recorded laugh.

It’s the Guuntar Belt.  That’s why I recognized the coordinates.  The Guuntar Belt is con men and assassin’s favorite place to send pilots when they want to make it look like an accident.  The unknowing and trusting pilot plots the course, enters hyperspace, and splashes themselves across multiple asteroids before they know what hit them.   The Guuntar Belt has more wrecked ships than rocks in it at this point -- or so they like to say.

It’s gutsy, but it makes sense.  The Resistance is on the run.  They need a temporary headquarters, a staging ground, to prepare for whatever comes next.  It’s close to the Interior but no one would think to look for them here.  If they did, no one would be crazy enough to follow them in.

I think for a moment.

“Trying to find the words to-”

I hold up a finger to silence Fordsy.  I check the coordinates again.  I call Humaira to the cockpit.  

“You’re not actually going to fly into that, are you?”

“No,” I say.  “Humaira is.”

The door behind us hisses open and Humaira stands there, hands on her hips.

“Humaira is what?” she asks.

I point to the asteroid field.  “Think you can get us into the heart of that in one piece?”

I can fly.  Humaira can pilot.

Her eyes light up and she pushes me out of the way.  She looks out the windshield, down to the coordinates, and then back to me.  “You serious?”

“I am.”

She sits down in the pilot’s chair and pulls her hair back.  “Who says you never take us any place nice,” she says, her amber eyes alive with excitement.

I hit the comm.  “This is your captain speaking.  We are, as per usual, about to do something incredibly stupid and foolhardy.  Grab onto something firm and make peace with your gods!”

I watch Humaira’s eyes flick back and forth between the rocks.  She’s watching them move, taking in on how they tumble, and predicting where they will go next.  A smile dimples her cheek as she finishes tracing our trajectory in her mind.

She shoves the thrusters open wide and we rocket into the asteroid field at full throttle.

Humaira doesn’t give anyone a moment to react or respond.  She punches it and we fly into the asteroid field at full throttle.  Fordsy cries out as he flails and falls backward, rattling across the floor and out the door.  Humaira laughs.  We corkscrew through the starship graveyard.  We dive under and then flip over rocks the size of small moons.  We escape one hurtling danger only to fly into the face of another.  We are constantly nanoseconds away from sudden and immediate death.  In anyone else’s hands I would panic.  I wouldn’t be able to watch.  But Humaira was born to be behind the helm.  There’s no other hands I’d rather be in -- a statement that can be taken in a variety of ways, none of which would be inaccurate.

“There it is!” 

I point to a moon-sized boulder looming off our starboard.  A temporary port has been set up there and three ships are docked, presumably waiting for us.  If Fordsy were still in the cockpit, I’d ask for his apology.

Humaira sets us down gently on the asteroid.  I clap her on the shoulder.  She’s beaming with pride.  I exit the cockpit step over Fordsy, who’s still trying to get up off the floor.

“This is still a bad idea,” he says.

“You’re welcome to come with me if you like,” I say.

“I don’t like,” he says.  “I don’t like at all.”

I descend down out of the Nexu and am met by two Resistance guards.  They check me for weapons.  I left my blaster onboard, but I don’t go anywhere without my lightsaber.  The guard on the left, the one who discovered it, looks over at the other.  They both stare at it in shock and then back up at me.  I wait for them to tell me to leave it, but instead they just nod for me to follow them.

The guards lead me into one of the docked transport ships.  The crew of the ship looks haggard.  They’re beaten and bruised.  It looks like they haven’t slept in days -- maybe weeks.

By now everyone has heard about the bloody aftermath of the Battle of Starkiller Base.  The haunted, hollow look in these fighters’ faces say the reports were not exaggerated.  The Resistance is running on fumes.  I don’t know how that makes me feel.

I’m led to a room.  It’s a small room, a meeting or conference room.  There’s a table and a handful of chairs.  No drink or food on the table.  Probably can’t afford it.

A door opens and a woman marches in.  She’s short, strong, and determined.  She has the look of someone who has had to fight for everything she has and shows no sign of stopping that fight any time soon.  She’s wearing grease-stained coveralls, with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows.  

I’m reminded that, unlike the First Order, the Resistance doesn’t have uniforms.  They’re a ragtag group of people brought together with a common goal.  The few uniforms you do see are those New Republic veterans who joined the cause. 

She looks me up and down and nods, “you’re Captain Sardis?”

“Friends call me Beacon,” I say.

“We’re not friends,” she snaps and then stops. With a forced smile she says, “sorry, Let me start over.  My name is Rose Tico.”

“Beacon Sardis,” I smile back, willing to start over.

“Thank you for seeing us,” she says.  She’s trying to sound congenial, but her voice is strained and focused.  

I see through her.  There are a thousand things she would like to say to me but is holding back.  She doesn’t want to be here.  She thinks she’s wasting her time.  I cut to the chase.  These sorts of meetings are always inspired by something -- usually a ship I recently plundered.

“Which one was it?”

“What?”

“It was the cargo ship,” I remember, “the one with the medical supplies.”

“The Cerulean Slipstream.”

I shrug. I don’t remember the name.  I remember the ship and I remember the crew protesting my relieving them of their cargo, saying they were Resistance fighters.

Rose’s eyes burn.  “You have any idea how many people died because we didn’t have the medical equipment we needed?”

“Do you have any idea what’s going on in the jungles of Uhhrloc?” I counter.

Rose is caught off guard. “What?”

“Uhhrloc.” I repeat. “Ever hear of it?”

“Uh . . .”

There’s no reason for her to have heard of it.  There’s no reason for anyone to have heard of it.  

“It’s a dwarf planet on the outskirts of the outer rim. It holds no strategic importance for the war effort and it is devoid of any resources you might find useful. What it does have is a population caught between two bloodthirsty warlords vying for control of the planet. Their civil war has been raging longer than you or I have been alive, but nobody cares.  Nobody’s thinking about them or sending aid. They are on nobody’s scanners.”

Rose is silent.

“So if you’re asking me to weigh the lives of soldiers who have knowingly put their life on the line against families who are just have the rotten luck of being born on the wrong planet at the wrong time . . .”  I don’t finish my sentence.  I don’t have to.

“The First Order-”

I cut her off.  “The First Order doesn’t care any more about them than the New Republic did.” I wait before adding, “or the Resistance does.”

“But-”

“What’s the offer?” We now agree on something. We both think she’s wasting her time. “What’s on the table?”

Rose clears her throat and slides a datastick across the table. “We provide you intel. The Resistance has connections with many trade federations, conglomerates and unions. We can tell you who is shipping what where when.”

I’m stunned.  This is not the sort of shady under-the-table transaction I’d come to expect from the Resistance.  I’ve had the First Order approach me on several occasions, floating proposals such as this my way.  I’ve turned them all down.  This is the kind of deceit and duplicitousness I’ve come to expect from them, not the scrappy do-gooders standing against evil.

Which means they trust me.  I’m a pirate.  I’m a thief.  I’m a liar.  I’m not a murderer.  I may take your cargo, but I have no use for your life.  That must be what makes this little parley okay.

Taking all this in, I look up at Rose.  “In exchange for?”

“You leave Resistance transports alone.”

“That’s it?”

“And,” Rose stalls, “you give us first dibs on any supplies we may need.”

I don’t have to think about it for long. “So we put our necks on the line with no guarantee we’ll gain anything for it?  Should the Resistance decide they need whatever we find, we forfeit it?”

“There are plenty of transports and cruisers for you to plunder. If you’re half as good as they say, you stand to make a fortune — even if we take half of what you find.”

“Half?”

Rose winces. She spoke too quickly. I can see it on her face. She’s mentally  cursing herself.  She picked a number at random. I can see that.  But the seed has been planted.  It’s taking root and pushing every other thought out of my head.  Should I take this deal, what would prevent them from claiming everything we plundered?

I’m tempted to take the datastick and leave.  Take what’s being offered and give nothing back in return.

I shake my head.  “I’m not a smuggler,” I say.

“We don’t need anything smuggled,” she says with a definitive shrug. 

“One does not become a pirate to enlist in a chain of command.  I go where the stars lead me.  I’m not for hire.”

Rose rolls her eyes.  “We’re not asking you to do anything you’re not already doing.  We’re helping you and are asking, in return, for you to help us.”  Then she adds, “but honestly just you not stealing from us would be enough.”

I shake my head.  “You have no idea who I am or why I do what I do.”

“I’m not an idiot,” she says, “I know the galaxy isn’t black and white. I know that we aren’t going to enter some grand utopia after this war is over. I know that probably, for you, it doesn’t matter who wins or loses. You’re still going to be out there robbing the space lanes.”

I don’t say anything.

“Am I right?” Rose asks. “Tell me I’m wrong if I am. Tell me I’m not asking you to care about something you don’t care about. Tell me you’re not nearly as selfish as I think you are.”

I didn’t come here to be lectured. I nod, give her a smile, and wish her and the Resistance luck.  They’re going to need it. Then I turn to leave.

“Wait!”

I don’t wait. I head straight for the door. Before the door opens, though, the room is suddenly awash with a flickering blue light. 

“Captain Sardis?” 

I turn around. Standing in front of me, from lightyears away, is a young woman in a sleeveless tunic. Her hair is pulled back away from her face, some of it in a bun and some of it falling down over her shoulders.

“My name is Rey.”

I don’t move. I’ve heard of her. She’s being hailed as the last hope of the Resistance. They say she’s a Jedi. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t a young woman with wide, hopeful eyes and a small, eager smile.

“Beacon,” I say.

“Beacon then,” she smiles. “I’ve always wanted to meet you.”

“What?” I can’t believe she knows who I am.

“You’re the infamous Jedi pirate.” Rey bristles with excitement. “Everyone knows who you are -- are you really a Jedi?”

“No,” I say, “I wouldn’t say that.”

“Did you build that,” she points at my lightsaber, “or did you steal it?”

“A little bit of both,” I admit. “I found it and I fixed it.”

“Can I see it?”

I unclip my saber and hold it up. She leans forward to get a better look and I’m not sure that’s how holocomms work.

“That’s beautiful,” she marvels, “you said you found it?”

“It was floating in a derelict ship we came across years ago.”

“In all the vastness of space, you just so happened to come across a derelict ship that contained a lightsaber from the Old Republic?”

“Pfft,” I hear Rose hiss. I can see her through the hologram. She doesn’t believe me.

I nod.

“That’s amazing,” Rey says. “If you don’t mind me saying so, I don’t think you found that lightsaber on accident.  I’m not an expert on how the Force works,” she admits, “but from my experience . . . Lightsabers like to have owners.”

I look down at the hilt, with its intricate, swooping bronze and gold designs.  “You think it dates back to the Old Republic?”

“Again,” Rey laughs, “I’m not an expert on the subject, but from what I’ve seen and what I’ve read, if it isn’t that old, it was certainly made to look it.”

I hadn’t thought to ask that. “I’ll see if the holocron can help-”

“You have a holocron?” Rey bursts. “A Jedi holocron?”

“I found it with the lightsaber.”

“And it still works?”

I nod.

“Whose was it?”

“An Kaminoan Peacekeeper called Oh Lin.”

“I haven’t heard of them but that’s amazing.” Rey shakes her head, her eyes wide with wonder. “I’d really like to see that some time. Maybe we can meet up some time?” She suggests. “If you’re going to be helping us maybe I can coordinate to be at one of the drop-offs?”

To my knowledge, I’ve never met another Force-sensitive person before. The idea of being able to sit down with someone like me and compare notes is truly exciting.

“That would be great,” I say.

“Great!” Rey smiles back. “Well then, I hope to see you soon, Captain Sardis.”

“You too.”

“May the Force be with you,” she says as the hologram flickers away.

Rose looks at me with a cocky smile. She’s won and she knows it. I take the datastick.

“You’re never allowed to claim over half,” I say.

She holds out a hand.  “Shall I tell the general we have a deal?”  

I clip my lightsaber back to my belt and take her hand. “We have a deal.”

Fordsy is less than pleased with the deal, but the rest of the crew sees the benefits outweighing the cost -- though none are too excited about the likelihood that this will put us directly into the crosshairs of the First Order.