#siom lech

[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]

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]

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.