Yractos, Gyndine -- Three Weeks Prior to the Cree'Ar Attack on Coruscant
“What do you mean ‘we’ve been told to leave’?” Runo Ganetta demanded as he stalked from the landing ramp of the Spinning Dagger toward the port authority office at the other end of the docking bay.
“Pretty much what it means, Rune,” Brel Nayigon said as she tried to keep up, since Runo seemed to gain additional speed when he was angry. “They told me that they needed this space for someone in orbit.”
“I already paid for this damn space…” the older man grumbled, partially to himself, as he pushed through the doorway into the port authority office.
Over their heads, the bustle of the spaceport traffic in one of Gyndine’s largest cities hummed steadily like the droning of insects going to and fro within a vast hive. The Marakis Legionnaires had landed a mere twenty minutes earlier, settling comfortably into the docking bay that Runo, the mercenaries’ second-in-command, had booked for them the day before. The rectangular bay was surprisingly clean for such a facility, but Brel assumed that it was part of the government’s plan to keep the city looking near-flawless, as befitting a civilized planet of the New Order. The Legionnaires’ two vessels, the Spinning Dagger and the Nek’s Tooth, had both fit comfortably into the large space, but their repulsors had kicked up dust that had settled in every corner of the bay. Brel wondered how much effort the dockworkers would actually put in to cleaning when the Legionnaires had left.
Which hopefully is later rather than sooner, Brel mused as she followed Runo into the office.
The mercenaries were on Gyndine in order to meet with one of their previous employers, who had contacted them two days prior with another job. Work had not been especially busy for the Legionnaires over the past several months, largely due to the fact that many of their contacts were in the middle of the newly declared “Reaver Space”, so they were happy to hear from a former client. They were especially happy because this client valued their skills enough to pay handsomely for them, and to pay on time.
Unfortunately, this client also refused to sign a contract over the Holonet. If they could not dock for long enough to meet with him, they would not be able to take the job.
The dock master was a portly Swokes Swokes in a jumpsuit that matched the rest of the spaceport: surprisingly clean at the government’s expense. He swiveled in his chair when the two Legionnaires entered, his beady eyes narrowing in frustration when he saw Brel.
“I already told you, your ships can’t stay here,” he barked. His gaze shifted to Runo, whom he apparently assumed to be in charge now, and added, “I need you to lift off immediately.”
“I booked this docking bay yesterday, and I’ve already paid for it,” Runo stated, an edge of disbelief in his voice.
“I’ll inform head office to wire your credits back to you.” The dock master swiveled his chair toward his computer and started entering commands.
Runo’s hand suddenly shot out, gripping the back of the chair and swiveling the pudgy Swokes Swokes around again. Brel leaned against the door frame with her arms crossed, letting the Naboo native handle things on his own. Runo was primarily a calm individual; he only ever seemed to get frustrated, never angry or furious, which was as surprising a trait in a mercenary as cleanliness was in a spaceport. Nevertheless, he knew how to deal with people, and the way that the dock master’s jowls quivered slightly as Runo leaned in close to him made Brel wonder exactly what kind of stare her comrade was fixing on the portly alien.
“And why, exactly, do we have to leave?” Runo asked in a low voice.
The Swokes Swokes swallowed once, and then answered quickly: “There’s a Star Destroyer in orbit, from Coruscant. Some politician is meeting with the governor, and she needs to land her private transport. All of the docks on this side of the city were filled, so she overrode your order, saying that she had the authority to do it. She’s scheduled to land in thirty minutes, which is why I need you to get the kark out of her way.”
Brel shook her head and closed her eyes, her own frustration seeping in. She had no love for the Empire, particularly when its government used their perceived power to shove around everyone else in the galaxy.
Runo did not seem impressed, either. “So you’re telling me that I have to leave because some Imp bureaucrat bought me out?”
The dock master nodded.
“And what if I told you that our captain is currently out in the city somewhere, and that we can’t leave without him?”
“Then I would tell you that he’d better be back here in thirty minutes, or he’s catching another ride off-planet.”
Runo left the office in a huff, stalking back toward the Dagger and grumbling under his breath about Imperial politicians and spineless docking authorities, while Brel followed behind. As they approached the Legionnaires’ modified Suwantek TL-1200, two figures descended the landing ramp: Renneth Garec, the squad’s bearded sharpshooter, and Forwl, their hulking Yuzzem warrior. The two pairs of mercenaries met at the bottom of the ramp.
“Time to meet Hutt?” Forwl asked in a voice that was almost a purr.
“Yeah, and we have to do it within the next thirty minutes,” Runo replied. “The three of us will head out now. Brel, I need you to comm Solir and have him meet us there, from wherever it is he decided to go.”
“I’ll tell him to run, don’t worry,” she replied with a grin, and then the three men were hurrying for the large doors that led from the docking bay onto the street, Runo explaining the situation to the others while they moved.
Brel usually waited until someone disappeared around the corner, as it were, before she turned away. She unfortunately didn’t have the time to waste on that particular whim. Instead, she bolted up the Dagger’s landing ramp, hoping that Solir Marakis was not far away and that their brilliant commander would not mind a little sprinting.
It was ecstasy and revulsion combined.
It was beautiful, and nourishing, despite the vileness of the act.
It was horrible, a violation of what it meant to be a moral being.
It was necessary, it was life blood, and it was delicious.
It was soup.
Solir Marakis bent over his victim, twin proboscis completely unfurled from the hidden sacks in his cheeks. The veined, ropey tendrils had buried themselves deeply in the nasal cavities of the old man lying before him, reaching up into the squishy mass of his brain, and allowing Solir to consume the one thing in this universe that he truly needed to survive.
Soup. The nourishment of the Anzat.
He always found it difficult, in the act of consuming the essence of another sentient being, to reconcile his hatred for what he did with the exhilaration and joy he felt in doing it. He understood that what he did was necessary for his survival, and that it was a part of who he was and not something that he could cast aside. Yet he had distanced himself from every other facet of his people, trained his body to survive on fewer meals of soup than was normal, and made the decision to reserve his feeding for victims that he knew were already at death’s door. For everything that he had done to avoid being some kind of viperous monster, to live a normal life with the talents he had, it was always a struggle not to return to the kind of person he had been centuries before. Disgust warred with desire, similar to what he expected a deathstick addict went through, and he always alternated between two climactic points in the span of his feeding.
First, he realized that he wanted, more than anything, to find more of this succulent soup and gorge himself upon it.
Then, that very thought filled him with the urge to commit prompt suicide.
Both of these thoughts vanished easily enough, and as the last of his victim’s gray matter was consumed, Solir Marakis gradually came back to himself, shaking off the oppressive torture of his inner being. The only thing left to contend with was the intense longing that accompanied the removal of his proboscises from his victim’s skull; it was akin to the residual desire that accompanied the climax of sexual intercourse, and was the final challenge to the wall he had built around the demonic side of his psyche.
All it took to win that challenge was to look at the dead husks of his victims.
There were two of them this time, both elderly patients in the back corner of a clinic on the edge of the city. Their medical beds had been placed in the back because they were not expected to live through another day. Solir sought comfort from the thought that they were not long in this universe anyway, and that he had probably saved them some pain. He was like the merciful angel of Death in that way.
He did not often claim two victims in one setting, both because it was harder to disguise multiple feedings and harder to defeat his craving. However, he had no idea what kind of job he and the Legionnaires were going to be taking on before they left Gyndine, so he wanted to make sure that he would not have to feed again for some time, just in case.
Thinking about his comrades warmed his heart as he discreetly left the clinic, tossing his visitor badge at the front counter. They were the only beings in this galaxy that he could trust, with the exception of the dark secret of his Anzati nature. The fact that he could trust any group of non-Anzat with covering his back in a firefight surprised him somewhat to this day.
As he merged into the pedestrian traffic in the streets outside, his comlink buzzed.
“Solir, where are you?” Brel asked, conveying great concern with the question.
“I was scanning prices on hyperdrive parts for Trann,” he answered calmly. The statement was a truth, since he had actually checked prices in a shop two buildings down from the clinic; he simply omitted how he had spent the rest of his time. “What’s wrong?”
“We’ve been ordered to empty our docking bay in less than thirty minutes – Imps booked the space,” the young Chev replied wryly. “Runo and the others are already on their way to the meet, but you’re going to have to finish this deal quickly, otherwise you’ll be walking home.”
Silently, Solir cursed Imperial pomposity. To Brel, he simply said, “I’m on my way there now. Don’t worry, I’ll have everyone aboard in time for us to leave.”
He closed the comlink and, despite his assurances, immediately increased his pace to a light jog, while trying to figure out the easiest way to make a Hutt speed things along.
“What do you mean ‘we’ve been told to leave’?” Runo Ganetta demanded as he stalked from the landing ramp of the Spinning Dagger toward the port authority office at the other end of the docking bay.
“Pretty much what it means, Rune,” Brel Nayigon said as she tried to keep up, since Runo seemed to gain additional speed when he was angry. “They told me that they needed this space for someone in orbit.”
“I already paid for this damn space…” the older man grumbled, partially to himself, as he pushed through the doorway into the port authority office.
Over their heads, the bustle of the spaceport traffic in one of Gyndine’s largest cities hummed steadily like the droning of insects going to and fro within a vast hive. The Marakis Legionnaires had landed a mere twenty minutes earlier, settling comfortably into the docking bay that Runo, the mercenaries’ second-in-command, had booked for them the day before. The rectangular bay was surprisingly clean for such a facility, but Brel assumed that it was part of the government’s plan to keep the city looking near-flawless, as befitting a civilized planet of the New Order. The Legionnaires’ two vessels, the Spinning Dagger and the Nek’s Tooth, had both fit comfortably into the large space, but their repulsors had kicked up dust that had settled in every corner of the bay. Brel wondered how much effort the dockworkers would actually put in to cleaning when the Legionnaires had left.
Which hopefully is later rather than sooner, Brel mused as she followed Runo into the office.
The mercenaries were on Gyndine in order to meet with one of their previous employers, who had contacted them two days prior with another job. Work had not been especially busy for the Legionnaires over the past several months, largely due to the fact that many of their contacts were in the middle of the newly declared “Reaver Space”, so they were happy to hear from a former client. They were especially happy because this client valued their skills enough to pay handsomely for them, and to pay on time.
Unfortunately, this client also refused to sign a contract over the Holonet. If they could not dock for long enough to meet with him, they would not be able to take the job.
The dock master was a portly Swokes Swokes in a jumpsuit that matched the rest of the spaceport: surprisingly clean at the government’s expense. He swiveled in his chair when the two Legionnaires entered, his beady eyes narrowing in frustration when he saw Brel.
“I already told you, your ships can’t stay here,” he barked. His gaze shifted to Runo, whom he apparently assumed to be in charge now, and added, “I need you to lift off immediately.”
“I booked this docking bay yesterday, and I’ve already paid for it,” Runo stated, an edge of disbelief in his voice.
“I’ll inform head office to wire your credits back to you.” The dock master swiveled his chair toward his computer and started entering commands.
Runo’s hand suddenly shot out, gripping the back of the chair and swiveling the pudgy Swokes Swokes around again. Brel leaned against the door frame with her arms crossed, letting the Naboo native handle things on his own. Runo was primarily a calm individual; he only ever seemed to get frustrated, never angry or furious, which was as surprising a trait in a mercenary as cleanliness was in a spaceport. Nevertheless, he knew how to deal with people, and the way that the dock master’s jowls quivered slightly as Runo leaned in close to him made Brel wonder exactly what kind of stare her comrade was fixing on the portly alien.
“And why, exactly, do we have to leave?” Runo asked in a low voice.
The Swokes Swokes swallowed once, and then answered quickly: “There’s a Star Destroyer in orbit, from Coruscant. Some politician is meeting with the governor, and she needs to land her private transport. All of the docks on this side of the city were filled, so she overrode your order, saying that she had the authority to do it. She’s scheduled to land in thirty minutes, which is why I need you to get the kark out of her way.”
Brel shook her head and closed her eyes, her own frustration seeping in. She had no love for the Empire, particularly when its government used their perceived power to shove around everyone else in the galaxy.
Runo did not seem impressed, either. “So you’re telling me that I have to leave because some Imp bureaucrat bought me out?”
The dock master nodded.
“And what if I told you that our captain is currently out in the city somewhere, and that we can’t leave without him?”
“Then I would tell you that he’d better be back here in thirty minutes, or he’s catching another ride off-planet.”
Runo left the office in a huff, stalking back toward the Dagger and grumbling under his breath about Imperial politicians and spineless docking authorities, while Brel followed behind. As they approached the Legionnaires’ modified Suwantek TL-1200, two figures descended the landing ramp: Renneth Garec, the squad’s bearded sharpshooter, and Forwl, their hulking Yuzzem warrior. The two pairs of mercenaries met at the bottom of the ramp.
“Time to meet Hutt?” Forwl asked in a voice that was almost a purr.
“Yeah, and we have to do it within the next thirty minutes,” Runo replied. “The three of us will head out now. Brel, I need you to comm Solir and have him meet us there, from wherever it is he decided to go.”
“I’ll tell him to run, don’t worry,” she replied with a grin, and then the three men were hurrying for the large doors that led from the docking bay onto the street, Runo explaining the situation to the others while they moved.
Brel usually waited until someone disappeared around the corner, as it were, before she turned away. She unfortunately didn’t have the time to waste on that particular whim. Instead, she bolted up the Dagger’s landing ramp, hoping that Solir Marakis was not far away and that their brilliant commander would not mind a little sprinting.
* * *
It was ecstasy and revulsion combined.
It was beautiful, and nourishing, despite the vileness of the act.
It was horrible, a violation of what it meant to be a moral being.
It was necessary, it was life blood, and it was delicious.
It was soup.
Solir Marakis bent over his victim, twin proboscis completely unfurled from the hidden sacks in his cheeks. The veined, ropey tendrils had buried themselves deeply in the nasal cavities of the old man lying before him, reaching up into the squishy mass of his brain, and allowing Solir to consume the one thing in this universe that he truly needed to survive.
Soup. The nourishment of the Anzat.
He always found it difficult, in the act of consuming the essence of another sentient being, to reconcile his hatred for what he did with the exhilaration and joy he felt in doing it. He understood that what he did was necessary for his survival, and that it was a part of who he was and not something that he could cast aside. Yet he had distanced himself from every other facet of his people, trained his body to survive on fewer meals of soup than was normal, and made the decision to reserve his feeding for victims that he knew were already at death’s door. For everything that he had done to avoid being some kind of viperous monster, to live a normal life with the talents he had, it was always a struggle not to return to the kind of person he had been centuries before. Disgust warred with desire, similar to what he expected a deathstick addict went through, and he always alternated between two climactic points in the span of his feeding.
First, he realized that he wanted, more than anything, to find more of this succulent soup and gorge himself upon it.
Then, that very thought filled him with the urge to commit prompt suicide.
Both of these thoughts vanished easily enough, and as the last of his victim’s gray matter was consumed, Solir Marakis gradually came back to himself, shaking off the oppressive torture of his inner being. The only thing left to contend with was the intense longing that accompanied the removal of his proboscises from his victim’s skull; it was akin to the residual desire that accompanied the climax of sexual intercourse, and was the final challenge to the wall he had built around the demonic side of his psyche.
All it took to win that challenge was to look at the dead husks of his victims.
There were two of them this time, both elderly patients in the back corner of a clinic on the edge of the city. Their medical beds had been placed in the back because they were not expected to live through another day. Solir sought comfort from the thought that they were not long in this universe anyway, and that he had probably saved them some pain. He was like the merciful angel of Death in that way.
He did not often claim two victims in one setting, both because it was harder to disguise multiple feedings and harder to defeat his craving. However, he had no idea what kind of job he and the Legionnaires were going to be taking on before they left Gyndine, so he wanted to make sure that he would not have to feed again for some time, just in case.
Thinking about his comrades warmed his heart as he discreetly left the clinic, tossing his visitor badge at the front counter. They were the only beings in this galaxy that he could trust, with the exception of the dark secret of his Anzati nature. The fact that he could trust any group of non-Anzat with covering his back in a firefight surprised him somewhat to this day.
As he merged into the pedestrian traffic in the streets outside, his comlink buzzed.
“Solir, where are you?” Brel asked, conveying great concern with the question.
“I was scanning prices on hyperdrive parts for Trann,” he answered calmly. The statement was a truth, since he had actually checked prices in a shop two buildings down from the clinic; he simply omitted how he had spent the rest of his time. “What’s wrong?”
“We’ve been ordered to empty our docking bay in less than thirty minutes – Imps booked the space,” the young Chev replied wryly. “Runo and the others are already on their way to the meet, but you’re going to have to finish this deal quickly, otherwise you’ll be walking home.”
Silently, Solir cursed Imperial pomposity. To Brel, he simply said, “I’m on my way there now. Don’t worry, I’ll have everyone aboard in time for us to leave.”
He closed the comlink and, despite his assurances, immediately increased his pace to a light jog, while trying to figure out the easiest way to make a Hutt speed things along.