<I>Mama, just killed a man
Put a gun against his head
Pulled my trigger now he's dead</i>





"C'mon man, just gimme th'wallet."

"I don't carry a wallet."

"Don't gimme me tha pud. Wher'r'y kepen et."

"Hey! Get your dirty hands off of me you scrag."

"Gimme tha'wallet prissy."

"I don't carry a wallet you low-level pond scum. Get your hands off of me!"

"gimme yer cash, fella."

"I don't <I>carry</i> any cash. I will, however, give you this...."





<I>It was over in a second. I saw the body fall as if the world had slowed. The dim light played across his coat like beams from a childs flashlight. He hit the dirty pavement with a dull thud; his head bounced a bit. Blood spurted from the gaping hole in his temple. Blood, or brains. His eyes were looking up emptily; his feet drummed the pavement as his body twitched. The echo from the gunshot reverberated through my brain; it was like a hammer on a bell.

I ran.</i>





"The <I>frell</i> you did!" I had never heard mama use a harsh word before, but after what I had just done a little curse word wasn't going to send me into a shock.

"I did. E's dead, deadr than ah brick."

"What happened?"

"Aw pud, mama. Frelling bantha pud... E'tried t'hit me, an ah shot 'em. Relfex, Mama, reflex."

"You watch your language young man."






I didn't know what to do, and mama wasn't any help. All she was worried about was my language? Frell. The penalty for killing a man was worse than death. For killing a man...

For armed mugging a man could get three years for the first offense, seven for the second, and fifteen years of labor for the third. Typically the first offense got you a warning. I had yet to be caught, smooth Charley they had called me. Smooth like a chunk of flash-frozen carbonite. Armed mugging was the safest way to make money fast. Low penalty, low risk.

But murder...





"Mama? Whadda ah do?"

She looked at me like the broken old woman she was. Seventy years of age and living off of what her son could steal in a slum. No woman deserved that.

"Run child.

Run."

<I>Mama, life had just begun
But now I've gone and thrown it all away</I>




Running never worked. We both knew it. The DKFA <I>always</I> caught their man. No one knew how they did it, but every member of the slums knew that no runner had succeeded, ever.





"The'll catch meh," I said. My voice was tinged with hopelessness.

"The will catch you here if you do not run."

"Where w'ah go?"




The old crone reached to a book on the caf table next to her, and pulled a sheet of flimsy from inside. "Go here," she said. It was a galactic starchart of the Anthos sector. Dorthal was circled, and her bent finger tapped the blood red ink that surrounded it. That she had been planning on just such a contingency as this didn't really surprise me. "You can loose yourself in the lower levels of the city."

<I>The</I> city. Dorthal was a miniature Coruscant in terms of topography. They both shared a dominating feature -- the entire planet was covered in a city.





"A pity you couldn't have held back the trigger, child."

"Yeah, well mama, it jus'happened. Not like ah cud do much." I paused for a moment. "You knew this would happen," I said.

"Yes," she replied. "Eventually. Everything is eventual son. Pack your things."




I packed my stuff quickly. I had very little to take, just a few clothing items and some books. Despite living in the slums and pud holes all my life I had managed to learn to read. It was mostly due to mama and her persistence that at least one of her children would have the education she received as a child and not the education her former husband gave. Only I took her seriously, my siblings had all followed Da to their death years prior.


Deaths for crime. Deaths for running.


"Don't go and throw your life away, child," she had said every time I looked longingly after my siblings as they played in the streets, or took lessons from Da. "Learn something that will serve you well."


Now I had not only thrown my life away, I had flushed it down the freking john.

<I>Mama, oh, didn't mean to make you cry
If I'm not back again this time tomorrow
Carry on, carry on. </I>


"Good luck, son," she said. Poor old woman. An invalid, yet she still had willpower strong enough to bend iron. "Don't write me." There were tears in her eyes as she said the last line.

"If you don't hear from me tomorrow, I'm dead."

She nodded in reply. "Watch the accent," she admonished once again, the third time tonight.

"Yes'm."

"Go."





The street was dirty, and dark. We had lived together on this street for nigh six years. It wasn't much, but it was free, and it was home. This was the slum. Millions of people eked out an existence here. This place had its own economy, its own stock market system, even its own transportation and news broadcasting. It was like a whole other world.

A whole other world from that of the upper class freeps. Freeps, free prissy slobs. They made their money on our backs, then tossed us aside when we were worthless. The slums were filled with abused inventors and the innovators this age.


You didn't work your way to becoming a freep, you had to be born into it.


I stepped into the inky blackness that was the sidewalk, and began to move out. The sounds of the town slid over my ears as I walked on, suitcase in one hand and pistol in the other. Mama had told me of an illicit freighter that would be taking off tonight in the southern quarter. I prayed the DKFA didn't know about the freighter, or I would be dead before the day was out.

My only hope was in getting off-planet, but there was little hope in even that. Rumor had it that the DKFA had hundreds of fighters above the blanket, the blanket of clouds that forever covered the sky here.




"'Ey, Chals!"

I glanced back, my hand moving to mask the pistol in my coat. "Yeah?"

"D'd y'hear?"

"No, what?"

"The Dicks are freakn out. Mole spilled 'es guts ov'ar a beer. Sum'tin happened, the'banging off of teh walls."

"What do you mean?"

"Mole tinks sumone high on th'scales got knackerd."

I almost vomited right there. Desperately I gulped, and sucked in some of the stale slum air. "Really?" I said after a moment.

"Y'a. Wish I knew who. See'ya."




Just like that he was gone. Messengers were like that, they told you the news, then left to tell someone else. It was how the slums got their news in a reliable way, without the excess exaggeration that came from the grapevine method. I would have taken a seat to catch my breath, but I was afraid I would never stand again if I sat. <I>Keep walking<I> said the voice in my head.

Keep walking.





<I>The body twisted, falling slowly. Blood flew in a slow arc above the head of the man as he fell, cohesive droplets frozen in time. His life bled out onto the ground in an instant. The wheeze of his last breath came out like a man calling down a curse.

He had been well dressed. </I>

This section of town was worse than the rest of the slums. It was dirty, not just dirty from being poor, oppressed, and unclean in a physical manner, but dirty in a <I>supernatural</I> way. The usual whores stood on every street corner openly peddling their wares. Dozens of small children ran around trying to sell some sort of drug or another. Aside from that, I could <I>feel</I> an evilness oozing out of this place. More than one building gave me the shivers just from looking at it, and they didn't look all that bad physically.

Call me crazy, call me superstitious or uncaring, but I had always sided with the part of the slums that wanted this area shut down. Slummers keeping the slums clean, imagine that. Try telling a freep that and you would get your face kicked in by his slobbering bodyguard. Slummers didn’t clean, slummers didn't have enough of a brain-pan to know the meaning of the word clean.



Mama had mentioned only that there was a freighter here, somewhere. There was not that many places one could hide a freighter, maybe three at most. A freighter needed access to the outside, usually a venting shaft or a new garbage shaft, unfilled for a few brief days. There were two venting shafts in town, and three areas around them that were large enough to disguise a freighter from the rest of the junk and scrap iron.

I headed toward the nearest.



Call me lucky, call me cursed. I was right the first time. Only, it wasn't a freighter, it was a fighter. A battered and dinged B-wing presented itself to me, its owner standing proudly to the side. "A beaut, eh slummy?" he crowed. "Two seater, just like Admiral Ackbar's. She's armed to the teeth and faster'n a bat otta hell."

"Yeah," I managed to get out. I had never seen such a ship. The weapons scared me and thrilled me at the same time. Even though it was battered I could see the amount of tender loving care that had gone into this craft's care. There were no visible holes or loose wires, everything was repaired and patched. Through the carbon scoring and dirt I could see an old paint job of blue and red "Where'd you get that carbon scoring?" I asked. Immediately I regretted it.

"Not very bright, eh kid?" asked the pilot, a bit of the cheeriness slipping from his voice. "Look, you want off this rock, right? Well, the rest of the galaxy ain't much better. Trust me, I've seen it. And remember, getting off this rock is illegal. <I>That's</I> how I got the carbon scoring. Getting in here, I mean."

"The Dicks?" I asked incredulously.

"Dicks? Oh, yeah, the DKFA. Yeah, they were watching when I moved over the pseudo landing point. I managed to throw them, but I rekkon this is my last trip to this rock." He moved over to the craft, and began doing something with the wiring for one of the laser cannons.

"The Dicks, really they have ships? Ships like this?

"Greeek yeah," replied the spacer. "What'd you expect, some technologically backward society like this one you have here? Frell, the DFKA is posh as can be. Their fighters are slower than pigs though, even an Y-Ugly could outrun them." By the expression on my face he could tell that I didn't know what the frell he was talking about. "Y-Uglies, a combination of an Imperial TiE 'ball, and Y-Wing engine mount. Or the other way around. Poor man's craft. Look, you just going to stand around all day, or get your ars into the cockpit and get ready to leave?"

<I>Too late, my time has come
sent shivers down my spine, body's aching all the time
Goodbye everybody
I've got to go, gotta leave you all behind and face the truth.</i>


"Oh bastai! Don't do that now you little frell'n bishwag!" Karlis cursed.



I couldn't help it, the motion of the fighter, the rotating, spinning, gyrating movement gave my stomach a little more than a bad case of the jitters.



"Aw pud!" yelled Karlis as he heard my dry retching behind him. "Here, use this," he said after a second of using one hand to scrabble around under his seat. A medium sized bag made of some polymer was shoved in my face. Nodding gratefully I grabbed it, and promptly regurgitated the whole of yesterday's food, what little there had been.

"Done?" asked Karlis irritably when the sounds of retching ceased.

"Aye," I replied.

"About frelln time," he said. We were hovering in the new garbage chute. With a whoosh the cockpit opened letting in air that, while not fresh, was definitely better than what was in the cockpit. "Chuck that bag over the side," said Karlis. "And breathe deep."

"Alight."






With a roar of engines and a tail of exhaust the fighter exploded out of the garbage vent and stabbed the sky. "Yeehaw!" yelled Karlis. I could hear the grin in his voice. "And we're not even going seventy percent yet. That new fuel siphon is worth every penny!"

The screen in front of me began to flash. It was flashing red.



"Um... Karlis?" I asked.

"Yeah?"

"This screen is flashing."

There was a pause up front, and then Karlis swore. "Shavit, kid, what the frell did you do back on that force-forsaken rock of yours?"

"Why?" I asked, the blood beginning to slam through my head.

"Hold on," was all Karlis said, as he reached for the throttle.



I had thought the initial acceleration had been fast. Even as I was opening my mouth to ask what the problem was I felt the liquid in my stomach, intestines and brain cavity rotate from a normal downward position to one plastered against the back of my seat. My head snapped backward to the headrest, and I bit a neat slice into my tongue. The b-wing blasted forward, the acceleration so powerful that I couldn't close my eyes. For almost six seconds, it felt like six minutes, we accelerated at this speed.



"Dampners are broke Kid, I can't use them at any more than 50% or they go out all the way. How's it look?"

"Bloody," I replied. "I freken bit my tongue." Blood was beginning to drip onto my lap from the cut.

"No you blithering idiot, the scanner, the scanner. You have the long range pad back there.

"Oh," I said, glancing down. "One green blip and a dozen or so red blips.

"Shavit," was all Karlis said, his voice bitter with the curse.




A moment later we hit the cloud cover, the permanent blanket that covered our dismal planet. A split-second later we broke through, and I saw stars.

"Charles Malvith, you have been charged with the murder of John Paul, president of the DFKA, fleeing the scene of a crime, booking illegal transport off planet, owning a firearm, resisting arrest, and numerous other infractions. How do you plead?"

Obviously the man was a complete idiot, doing this drivel for show only.

"Not Guilty," I replied, just for kicks. I couldn't get in much deeper shav than this, so what the frell.

The gavel rang out, and the courthouse was closed for the day. As the cops led me off I got a good look out a window. Up here life was different. I didn't see a speck of dirt on the streets. Hover cars and speeders of the expensive type, the type I had never seen before, were lined up everywhere. Even the cloud blanket looked brighter up here.

"Move it you pud ball," barked a guard as I stopped to look outside. I gave him a gesture, which earned me a billy-club over the head. "Don't give me any of that you shav."

As they were hauling me out the back of the courhouse a crowd of reporters crowded close. Bulbs flashed and questions were asked, but I only heard one.

"Why did you do it?"

"Why?" I yelled back. "Because he might have had a chit on him, that's why."

"A chit?" the reporter yelled back, as if astonished that one would kill for so little.

"Visit the underworld," I replied with a grin. A twisted grin. The posh porker would never go down, and even if he did all he would do is do a write up on why the place should be permanently closed down, or shut off, burned out, or hauled into space.

The Underworld. I hadn't heard it called that until one of the skydicks called me a flying mole as they served me with my 'rights'. Ironically, my rights included the right to a com call, but since no one I knew in the 'underworld' owned a com I told them to go shove the call up their bum.





"What'r you in fu?" asked my cellmate, a dirty little man who looked like he was eighty.

"Kill'n ah guy," I replied.

"Yeh? Whu?"

"John Paul they call'em."

"HAW HAW! Yu a dead man walk'en, dead man walk'n now Chals! HAW HAW." The little jerk sat there laughing his ars off.

"Yeah, weel, what'r yu in fer?" I asked him.

"Eh... beat th'old lady up once too many. Sh'wen an called the cops on meh."

Cellmate with a wife-beater. She must have been one small lady.

<I>But I'm just a poor boy and nobody loves me
He's just a poor boy from a poor family
Spare him his life from this monstrosity</I>

<b>The Scene:</b> Doordan Capital, protest rally

Two groups stood opposite one another. They both carried a variety of different types of signs. The group on the left carried signs that spoke against the slums, their signs indicated that the slums should either be closed up (with the slummies left inside) or should be napalmed away (with the slummies left inside). The group on the right carried signs that showed their support for the effort to rehabilitate the slums, to clean them up and reintroduce commerce.

"Down with the Slums" was a common sign to see on either side, no matter what side.

A man was speaking for the side on the left. He stood on a small podium made of packing crates. Easy to setup and take down this variety of packing crate had become a staple for those whose hobby was protesting.

"People in the slums are never given a chance!" cried the man on the soapbox. "Let's give them a chance! Support the Slum Rehabilitation Program, let's remove the ugly smear upon our fine planet's reputation."

A roar of noise could be heard as the man stepped down from the podium. Whether it was in support or in condemnation was irrelevant, lots of noise drew the Holostations.





"What's <I>with</I> these people?" complained the president of Doordan, Johcklo M'Vilch. "Don't they have anything better to do with their time than protest pointless issues?"

"Some people are born bleeding hearts, Sir," replied his aid. "President Kaant is on line two, Sir, about the talks?"

"Yes, yes," replied Johcklo in a flippant air.

"Best not to keep him waiting."

"What ever for?" said Johcklo contemptuously. "He is the one coming to us. Let him wait." With that President M'Vilich turned back to look out the enormous picture window.

"I don't get it," he muttered. "They don't even <I>know</I> this person, yet they are willing to stand for hours upon hours and argue over his fate. Is this some sort of medical condition?"

His aid cleared his throat slightly. Johcklo sighed. "Yes?"

"Uhm, Sir, may I remind you that seventy-percent of all active protesters support you?"

"Oh, yes. Well..."

"Some people just enjoy fighting with other people, Sir. Will you take President Kaant's call now sir?"

<i>Gotta moosh gotta moosh will you do the fan-dan-go
Thunderbolts and lightning, very very frightening</i>

Shav, these jails were bad. I had imagined worse, but still, it was pitiful. The cell was only four feet by eight feet, just enough room for two people to stand and sit in. There were two coffin-like beds in the wall directly behind the cell door, nothing more than a slit in the solid permacrete that had a bit of cloth on it for cover or padding. Users choice.

Both right and left walls were solid permacrete; the only visible opening was the front door. Row upon rows of these were stacked upon each other. I estimated that several thousand people were stashed away here.


And the smell. I was used to bad air, the slums were full of it, but here my nose shut down. The smell of thousands of smelly, sweaty, full of pud prisoners reeked. The only thing that qualified as a lavatory was a hole in the floor that didn't even have a pad to be used for cleaning. It reeked as well.


"What'd th'call ye kid?" asked my cell-mate.

"Hmm?" I replied, slightly absent mindedly as I stared at the lavatory.

"Ye got a name?"

"Aye."

"Weel, what be it?"

"In th'slums tey call me Smooth Charley," I said, slipping back into the accent all slummies used.

"Oye, really? Iv heard o you. Neve caught." The man giggled. "Untul now, o'course."

"Yeah, what'ever man," I replied. He continued to giggle and snigger, but I ignored him. The sounds of boots approaching had taken my attention. They seemed to be rather close.


And they were. "Ey, newbie, get your dirty bum up here," said the guard. He hardly looked like a Freep to me, his eyes were larger than that of most Freeps I had seen. Eyes like those of a slummy.

"Ah said, get yer bum here. NOW!" He choked out the last order, spittle flying. His face turned red, and he started to cough, and thump his chest. He was choking on something I realized.

An enormious hand came out of nowhere, and struck him on the back so hard it flattened him to the floor. A wad of something exploded out of his mouth, and splattered all over the grid-iron floor. "I told you to stop chewing that crap Freeman," said the owner of the hand.


My eyes moved from the feet, to the torso, to the chest, to the head. He was huge.

"Hullo, Smooth Charley. I've heard a lot about you. Why don't we take a little walk, and become .. aquinted?"

I was about to refuse politely, but his enormous paw of a hand gave me no option as he reached into the cell and grabbed me by the coat collar. "Come on," he said in a warm voice. "Let's walk."


I thought, for a moment, that this fellow wasn't so bad. That was until we were a hundred yards away from my cell, and he leaned down to whisper in my ear.

"Welcome to hell kid. From here on in, your ass is mine." And then he pointed toward the cell on our left, and the inmate therein.


That was when I began to believe that I would not be alive for the trial.