Varn
The corvette had been sold, the profits divvied between the crew, who then went their separate ways. With any luck, most of them would survive. It had taken her a week to sneak halfway across the galaxy, but finally she was here.
Allara finally found the run-down apartment, knocking gingerly on the door since its electronic chime didn't seem to be functioning. After entirely too long, she glanced down the narrow alley to make sure no one was looking, and then smashed the door controls, pulling out a modified data pad and attaching it to several concealed wires.
The door rushed open with a flash of sparks, and Allara stepped into the small, dark room. “I would prefer if you didn't shoot me,” She said, inching into the room with her hands held out in front of her. “What's wrong: didn't expect me to return?”
There was a slight rustling and then a being made itself known, stepping out from behind a partition, clad fully in a Ubese biosuit. It held its blaster steady, pointed directly at her chest. “What are you doing here?”
“I had nowhere else to go.”
Allara's father rushed quickly around her, pressing the controls repeatedly and then physically dragging the door mostly closed.
“I need you to find some information for me.”
He turned back toward his daughter, his blaster no longer pointed at her but still in hand. “You were never to return,” He said, the sternness apparent even through the voice filter.
“I need to know what has become of Jarvis Ragnar.”
“Shouldn't you know that?” He asked, walking past her once more and setting his blaster on a small table.
“He has lost all reason; I had no choice but to leave.”
“What has he done?” The father asked, his masked stare nevertheless freezing Allara in place.
“The Empire came for us . . .” Her father sighed heavily “. . . at Ojom. I ran, and then returned to rescue him.”
“You did what!” He exclaimed, pounding his fist on the table.
Allara shook her head. “I had no choice. His crew needed him.”
“Survival requires sacrifice!” The man roared, pounding his fist again. “And now you have brought your . . . taint here! No one defies the Empire. No one!”
“Will you help me?”
“Run,” He said simply. “Run far away.”
“Father . . .”
“Get away from me! I can't help you, and I won't try.”
“No one knows my name,” She pleaded. “No one knows my face! How could they find me? How could they know who I am? I'm safe here, with you, again.”
Father had looked away, unable to hold even her tinted gaze. “The Cooperative is enacting a new program for their Defense Force. I have volunteered for officer's training.”
“No . . . Not you. The military? Some interstellar army! What if they find out who you are?”
He shook his head. “They're offering a clean slate. A chance to become . . . to become a person again.” He finally looked at his daughter again. “I can't have ties to that life anymore. You won't follow me―I know you won't―so this is goodbye. Good luck, my daughter, and may fortune smile upon you with the―”
She slammed her fist into the door and then pried it open, a loud screeching sound accompanying the action. Allara ran down the narrow alley without looking back.
Her father stepped halfway out of his hovel, watching her go.
―with the same measure it has frowned upon me.
One week later, Ubertica
Allara shook the man's hand, sealing the deal. “When do we leave?”
A beeping sound emanated from the other Ubese's helmet, and he jerked his head sideways slightly, activating the commlink inside. “Now,” He said.
Thirty minutes later, Allara was officially “Green three,” the designation indicating her as the most junior member of the escort squadron's most junior flight.
“Ease up a little, three,” Green one ordered, once again trying to pull slightly away from Allara.
“Standard wingmate position, one.”
“Yeah? Well I'd like to stay alive long enough to see the bad guys, so back off.”
Allara clenched her jaw inside her suit, fighting back the urge to explain in detail why her accidentally running into him should be the least of his worries. She broke formation altogether, pulling farther away from the convoy and and taking up a static position relative to the ships she was escorting. There was no reason to burn fuel on overly elaborate defense patterns that only reduced one's ability to notice would-be assailants.
“Problem, three?”
“I'd rather be a fighter than a target, one. That's all.”
Somewhere on the Enarc Run, two weeks later
In addition to terrible business sense and an innate inability to organize his people into decently complementary flights, the Ubese leader of the squadron couldn't fight to save his life.
Fortunately, Allara could.
She threw her ship into a corkscrewing maneuver, firing relentlessly at the trio of fighters on the tail of . . . that was probably Green one, judging by the way he magically timed his “evasive maneuvers” to place himself directly into the line of fire only when the blaster bolts were actually converging on his location.
One of the Uglies' wings tore free of its fighter as Allara scored a pair of hits on the craft, then adjusted her aim ever so slightly, scoring a direct hit on a second. The last fighter broke wildly, but Allara gave chase, herding the fighter directly into the defensive fire coming from one of the freighters. She clipped its wing as it veered to escape the defensive stream at the last possible moment, though Allara had to take evasive maneuvers to evade the freighter's weapons, whose gunner could apparently only aim properly when firing at a friendly craft.
She soon picked up on her wounded target again, driving it off of the squadron leader's tail before it could deal a serious blow. Her comm began beeping incessantly, and she reflexively activated it, not wasting the split-second it would require to check the origin. “We could use some help over here!”
The source of the transmission flickered on her HUD, and Allara broke from her chase of the fighter as she realized what had happened. Blue flight was nowhere to be seen as she hurled herself into their quadrant of the formation, firing madly on the assaulting bulk cruiser which had all but crippled the small transport whose captain had had the presence of mind to comm Allara directly.
She pulled in as close as possible, launching one of her two concussion missiles.
“Who fired a rocket?” The squadron commander's voice shouted over the comm. As Allara swung around for another pass at the comparatively massive vessel, she cut off her squadron comms, responding to the captain who had called her to his aide. “Patch me through to somebody with guns. I can't hold this guy's attention for long.”
She was past the pirate ship once again, and fired the last of her two torpedoes the moment she achieved a target lock. A string of fire soon appeared, impacting Allara's target. The light freighter's medium lasers weren't the kind of assistance she had been hoping for, but they would have to do under the circumstances.
Allara smashed her hand against the comm panel. “Jump, damn you!” She shouted to the small convoy, then cut the whole comm system off, unwilling to listen to their responses and unable to be more selective given the danger of her present circumstances.
Finally the reoriented ships began disappearing into hyperspace, and Allara wasn't at all surprised to see the remainder of her squadron break away and jump before the last of the freighters and transports were gone.
Finally the assisting light freighter moved away and jumped, and only then did Allara disengage the pirate craft and break for open space.
She vanished into the torrent of hyperspace, determined that that would never happen again.
“What did you think you were doing out there!? I almost―”
Allara drew her blaster and shot the squadron leader in a single flash of movement. The stunned Ubese collapsed onto the floor, and Allara leveled her blaster at the fastest of her surviving squadron mates, who had almost brought his own sidearm to bear on her. “Things are going to be a little different now.”
She had fought pirates. Real pirates. The kind of people who have spent their lives killing and learning how to. The kind of enemies that even the best don't always walk away from a confrontation with. The kind of creatures that make good men die, and better men lose themselves. She was not going to be killed by Rim riffraff because her squadron mates didn't know how to hold down the “fire” button.
She had been forced once more to the edge of existence, where terms like “legal” and “illegal” soon become replaced by “dead” and “alive.” But this time . . .
This time it's going to be different.
Abandoned by her father and having abandoned her last surviving friend; this time it would indeed be different.
The corvette had been sold, the profits divvied between the crew, who then went their separate ways. With any luck, most of them would survive. It had taken her a week to sneak halfway across the galaxy, but finally she was here.
Allara finally found the run-down apartment, knocking gingerly on the door since its electronic chime didn't seem to be functioning. After entirely too long, she glanced down the narrow alley to make sure no one was looking, and then smashed the door controls, pulling out a modified data pad and attaching it to several concealed wires.
The door rushed open with a flash of sparks, and Allara stepped into the small, dark room. “I would prefer if you didn't shoot me,” She said, inching into the room with her hands held out in front of her. “What's wrong: didn't expect me to return?”
There was a slight rustling and then a being made itself known, stepping out from behind a partition, clad fully in a Ubese biosuit. It held its blaster steady, pointed directly at her chest. “What are you doing here?”
“I had nowhere else to go.”
Allara's father rushed quickly around her, pressing the controls repeatedly and then physically dragging the door mostly closed.
“I need you to find some information for me.”
He turned back toward his daughter, his blaster no longer pointed at her but still in hand. “You were never to return,” He said, the sternness apparent even through the voice filter.
“I need to know what has become of Jarvis Ragnar.”
“Shouldn't you know that?” He asked, walking past her once more and setting his blaster on a small table.
“He has lost all reason; I had no choice but to leave.”
“What has he done?” The father asked, his masked stare nevertheless freezing Allara in place.
“The Empire came for us . . .” Her father sighed heavily “. . . at Ojom. I ran, and then returned to rescue him.”
“You did what!” He exclaimed, pounding his fist on the table.
Allara shook her head. “I had no choice. His crew needed him.”
“Survival requires sacrifice!” The man roared, pounding his fist again. “And now you have brought your . . . taint here! No one defies the Empire. No one!”
“Will you help me?”
“Run,” He said simply. “Run far away.”
“Father . . .”
“Get away from me! I can't help you, and I won't try.”
“No one knows my name,” She pleaded. “No one knows my face! How could they find me? How could they know who I am? I'm safe here, with you, again.”
Father had looked away, unable to hold even her tinted gaze. “The Cooperative is enacting a new program for their Defense Force. I have volunteered for officer's training.”
“No . . . Not you. The military? Some interstellar army! What if they find out who you are?”
He shook his head. “They're offering a clean slate. A chance to become . . . to become a person again.” He finally looked at his daughter again. “I can't have ties to that life anymore. You won't follow me―I know you won't―so this is goodbye. Good luck, my daughter, and may fortune smile upon you with the―”
She slammed her fist into the door and then pried it open, a loud screeching sound accompanying the action. Allara ran down the narrow alley without looking back.
Her father stepped halfway out of his hovel, watching her go.
―with the same measure it has frowned upon me.
* * *
One week later, Ubertica
Allara shook the man's hand, sealing the deal. “When do we leave?”
A beeping sound emanated from the other Ubese's helmet, and he jerked his head sideways slightly, activating the commlink inside. “Now,” He said.
Thirty minutes later, Allara was officially “Green three,” the designation indicating her as the most junior member of the escort squadron's most junior flight.
“Ease up a little, three,” Green one ordered, once again trying to pull slightly away from Allara.
“Standard wingmate position, one.”
“Yeah? Well I'd like to stay alive long enough to see the bad guys, so back off.”
Allara clenched her jaw inside her suit, fighting back the urge to explain in detail why her accidentally running into him should be the least of his worries. She broke formation altogether, pulling farther away from the convoy and and taking up a static position relative to the ships she was escorting. There was no reason to burn fuel on overly elaborate defense patterns that only reduced one's ability to notice would-be assailants.
“Problem, three?”
“I'd rather be a fighter than a target, one. That's all.”
* * *
Somewhere on the Enarc Run, two weeks later
In addition to terrible business sense and an innate inability to organize his people into decently complementary flights, the Ubese leader of the squadron couldn't fight to save his life.
Fortunately, Allara could.
She threw her ship into a corkscrewing maneuver, firing relentlessly at the trio of fighters on the tail of . . . that was probably Green one, judging by the way he magically timed his “evasive maneuvers” to place himself directly into the line of fire only when the blaster bolts were actually converging on his location.
One of the Uglies' wings tore free of its fighter as Allara scored a pair of hits on the craft, then adjusted her aim ever so slightly, scoring a direct hit on a second. The last fighter broke wildly, but Allara gave chase, herding the fighter directly into the defensive fire coming from one of the freighters. She clipped its wing as it veered to escape the defensive stream at the last possible moment, though Allara had to take evasive maneuvers to evade the freighter's weapons, whose gunner could apparently only aim properly when firing at a friendly craft.
She soon picked up on her wounded target again, driving it off of the squadron leader's tail before it could deal a serious blow. Her comm began beeping incessantly, and she reflexively activated it, not wasting the split-second it would require to check the origin. “We could use some help over here!”
The source of the transmission flickered on her HUD, and Allara broke from her chase of the fighter as she realized what had happened. Blue flight was nowhere to be seen as she hurled herself into their quadrant of the formation, firing madly on the assaulting bulk cruiser which had all but crippled the small transport whose captain had had the presence of mind to comm Allara directly.
She pulled in as close as possible, launching one of her two concussion missiles.
“Who fired a rocket?” The squadron commander's voice shouted over the comm. As Allara swung around for another pass at the comparatively massive vessel, she cut off her squadron comms, responding to the captain who had called her to his aide. “Patch me through to somebody with guns. I can't hold this guy's attention for long.”
She was past the pirate ship once again, and fired the last of her two torpedoes the moment she achieved a target lock. A string of fire soon appeared, impacting Allara's target. The light freighter's medium lasers weren't the kind of assistance she had been hoping for, but they would have to do under the circumstances.
Allara smashed her hand against the comm panel. “Jump, damn you!” She shouted to the small convoy, then cut the whole comm system off, unwilling to listen to their responses and unable to be more selective given the danger of her present circumstances.
Finally the reoriented ships began disappearing into hyperspace, and Allara wasn't at all surprised to see the remainder of her squadron break away and jump before the last of the freighters and transports were gone.
Finally the assisting light freighter moved away and jumped, and only then did Allara disengage the pirate craft and break for open space.
She vanished into the torrent of hyperspace, determined that that would never happen again.
* * *
“What did you think you were doing out there!? I almost―”
Allara drew her blaster and shot the squadron leader in a single flash of movement. The stunned Ubese collapsed onto the floor, and Allara leveled her blaster at the fastest of her surviving squadron mates, who had almost brought his own sidearm to bear on her. “Things are going to be a little different now.”
She had fought pirates. Real pirates. The kind of people who have spent their lives killing and learning how to. The kind of enemies that even the best don't always walk away from a confrontation with. The kind of creatures that make good men die, and better men lose themselves. She was not going to be killed by Rim riffraff because her squadron mates didn't know how to hold down the “fire” button.
She had been forced once more to the edge of existence, where terms like “legal” and “illegal” soon become replaced by “dead” and “alive.” But this time . . .
This time it's going to be different.
Abandoned by her father and having abandoned her last surviving friend; this time it would indeed be different.