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Impact Events/Chapter Two

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There was no doubt about it, Ooryl Qrygg had seen better days. He didn't lament his past; far from it, in fact. On the planet of his birth he enjoyed levels of honor and prestige that had been matched by few in living memory. But he hadn't so much as been in the same sector of his homeworld of Gand since his janwuine-jika some thirty-five years ago. He wasn't homesick, nor did he want for company, as he still maintained discreet ties with those who had helped him to achieve greatness. And then the elder Solo boy-child had gone and messed everything up. — — — — — — Someone was following them. — — —

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There was no doubt about it, Ooryl Qrygg had seen better days. He didn't lament his past; far from it, in fact. On the planet of his birth he enjoyed levels of honor and prestige that had been matched by few in living memory. But he hadn't so much as been in the same sector of his homeworld of Gand since his janwuine-jika some thirty-five years ago. He wasn't homesick, nor did he want for company, as he still maintained discreet ties with those who had helped him to achieve greatness. And then the elder Solo boy-child had gone and messed everything up. Ooryl had rather lost his taste for interstellar matters in the tumult that was the Second Galactic Civil War. Rogue Squadron, which had been his home for so long, had been hit hard by Skywalker's Jedi-led coalition during the war's penultimate battle. Insult had been added to injury when Natasi Daala, a former Imperial warlord he had once fought against—and whose predations on the New Republic had claimed the lives of friends—had been seated as Chief of State. Installed was, perhaps, a more apt metaphor from his perspective. It was this most recent war that had made him grateful for the change in occupation he had chosen on the eve of the extragalactic invasion launched by the Yuuzhan Vong. Leaving the life of a starfighter pilot behind, he had taken to hiring out his skills to civilian search-and-rescue teams, a career that came to be in high demand during that conflict. Though he was good at his job, it hadn't brought the same level of satisfaction he had gotten out of flying X-wings into battle against hordes of TIE fighters and their many variants. He knew very well the irony of this attitude, enjoying the job of taking lives more than that of saving them, but it wasn't something he could do much about. Despondent over that fact, he had changed careers once again after the defeat of the Dark Nest, taking jobs as a planetary reconnaissance specialist. Much later, when his old wingmate's offspring had come down with the galloping crazies, the Findsman had poked and prodded the mists for weeks in a vain attempt to auger an answer to the question that had riveted the citizenry and government of the Galactic Alliance. The effort involved had nearly killed him, forcing him to leave his post as chief scout for a post-war resettlement agency. And now he was on Bothawui, in the capital city of Drev'starm, looking for the key to a mystery. After having heard of the mental sickness's lifting, he had paid the mists one last visit. They had shown him an ancient symbol, one which seemed to represent all that he had fought for so long ago. This symbol had called to him on an instinctual level, promising to lead him on one last, glorious search before he returned to the vapors that had first given him life. It had been a simple enough matter to determine what the symbol had represented: it was the seal borne by one of the Old Republic's most well-respected military branches, its Marine Corps. It had been easy as well to obtain a broad account of the duties and deeds of this long-dissolved force, ranging from academic histories to personal accounts and quite a lot of fictive works. What made the search challenging, what had truly caught his attention and kept it, was the idea of actually finding a Marine. For the mists had told him, too, that a pair of them yet lived, even after a thousand years of absence. As he had so often told others, the where was easy; it was the when that was difficult. — — — Everywhere they looked, there were people. People in landspeeders, people in low-flying speeder buses, people on swoop and speeder bikes, and entire hordes of simple pedestrians whose garments ranged from spectacularly fashionable to barely presentable. Bothans were the dominant species by far, with thousands upon thousands of them within easy spotting distance. They were backed up by a whole host of starfaring species including Humans, Twi'leks, Bith, Gotals and Duros, with lesser numbers of Givin, Ithorians, Rodians, Nikto, Weequay, and even a Klatooinian here and there. It had been too long indeed since Laera had been among so many and such a dizzying array of sentient beings, certainly a while before her own training as a Jedi, and she had had to dial down her Force-awareness lest the multicolored shimmering of auras drown out her normal sight. Silas, too, seemed to be a bit overwhelmed, which to Laera was surprising given his more cosmopolitan upbringing and younger age. The first thing she noticed about the many hundreds of natives that the trio encountered as they first passed through customs—and the headache that went hand-in-hand with a lack of identification—was that they were all noticeably shorter that Silas, whom Laera had thought of as being of average height for his species. As they made their way through Drev'starm on foot, however, it became clear that all modern Bothans were lacking in stature by at least a quarter meter. After a half-hour of walking, during which Silas drew many curious looks from untold numbers of female Bothans, Laera elbowed him hard in his ribs and called for a halt. “Is it just me, or have your people actually shrank over the centuries?” she asked irritably, subtly gesturing at the throng and indicating the appraising looks that Silas had been receiving. “What?!” he asked in sudden alarm, as though he had been caught napping. Still somewhat grumpy from the jam at the spaceport and their subsequent labeling as “refugees,” Laera reached up and smacked the back of his head. “Hey, what was that for?” he blurted out. “Get your head back in the game, Silas,” Laera retorted waspishly. “You're sticking out like a comm tower in the middle of a desert, and it's drawing some unwanted attention.” Silas looked around at that, the fur on his head and neck strangely non-reactive though he did not seem to notice this. As he obeyed his onetime superior officer, the fact that he was so comparatively tall—and catching the eyes of so many Bothan women—finally crashed through the fog that seemed to have descended upon him from out of nowhere. “I...this is strange.” “'This is strange?'” Laera repeated, gape-mouthed. She had also noticed the difference in how he normally expressed emotion, and this had her worried. “Is that all you have to say? Silas, you're probably the tallest Bothan on this planet and all you can say to that is 'this is strange?'” Though the noises of a busy street at midday did not abet in the slightest, a frosty silence descended between Silas and Laera as the two locked incredulous stares. HK-47, meanwhile, had begun tracking his head back and forth in a manner perhaps best described as “watchful” in an organic. After a minute or so, however, something seemed to shift behind the Bothan's countenance, and his fur began rippling with furious embarrassment as his shoulders slumped shamefully. “I don't know what just came over me,” he mumbled apologetically. “Can...can we just move on?” “Observation: Master, it appears you are correct; the entire Bothan species has indeed shrunk significantly,” the assassin droid chimed in. “Statement: Though I cannot explain this phenomenon, it is readily apparent when compared to my data files pertaining to the physiology of the Bothan meatbag which, you have made abundantly clear, are quite out of date.” “Thanks, I think...” Silas muttered sheepishly, smoothing his neck fur and shaking his head ruefully. Relief flooded through Laera as Silas drew himself back together, somewhat hesitantly at first. Reaching out, she brought her arm around his waist and softly whispered words of encouragement into his ear, after which the trio continued down the street with their duffels swaying slightly. Though a few females continued to shoot glances his way, Laera helped to deflect the attention of most passers-by with a few judicious applications of the Force. — — — “Well, at least the sigils haven't changed,” Silas commented idly as the unlikely trio strode through the Drev'starm commercial district half an hour later, looking for an antiquities dealer who might be in the business of acquiring ancient Republic Military memorabilia and weapons. Their mood had lightened somewhat in the wake of Silas's unexplained distraction, thanks mostly to the pleasantness of the day and the fact that as they walked, the two of them were becoming more comfortable with themselves amongst the crowd. Even HK-47 had begun to look less conspicuous, which was saying something. “Worried that you might be rendered illiterate, dear?” Laera asked as she glanced about at the unreadable hieroglyphs. As befitted a galactic-class marketplace, translations were aplenty, and in more than just Aurebesh. She also recognized bits of Rylothean script along with what was unmistakably Huttese, in addition to what had to be written Ithorian. The latter was not nearly as prevalent, however, and while Laera thought that she knew why, the specifics were somewhat lacking. Silas seemed to sense her momentary discomfiture, and laid a hand on her shoulder. “I think it's you who's been worrying too much,” he mused aloud. “I know that the Sa'ari grilled you particularly hard before we left, and we've only been offworld for a day now.” Laera glared at him, then relaxed her gaze. “They weren't too gentle on you either, Silas,” she reminded him. “What was the term you used? 'Political shockball' or something like that?” Silas winced in remembrance. “Yes, that was it. They sure do play hard—and without armor, too. But as I was saying, I think you're worrying too much about what we'll find in this modern world.” “You're right, I'm worrying again,” Laera said, giving up the pretense with a sigh. They turned a corner down the wide boulevard they had been walking down, hopefully making their way to wherever the antique shops were. The tourist-grade maps available at the spaceport terminal had proven to be singularly useless, and so Laera had taken point in hopes of using her Force-enhanced scouting abilities to plow through the crowd and find a buyer. “But it's not about adapting to this era I'm worried about. It's you, and what Bellinega did for you before she died. I think it might have something to do with what happened earlier.” The trio came to a stop in front of an indoor café whose tinted windows failed to hide the eclectic mix of the galaxy's more populous species from Jedi senses, and silence fell between Laera and Silas once again. This wasn't, however, the cold, confused pause from earlier; both of them had felt it as a tingling sensation, one which was similar to a feeling that Laera knew well. The assassin droid, on the other hand, had turned to face the street and had begun what both of them recognized as a threat-assessment scan. Someone was following them. “Yes, I think you're right,” Laera said in a carrying, offhand tone of voice that was nevertheless full of meaning. “I could certainly go for some refreshment about now.” “This place seems nice enough,” Silas added, deftly picking up on the charade. “HK, stay out here and act inconspicuous,” Laera whispered to the droid out of the corner of her mouth. Then she returned her voice to that same casually loud volume. “I don't think the restaurants on Bothawui like droids any more than the ones on Contruum, though...” The rust-red droid's only response was to step backward, his back to the wall, half-hidden from casual view by the awning that extended a good two meters out over the pedestrian walkway. Laera and Silas, meanwhile, ducked into the café and did their best to look inconspicuous as they made for a back-corner table. Laera's use of the Force helped in this; since most of the diners seemed to be intent on their food and their own company, she was able to convince them to ignore the tall, oddly-dressed Bothan and his equally out-of-place Human companion. The café itself was quite elegant-looking, which was surprising given its inauspicious façade. It was clearly an upscale venue, catering to well-to-do businessbeings who would rather not draw attention to themselves or their dealings. And it would have bankrupted a new private for a week just to have eaten a light lunch there. “An Intelligence hotspot if there ever was one,” Silas quipped as the server, a petite Bothan female with calico fur and hair that was obviously dyed a lurid red to match her crimson eyes, left after being waved on her way with a gentle Force-suggestion from Laera. “Too pricy for a field agent to dine at regularly, but perfect for arranging meetings with contacts. Just about every street in central Drev'starm has one of these.” “Keep an eye on the door,” Laera put in. “Whoever spotted us probably saw us going in.” “Well, why don't you just tell me how to field-strip my sidearm?” Silas whispered back playfully. “We probably should order something, though, if only to keep up appearances.” Using the same mind trick she had done to wave the server away, Laera summoned her back to the table. “Two lunch specials,” she said. “Go easy on the gravy.” As the server departed, Laera cast her gaze about the place. It wasn't all that big, perhaps twenty-five tables at most, which were all arranged along the walls in booths that seemed perfect for concealing discrete handoffs. Now that he mentioned it, Laera decided that Silas was correct in pinning this place as a haven for those in the information-gathering business. Those who had earlier seemed so focused on their own business were either casting the occasional covert glance about the place, or else exchanging subtle gestures with unseen and perhaps off-site support staff or handlers. With that in mind she allowed the Force to flow through her once again, the auras of the restaurant's occupants coming into her sense. Lo and behold, it's a regular rat's nest, she mused to herself. At least ten intel types and a few rather excitable contacts— Laera paused mid-thought as an older Bothan female entered the café. The coloring of her fur was unusual enough: overall black flecked with the occasional gray hair, but with hands that were gloved in white, a white streak bisecting her face diagonally, and a peak of white fur at the base of her neck that hinted at a similar splash of it underneath her clothes, which were generic in the extreme. Perhaps more disturbing was her eyes; they were intelligent and alert, but also precisely the same shade of violet as Silas's. On top of that, the new arrival's look, posture and sense may as well have had INTELLIGENCE AGENT written all over it in glowing Aurebesh. That wasn't what held Laera's attention, however; rather, it was her somewhat hunched companion. “Silas, check the entrance,” she said in low tones. “What do you make of them?” “You mean the former intel officer and her companion?” Silas asked glibly, also keeping his voice down. “That's a—” “Yes, it's a Gand,” Laera finished for him. “I only spotted the female for what she was through the Force. The Gand, though...I can't read him, and I've had experience with his kind.” Silas shot an appraising look at the insectoid from the corner of his eye. “I remember you mentioning that; I didn't think there was a Marine alive who didn't know of Tuffass. Except this one doesn't have a breath mask.” The two fell silent as the pair, who conducted themselves as though they were old friends long parted, were offered seats of their own by the same red-haired server, who was probably an Intelligence asset herself. Laera watched with heavily-disguised fascination as the Bothan female and her Gand tag-along slumped into a booth in a would-be casual sort of way. Their seats just happened to be in full view of the corner booth in which Laera and Silas sat waiting for their own food, so that both could have an unimpeded view of the conversation that took place. “Okay Silas, it's time to teach you how to enhance your hearing with the Force,” Laera whispered quickly, grabbing his wrist underneath the table and beckoning him to attune his mind to hers. It took him a few moments of effort to adjust, with having had little practice beforehand, but he managed to accept the connection. It was a sloppy way to train a Jedi, Laera knew, but they didn't have many options and she needed his experience as an intelligence officer on this one. “...ood to see you after so long,” the Gand was saying in a strangely high-pitched sort of vibro-voice. “As you know, I was led here on an important quest, but have since lost the trail. I am glad that I was able to find you, however.” “Ooryl, I'm happy to help in any way, you know that,” the Bothan female replied. “I won't even ask how you knew where I was, never mind the fact that I was still alive...” “Iella told me about you, Asyr,” he replied. “It took much persuasion, but I convinced her that my intentions were honorable.” “She hasn't told him about me, though...has she?” the female asked, the wistfulness and regret in her voice discernible both to Laera and Silas. “As far as Ooryl is aware, only she and Booster Terrik knew.” Laera looked back at Silas, her visage betraying confusion. He simply shrugged his shoulders in reply and glanced back at the conversation they were supposed to be overhearing. At that moment, however, their food arrived, and the interruption nearly caused them to miss the exchange that followed. “...heard of the old Republic Marines?” the Gand called Ooryl asked, somewhat hesitantly. The Bothan called Asyr paused, brushed her rippling neck fur, then steepled her fingers on the tabletop, looking thoughtful. “Just bits and pieces from my history reading back at the Academy. They were like the GA's own space marines, but they had their own separate and rather unique culture within the Old Republic's military. Why do you ask?” “I am Findsman,” Ooryl replied as though this answered everything. “I must find, and so I shall. But I...request your aid. You know this planet far better than Ooryl...” At that point Laera released Silas's hand and clamped down tight on her Force signature. “We're in trouble,” she whispered. “And I'm confused,” Silas retorted, his voice so low Laera only barely caught the gist of his meaning. “Gands don't—” “I know they don't,” Laera hissed back. “But he's the only one any of us ever knew about back then, so he's hardly a definitive example.” “Then why are we in trouble?” “Tuffass once told me about Findsmen,” Laera admitted. “They're basically the Gand equivalent of Jedi Knights, but that's all he would tell me. It also explains why I can't read this Ooryl person. Anyway, we've heard enough; let's just eat and scoot.” — — — Fifteen minutes later, having managed to convince the server to accept the four thousand year old ten-credit coin—the only currency they had—as sufficient compensation for their lunch, they managed to snake their way out of the café unmolested. With HK-47 once again keeping his low-key vigil, Laera and Silas continued their excursion through the commercial district, doubling back and taking a different path in their search for a paying antiquarian. As far as either they or the droid could tell, they had eluded their pursuers. “I just don't get it,” Silas grumbled as, a kilometer and a half later, they came within sight of their initial objective. “Join the club, sweetheart,” Laera replied with equal parts confusion and frustration. “Someone is always looking for us, it seems. Did we trip some sort of cosmic alarm when we left Ord Mantell?” Silas gave an exasperated snort. “You know, I'm finally starting to understand your own reluctance at becoming a Jedi.” Laera huffed a resigned sigh. “You don't know the half of it dear, not by a long shot. Luke's offer is beginning to sound better all the time, but I'll be damned if I give up this quickly...” “Give up on what, exactly?” “On getting back on our feet by ourselves!” Laera answered bitterly, kicking at a piece of refuse as they walked.

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