Star Wars: Crucible 1-2

Star Wars: Crucible



The Seer and the Shadow



Dramatis Personae:



Crijo Vaade - Twi’lek male from Ryloth (Jedi Padawan)

Malius Ra’ssik - Saurin male from Durkteel (Jedi Padawan)

Oden Kan - Devaronian male from Devaron (Jedi Master Sentinel)

Kalos Vaade - Twi’lek male from Ryloth (Crijo’s father)

Ria Vaade - Twi’lek female from Ryloth (Crijo’s mother)

Jarad Corso - Human male from Corellia (smuggler)

Hieronymus Rake - Human male from Corellia (pirate, slaver)

Gurooda the Hutt - Hutt male from Nal Hutta (crimelord on Tatooine)

Kossk - Trandoshan male from Trandosha (pirate, thug)



Setting: 25 BBY (Before the Battle of Yavin).



Chapter One



“I don’t trust him.”

Kalos Vaade, Twi'lek captain of the Star Yacht, the Stellar Ranger, looked around the cockpit and then down at his side, searching for the owner of the voice that had just interrupted his piloting. It belonged to his young son, Crijo, who now tugged on his flight jacket, vying for attention, and bearing a look of sincere consternation on his pale skinned face.

"What was that?" his father asked. His brain-tails (or lekku as they are called in the Twi'lek language) twitched with a mixture of curiosity and mild annoyance. Inwardly he wondered what grave and imminent threat his little boy had detected now. "Who don't you trust?" He gave Crijo a patient half-smile – a patience belied by the exasperated wrinkling of his brow.

The boy glared obstinately at his father who shared the same creamy-white complexion he did, and then pointed behind himself toward the guest lounge in the ship's aft section. His own lekku twitched with agitation, but the worry on his face was more than enough to convey his emotions.

“That man back there – the human with the red beard,” he began. “Hierom--, no Hieryo--, no...”

His father, Kalos, cut him off.

“You mean Mr Hieronymus Rake? What makes you think he shouldn’t be trusted?” Kalos made an effort to keep his voice light for his boy’s sake, even if he was getting weary with these sorts of complaints. This was far from the first time his son had come to him with tales like this.

Crijo hmphed and lifted his eyes imploringly, as if the look alone could convince his father of his sincerity. “He...looks at everything. Everything. And he—he says things – about the ship. He likes the ship too much. Why did you take him on board?”

A small sigh escaped Kalos’ lips. “Of course he does – all our passengers do. The Ranger is a beauty – that’s why they fly with us.” He shook his head from side to side dubiously but Crijo would not be so easily dissuaded.

“He smiles too much,” the boy insisted, his voice rising in pitch. “At me. At everything. All the time. I don’t trust him.”

“Mr Rake is a paying customer just like the rest, and a respected businessman. If I had the credits to throw around he does I would smile all the time too.” To demonstrate he gave his little boy a patronising smile of encouragement and turned his attention once more to the control console.

“Yeah, you would,” muttered Crijo under his breath but loud enough for his father to hear. “You’re always showing off.” He huffed again and stalked away. Kalos frowned and looked back over his shoulder at the departing child but elected not to reprimand him for his impertinence.

“Just like his mother,” he murmured to himself.



The Stellar Ranger was indeed, as her captain said, a thing of beauty. A Singer-class star yacht, she was designed to make traversing the spacelanes as enjoyable as possible for her passengers. Kalos had spent every credit he had just to buy the ship, and then borrowed more credits to furnish her and set up his star-cruise business. The Ranger was triangular in shape with smooth, gently curving lines and small fins on each of the wingtips to give it an upward-swept appearance. The cockpit was situated amidships on the uppermost of its three decks, with crew-quarters and its single gun-turret directly aft.

Crijo exited the cockpit and descended the stairwell to the second deck. He passed two of their passengers – a pair of Rodians travelling home from their honeymoon. Rodians were a curious species – humanoid, with green skin, large bulbous eyes, pointed ears and two sensory stalks on their heads. The male turned to Crijo and its proboscis-shaped mouth curved upward in the nearest approximation of a smile it could manage. Crijo nodded and smiled back politely, as he was taught to. There were no excuses for being rude to his father’s customers no matter how he felt, especially here on the Passenger Deck. This was the ‘be on your best behaviour deck’ and Crijo had spent enough time since his birth on this ship to know it.

Each room was richly decorated and offered every comfort most species could imagine, and they all shared easy access into the Star Lounge – the most popular area of the Stellar Ranger. This was Crijo’s destination. The corridor spilled into a large circular room furnished with lounges that lined the bulkheads, holotables situated in the centre, and opposite the autochef and bar – a projector playing a recent holodrama. But the real attraction of the Lounge was the giant octagonal viewport in the ceiling that gave passengers a breathtaking view of the stars.

The young Twi’lek tried hard to keep the petulant scowl from his pale-skinned face and walked through the lounge looking upward. They were in realspace for now, allowing passengers a lovely view of a nearby blue gas giant, and a distant nebula. So intent was Crijo on the scenery he did not see the person in front of him and walked straight into—

Hieronymus Rake.

“I—I’m sorry,” stammered Crijo, trying to recover his composure and not give away his dislike of the bearded human. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“Roight...” mused the imposing man, planting his hands on his hips and looking down his bulbous nose at the boy. He continued glaring for a few moments more and then all of a sudden clapped him roughly on the shoulder. He laughed! “No, ‘arm done there, lad! Ye’re a mite small t’knock me over, but I’d still suggest ye watch where ye’re goin’ from now on. Eh, Skipper?” He finished speaking and gave an oily smile. The smile Crijo hated.

“Of—of course, Mr Rake. Thank you. I’ll be on my way—” The human stopped him as he turned to leave. Stroking his generous beard, Rake tilted his head to the side and stared at the boy. Crijo felt like a rycrit calf being examined for purchase.

“Fine lady yer father has ‘ere, lad,” Rake said, finally. “A fine lady – much like that mother o’ yers. Supple ‘n bewitching, she is! With looks ‘n curves t’ make a man—” He smirked suggestively. “Well, ye’ll learn soon enough.” He flashed another oily grin at the boy and laughed. Crijo looked up at him confused. He was too afraid of the human to even try and guess what or who he was talking about.

“Anyway!” exclaimed Rake, clapping him smartly on the back – it stung but the youth refused to let it show. “Ye’d best run along now. Tell yer father, Captain Vaade, that Mr Hieronymus Rake says ‘e puts on a fine cruise. A fine cruise! ...I almost don’t wanna leave!”

Raucous, self-indulgent laughter followed Crijo out of the Star Lounge and drew looks from the few other passengers who were enjoying the holodrama, but he didn’t go back to his father. He knew he wouldn’t listen. Suppressing a shiver, he climbed the stairwell slowly to the upper deck and headed to his little cabin. The door to his parents’ quarters was open as he shuffled past and from within his mother looked up and waved him over.

“Crijo? Crijo, what is the matter?” Ria Vaade asked her boy. “Come here.” A rare Rutian Twi’lek with soft blue skin, large dark eyes and sinuous lekku, Crijo’s mother was described by many as intoxicatingly beautiful. She always blushed when told so, and her husband would beam with pride and make an obvious fuss over her...which Crijo knew his mother hated. He approached sullenly and stood just inside the hatchway.

“Nothing,” he muttered. He knew he wouldn’t get away with that, and Ria tsked reprovingly at him.

“Now that cannot be true. You haven’t been happy on this voyage since we left Coruscant. We will be in port soon, and we cannot have you depressing the passengers... so what is it?”

Reluctance pulled at Crijo’s limbs, dragging at his feet and weighing down his head as he considered what to tell his mother. She continued looking at him patiently, large eyes blinking slowly. “Well...” he ventured without confidence. “I have a—that is, I don’t—uhm. One of the passengers. I get a bad feeling whenever I am around him. Father—Father doesn’t believe me.” He hung his head and scuffed at the ground with his feet.

Ria sighed comfortingly and touched the boy on the shoulder. “I’m sure it’s nothing – If he really meant harm, your father would notice and take of it.” She frowned for a moment. “But – tell me anyway. Who is it that you do not like—?”

An explosion rocked the ship, interrupting her words and sending Crijo reeling backward into the bulkhead. He struck his head hard and cried out, slumping to the ground dazed. Ria leapt to her feet, brain-tails writhing in agitation and fear, and rushed to her son’s side.

“Crijo! Are you--!?” Another explosion shook the vessel and the mother shielded her son with her body as sparks flew from consoles in the bulkhead, and the glowrods in the ceiling flickered. Kalos’ voice came over the intercom strained and urgent:

“Attention all passengers. Attention all passengers. We are under attack. I repeat – we are under attack. Go to your quarters immediately and remain there until otherwise instructed. I say again – remain in your—” the intercom cut out abruptly as the Stellar Ranger was hit with more weapons fire and Ria covered her boy protectively again.

“They’ll want the ship, won’t they Mother?” asked Crijo with intensity, looking up into his mother’s face.

Ria managed to keep most of the fear from her voice as she replied, “Yes, they will, child. They will not destroy us – there are too many wealthy passengers onboard and of course the Ranger herself—”

The tremors across the ship subsided and the intercom buzzed. Crijo looked up, and hope turned to dread when he recognised the voice that spoke. It was not his father’s.

“Roight then, ladies ‘n gentlebeings! If ye wouldn’t mind givin’ me yer h’atten-shun.” There was harsh chuckle which distorted the sound. “I would be yer new captain and I would be much obliged if’n ye all could get yer arses to the Star Lounge roight now. We have guests! Go on, get down there. Mrs Vaade ‘n brat – that means you too! Ye all should be there in thirty seconds or former Captain Vaade is going to have a hole where ‘is chest used t’ be!”

Ria and Crijo gasped in horror and scrambled to their feet. The Ranger had come to a relative stop now and they could hear the frantic patter of feet below-deck as others ran toward the observation lounge. Ria grabbed her little boy and dragged him out the hatch and down the corridor to the stairwell – to find Mr Rake exiting the cockpit with a holdout blaster held against Kalos’ head.

“That’s it then,” crowed Rake as Ria stood between him and her son. “Naw, I ain’t gonna hurt ‘im, beautiful. But get ye’selves down to the lounge or I’ll hurt yer husband instead. There’s a good girl.”

Crijo found himself dragged by the arm down the stairwell as his father gave a brave nod of his head. His mother allowed him no time for talk, and spared Kalos only a single, helpless look as she rushed to the lounge.



Seven other sentients stood or cowered in the Star Lounge, watching with fearful eyes as Crijo and his parents entered the room. Hieronymus Rake brought up the rear with a blaster in hand. The Rodian honeymooners babbled incoherently to each other in a corner, pointing at Rake and then at Kalos. A Falleen businessman kept to himself behind the rest, remaining quiet and trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. As a shadow passed over the viewport above, Crijo looked up and saw the other ship, the pirate vessel – Rake’s vessel – overhead. It was vaguely triangular with lumps and bumps all over it and bristling with weaponry. It moved around the Stellar Ranger out of sight and when Crijo heard the ‘clunk’ of metal on metal he knew the ship had docked with theirs. Mr Rake spoke up.

“Yew lot ‘re gonna be real helpful now. How do I know?” He smirked and waved the pistol around. “No one wants t’ get shot, do they? No. In a few moments me business associates are gonna come on board and relieve ye of all yer valuables. It would speed things up if ye’d start removing ‘em now and dumping ‘em...” he looked around and his gleeful gaze settled on Crijo. “Make yerself useful, lad – get a bag or something and start filling it up. Good lad. Smart lad.”

Crijo looked at his parents furtively and his father was already nodding to him. He ran to one of the lounge-suites and opened it up, pulling out a crate of emergency rations. He upended these on the floor and then silently, reluctantly, went to the Rodians first of all and held the crate out. The newly-wed couple still gibbered in terror to each other but lost no time removing jewellery and other items to put in the box. The same went for the next passengers. Kalos and Ria watched in sadness as their son was made to help the grinning pirate.

When Crijo came to the Falleen, the sinuous figure with green reptilian skin opened his taloned hands and hissed, “I carry nothing of value. I am so sorry to disappoint.” His lip twisted sarcastically and Crijo looked uncertainly at Rake for instructions.

“Are ye sure o’ that?” Rake asked him. Falleen were known for their devious nature. He gestured with his pistol vaguely. “I mean, like real sure? Ye’re here on this toffy-lovin’ fancy-pants cruise ‘n ye’ve got nothing on ye of value?”

The Falleen nodded again, affirmatively. The arrogant smirk never left his features, even though there was still a touch of fear and doubt in his eyes.

Rake sniffed. “Well, ye’re almost right there. Seein’ as I already broke into yer quarters while ye were in here and stole this!” He reached into his breast pocket at and produced three small bags of powder. Glitterstim – a highly illegal narcotic. The Falleen bristled with outrage and Rake laughed scornfully at him. “This’ll fetch quite a price alright. Best take yet – almost. Ah, ‘ere we are!”

Three figures entered the Star Lounge dressed in dark jumpsuits and sporting large blaster carbines. One at least was Trandoshan – a massive reptiloid sentient with a draconic head, tough yellowy scales and thick, three-clawed hands. The other two were human. They took up flanking positions on either side of Mr Rake while the Trandoshan went straight to Crijo and took the now-full crate from him. He snarled something unintelligible at the boy and licked his lips.

Rake laughed. “Naw, mate! Ye’ll ‘ave to help yerself to the autochef if ye’re hungry.” He winked at Crijo who shrank back to one of the couches. “Now, this is what’s ‘appening, all yew gentlebeings. We don’t wanna have any undue fuss so listen up, do as ye’re told and some o’ ye will be out o’ this business in no time.” Something in what he said made him grin wolfishly and many of the passengers shuffled in worry. Kalos stiffened, his hands on Ria’s shoulders, and Crijo felt a shiver run down his spine.

“Her, and her,” said Mr Rake, pointing firstly to the Rodian female and to a curvaceous, red-skinned Zeltron woman hiding in the back. “Be quick about it, Kossk. I wanna be out o’ here in a few minutes.” The Trandoshan immediately went to the Rodians who reacted violently. The male thrust himself in between the giant reptiloid and his mate, fists raised and shouting in protest.

A blaster-shot split the air.

Everybody ducked down in terror, and someone screamed. A few moments later, when heads slowly began to look up again, the Rodian lay dead on the floor, smoke rising from a hole in his chest. Mr Rake waggled his blaster back and forth meaningfully. “Tsk, tsk. Any more o’ that and I’ll be puttin’ holes in a few more of ye as well.”

Kalos spoke up, his hands raised placating. “There won’t be any more trouble. I promise.” He looked into the eyes of each of his passengers and tried to keep his voice calm. “Everyone do as he says.”

There were no verbal responses from the passengers but a few nodded grudgingly.

“Smart feller,” mused the bearded pirate with a nonchalant shrug.

Kossk dragged both the Rodian and Zeltron females past Rake and handed them over to the two human pirates who then led their new slaves through the airlock. As they disappeared into Rake’s ship, the Trandoshan came into the lounge and stood beside the bearded man again. Crijo watched in stricken silence, wondering what would happen next.

“Roight-oh then!” boomed the pirate leader. “We’re almost done ‘ere. C’mon alla ye! To the escape pods.” He paused and pointed his blaster at the Falleen. “Except ye. There’s a price on yer head fer stealin’ that spice there. Ye’re staying wi’ me.” The Falleen made as if to protest but his eyes fell upon the body of the dead Rodian and he thought better of it. Dejectedly, he sat down.

Kalos led the way – Rake’s gun digging into his back – to the escape pods and opened them up. One by one the remaining passengers crammed in under the watchful gaze of the two pirates. Within moments there was no one left standing on the deck but the five of them. Hieronymus Rake looked down at Crijo and gave him one of his oily grins. “Did ye tell yer father what a fine lady ‘e has ‘ere?” he chuckled, looking at the vessel around them.

Crijo shook his head vigorously, looking at his father who eyes filled with regret.

Rake caught the look and sneered in mockery. “Aww, but ye did try t’ warn ‘im about me.” He jabbed Kalos in the ribs with the blaster nozzle. “And I’ll be ye didn’t listen!” The human laughed cruelly and Kalos stared back at his little boy.

“I’m sorry, son,” he murmured.

Rake clocked him in the side of the head with his elbow. “Serves ye right! Now – in ye go! I’ve got somewhere t’ be.”

Kalos immediately reached for his wife’s hand but the pirate pulled her roughly against him, shaking his head. “Uh-uh,” he warned. “I said ye. Not her. Yer loverly female ‘ere is comin’ with us. She’ll fetch an even better price than th’ Zeltron.”

“No! Kalos, no!” screamed Ria as she struggled with the pirate’s hold on her. She started to thrash and kick violently as both her husband and son tried to reach her. “Don’t let him take me! Don’t!”

As the captain of the Stellar Ranger rushed forward, Rake fired a shot which caught him in the side and sent him sliding into the bulkhead. The pirate then stuck the nozzle of his blaster up under Ria’s chin, pushing it painfully into her throat and kicked Kalos in the head cruelly.

“Get up, ye filth!” he spat.

Kalos rose. “Mr Rake,” he wheezed painfully. “Please—”

“It’s Captain Rake t’ ye, y’worm-brained alien scum! Shut up or I’ll shut ye up m’self! Get y’self and yer snivelling little brat into the pod now or I’ll shoot yer woman, then yer boy – and then yerself. I won’t make as much money out of it, but I will get some satisfaction. What’s it gonna be?”

Kalos Vaade looked up at Ria, his face stricken with pain and grief, and slowly edged his way into the pod clutching his side. Crijo immediately followed in stunned silence. Tears stained Ria’s face in complete contrast to the gleeful smirk on Rake’s as the hatch snapped shut between them.

The two pods fired away from the Ranger and the larger pirate vessel. Crijo would never forget that ship – or its human captain and his oily smile. The boy continued to stare out the viewport as the intervening distance swiftly grew to a point he could no longer distinguish one ship for the other. He would never forget.

“Come... back here, son.” He heard his father’s weak voice behind him.

Crijo turned and shouldered his way past two Devaronian passengers to his father’s side. “Father?” he asked, his voice filled with worry and tears threatening to run freely down his face.

“It’ll... be alright,” Kalos whispered to his frightened boy, pain wracking his body. “Homing beacons... in the pods. Not far from home. We’ll be found and... then we’ll find her. We’ll get her back. We’ll get her back...” and then Kalos blacked out.





Chapter Two

3 Years Later (22 BBY)



We’ll get her back... It was strange to have those words echo in Crijo’s head after so long. Almost three Standard years was it now? He had aged a lot in that time, even though he was still quite young. Three years might as well have been a lifetime. And now, crouching on top of a battered old atmospheric shuttle in the starport of his homeworld’s capital city, he felt like he was living another life.

Vaade rested an arm on his knee and stared off into space, ignoring the sounds of the Kala’uun starport around him. The hydrospanner he held swung back and forth like a pendulum, suspended between two fingers. He closed his eyes. He knew that if he concentrated just a little he could see the day his mother was taken in perfect detail. He could taste the fear, smell the blood, and feel the sweat and tears. He could recall her face and her voice as the airlock closed between them and separated them forever – all as if it had happened yesterday.

Yesterday, and a lifetime ago.

We’ll get her back, his father had said. Now all this time had passed and finally Kalos Vaade had given up, broken hearted. Crijo remembered how different it was in the first few months after they were rescued. He and Kalos had come straight back to Ryloth to enlist the help of Kalos’ brother, Aldo, and together they convinced the authorities to start a search for the Stellar Ranger and Kalos’ wife – but nothing had turned up. The authorities warned them it would be like searching for a grain of sand in a galaxy-wide desert, but Kalos wouldn’t hear of it. He spent the rest of his money to fund the search and pulled every string he could with the government of Ryloth.

His determination could only buy him so much extra time and effort. Tensions were already high all over the galaxy as the Republic fell further victim to its own political intrigues. People had lost faith in the Senate’s ability to lead, and entire worlds had already shifted their allegiances elsewhere.

Then the Clone War erupted, all over the galaxy.

The Rylothian government feared they would soon become embroiled in the war between the Grand Army of the Republic and the Confederacy of Independent Systems, and all of a sudden, locating a single ship and a single Twi’lek female in a vast galaxy became the lowest of priorities. The case was closed and Kalos was told to let his wife go.

So he did. Bereft of hope and wealth, he had little choice. Aldo was good enough to offer Kalos and Crijo a job working for him, which they gratefully accepted. Kalos now helped oversee his brother’s little shuttle business and Crijo worked as pilot and mechanic along with his cousin, Crian. It was not much of a living, but it kept them both fed and clothed. It did not however stop Crijo’s thoughts from drifting out among the stars where he was born. At times he felt he could almost reach out and touch them...

“Crijo? Cri’jovaade! Hey! Are you listening to me?” The voice summoned his attention back toward the here and now, and he reluctantly turned to look at the pale Twi’lek standing over him frowning.

“What?”

The other Twi’lek, who was around Crijo’s age, shook his head and bared his sharp teeth in frustration. “I’m talking to you! Are you about done yet? We need to get her back.” He stamped his foot on the durasteel plating of the flyer underneath his feet and the metal creaked loudly. Not a good sign. “You keep my father waiting any longer and we’ll both be in the poodoo!”

Crijo sighed and stood up on the port wing, wiping his hands on an oily rag and then tossed it sharply at the other, who was his cousin. “Shut up, Cri’anvaade. It’s done. And what’s this ‘we’? I thought you wanted to go see Rula and her sister?”

Crian went to speak and then stopped. Mention of Rula always seemed to catch his attention. Crijo knew it too. In fact, his cousin had often tried to accuse him of flirting with Rula until Crijo finally convinced him he wasn’t remotely interested. Now she was just a good excuse to get rid of Crian for a few hours or more. That suited Crijo perfectly. “I... suppose so. She did ask for more power converters.” He looked up at Crijo, excitement gleaming in his pale eyes. “Tell father I’m buying spare parts?” He glared warningly as he posed the ‘question’.

“Sure,” Crijo replied easily. He was more than happy to do anything that gave him some peace and quiet for a while. “You’d better get going – and so will I.” He sat down and slid off the wing, landing nimbly on the tarmac.

The older cousin stared after him wordlessly for a few moments until finally sliding off the far side and walking away. Crijo waited until he was out of sight and then climbed up the boarding ramp and made his way to the cockpit at it closed behind him. He knew he was still too young to be flying a passenger transport by himself under normal circumstances, but he had already proven more than capable thanks to his father’s instruction – and Uncle Aldo wanted his flyer back, now. He smiled. Crian hated to fly, and Crijo sometimes wondered if his cousin was jealous of him, anyway. The thought was childish, he knew, but it still made him feel a little better in a small, petty way.



He flicked several switches to begin powering up the old shuttle and then activated the comm unit. “Control, this is passenger transport PT-721 requesting departure clearance.” His youthful voice must have sounded strange coming over the control tower’s speakers but he had done this often enough already.

“Granted, transport PT-721,” came the prompt reply over the comlink. “You are clear for departure.”

“Thanks, Control.”

He added power to the repulsorlifts and the flyer rose slowly from the ground. It was an older model shuttle, built for atmospheric as well as space flight, with seating enough for ten passengers and their cargo. It had definitely seen better days. Aldo claimed he never had the credits or the time to really attend to the needs of all his shuttles, and now he relied on his adolescent nephew to do it for him. This didn’t surprise Crijo in the least. He guided the flyer out through the massive blast-doors of the underground starport of Kala’uun and soared out into the twilight sky of Ryloth.

Vaade’uun was some distance from the capital of Ryloth along the twilight terminator – which was the thin stretch of land that divided the planet into its dark and light hemispheres. Like all Twi’lek cities it was built deep underground, protected from the harsh surface-conditions and wildlife of the planet by giant blast-doors that allowed passage. Travelling any distance across Ryloth was dangerous, by land or air, especially in any vehicle owned by Crijo’s uncle. The swiftest way home was in a straight line but at least there was a better view if he flew more over the Brightlands, instead of the night side. He goosed the throttle gently - putting some altitude between him and rocky terrain below – and settled down for the journey home.



Almost a Standard hour later, Crijo looked at his chrono and the navigation console. Thirty-two minutes to his destination at current velocity. Why couldn't Uncle Aldo have given me one of his other shuttles? This crate is falling apart. Turbulence rocked the vessel, causing it to creak in protest and Crijo heaved a plaintive sigh. He adjusted his course for the wind and then punched a button that would activate the onboard entertainment system. When nothing happened he glared at the disobedient button and looped his right brain-tail over his shoulder. Even the holoprojector is broken, he lamented silently. Nothing works.

As if on cue, a warning light began to flash on the pilot console and the shuttle's nose suddenly dipped downward abruptly. The young Twi'lek was nearly catapulted out of his chair, but for the restraining harness he wore, and he quickly examined the alert. It indicated an imminent failure in the forward repulsorlift coils. Great, he thought, and he began flicking other switches to compensate for the drop in anti-gravity. Besides the stabiliser foils, the repulsorlifts were the secondary system keeping the shuttle in the air, and the primary system behind its propulsion. Loss of either meant the loss of altitude and speed.

"Assuming the wings don't fall off," Crijo growled. "We should be fine. We should be fine." He pulled back on the steering yoke to gain more height but given the rising turbulence the craft only responded marginally, and then began to shake. A lot. He wiped at his brow and held on, a cold knot of fear forming in the middle of his gut.

"I have a bad feeling about this." Another short in the repulsorlifts and he was thrown against his harness for a second time. Then a loud, metallic wrenching sound drew his attention to the starboard wing.

He paled.

One of the steering flaps had partially broken loose, no doubt caused by the repeated sudden drops in height and the aggressive wind conditions outside. Another blast of air struck the side of the craft, tearing the flap free, and then the shuttle began skewing to the side, out of control. Crijo knew what to do and hastily activated the comm.

"This is transport shuttle PT-721! I repeat: This is transport shuttle PT-721! Repulsorlifts have malfunctioned and I’m going down! I need help!.. My coordinates are... 3.65.82. Can anyone hear me? Please, help!" Panic threatened to overwhelm him as he wrestled physically with the controls to force the shuttle into a marginally controlled descent and activated the emergency landing systems. He stared out the viewport to find a place to set down but there seemed to be nothing at all nearby - just rocky mountains.

Father, what would you do? he asked silently and bracing himself, closed his eyes against the sight of the unfriendly ground rushing up toward him.



Crijo still had his eyes closed after the flyer had crashed to the rocky surface of Ryloth’s Brightlands, somewhere out in the perilous wilds between the capital city and his clan’s home, Vaade’uun. Smoke and dust in the cockpit made his eyes water as soon as he tried to look around but at least he was only mildly injured. A few scrapes and bruises. The flyer however, was another story. A glance out the shattered viewport revealed both wings had been shorn off by the rocky outcroppings of the ravine he landed in, and he didn’t need an engineer’s degree to know the command console – communications with it – would never work again.

Did anyone get my message? Should I wait? Nowhere on the surface of Ryloth was safe – especially for a lone adolescent with no means of communication but his voice, and no means of travel but his legs. He leaned forward a bit, grunting at the aches in all of his limbs, and undid his harness. The best chance anyone had of finding him was if he stayed here with the wreck.

Yes. Stay here, he told himself. I’ll be safe here. They’ll find me here. His arms and legs trembled with shock and fatigue and he did his best to calm his breathing. Thinking about being stranded in a rocky ravine that was probably filled with flesh-eating lyleks only made him panic even more. He tried to think about home, about something – anything – else.

Never flying this heap again. Never. I need another job. Uncle Aldo can find another pilot. Maybe Crian. Between his skill and this bucket – they’re made for each—

Something stopped him. He sat bolt upright, ignoring the throbbing pain that ran from his head all the way to the ends of his brain-tails. Outside the wrecked craft the wind stirred again, and without thinking, Crijo leapt out of his seat and stumbled awkwardly to the hatch. He didn’t know what it was, but a strange certainty inside him told him he must get out of the flyer and far away, as quickly as possible. Whatever he did, he needed to be gone.

The air outside twisted and churned angrily around the young Twi’lek. It seemed to attack him from all sides as though possessed with some personal vendetta. The temperature was already terribly hot– it always was in the Brightlands – but it grew steadily hotter even as the gale force winds became more violent. The youth squinted against the harsh glare and grabbed his cloth hood to cover his face and head. While the rest of him sweltered, his gut remained cold due to the icy knot of fear that formed deep in his belly as he grasped the full peril of his situation.

I’m in the Brightlands. My people are sent out here to die! He looked sharply around himself as his terror mounted and he knew – he did not know how he knew, but he knew – that a heatstorm was building up. And if he were caught out in it, he knew he would die. Heat storms were a natural occurrence on Ryloth’s dayside. Cyclonic winds could reach up to speeds of five hundred kilometres per hour and temperatures could rise to in excess of three hundred degrees centigrade. Being found on the edges of one was bad enough but those caught in the middle of them were incinerated. Every Twi’lek knew this.

With his hood pulled as low over his face as possible, Crijo ran from the wreckage in what seemed like the best direction. Vicious winds knocked him from his feet and he fell heavily against the sharp unforgiving rocks, crying out in pain. Blood began to soak through his hood as he stood up again, his vision blurred. Somewhere not far ahead he thought he caught sight of a dark shadow.

A cave? It had to be a cave. Please let it be a cave! An empty cave! If it were, it could provide shelter from the storm that seemed to be chasing him down with a malicious will. On he ran. The heat became so intense Crijo felt that his lungs would burn with each breath he took. His mouth was already as parched as the desert and hardened blood caked the side of his face. He could see it a little better now – it really was a cave.

Crijo began to hope.

Another searing gale threw him down again, rolling him over and lifting the hood from his head. Immediately he saw the justification of his fears – a cyclone of superheated wind and dust bearing down upon him – and then agony forced him to shut his eyes and avert his face. Under the merciless touch of the elements his pale skin blistered and burned. He would have wept but the tears evaporated before they could even form. Crijo half ran and half crawled toward the nearby cave, in his mind desperately willing the storm to be slower that he was, if it were at all possible.

Just a little further. Just a little further! You won’t catch me, you won’t catch me! Just a little further!

The edges of his clothing caught alight just as he disappeared within the shelter of the cave but he did not stop. He kept running on until he was sure the danger was well and truly behind him and only then did he allow exhaustion to pull him to the ground. The dirt in which he lay smothered the flames in his scorched clothes and Crijo felt his consciousness leave him as he gave in to the darkness.



Who knows how much time passed before he woke again? Hours? Days? He had no idea. Groaning weakly Crijo rolled over, feeling along the cave-floor with his burned hands. He did not know what to feel first – misery at the agony he felt, or relief that he was alive at all. He chose to focus on the latter and pushed himself up onto his knees. Very gingerly, he lifted his fingertips toward his face and touched his cheek. His hand jerked away with the pain and he buried his face in his shoulder. He couldn’t have opened his eyes if he wanted to, and the pain gave plenty of incentive to keep them closed.

What do I do now? He wondered. How long have I been here? How will I get back? Is anyone even looking for me? Question after question assailed his weary mind, the worry causing him to bow forward almost to the cavern-floor. He tried to open his mouth but his lips were cracked, blistered and caked with dried blood.

I can’t stay here. I must get home. I must get home! He told himself over and over, refusing to think about anything else.

Rising unsteadily to his feet he staggered forward, one step at a time, in what felt like the best direction. His foot caught on a rock and he pitched forward, picking up his speed so that he didn’t land on his face. Instead he landed on his knees, and cursed involuntarily. Parting his lips to speak hurt but at least he could breathe through his mouth now. He continued moving on, letting the increase in temperature guide him toward the cave entrance. The hotter it was, the nearer the surface he became.

A stiff blast of hot air was the first indication that he had exited the cave and emerged once more into the Brightlands. The sudden heat and wind caused him to cower in terror, shielding his face with his arms. The memory of the heatstorm was still very fresh in his mind and he trembled uncontrollably.

Terror will not help you here, came a soft, subtle voice in his mind. Keep walking. Crijo instantly lifted his head and strained his ears. He was marginally sure it was not his voice that he heard. He didn’t even speak. Surely there could be no one near him? Not out here. What were the chances of that? Slowly he rose to his feet again, shaking with each gust of wind that passed him.

Where do I go? He wondered inwardly. He was blind, injured and stranded in the middle of Ryloth’s dayside with no notion of where he was or which way to go. How am I supposed to find my way? Despair threatened to drive him to his knees again, but he could not weep even if he wanted to.

Trust your feelings, came the voice again, urging him on. Walk.

Crijo paused a little longer. He had already broken the cardinal rule of ‘Never leave the crash-site’, and it had ironically saved his life. What was one more crazy idea when he had nothing else to lose? He shuffled a little, his head bowed to spare his ruined face from the sun’s glare, and then set off with greater purpose. With little or no conscious thought he lifted his feet and pressed forward, letting instinct guide his steps.

When he realised he had not fallen over, nor walked into a wall – or a nest of lyleks for that matter – for some time, his pace quickened. Hope spurred him on, especially when he began to notice vague, blurry images of the terrain around him. A rocky outcropping here, a pitfall there – he could just make them out. They were relatively dark, barely outlined, but he attributed that to his injured eyesight. Nevertheless, in the distance he could partially make out a single point of light. It didn’t make any sense but still seemed as good a thing as any to aim for.

Trust my feelings? He asked himself dubiously. I’m going crazy. It’s the heat. Has to be. Crazy. Ah, who cares? The pain he felt made it difficult to think – it was easier to just walk. At least his legs knew how to do that without needing much concentration. Each step brought him closer to the point of light ahead – he thought of it as a beacon – and despite the pain and the weariness that weighed down his limbs, he continued trudging. Crijo passed the threshold of another cave – a large one from the feel of it – and continued within as though he had expected it all along. He stopped worrying about things like heatstroke or delirium. In truth he feared even more that if he stopped to think about his situation, he would lose his nerve and fall to the ground.

That wasn’t an option, so he walked on.

Finally, after an indeterminate length of time, Crijo entered a wide cavern and came to a halt. He was barely aware of his legs that stood still, or of the laboured breathing in his chest. The ‘beacon’ he had been following, whether it was real or imaginary, lay only a handful of feet away – and then it abruptly faded into darkness. Crijo wanted to voice his despair, and his horror that he may have just walked miles following a figment of his imagination, but no sound would come from his parched mouth. Suddenly he felt terribly thirsty and the legs that had carried him here so faithfully buckled beneath him.

Dimly, the injured youth heard what he thought were footsteps approaching him. They sounded humanoid. Booted feet? His cracked lips parted as he tried to voice a question, but little more than a whuh-sound came out. A hand – he thought it was a hand – touched his brow and strangely the pain began to ebb away little by little. A dark void called to him and he found himself falling.

“So you have found me,” said a soft voice. A male voice, speaking Galactic Basic. It was neither kind nor cruel, merely stating a fact, a point of interest. “You have done well.”

Crijo’s head sank back to the ground, assisted by the figure’s hand.

“Rest now. I will be here when you wake.”

And Crijo slept.