Chapter Eight

Ryath Centaur ducked and dodged behind the worktop, tipping it over for cover and whipping his blaster out. The situation had spun rapidly out of control - he’d definitely had better days.  Nine disgruntled attackers had cornered him in this warehouse, leading him steadily away from the populated area of Moots major spaceport to here, the industrial district.  He popped his head over the steel worktop - yes, still nine men, although they appeared less than cohesive, or confident.  Five of them were posturing like Moffs at the rear of the warehouse, the other four lying low in attack positions near the open area in front of him.  Ryath cursed.  This job should have been a simple one.  Travel to Moot and assist in a touch of covert industrial espionage.  However, jobs for Glann Cipple were rarely as simple as they appeared, and this was no exception.

Centaur had been glad to take the job.  His starship, the Thunderchild, was ready for an over haul but credits were running low.  His mercenary work had been taking him all over the galaxy, to sectors and systems he’d never visited before, even when he’d been in the service of the Empire.  Ryath had once been a proud officer in the Emperors 21^st Blue Star Biker Scout regiments and had seen enough blood and warfare to last any man a lifetime.  He was honoured to serve, pride filled his veins whenever he donned the uniform of the Empire.  But Ryaths life didn’t scope out the way he wished.  His wife Sarra had been unfaithful to him with his superior Colonel Pillot, a treacherous double-crosser who had betrayed them all.   When fellow Imperial officers viciously murdered his brother Torath, Ryath took it upon himself to gain revenge, using methods outside Imperial law.  He became a rogue, hunted by the very men he once knew as brothers-in-arms and aimed to complete his grizzly hit list of targets, hiring himself out as a mercenary. A successful, able and lucky one. 

Until now.

   “Come out Centaur.  There’s nowhere to go.  Give it up and we won’t report this to the authorities.” 

Report a gunfight like this to the Moot authorities?  Are they joking?  They’ve got to be, no one’s that stupid.  Ryath adjusted the sights on his blaster to short range operations and rested his chin on his shoulder.

   “Let me leave now.  My work here is done.  Let me go and my employer won’t have to know about the difficulties I’ve experienced.” 

He heard a muffled laugh.

   “Listen, you merc scum.  Cipple won’t be knowing anything soon.  His time is up.  And so is yours.” 

Centaur frowned as he heard the metallic snaps of sights and safeties being un- locked.  How did they know he was operating for Glann Cipple? 

   “Any last requests?” 

Ryath breathed in and smiled.  Touché.

   “Nothing you’d want to know.” 

With that he spun around from the worktop, spraying blaster bolts into the middle of the four men at the front.  Two hit the ground, dead without the time to scream.  Two others rolled left and right into cover, swearing and cursing their own amateurish attack.  Centaur rose to his feet, sprinting towards the five at the rear of the warehouse, screaming and yelling to disorient them as much as possible.  One man leapt to his left without thinking and fell twenty meters to the ground without seeing the railing beside him.  Ryath smiled.  Three down, six to go.  Above them was a massive cargo hauler, cranking containers and palates slowly across the ceiling.  Ryath could just about make it out in the darkness above, the Robo-workers operating it silently.  Now, just one good shot…

   “This won’t work Centaur!”  Screamed one of the two men still behind him, tucked in cover.  “You’ve got nowhere to go.”

   “Thanks for the concern but I’ll think of something.” 

With an up-swinging motion he brought the blaster above his head and aimed for the glass frontage of the cargo pod. Two droids operated the controls inside, manoeuvring the enormous containers away to the starport for transport off world.  And the nearest container was directly overhead.  Oh well, in for a deci-credit…

   “Give my regards to Formoon when you see him in the afterlife.”  Centaur yelled as he let fly with a steady barrage of shots, exploding the window inward, tipping the droids and the container over on its side.  With a shattering thump the droids hit the permacrete surface, cracking on impact and spilling their electronic guts over the floor.  Ryath looked up and held his breath.  The shadow of the container was wavering unsteadily, as if caught on a powerful ocean wave.  One more shot would do it.  Ryath squinted, took careful aim at the one remaining grip that was clamping the container to the runners and….

 …. spun with the impact of the blaster bolt that tore from behind him and glanced off his armour, knocking him sideways to the edge of the parapet and over.  He lashed out a desperate arm and connected with the bottom of the railing.  This wasn’t good.  He still had six angry, desperate men to deal with, and the container was rocking ever more precariously.  Luckily he still had his blaster in his hand.  Only one thing to do.  Regardless of the drop below him, or the incoming men who’d scurried out of hiding to finish off their prey, he steadied himself against the wall with his feet, took aim once more and let fly his shot.  A perfect shot which hit the grip, shattering it into pieces and releasing the container.

   “Time to go.”  He said to himself as he released his hold on the railing and began his fall to the ground.  Above, he could make out the descending container, hear the anguished screams of the six men as they realised they were doomed, feel the sickening thud as the container connected with the ground and mashed the men into less than pulp.  However, he had more immediate concerns to worry about.  Like how he was going to survive the drop.  It was twenty metres; he could see the broken body of the unprepared man who’d tumbled off moments ago still twitching below.  With a twist of his body he just managed to flip over and turn, connecting with a stack of crates stacked against the walls, and somehow tumbled over and down, bouncing off the pyramid of crates until he reached the final one with a bump.  He ached terribly. His head hurt and some slime ball had managed to tag him with a blaster.  But he was alive. 

For now.

Kapa Nimale switched off the comm with a grunt of satisfaction.  Formoon would be pleased.  News of Ryath Centaurs arrival on Moot, to assist in the `trade disputes’, had swiftly filtered through to Formoons field agents.  Nimale mobilised them swiftly to disrupt Centaurs progress, and his men had dispatched their duties well. With the increased pressure being placed upon Cipples operations around the sector, well… Cipple would have to pay more attention to what was happening away from the major worlds and spread himself thinner and thinner.  It was the only way he could cope with the mounting problems elsewhere.  Formoon would mourn the loss of his six men but such losses were to be expected. Wars could not be won without sacrificing a few soldiers. And it was becoming clear to men like Nimale that this whole situation was indeed escalating into a war.  Information was scarce and almost everyone was operating on limited information, doled out on a need-to-know basis only.  That suited Nimale fine.  The less he knew the less he could mess up.  Torona Formoon had proved himself to be an able and deft employer, with a reputation for locating and discovering items, objects and trade routes no-one else thought existed.  His information network was superlative and his operatives were spread far and wide throughout the sectors.  Nimale had heard rumours that Formoon was in collaboration with other ganglords.  He stalled at the idea of working with employees of Dressel, Spyte and the rest, but if Formoon believed it was a sensible idea then it was fine by him.  After all, who was a mere field agent to argue with Torona Formoon? 

   “A fine meal Luberre.” 

Luberre Visavill grinned and nodded, his small domed Mootian head shining in the half-light of the hangar bay.  Nimale and Visavill sat on the ramps edge of Nimales ship, the Orbit Screamer, eating from a pre-heated package of Bantha steaks in Brill wine sauce.  Nimale licked his six fingers dry and wiped his hands surreptitiously on the hem of Visavills cloak that was spread out behind them.  It had been raining, the usual acidic rain which fell upon the blighted industrial world of Moot.  Acid rain, hurricanes, severe tidal activity.  All the hallmarks of a world in desperate ecological turmoil.  Which, given the bureaucratic nature of the galaxy, made it the ideal location for starports, heavy industry and cheap slave labour.  Money for people’s souls wasn’t uncommon in these parts of the galaxy, but Moot took the reality and the ideal to the limit.  No one welcomed a journey to Moot and those unfortunate enough to live and work there either did it because they were being well paid, or because they had nowhere else to go.  Visavill and Nimale had other places to go, but not until their current Moot mission was completed.

   “What does Formoon expect from us now?” 

Visavill slurped down the remaining trickles of Brill sauce from the tray and leaned back on his elbows, allowing the rain to wash over his face.  Native Mootians felt the sting of the rain but suffered none of the effects.  Generations of exposure to the acidic elements had given them an immunity to its potency.

   “As I understand it, other agents are engaged in similar activities all around the sector.  If any of Cipples men are intercepted doing a job then they’re to be hindered.  Terminally, if possible.”

   “So we can eliminate Centaur?” 

Nimale nodded, an evil smile creeping across his face.

   “As soon as we locate Ryath Centaur we capture him.  Then we interrogate him, and if that’s not enough to finish him, then we eliminate him.” 

Visavill closed his eyes and lay his head on the ramp. 

Ryath Centaur.  Now that would be an enviable kill.

   “Clara?  Are you there Clara?” 

Nothing but cursed static!  Ryath risked another peek out from the protection of the tarpaulin to see if the stinging rain had abated, but it was beating down as heavily as before.  He was well protected in here, the tarpaulin being draped across the crates he’d bounced down.  With an agonised groan he’d managed to drag himself under here before more agents swooped down to apprehend him.  He’d already seen more faces he recognised from earlier today, poking about.  Even a squad of Stormtroopers had paraded by, proudly marching through the warehouse and out the other side without a backward glance.  But that had been an hour ago, and there had been no activity since then.  Night was drawing in and soon the cold winds would pick up.  He’d have a safer trip back to the Thunderchild under the cover of darkness but the freezing cold would certainly paralyse him, especially with the broken ribs he now had.  Clara had to be on the other end of the line soon.  What could have happened to her?

   “Clara, for Stangs sake, answer the comm!”  He whispered desperately.  There was the briefest crackle, and a pop and hiss and thankfully the comm burst into life. 

   “….entaur, is..at you?  ..swer me Rya…” 

Centaur smiled gratefully and thumbed the reply button.

   “Clara, it’s me.  I’m in the warehouse district, by the container cranes leading to the starport.  I’m injured, I’m going to need some help getting back to the ship.” 

There was a pause.

   “..at do yo…ggest?” 

Ryath squinted and squirmed under the pain, his ribs aching from drawing in the rapidly freezing air.

   “I don’t know.  Whatever you do, do it fast.  I won’t be conscious for much longer.”  He let his arm drop to his side, the weight of the comm making his arm tingle with fatigue.  Clara’s a smart girl, she’ll figure something out.  She always did, ever since he’d first met her all those years ago.  They’d been in tighter spots than this, and they’d always manag….

   “Don’t move, you’ll be fine if you just relax and let the medicine do its work.”  Ryath frowned and slowly took in the view.  Could he really be on the Thunderchild?  It looked like it from where he was lying. The slender back of the woman to his left looked like his lover Clara.

But how?

   “What happened?  I passed out under the crates?  How did you find me?” 

Clara turned with a warm smile on her face and a needle full of drugs in her hand.  It was an awfully big needle, and her smile?  Her smile was far too relaxed and controlled.  My arms, thought Ryath, I can’t move them.  Why can’t I move my arms?

   “Haven’t you figured it out yet?”  Clara moved closer, the syringe glinting in the glaring light of his med-bay.  Her dress was low cut, almost unbuttoned.  Clara never revealed that much flesh, not outside of the bedroom.  What’s going on?

   “Clara, I don’t feel right.  What have you done to my arms?  Clara?”  Ryath began to struggle as she leaned in, over his face and down to his exposed upper bicep.

   “You haven’t figured it out, have you?  Take my word for it,” She smiled again    “I’m not Clara.” 

Ryath had just enough time to begin a scream when the truth drug hit his brain and the room spun away….

Formoon checked the disk again and smiled. 

He fondly remembered his fifth birthday, as if it was only yesterday.  His mother always spoiled him more than the others.  He never knew why.  Maybe it was because he was the middle child, or the smallest in the family.  Or because he had a different father to his other siblings.  Whatever, he was always mothers favourite.  On his fifth birthday he received the gift he’d wanted more than any other, a toy so popular at the time that most retail outlets had long since sold out of them.  It was purely because his favourite uncle, his mother’s brother, had journeyed out of the sector and found it in an old toyshop.  Formoon still had that tattered and torn old stuffed Wookie Doll somewhere around the place, and he had always held a special regard for Wookie's because of it ever since.  Holding the Cipple disk was the nearest he had ever come to feeling the same way in the thirty years since.  What good fortune!  Granted, other operators had purchased the information from Treece, and for the same price.  But Formoon knew that none of them had the technical expertise that he personally had available to him.  None of them had the patience or the inclination to sit behind a console and decode the disk themselves.  Formoon did.  And he would break the code, of that he was certain.  Already the disk had surrendered some tasty morsels of knowledge to him.  Tactical displays of old.  Ways in and around secure locations.  Even wage breakdowns, which would be of invaluable use to Formoon in future pay discussions.  And yet all of this paled into insignificance when early morning a few short days ago his best slicers broke the seventy-eighth level of encryption and discovered information he could hardly dare to believe. Lomonas destination was the planet that was home to the legendary starship Heed.  Formoon instantly gave his slicer team a pay rise.  This was historic news.  The Heed had been lost decades ago, its story and disappearance passing into the pantheon of legend.  No one knew where it had gone to, if it was stolen or destroyed.  Some said that the Janosian government had taken it, believing the Janos Jewel powering it made it too terrible a weapon to be roaming the space lanes.  And of course it was.  Any fleet that boasted the Heed in its number was invincible.  To find the lost starship would be an incalculable prize, beyond anything he had achieved whilst working for Jabba the Hutt.  Nothing would stand in Formoons way.  And since he had decoded it to this level he had no reason to believe he wouldn’t gain access and discover its final resting-place.  

Wherever that may be.

His pleasant thoughts were disrupted by his major domo, Best Broun, who stepped into the office silently and waited patiently next to the desk.  Formoon slid his seat back and stretched out his legs.

   “Broun.  You have news for me.” 

It was a statement, not a query. 

Broun cleared his throat.

   “Sir, as you are aware we captured Ryath Centaur outside the starport as he attempted to enter his ship.” 

Formoon nodded. 

   “From there we took him to a secure facility and under the watchful eye of Doctor Joenligg began a course of truth serum drugs.” 

Formoons face didn’t alter.

   “I take it you were unsuccessful.”  Another statement. 

Broun nodded solemnly. 

   “We were sir.  Centaur was most resistant to the serum.  We learned nothing new.  If I didn’t know better I’d say his resistance was of Imperial quality.” 

Formoon smiled slowly and raised his eyebrow.

   “You might.  What do you intend to do with our captive?”  

At last, a question.  Broun straightened and cleared his throat nervously.

   “Much to our surprise Centaur regained consciousness faster than we anticipated.  He eliminated another six of our agents on his way out of the facility and is currently fighting a pitched battle outside his starship.”  Broun paused, uncertain what to do.  “What orders should I give?” 

Formoon closed his eyes slowly, the pressure of decision beginning to nibble at the edge of his patience.  Do I really pay so much money to have the service of so many incompetents? 

   “Order our men to fall back, but make it look natural.  Centaur is better off out there where he can spread the news about the ambush we had waiting for him.  The more bad news Glann Cipple gets at the moment, the better.”

   “At once sir.”  Broun bowed and backed out of the room, relief dripping softly from his forehead.  Once he’d gone, Formoon stood and moved to the window.  His office in the city of Vilall was functional but nothing more.  He longed for the hour he could leave this damp and rusty city and return to his starship, to take a more central role in the proceedings.  And he would, but not quite yet.

   “Open the damn ramp!”  Yelled Centaur, splatting more blaster bolts off the walls around the docking bay and keeping the heads of the enemy in cover.  Already there was a trail of blood leading from the medical facility he’d been kept in to this docking bay, and he was determined the next blood wouldn’t be more of his own.  “Clara, for stangs sake, help me here!”  At that the ramp began to edge down slowly, just over Ryaths left shoulder.  Another couple of moments and he’d be able to make a run for it.  If he had the energy.  It had taken all he’d got to make it back to the port and he thanked the designers of Moots industrial district for giving it so many recognisable landmarks.  Ryath just hoped he’d never have to see them again.

   “Give up Centaur, you’ll never make it out alive!” 

Ryath grinned and chewed the arming pin off a thermal detonator he’d stolen on his way out of the facility.  Eat this and go to hell.

   “I suggest running as fast as you can.”  Centaur stood and hurled the bomb as hard as he could into the centre of the pursuing pack of men.  “It’s been a blast.”  He felt the thump of compressed air and fire lick at his back as he threw himself onto the ramp of the Thunderchild and snuck a glimpse of the destruction he had caused in the docking bay below him.  As the ramp sealed itself shut the Thunderchild rose from the bay and swung around, aiming for the only patch of blue in an otherwise grey sky.  Ryath Centaur smiled.  It hadn’t been a total disaster.  The trade espionage had gone well.  Some enemy agents had been greased.  And his ship and woman were still in one piece.  Only one thing bothered him.

How much had he told them while under the influence of the truth serum?