Two days, nineteen hours, and thirty minutes.
Approximately.
That’s how long it had been since Harko woke up inside his cave prison. In truth, it was a militia outpost but it felt more like a prison. He marked the time as he sat in a makeshift cell constructed into a cave wall. Rough metal bars for a door, reddish sandstone for walls. Light slanted in through a small hole in the rock formation. Harko watched the shadows move along the cave outside his cell. It was an anti-interrogation technique he’d learned long ago. Keep time, keep sane.
The smell of bacta still clung to his hair. He’d spent two days floating in a pod healing from a blaster shot wound and hibernation sickness. That made four days since he’d been at this outpost on Mantooine. He didn’t know how long the trip was to bring him here after his rough awakening on an imperial prison transport. They thawed him out of carbonite. A stasis prison he’d been in for a little over a year. He could barely sleep at night now that he was awake. Visions of that time spent in hibernation still appeared to haunt him.
One year, four days, nineteen hours, and thirty minutes. Approximately.
That’s how long it had been since he was frozen on Baltizaar. What a mess, Baltizaar.
At the time, Harko’s revolutionary paramilitary group, the Sons of Galán, had been at their peak. 360 guerillas, an arms transport network, an intelligence network, a pair of corellian corvettes that weren’t total hunks of scrap for a change. They were hot off a string of victories before landing on Baltizaar.
There they met with MR60, a local revolutionary group, to train and support their movement. The wins kept coming. In only three months on the world they’d grown MR60 to a force of 1,500 guerilla fighters. They’d stolen and shipped in an arsenal of heavy weapons, supply trucks, and light tanks. They became overconfident, cocky. Not a typical flaw for Harko.
Harko was proven the fool. Before a major offensive against a spaceport settlement, several of the MR60 members had turned traitor and had been feeding info on their operation to the planetary defense force. One of the guerilla’s diversionary platoons deserted as soon as the assault began. Harko, the Sons of Galán, and MR60 walked right into a trap.
Despite it all, they might have won the battle if the air support had arrived. It never came. 176 guerillas died. Hundreds more wounded. Hundreds captured, including Harko.
He spent thirty days and nights in solitary lock up. Half of his waking hours were spent being interrogated. When it was decided it was too dangerous for him to stand trial they had him frozen in carbonite. A trophy for the governor to admire and reminisce on his victory over the rebellion.
One year, thirty-four days, nineteen hours, and thirty-five minutes. Approximately.
That’s how long it had been since Harko was a free man.
His brooding was interrupted by the shuffling of boots on rocky ground. The long shadow of a large man slid along the wall. A jangling of keys, the metallic clunk of a lock tumbler being turned, the squeaking groan of the old metal cell door opening.
“Come on, someone’s here to meet you,” the guard dangled a set of handcuffs from an extended finger. Harko didn’t respond. He stood and allowed the guard to cuff his wrists in front of him and lead him out of the cell.
The guard was human but he was no Imperial. He didn’t wear a uniform, none of the militiamen did. They wore the drab layered clothing of rebels but Harko wasn’t one of them. They had made that clear to him upon his awakening.
Harko was guided through the carved-out cave base to a metallic blast door built into the rock. The doors slid open and the two-men basked in the toasted orange glow of a Mantooine sunset.
A light-freighter was docked on a flat patch of tan rock a short walk away from the cave entrance. Harko guessed they were moving him again. A small crew in long brown robes scurried around it, refueling and checking systems. Gusts of wind blew up wafts of sand that made a crinkling sound as it bounced against the metal.
The ship looked to be in fine condition, the hull was white with blue-painted accents. Its two large thruster engines were modified for increased output. The cockpit was extended and reinforced. It was a highly customized ship, not what one would expect for a backwater militia.
The boarding ramp lowered on its hydraulic gas struts. Harko expected to see more armed men. Smugglers maybe, Imperials, pirates, or a bounty hunter. Heaven only knew how much the price on his head was now after the prison break. This militia could make a fortune handing him over to the right buyer.
“There he is!” a deep joyous voice exclaimed. A man sauntered down the ramp. This was not a bounty hunter, as far as Harko could tell. He wore a pressed suit, likely karlini silk, expensive, the kind you’d only find on core or corporate worlds. The only tell that he wasn’t the average businessman, besides the hot-rod freighter, was a dark body-armor vest visible under his suit coat.
“There he is,” he repeated, a look of pride on his face, like a man seeing his son on graduation day. “All in one piece too, fantastic. Come aboard, welcome.”
He escorted Harko and the guard onto the ship. The interior was spotless slate grey, well-lit, gleaming with chrome finishes. Data-screens were mounted on several walls, neon blue data readouts continuously scrolled and updated.
“Can we get the handcuffs off my friend here?” the man asked the guard.
“He attacked a nurse when he was being removed from the bacta pod,” the guard cautioned.
“I mean, can you blame him? The guy wakes up from a year-long nap, gets shot in the back, and wakes up again in a cave,” the man reached his hand out for the keys. The guard complied and the handcuffs were released.
“Here, take a seat,” the man offered Harko a spot at a circular booth with a table in the center, “how’s that feeling by the way, your back?”
“It’s fine,” Harko replied flatly.
“Good to hear,” the man smiled before turning to the guard, “we’re all good my man, you can head back.” the guard huffed and left down the ramp.
“My name is Caden Rake. Are you hungry? Thirsty? I have a perfectly aged Andoan wine that I’ve been saving for a special occasion like this.”
Harko didn’t respond. He made several glances around the ship, taking note of possible weapons, tools, and escape routes.
“Oh I’m sorry, that’s right, you don’t drink,” Caden continued, wearing a smirk that matched the sarcasm in his tone. “Pardon me, I’m a little flustered. It’s not everyday I get to have a famous revolutionary like Zesh Harko on my ship.”
“You’ve got the wrong guy. My name is Jor Sin’dar,” Harko spoke, channeling the force with a gesture of his hand. Caden’s smile widened.
“That’s amusing. They said you were gifted,” Caden said with a laugh, idly snatching a datapad from a shelf before sitting across from Harko. “Did you just try to use a jedi mind trick on me?” Caden mockingly mimicked the jedi’s hand gesture.
“Of course not, my mistake. They said Harko has those force-gifts but you, you’re Jor Sin’dar,” Caden continued, condescendingly.
“Now I feel like a real bantha. I paid to rescue the wrong guy,” Caden threw up his arms in feigned despair.
“What is this?” Harko demanded, getting tired of the little game.
“This is nothing, Mr. Sin’dar. You see, I was looking for a man they call Zesh Harko. Looks a lot like you, actually. Not saying that Mirialans all look alike, no, the resemblance is truly uncanny. You might have heard of him. Suspected leader of the Sons of Galán terrorist organization, or I really should say former leader. Also called the Ghost of Troska.”
“He sort of popped up out of nowhere one day. I’ve been digging but just can’t seem to find any record of this guy. No birthplace, no home planet. The name ‘Harko’ has to be a nom de guerre because there’s no record of that family name anywhere. Makes you wonder, maybe he’s an SIA shadow,” Caden’s corporate smile faded with the final word.
“So you’re here to collect a prize and become a hero to whoever’s holding your leash, are you SIA?” Harko replied cooly, not letting the anxiety read on his face. This stranger knew too much. He was no ordinary bounty hunter, Harko knew that now, but he needed to dig to learn more.
“Me? No. Quite the opposite. I’m here to give you a prize. Want to see what’s behind door number three? What I have for you is a get-out-of-jail-free card and a winning lottery ticket with a cherry on top. It’s your lucky day.”
“Sounds too good to be true.”
Caden snorted a laugh, “Look, I’m not a bounty hunter, per say, but I am good at finding people. I find the right people. People with certain skills and qualities for positions that require them.”
“I’m not a mercenary.”
“No, you’re not. I would say you’re a freedom fighter but you’re so much more than that as well. You’re a legend.”
Caden stood and paced over to a kitchenette, “You’re a boogeyman. They tell stories about you to scare young stormtrooper cadets, ‘Don’t fall asleep on watch or the Ghost of Troska will get you,’” Caden shaped his hands into claws to imitate a monster. He finished fixing himself a drink and returned to the booth.
“To idealistic political activists, you’re an underground icon. I wouldn’t be surprised if they have posters of you on their dormitory walls. You made quite a name for yourself. Not exactly the best move for a covert operator but somehow you made it work. That is, until you got knabbed.”
“Look, I’m sorry, friend. I appreciate the break out and whatever this is, but I have nothing to say to you. So if we’re done here-”
“Are we friends now? Good. Yes, Mr. Harko, we should be friends. I couldn’t sit by and watch as they shipped you off to some black site in the Outer Rim. That would be such a waste of talent.”
“Enough with the flattery, make your point.”
“Gladly,” Caden leaned forward, “What I’m offering you right now is liberty. True freedom. A chance to be more than a symbol and actually make a real difference in the galaxy. What do you think about that?”
“I think there's a catch.”
“What do you know about the Confederacy?”
“Corporate cronies, crime bosses, Sith-backed scum. Fell apart and disintegrated.”
“A lot has happened since your flash-freeze. I’ll forgive you for not keeping up with current events. There’s a new Confederacy, out in Wild Space, fighting to free people from colonialist oppression and bring peace to the galaxy as we speak.”
“And you’re from this ‘Confederacy?’”
“I’m a private contractor, Mr. Harko,” Caden corrected. He pushed the data pad across the table showing a galactic map indicating the Abrion sector. “But right now, I represent the Confederacy. A ‘cut out’ to use one of your espionage terms.”
“Let me guess. They’ve hit a road block in their progress toward total peace.”
"It comes as no great surprise that you have problems trusting my intentions,” Caden leveled with him, “And trusting the Confederacy as a state; an idea, but take a look,” he changed the screen of the data pad to show a recent article, “All they’ve done is take up the beliefs of idealists, such as Dr. Bayani Galán. It’s my understanding that at one point you were sympathetic to the idea of independent systems.”
Harko sighed.
“That’s what you told the rebels you trained on Masterra when you were with the Sons of Galán. Named in-memoriam of the good doctor. You knew him, isn’t that right?” Caden cleared his throat, “‘Guerrilla warfare constitutes one of the phases of revolution; this phase can not, on its own, lead to victory. They must be supported by conventional armed forces.’ Dr. Galán said that himself.”
“Did you do a little reading on the flight over here? Just what is it you’re trying to get me to do?”
“I want you to come with me to the Confederacy. They have a vision, but you know a revolution isn’t won in a senate chamber. They’re lacking people that can do the dirty work. Wet work. Intelligence. Black ops. Clandestine people. People like you.”
“I’m not looking for a job.”
“Listen, Zesh. Can I call you Zesh? You said we’re friends now, so I’m going to be brutally honest with you,” Caden’s demeanor shifted to a serious tone.
“The reality is you ran from system to system in stolen ships starting fights with stolen weapons. Your soldiers were failed students, farmers, and freed slaves. Admirable but insignificant. The highest forms of solidarity and loyalty arise among such lonely and desperate people.”
Harko twitched involuntarily. Even his practiced composure was cracking.
“The reality is, you might not be desperate, but right now you’re very alone. You have no soldiers, no weapons, not even your lightsaber. You have no friends. You don’t even have a single credit to your name. What do you think would happen if I dropped you off at some random spaceport?”
“The reality is, you’re an escaped criminal. Your name just went back up on the galaxy’s ‘Most Wanted’ list. The Empire. The Alliance. The Black Sun. The Mandalorians. They all want you, dead or alive. How long do you think it will take for a real bounty hunter to sniff you out? I don’t think jedi mind tricks will be enough to save your life.”
“The reality is, Zesh,” Caden’s words become more clipped, “I don’t care what kind of rag-tag bullshit revolution you thought you were running. To the rest of the rational galaxy, you look just like those militia freaks in that cave. Or the trigger-happy mercs that I paid to spring you from that transport.”
“Let me assure you, the Confederacy is in an entirely different category of organization. One with resources. Resources you can use to pop collars off slaves or plant bombs on bridges or whatever it is you think will make this brief life we all share a little brighter for the next generation.”
“here comes the cherry, they’re in Wild Space. Far enough away from all the forces that want to stick your head on a pike or freeze you back in carbonite. It’s perfect. A base of operations, resources, real ships, real soldiers. Think of the good you could do with all of that. Think of the kind of pain you could inflict on your enemies.”
“I’m not asking you to sign your life away,” Caden continued, standing up and moving back to his shelves, “I’m asking you to take the meeting. Talk to them. See the Confederacy for yourself. What do you say?”
“I’d say you’re trying too hard to impress me and I’d say it sounds like you’re not giving me much of a choice.”
“Alright, you want a choice,” Caden pulled a blaster from a holster hidden beneath his suit jacket. He flipped it in his hand and caught it by the muzzle. Then he handed it to Harko. “Let’s balance the power dynamic. It’s always good to negotiate from a position of strength.”
Harko gripped the blaster. He looked down at the black metal; felt the cold durasteel. How long had it been? One year, thirty-four days, twenty hours-
“When you were reading Dr. Galán,” Harko said, not breaking his gaze from the weapon, “did you get to the part where he says, ‘in revolution, one either triumphs or dies?’ Well I was denied triumph and robbed of an honorable death.”
Harko tilted his head to look Caden in the eyes. He lifted the blaster and placed the muzzle against his own temple. Caden’s face widened in shock; he froze still.
Harko’s finger itched, trembling under the weight of the trigger. Silent tense seconds ticked by. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
“If the force wills it.”
He lowered the blaster and placed it down on the table, “I will welcome another chance to taste triumph and death.”
Caden moved forward and retrieved the blaster. His fear relaxed to relief and then a small laugh. He extended a hand to shake Harko’s.
“Alright then, commander. Let’s get you back to work.”
Approximately.
That’s how long it had been since Harko woke up inside his cave prison. In truth, it was a militia outpost but it felt more like a prison. He marked the time as he sat in a makeshift cell constructed into a cave wall. Rough metal bars for a door, reddish sandstone for walls. Light slanted in through a small hole in the rock formation. Harko watched the shadows move along the cave outside his cell. It was an anti-interrogation technique he’d learned long ago. Keep time, keep sane.
The smell of bacta still clung to his hair. He’d spent two days floating in a pod healing from a blaster shot wound and hibernation sickness. That made four days since he’d been at this outpost on Mantooine. He didn’t know how long the trip was to bring him here after his rough awakening on an imperial prison transport. They thawed him out of carbonite. A stasis prison he’d been in for a little over a year. He could barely sleep at night now that he was awake. Visions of that time spent in hibernation still appeared to haunt him.
One year, four days, nineteen hours, and thirty minutes. Approximately.
That’s how long it had been since he was frozen on Baltizaar. What a mess, Baltizaar.
At the time, Harko’s revolutionary paramilitary group, the Sons of Galán, had been at their peak. 360 guerillas, an arms transport network, an intelligence network, a pair of corellian corvettes that weren’t total hunks of scrap for a change. They were hot off a string of victories before landing on Baltizaar.
There they met with MR60, a local revolutionary group, to train and support their movement. The wins kept coming. In only three months on the world they’d grown MR60 to a force of 1,500 guerilla fighters. They’d stolen and shipped in an arsenal of heavy weapons, supply trucks, and light tanks. They became overconfident, cocky. Not a typical flaw for Harko.
Harko was proven the fool. Before a major offensive against a spaceport settlement, several of the MR60 members had turned traitor and had been feeding info on their operation to the planetary defense force. One of the guerilla’s diversionary platoons deserted as soon as the assault began. Harko, the Sons of Galán, and MR60 walked right into a trap.
Despite it all, they might have won the battle if the air support had arrived. It never came. 176 guerillas died. Hundreds more wounded. Hundreds captured, including Harko.
He spent thirty days and nights in solitary lock up. Half of his waking hours were spent being interrogated. When it was decided it was too dangerous for him to stand trial they had him frozen in carbonite. A trophy for the governor to admire and reminisce on his victory over the rebellion.
One year, thirty-four days, nineteen hours, and thirty-five minutes. Approximately.
That’s how long it had been since Harko was a free man.
His brooding was interrupted by the shuffling of boots on rocky ground. The long shadow of a large man slid along the wall. A jangling of keys, the metallic clunk of a lock tumbler being turned, the squeaking groan of the old metal cell door opening.
“Come on, someone’s here to meet you,” the guard dangled a set of handcuffs from an extended finger. Harko didn’t respond. He stood and allowed the guard to cuff his wrists in front of him and lead him out of the cell.
The guard was human but he was no Imperial. He didn’t wear a uniform, none of the militiamen did. They wore the drab layered clothing of rebels but Harko wasn’t one of them. They had made that clear to him upon his awakening.
Harko was guided through the carved-out cave base to a metallic blast door built into the rock. The doors slid open and the two-men basked in the toasted orange glow of a Mantooine sunset.
A light-freighter was docked on a flat patch of tan rock a short walk away from the cave entrance. Harko guessed they were moving him again. A small crew in long brown robes scurried around it, refueling and checking systems. Gusts of wind blew up wafts of sand that made a crinkling sound as it bounced against the metal.
The ship looked to be in fine condition, the hull was white with blue-painted accents. Its two large thruster engines were modified for increased output. The cockpit was extended and reinforced. It was a highly customized ship, not what one would expect for a backwater militia.
The boarding ramp lowered on its hydraulic gas struts. Harko expected to see more armed men. Smugglers maybe, Imperials, pirates, or a bounty hunter. Heaven only knew how much the price on his head was now after the prison break. This militia could make a fortune handing him over to the right buyer.
“There he is!” a deep joyous voice exclaimed. A man sauntered down the ramp. This was not a bounty hunter, as far as Harko could tell. He wore a pressed suit, likely karlini silk, expensive, the kind you’d only find on core or corporate worlds. The only tell that he wasn’t the average businessman, besides the hot-rod freighter, was a dark body-armor vest visible under his suit coat.
“There he is,” he repeated, a look of pride on his face, like a man seeing his son on graduation day. “All in one piece too, fantastic. Come aboard, welcome.”
He escorted Harko and the guard onto the ship. The interior was spotless slate grey, well-lit, gleaming with chrome finishes. Data-screens were mounted on several walls, neon blue data readouts continuously scrolled and updated.
“Can we get the handcuffs off my friend here?” the man asked the guard.
“He attacked a nurse when he was being removed from the bacta pod,” the guard cautioned.
“I mean, can you blame him? The guy wakes up from a year-long nap, gets shot in the back, and wakes up again in a cave,” the man reached his hand out for the keys. The guard complied and the handcuffs were released.
“Here, take a seat,” the man offered Harko a spot at a circular booth with a table in the center, “how’s that feeling by the way, your back?”
“It’s fine,” Harko replied flatly.
“Good to hear,” the man smiled before turning to the guard, “we’re all good my man, you can head back.” the guard huffed and left down the ramp.
“My name is Caden Rake. Are you hungry? Thirsty? I have a perfectly aged Andoan wine that I’ve been saving for a special occasion like this.”
Harko didn’t respond. He made several glances around the ship, taking note of possible weapons, tools, and escape routes.
“Oh I’m sorry, that’s right, you don’t drink,” Caden continued, wearing a smirk that matched the sarcasm in his tone. “Pardon me, I’m a little flustered. It’s not everyday I get to have a famous revolutionary like Zesh Harko on my ship.”
“You’ve got the wrong guy. My name is Jor Sin’dar,” Harko spoke, channeling the force with a gesture of his hand. Caden’s smile widened.
“That’s amusing. They said you were gifted,” Caden said with a laugh, idly snatching a datapad from a shelf before sitting across from Harko. “Did you just try to use a jedi mind trick on me?” Caden mockingly mimicked the jedi’s hand gesture.
“Of course not, my mistake. They said Harko has those force-gifts but you, you’re Jor Sin’dar,” Caden continued, condescendingly.
“Now I feel like a real bantha. I paid to rescue the wrong guy,” Caden threw up his arms in feigned despair.
“What is this?” Harko demanded, getting tired of the little game.
“This is nothing, Mr. Sin’dar. You see, I was looking for a man they call Zesh Harko. Looks a lot like you, actually. Not saying that Mirialans all look alike, no, the resemblance is truly uncanny. You might have heard of him. Suspected leader of the Sons of Galán terrorist organization, or I really should say former leader. Also called the Ghost of Troska.”
“He sort of popped up out of nowhere one day. I’ve been digging but just can’t seem to find any record of this guy. No birthplace, no home planet. The name ‘Harko’ has to be a nom de guerre because there’s no record of that family name anywhere. Makes you wonder, maybe he’s an SIA shadow,” Caden’s corporate smile faded with the final word.
“So you’re here to collect a prize and become a hero to whoever’s holding your leash, are you SIA?” Harko replied cooly, not letting the anxiety read on his face. This stranger knew too much. He was no ordinary bounty hunter, Harko knew that now, but he needed to dig to learn more.
“Me? No. Quite the opposite. I’m here to give you a prize. Want to see what’s behind door number three? What I have for you is a get-out-of-jail-free card and a winning lottery ticket with a cherry on top. It’s your lucky day.”
“Sounds too good to be true.”
Caden snorted a laugh, “Look, I’m not a bounty hunter, per say, but I am good at finding people. I find the right people. People with certain skills and qualities for positions that require them.”
“I’m not a mercenary.”
“No, you’re not. I would say you’re a freedom fighter but you’re so much more than that as well. You’re a legend.”
Caden stood and paced over to a kitchenette, “You’re a boogeyman. They tell stories about you to scare young stormtrooper cadets, ‘Don’t fall asleep on watch or the Ghost of Troska will get you,’” Caden shaped his hands into claws to imitate a monster. He finished fixing himself a drink and returned to the booth.
“To idealistic political activists, you’re an underground icon. I wouldn’t be surprised if they have posters of you on their dormitory walls. You made quite a name for yourself. Not exactly the best move for a covert operator but somehow you made it work. That is, until you got knabbed.”
“Look, I’m sorry, friend. I appreciate the break out and whatever this is, but I have nothing to say to you. So if we’re done here-”
“Are we friends now? Good. Yes, Mr. Harko, we should be friends. I couldn’t sit by and watch as they shipped you off to some black site in the Outer Rim. That would be such a waste of talent.”
“Enough with the flattery, make your point.”
“Gladly,” Caden leaned forward, “What I’m offering you right now is liberty. True freedom. A chance to be more than a symbol and actually make a real difference in the galaxy. What do you think about that?”
“I think there's a catch.”
“What do you know about the Confederacy?”
“Corporate cronies, crime bosses, Sith-backed scum. Fell apart and disintegrated.”
“A lot has happened since your flash-freeze. I’ll forgive you for not keeping up with current events. There’s a new Confederacy, out in Wild Space, fighting to free people from colonialist oppression and bring peace to the galaxy as we speak.”
“And you’re from this ‘Confederacy?’”
“I’m a private contractor, Mr. Harko,” Caden corrected. He pushed the data pad across the table showing a galactic map indicating the Abrion sector. “But right now, I represent the Confederacy. A ‘cut out’ to use one of your espionage terms.”
“Let me guess. They’ve hit a road block in their progress toward total peace.”
"It comes as no great surprise that you have problems trusting my intentions,” Caden leveled with him, “And trusting the Confederacy as a state; an idea, but take a look,” he changed the screen of the data pad to show a recent article, “All they’ve done is take up the beliefs of idealists, such as Dr. Bayani Galán. It’s my understanding that at one point you were sympathetic to the idea of independent systems.”
Harko sighed.
“That’s what you told the rebels you trained on Masterra when you were with the Sons of Galán. Named in-memoriam of the good doctor. You knew him, isn’t that right?” Caden cleared his throat, “‘Guerrilla warfare constitutes one of the phases of revolution; this phase can not, on its own, lead to victory. They must be supported by conventional armed forces.’ Dr. Galán said that himself.”
“Did you do a little reading on the flight over here? Just what is it you’re trying to get me to do?”
“I want you to come with me to the Confederacy. They have a vision, but you know a revolution isn’t won in a senate chamber. They’re lacking people that can do the dirty work. Wet work. Intelligence. Black ops. Clandestine people. People like you.”
“I’m not looking for a job.”
“Listen, Zesh. Can I call you Zesh? You said we’re friends now, so I’m going to be brutally honest with you,” Caden’s demeanor shifted to a serious tone.
“The reality is you ran from system to system in stolen ships starting fights with stolen weapons. Your soldiers were failed students, farmers, and freed slaves. Admirable but insignificant. The highest forms of solidarity and loyalty arise among such lonely and desperate people.”
Harko twitched involuntarily. Even his practiced composure was cracking.
“The reality is, you might not be desperate, but right now you’re very alone. You have no soldiers, no weapons, not even your lightsaber. You have no friends. You don’t even have a single credit to your name. What do you think would happen if I dropped you off at some random spaceport?”
“The reality is, you’re an escaped criminal. Your name just went back up on the galaxy’s ‘Most Wanted’ list. The Empire. The Alliance. The Black Sun. The Mandalorians. They all want you, dead or alive. How long do you think it will take for a real bounty hunter to sniff you out? I don’t think jedi mind tricks will be enough to save your life.”
“The reality is, Zesh,” Caden’s words become more clipped, “I don’t care what kind of rag-tag bullshit revolution you thought you were running. To the rest of the rational galaxy, you look just like those militia freaks in that cave. Or the trigger-happy mercs that I paid to spring you from that transport.”
“Let me assure you, the Confederacy is in an entirely different category of organization. One with resources. Resources you can use to pop collars off slaves or plant bombs on bridges or whatever it is you think will make this brief life we all share a little brighter for the next generation.”
“here comes the cherry, they’re in Wild Space. Far enough away from all the forces that want to stick your head on a pike or freeze you back in carbonite. It’s perfect. A base of operations, resources, real ships, real soldiers. Think of the good you could do with all of that. Think of the kind of pain you could inflict on your enemies.”
“I’m not asking you to sign your life away,” Caden continued, standing up and moving back to his shelves, “I’m asking you to take the meeting. Talk to them. See the Confederacy for yourself. What do you say?”
“I’d say you’re trying too hard to impress me and I’d say it sounds like you’re not giving me much of a choice.”
“Alright, you want a choice,” Caden pulled a blaster from a holster hidden beneath his suit jacket. He flipped it in his hand and caught it by the muzzle. Then he handed it to Harko. “Let’s balance the power dynamic. It’s always good to negotiate from a position of strength.”
Harko gripped the blaster. He looked down at the black metal; felt the cold durasteel. How long had it been? One year, thirty-four days, twenty hours-
“When you were reading Dr. Galán,” Harko said, not breaking his gaze from the weapon, “did you get to the part where he says, ‘in revolution, one either triumphs or dies?’ Well I was denied triumph and robbed of an honorable death.”
Harko tilted his head to look Caden in the eyes. He lifted the blaster and placed the muzzle against his own temple. Caden’s face widened in shock; he froze still.
Harko’s finger itched, trembling under the weight of the trigger. Silent tense seconds ticked by. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
“If the force wills it.”
He lowered the blaster and placed it down on the table, “I will welcome another chance to taste triumph and death.”
Caden moved forward and retrieved the blaster. His fear relaxed to relief and then a small laugh. He extended a hand to shake Harko’s.
“Alright then, commander. Let’s get you back to work.”
