BELTRIX III - PRAGGAR-THRACK INTERNATIONAL SPACEPORT
DOCKING BAY 3C
There were six of them. All human, all male. Early twenties. And they all had the perfectly coiffed, neatly trimmed haircuts emblematic of young professionals. Or university students. Even their flight suites were pristine.
After about three minutes of watching them, SR-5599 decides that there is no way in Corellian hell that these guys are smugglers. They're nimrods who got caught smuggling, sure, but they weren't smugglers.
The obvious joke was that the Empire was not sending their best - but frankly SR-5599 doubted they had sent them to begin with.
They had been corralled into a corner of the landing bay, tucked between empty shipping containers, handcuffed and left on their knees. After a series of inelegant scoots and shuffles, they had come to huddle together, then began to whisper urgently among themselves.
A more engaged
contractor probably would not have allowed this. As it stood - he was incredibly bored. The rest of SR-5599's dispatch were tearing through their rented shuttle and piling up contraband for cataloging and then disposal. The fun stuff. And he got stuck with these chumps. So yeah, he wanted to see where this went, and watched them do their thing, hands folded neatly over
the rifle slung across his chest.
One of them - a little chubby, thick necked, noticeable dimples - rose a little bit, then said. "I've got to use the refresher, sir."
"No."
Dimples thinned his lips and slowly settled back down. The huddle resumed. Dimples was met with harsh, hissing criticism from the rest of the group. Eventually a new representative was elected, who teetered up next.
"Sir," this one, whose face was a touch too small for his head, began, "Where are you from?"
SR-5599 sighs. Thinking of home made him think of his parents, and he did not like to think of his parents. "Eriadu."
Smallface means to nod solemnly, but is clearly a touch too excited by this answer, and ends up bobbing his head too quickly, like some kind of idiot bird. "Oh, oh, that's a good world. An Imperial world, sir, if I'm not mistaken. A good, Imperial world."
The rest of them murmured their agreement, affirming that Eriadu was a good world, a great world. They also all kept saying 'sir. Sir, sir, sir.' Like a flock of idiot birds. SR-5599 had detained plenty of people. It was the ones who overused and overemphasized the honorifics that made his skin crawl. Worst way to cozy up was to overdo it.
"It's fine," SR-5599 conceded.
"I wish I had been from Eriadu, sir. We're from Tuttin IV. The Imperial movement there's very small. The government is weak."
Dimples nodded in a sagely way. "Very weak."
His immediate neighbors shushed him.
"Uh-huh."
Smallface continued, unphased. "Do you consider yourself an Imperial too, sir?" Smallface continues.
SR-5599 shrugged. "I don't like to get political."
He had at one point. He had all sorts of opinions on foreign policy and infrastructure and immigration and all that stuff. Then he got
the suite installed at the Eriadu campus and all that stuff felt less important when he got out of the tank.
In any event, that wasn't the answer Smallface wanted. Ill-concealed annoyance flashed briefly across his face. "You must appreciate the Imperial ideology, having benefited…?"
"It's alright," SR-5599 reiterated, and repeated his shrug.
Smallface thinned his small lips, "Tuttin IV hasn't benefited from Imperialism like Eriadu has, sir. That's why we joined Young Imperials, so we could help the movement grow."
An eyebrow cocked beneath his helmet. "You joined what?"
"It's our campus political organization," someone in the back of the group clarified, and was awarded with an elbow in the gut for their contribution.
"When we heard about the movement on Beltrix III, we knew we had to help," Smallface quickly continued, "Imperial solidarity is important."
"Very important," Dimples wisely echoed.
"So if you also sympathize with the cause - if you want for, for Beltrix and Tuttin what you had on Eriadu. You should help - you should let us go. Sir."
SR-5599 watched them for a long, quiet moment. "I'll think about it."
Dimples' head shot up. Smallface's eyes went wide. "Really?"
"No, I fucking won't," SR-5599 snapped. "Any more questions?"
There was a collective deflation among the Young Imperials as hope ebbed. A short, weedy fellow with serious eyes cleared his throat. "Sir. What's the penalty for smuggling on Beltrix III?"
"What were you smuggling?"
"Allegedly smuggling," he quickly corrected, throwing a nervous glance over his shoulder, "Let's say - hypothetically - guns, ammunition, personal armor."
Data scrolled across SR-5599's field of vision. "Mhm. Hypothetically, sure. Then, hypothetically, you would look at a minimum of ten years, maximum of fifty."
Poorly stifled gasps and whimpers rippled out from the Young Imperials, like SR-5599 just threw a stone into their midst. Weedy swallows, "That's not-" his voice cracked so he stopped before trying again, "That's not too bad."
"I guess it's not the worst," SR-5599 replied, adding: "On Eriadu, they just shoot you."
