Identity Theft

[Brent Smith]

"Ugh more of this slop, I can't believe the chit they put us through," grunted one of the fellow stormtroopers.

Brent watched as the man poked at the grey semi-solid on his plate and grimaced. These NurtriMixes were everything a soldier needed to survive, with a perfectly calculated set of calories and vitamins--the only thing it lacked was flavor and texture.

"Don't worry," said another trooper to his left managing to shovel down another bite, "When we get on the front you'll be wishing you had food this good again."

"That bad?" Brent found himself asking.

"Worse. Trust me. Worse," the older, wiser soldier said before taking a pill from his glass of water. "At least what we are drinking is clean. And what we eat is too. I've had a lot worse."

"Private Smith," a sargent shouted from the end of the mess hall. "Fall in. Your requested."

With a quiver of fear, the private rose to his feet and managed a strait spined march behind the superior officer.

 

[Brent Smith]

The sargent led Brent to the CO over their base. The stormtrooper felt his heart sink when he saw the black clad Intel officer who was also standing by. He didn't know too much about these types but from what all the others said.... Their presence was never good.

"That will be all, lance," their Commanding officer dismissed the Sargent with a nod.

And like that, Brent found himself alone with the two superior officers.

"Private Smith, I will cut to the quick," the dark uniformed man said stepping forward, "My name is Derrium. 24 hours ago we lost a high priority gunman who has been working with an interplanetary spice smuggler. It was an unfortunate accident, frankly the man appears to have suffered a stroke. Totally unforeseen. For months we have been trying to get in on this drug smuggler's inside to take him down. But with this we now have a chance to truly make this work." he paused. "You are the man we need for the job."

Brent swallowed and glanced at his CO, "Me? I'm just a trooper. I-I-I'm sure that there are other people---"

"Training is not the issue," the intellegence officer reached into his breast pocket and pulled a hand-held holo projector, "Its that you look exactly like him. Meet Dameron Smith."

The image that filled Brent's view was his cousin on his father's side--and also his spitting image.

 

[Brent Smith]

Brent swallowed, feeling a bead of sweat from on his brow. "I-I--I'm just a scout, sir."

"Don't let him force you one way or the other," his commanding officer interjected. "Smith, your just a trooper. No one would blame you if you said no."

His eyes flicked from Derrium to his commander. "You really need this guy?"

"Yes. The drugs he is smuggling in is in the millions."

"And I'm your best shot?"

"That we have right now," The commander corrected with a nod.

"And I would be helping a lot of people. Right?"

"Of course," Derrium said with a nod.

Brent licked his lips. "I just need one thing. My dad. He's sick. Badly. If I do this, will you agree to help better take care of his bills?"

"If you succeed and if we bring the man in, then the Order will see to your father's failing health."

The commander rose from his desk giving Derrium a pointed stare. "I hope your not making promised you can't keep, officer."

Brent could feel the tension rising between them as they stared off in anger.

"Alright!" he said almost jumping out of his skin. "I'll do it. I'll do it. Don't worry. I can do this."

"Perfect," Derrium said with a snake like smile.

 

[Brent Smith]

The nerf leather jacket they gave Brent to wear felt so unnatural to him. It's rugged and worn look with its baggy and impractical feel made him want to scream and rip it off. Of course it matched perfectly with the ripped and battered jeans he was wearing. And for gods sake they refused to let him shave for a 3 days.

"The scowl is amazing. He's a natural," one of the other operatives commented. "It really makes him look surly."

"That's because I am misserable," Brent muttered. "Is this really necessary?"

"Very, you have to dress and talk like this cousin just as much as you have to look like him," Derrium warned. "Your file said you had taken acting classes in high school?"

"Well--I mean--yeah, a few." Brent said sheepishly.

The other agent perused their datapad, "It says here you made it to your planet's national championships and that you were nominated for an acting scholarship at ivy leagues," he gave Brent a dull, sarcastic stare, "Yeah. A few."

"Then I expect you to take this and transfer it to becoming this cousin of yours," Darrium pulled out a data chip from his pocket, "Study this. It's all we have on him--audio, visual, the works."

Brent nodded as he accepted it. "Ok. I can do that."

Derrium grabbed Brent's forearm. His eyes glared into the man's soul like raging embers. "This is serious business. Don't feth this up."

Brent met his gaze with a steady, unaffected look. "If I mess this up, I'm the one they are gonna kill. Not you," he shoved the agent's hand away, "So get off my back."

"I'm telling you, he's a natural," the other agent muttered as Brent stormed away.

 

[Brent Smith]

It had all come down to this. After weeks of studying his now deceased cousin, Brent was on the moments of truth. He took a few calming breaths as the airspeeder screamed through the night sky. He was on his way to an apartment that the files said his cousin had shared with a lady who was little more than friends-with-benefits to the wastrel. Brent was seriously hoping she wouldn't be home so he could slip in and out and steal the keys he badly needed to complete the Identity swap. As he made his way into the small, drudgy flat, he felt his heart lift--there was no sign at all of the woman.

He searched the couch, kitchen and finally the bedroom, where he found the keys on the bed stand next to some snore strips. Almost there, he thought to himself, rising to his full height.

"I am hoooome," shouted a shrill woman's voice.

And a flush of horror ran through Brent's body. A half a second later, the woman from the files, Elaina, came through the doorway, a hand on her hips, "Oh, well, where have you been?"

Brent didn't have time to think as his mind shut off. The gruff indifferent demeanor of his cousin took over, "Ya know--working," he slammed a draw closed, "I'm going. I got a job. Big chit."

"Hey," she objected grabbing his bicep as Brent tried to brush past her, "Come on now, you aren't still angry about our last fight, now are you?"

The files were void on that, Brent grit his teeth and shrugged, not even making eye contact with her, "You know how I feel about it. There's no point in talking about it again."

"Who said anything about talking?" Eliana said pressing her body against his.

Her lips started to kiss along the inside of Brent's neck and every ounce of his body screamed out in terror. It took everything in him for Brent to stay calm.

"I said, I have to go," He growled , pushing past her, "Consider this your punishment for arguing with me."

"Your a terrible creature, you know that, Dameron? Damnit, your such a prick!" she shouted after him as he rushed away.

"I know," Brent muttered to himself, "I know."

 

[Brent Smith]

It had taken quite a journey, over a day of overland travel for Brent to make it to the ship they called the Celestial Bishop, the ship that his cousin Dameron had used as his own. When he saw it, Brent let out a low whistle. Right off the bat, looking at it from the outside, the man could see at least half a dozen illegal add ons; the military grade engines, the advanced scanner array, the heavy guns on top and on the bottom, the matrix armor plating, booby traps installed along the door to keep out intruders, and the advanced targeting sensor--plus the scanner and comm jammers were just the short list.

"My goodness," Brent whispered to himself talking tentative steps towards the loading ramp. When he was onboard, the illegal modifications abounded even more--upgraded power cores, illegal security measures, smuggling compartments, force cages in a prisoner block, a weapons rack filled with illegal and immoral weapon types, boxes of spice, and--

"Beeep dweeeeep," rasped a droid from behind him.

Brent turned on his heel from the rack of weapons, to see a squat black astromech--a stolen First Order military model, he recognized almost instantly. He rapidly ran through the data he had saved up in seconds--R9-G8. "Gates."

"Keeping the place clean, Gates?" Brent asked slamming the doors closed. The droid gave a sqabbled reply, "Yeah, well just making sure no one has touched my chit. I can't trust anyone for anything. Come on, let's get this piece of crap off the ground."

"Daaaaaaww beeeep."

"So what if she and I have been fighting? Keep your trap shut."

Moments after they were in hyperspace, Brent thought of another thing to add to the list if illegal amenities the ship touted--.7 hyperdrive and Deltcon level navicomputers. It was pretty clear to Brent that Dameron had spent quite a pretty penny on this thing--but it was in a low grade state of repair. Brent wasn't about to test this, and after all, he grew up in his dad's mechanic shop--he not only knew how to fix this stuff he wasn't about to sit by and let it be in disrepair......

 

[Brent Smith]

"Ow!" Brent shouted, banging his head on one of the cooling pipes.

Gates came trundling around the corner with a concerned trail of beeps.

"No, no, no, I am fine, just keep working on those power couplings, they need all the build up scraped off while we can," he assured the droid.

The moment it was gone, he tapped his encrypted comm open, the thing that had disturbed his work, "What?"

"Status report," Derrium demanded sharply.

"I am in route to Franky."

"The target," Derrium corrected him haughtily.

"I think it'd be a little strange for those around me to hear me say that," Brent snapped, the frustration of everything was starting to make the acting more and more simple, he was having a hard time finding where the pretending to be angry and the actual anger began. "What more could you want from me?"

"There has been a change of plans," Derrium side stepped the question, "You are to 86 the target, things have escalated too quickly for us to do anything less."

"And how do you propose I do that? I am going into a hornet's nest, this is his turf, there will be guards, troopers, everything!"

"You are the bright one, you find a way," the edge in Derrium's voice grew harder, "Or do you want me to tell Saria you died fighting off raiders on the front?"

"You stay away from her," Brent found a new level of wrath in him he didn't know was possible. His voice came in snarls, "If so much of a hair on her head is missing--"

"You better make sure you take him out if you don't want that," Derrium warned before the line went dead.

 

[Brent Smith]

After what felt like an eternity, the Celestial Bishop came out of hyperspace before Kessel, its barren surface and closed in on their target, a combination of what was Frank's palace, processing center, and hub of control. If Brent were to say what was a strong way to keep his power centered--this would be it. If he could critique it, the idea sounded like an easy way to have your entire operation wiped out in one strike.

"Unidentified vessel, this is aircontrol: state your name, number, and reason for flying in our airspace," a curt voice clipped in over Brent's comms.

Here goes nothing, Brent thought to himself, "Air Control, open your eyes, this is Dameron Smith. I am here on business."

There was a pause before the voice with greater respect and awe answered, "Move through Dameron. Sorry to disturb you, sir."

He let out a soft breath. He was getting in, but it was clearly far from over. As the Bishop glided in for a perfect landing, Brent could see a greeting party gathering. Several were easily recognizable, in the center was Frank, and around him was a mass of slave girls, servants, and hired thugs. Perfect, Brent thought to himself as he trudged towards the loading ramp.

 

[Brent Smith]

"Dameron! I've never known you to be late, what was the matter with you?" Scolded the massive man that was Frank as Brent strode forward, "I call, you answer, that's what I expect. If you don't do that, its bad for business. People get ideas--slaves start to think they can be free, hired guns start to believe they have brains or that they matter, I have to push more and everyone believes they can do whatever they want. You see what you put me in? You better have a damn good reason for being three days behind."

Brent stopped a few feet from the pudgy blue man, which was several dozen star systems closer to him than he would have liked. Several of the gun lackeys were starting to look hungry, like Akk hounds sizing up a fattened Nerf. He glared back at Frank with a stone cold look for a few seconds as he formulated an answer.

"Well, you gonna defend yourself or should I just have them shoot you for insolence?"

"Forgive me for thinking you wanted to avoid Imperial Entanglements," Brent growled, his voice low and dripping with sarcasm, "Next time I won't try to lose the Star Destroyers and just lead them to you."

A tense silence followed. It was a matter of who would blink first as Frank searched Brent's hard face and the strormtrooper glowered back. Suddenly Frank let out a loud, obnoxious laugh, "I kid you, Dameron, I kid you! I am glad your back. Come, we will discuss business!"

Brent fell in line with the blue pudgy man and filed into his disgusting palace of operations.

 

[Brent Smith]

The throne room that Frank led him to was flithy. The low lighting hid a lot of the grim reeking stench the storm trooper could smell. Body odor, spice, and something that died months ago filled his nostrils--the incense that was burning to try and hide it wasn't helping too much. Everywhere there were slaves, servants, and more than that, hired guns. Everywhere he looked someone was touting a blaster and some peicemeal armor.

"So come," Frank said taking a seat on a golden throne between two slave girls, "I have work for you. Urgent business."

"Shouldn't we speak of this alone then?" he growled in a low tone.

"Don't be ridiculous," Frank scoffed. "Your a killer, hired by me as much as anyone else. With the prices on my head do you think I would be alone with you? Or anyone else?"

Brent shrugged, hiding the crushing defeat he felt inside, "Conversations cost extra. Hurry up or I will start charging."

"Such a prima dona," Frank groaned, "I have a leak. I want it fixed. Shipments of mine are going missing. Captured. Up in a ball of fire. I want whoever is responsible found and captured. Alive."

"Are you sure your runners aren't just getting sloppy?"

"I never never lose a shipment!" Frank bellowed, slamming his fist on the golden arm of the throne, "And you know that! I want this found!"

"Half a mil every day, plus expenses," Brent grunted, "And a solid million when I find the son of a--"

"Half? Last time I only paid you four hundred a day," Frank balked.

"Inflation happens when I get yelled at for doing favors. I feel the economy might make another down swing in three... two..."

"Ok, ok! Half a mil plus the terms."

"I will start my search here, pray to the gods I don't have to fly, fuel is hell these days."

 

[Brent Smith]

Brent did do a great deal of research the next two days, but he wasn't looking for a rat, he was looking for a loop. He combed through everything on Frank's daily schedules trying to find an opportune moment to make an assassination. Nothing, the man was wise to never be alone, and he constantly kept a cabal of hired goons. Most were almost worthless with a blade or a blaster, but their numbers alone made them a massive problem. Brent knew he could never stand up to so many people at once. And even if he could get off a shot--he would almost certainly never get out alive. He sighed and tossed his datapad across the counter, it slammed into a wall.

"Are you al--" began a slave girl sent to tend to him on hand and foot.

"I'm FINE!" Brent shouted angrily.

She retreated sheepishly and the man immediately felt a twinge of regret. He sighed, picking up his datapad. "Ah feth."

He glared at the new spiderglass crack across its surface with a distainful sigh. He wished to all the gods above that he had never gotten himself in such a mess. Now he was looking at a fate worse than death, if he got caught. And if he didn't--he didn't know where that would lead him. He was actually scared to find out. Images of Saria being tortured, killed and his family being taken through just as bad loomed through his mind. It took everything in him to shove that back down inside and get back to the moment at hand.

Killing Frank. Somehow. Get out. Somehow. Get home.. Some how. He rubbed his eyes, it sounded so easy, too. The moment he saw the screen, Brent began to have a plan.

 

[Brent Smith]

The trip down to the power generator was even more disgusting than the throne room had been, in fact, it had surprised Brent how bad this place could smell. A thick cloud of steam from the constantly overworked cooling pipes filled the air and made his eyes sting. There weren't many beings here, and the very few droids who were here were too rusted to notice or care he was passing by. As he climbed over yet another pile of trash, Brent came face to face with the massive, outdated generator. It was a thing of antiquity, and part of the mechanic in him wondered that the thing hadn't given out yet. All it took was for one cooling line to begin reversing--that is pumping hot coolant back through the machine rather than out of it--and it would begin to shut down. Two and it would fail utterly. All three and the place would be up in flames in minutes.

Brent pried the control panel open and quickly got to work crossing wires and dabbling. Sweat poured off his brow like a flood as he got to work disabling the security protocols. The sabatauge would do no good if everyone was warned before hand or if it was shut down. Satisfid with his work, Brent propped himself up and wiped the sweat from his brow. Hydrospanner in hand, he climbed up along the side of the flaming hot reactor. Even through the insulated metal the heat burned his hands, wrists and the side of his stomach.

"Thanks, Dad," Brent whispered before getting to work on the central pump, "your teachings helped save my life."

He pressed the tool into the socket, turning it with all his might. The pipes began to glow a brighter red color and Brent knew he had to get moving--fast. He leapt off back onto the catwalk and took the back way to the landing pad. A few people saw his sweaty body tromping through the back ways, offering curious looks that were met with a raging scowl.

"Gates," Brent shouted as he climbed aboard the Bishop, "Get us out of here!"

 

[Brent Smith]

A surly thug stepped out from behind one of the crew compartments. The heavy blaster in his hand stared down at Brent like a snarling wolf.

<<Going somewhere, Smith?>> the twi'lek asked in smug huttese.

Brent felt a flush of anger and horror wash over him. It took everything in him to channel it outward, into his thug facade. "Get out of my way you scum, or there's gonna be hell to pay."

<<You think your gonna get away just like that? After what you did to my brother,>> the twi'lek's lips parted, baring it's sharp teeth, <<You may be one of the galaxy's greatest killers but I'm not afraid of you.>>

"I've got new for you," Brent shot back, jabbing his finger at the alien. "Your brother was scum. And he died a coward. Just like you will."

The green skinned man raised his weapon to Brent's head, he barely had time to dodge the crimson plasma bolt before it chared the bulkhead. He pushed forward and rammed his shoulder into the twi'lek's stomach in a heavy tackle. They both went down and Brent scrambled to press his advantage as the stunned alien blinked. His fist slammed into its green jaw, jarring it's head into the deck again. The twe'lik grabbed a fist full of Brent's hair shoving him off onto the durasteel flooring. The trooper instinctively grabbed towards the twi'lek's head, squeezing. He felt the man's lekku give way with a squishy disgusting feeling. As his oponent screamed in pain Brent rose to his feet unsteadily and grabbed the blaster that had been aimed at him. As he sighted his assailent, Brent froze. He had never killed anyone. And this--this felt like murder. But if he didn't kill him, this man would attack him, or worse--reveal that this had all been a fake.

The decking rumble and he could see as the palace was going up in flames, the explosion had started. Gates had gotten in his mount and the Bishop was already easing it's way from the ground.

He looked back at the suffering twi'lek with a shake of his head, "Get up, fool. Your more valuable to me alive than dead."

 

[Brent Smith]

Gates gave a low set of beeps as Brent stared at his new prisoner. The twi'lek, a thug named Varron Branson, was now mended and sedated, but the damage to his lekku had left him catatonic. Brent sighed. He had never imaged doing so much damage to one person. He didn't know if the alien would even ever recover. Or if he was now a bad man because of what he'd done.

Gates came around the corner with a series of beeps.

"Damaged during the escape? How bad?" Brent asked without turning around.

Gates whistled a low tone.

"Primary reactor and the vector plates are damaged. Can we come out of hyper?"

Gates gave an affirmative.

"Alright. Land on the nearest planet then. We'll work with what we can."

A few moments later the Bishop lurched out of hyperspace violently. They came in with a rough decent landing in the battle torn desert. Brent sighed as the ship whined, settling in with a grumble. He looked at the console. "Jakku? I can work with that."

The fates seemed to finally be working with him. He went into the back and scrounged out a set of heavy power tools. In one of the cargo holds he found something that made him give a low whistle--a squat, heavy landspeeder perched over a retro-fitted deployment hatch.

 

[Brent Smith]

He had landed three days ago on the dirtball that was Jakku. Every moment since that he was able, Brent had been out salvaging, searching for any parts he could find that the Bishop needed. And his results had been rather mixed--he found vector plates on TIE advanced fighters that had sustained minimal damage but were still non functional and a few vector plates from a Lambda shuttle that were functional--but the wrong size for his Bishop.

"Boooooweeeep?" Gates muttered peering over Brent's shoulder.

"Well of course the crystal matrix is still in tact for the Lambda. That is the problem for the TIE ones over here. Shattered," Brent said trying to knock some of the sand out of his boots.

"Boo Do-dee-dee-do."

"Swap out the crystal matrixes?" Brent paused for a second, "Gates your a genius! That's perfect!" he kissed the top of the black domed droid.

After several intense hours of surgery like repair, Brent managed to swap out the delicate matrixes and clamp the tampered vector plates closed again.

The next day, Brent scoured Jakku for the parts he would need to repair his primary generator. Ship after ship he searched. Shuttles, fighters, transports, and freighers, all with no results. As he crawled his way through a shattered star destroyer, Brent had almost given up hope. He found his way on the officer's day quarters. He perched against a wall, wiping the sweat off his brow. An old bit of almost worthless info came back to him from the academy. Almost since the dawn of space combat, auxiliary generators had been added along the command deck and captain's day quarters in case of a direct hit to the primary reactor--or a total reactor failure.

The scavenger slid down along the slanted deck towards the center of the deck. He stopped himself, propping his leg against a bolted down desk. Brent pulled the fusion cutter from his belt free and quickly set to work cutting the durasteel flooring free. When the panel of metal clattered away, Brent felt a sense of finally rewarded hard work. A viable, working reactor was there.

 

[Brent Smith]

It took a lot of work and three days to pull the power core free, move to the Bishop, and get it installed. It was almost twice as big as the damaged generator, and Brent had to cut some decking to realocate some of the cargo space to it. He made a note to have some of the Imperial mechanics make the arrangement more secure and boarded off.

Brent blinked. He realized now that he had come to see the Bishop as less of a passing tool or a borrowed ship than his own ship. When did that happen? He wondered. Even with its entirely illegal upgrades, ill-gotten nature, bad past, and ways that were far from his tastes..... Brent found himself attached to it. He looked at Gates. He had become attached to this protocol droid too, it was hard for him to see himself without it.

The droid gave a curious set of beeps.

"Oh, nothing. Just thinking about going home," he said with a half smile. "Come on. Let's get back to First Order space."

Per Derrium's commands, Brent landed at an unmarked base on one of the lifeless uncolonized moons in First Order territory. He took his prisoner by the arm, bound with stun cuffs and began pulling him along into the hangar bay where he was sure justice would be delt and he would be given leave. Brent had no idea how wrong he was.....