Means of Survival

[Fyl Terrano]

Some worlds you could take one look at and know they were dying. Katanos VII was different. You could see it was already dead.

Fyl Terrano hadn’t really meant to end up there. It was another randomly-chosen waystation along his meandering course away from Barkhesh, away from home and the war that had broken apart everything that meant anything to him. After that nasty business with the sand worms on Tatooine, he’d taken a ship back in the direction of the Core, looking to end up somewhere a little more stable - both politically and geologically. He’d figured he would meet up with the Gamor Run at Aikhibba and ride it all the way down to Hutt Space, far enough from the First Order that he could scrape off any bounty hunters. A good place to start over, and to make a quick credit.

But without a ship he’d been at the mercy of other captains, forcing him to hop from port to port in an involuntary zigzag based on who would take him on. He was lucky he knew his way around the guts of a starship, seeing as he didn’t have half the money he’d need to pay his way out of pocket. He’d fixed loose engine intake manifolds and cleaned the gunk from ancient power converters across five systems, taking the long way to avoid getting into Imperial space - the Imps were allies of the First Order, and their representatives had tipped a bounty hunter off about him once already. Of all the stops, this latest one was the most dismal; the place reeked of desperation.

Once upon a time, Katanos VII had been a premier source of cortosis, one of the galaxy’s most sought-after rare metals. But the easily-accessible deposits had dried up centuries ago, during the Clone Wars, and the only people left here were those with no place else to go. Since the end of the 400-year darkness, various political powers had annexed the planet, bringing in their own heavy mining operations to strip out the last scraps of cortosis from the depleted mines. None of that extracted wealth had gone to the planet’s inhabitants. With each government that seized their world, only to fall in a few years, a little of what they had left vanished, with nothing to show for it.

It wasn’t Fyl’s problem. He had to keep reminding himself that he knew from far too much personal experience that getting involved with trying to fix the galaxy always ended badly. He was no holovid hero, saving the day with a blaster shot and a clever quip, and trying to help these people would only get him deeper into trouble - if it didn’t get him killed. But as sprawled across one of the chairs in the spaceport lounge, waiting for the ship that would take him out of here, he couldn’t help but feel sympathy for the last remaining settlers of Katanos VII. He knew exactly what it was like to have the galaxy suddenly tromp all over you, and to be powerless against it.

 

[The Hive Warden]

It had taken weeks, but Yol’ShoValko’Warden had found the Terrano-meat at last.

Ever since the human-thing had escaped from the shattered moon of Valko, shattering the hive keeper’s perfect track record for prisoners, the former warden had hunted it across the stars. The reputation of the prison, without which it would not receive its vital credit lifeline from governments that wanted undesirables locked securely away, was tied directly to the survival of the Umphathi race, whose ruined world could not feed them. To permit any blemish upon that reputation was unthinkable, a betrayal of the entire species. And so Yol’ShoValko’Warden had gathered a force of Jailers, its lower-caste kin, and set out to correct this setback by any means necessary.

In the beginning, it had despaired. The galaxy was vast, and the Terrano-meat was alone and swift-moving. How could the warden possibly predict the escapee’s movements? But in reviewing information about its target’s first capture, it had gained clues about where the terrorist had been - and where he might return. Narrowing its search, it had contacted informants and offered rewards across the likely path of escape, and finally one of those offers had borne fruit. The cortosis mines of Katanos VII were all but barren, no longer able to support the planet’s inhabitants, and they were desperate for the credits they needed to survive. Desperation bred opportunity.

It had been all too easy to convince them to sell out their guest, and now Yol’Sho’Valko was descending in his shuttle to claim his prize and erase his mistake. Around him stood a small legion of Jailers, ready to battle. These lesser examples of his kind could be easily expended - they were legion, and competed for the limited food produced within the agridomes of Valko. Today, the hive keeper knew, might be a day when many were expended, for the Terrano-meat fought like a nexu when cornered. But it would all be worth it to ensure his people’s future by maintaining their reputation. The shuttle touched down within the landing bay, and the fury of Valko stormed out.

 

[Fyl Terrano]

He was trying to drink less, honest. Take fewer pills, too. But these were the things that had gotten him through the war and the months that had followed, months of pain and despair. Now, as the hits just kept coming, Fyl only knew one way to deal. Just one drink, he promised himself, one to calm his nerves. The subdued voice of his conscience screamed at him; somewhere inside he knew that, once he started, he wouldn't stop. Couldn't. So he'd knocked back his first shot at the spaceport cantina real fast, to get that voice to shut up before it changed his mind. Sometimes he could go a few days, a week even, listening to that voice, but it never lasted. He always came back to that easy relief.

So he lounged in the waiting area in a state of comfortable intoxication, sideways on the chair, his feet dangling over one armrest and the other beneath his back. His hat was drawn down over his eyes, blocking out the harsh lights of the spaceport. He was in the soldier's state of half-sleep, resting as much as he could while maintaining some awareness of what was going on around him. It had saved him countless times in the Insurrection; deep sleepers died in ambushes. And even here it was paying off. Voices reached his ears, only half understood, but their tone brought him slowly back to full alertness. Nowhere was safe for a fugitive, but perhaps that was extra true of this place.

"He's done us no wrong," came a woman's voice, low but intense. "This isn't right, Trask. He's a guest here." Another voice, deeper, definitely male, broke in. "He's a criminal, or they wouldn't be looking for him. You'll forget he was ever here in a week, but we'll eat for months with the reward they're promising. Swallow your righteousness. It'll be over soon." Fyl's hand crept down to his belt, making sure his gun was in place. What he'd overheard could mean only one thing: he'd been sold out. Maybe he couldn't blame the people here. They were doing the same thing he was: trying to survive on limited options. But his survival depended on making sure they didn't get the reward that would keep them alive.

Fate was a cold schutta like that. Fyl had accepted it. These people would learn it too.

Footsteps approached him, two sets. His hat still over his face, Fyl let his ears tell him their positions. They were no bounty hunters - their whole setup was sloppy. Just a couple of desperate colonists, people with hungry families and more hope than skill. In an instant Fyl exploded out of his seat, rolling sideways so that his hat fell from his face and he fell from the chair. A pair of stun blasts tipped his seat over backwards just as he left it. As he fell, the ex-rebel drew his blaster and flicked the stun switch. He'd put two clean blasts into his attackers before he even hit the ground. The colonists crumpled to the floor, their poor-quality weapons dropping from limp hands.

It was time to get out of here by any means necessary. If these poor fools were coming after him, more dangerous enemies would be sure to follow.

 

[The Hive Warden]

Against the Force-using meat that had stormed Valko's hangar bay, the Jailers had been little more than cannon fodder. In a backwater place like this, fifty of them might as well have been a thousand. There was nothing that could stand before them and survive. Telepathically coordinated and lethally armed, they were a powerful force, and now the element of surprise was on their side rather than against them. Yol'ShoValko'Warden descended from its shuttle, flanked by dozens of its subordinates. The small colony's administrator stood before it, human-meat that was filled with desperation and guilt. It had sold out a guest in order to get the credits it needed to survive.

"The Terrano-thing is here?" The administrator nodded, his thin, scruffy features worn with age and exhaustion. "He doesn't know you're coming. Doesn't know we've told you anything. Just as we promised." Yol'ShoValko'Warden was biologically incapable of a smile, but the pheromones it exuded were pleased ones. The agreement had been followed to the letter, a bargain between two collectives seeking survival. "And the reward?" The administrator asked, trying to project self-assurance. The hive keeper pretended not to hear him. "Do you know why we are here, human-thing?" He seemed taken aback, confused. "Records show Terrano was sent to Valko, so to get a prisoner back, I'm guessing."

It was a fatal mistake. Reputation was everything; it could not become known that Valko had lost a prisoner. At a telepathic signal from Yol'ShoValko'Warden, the Jailers flanking it opened fire. The administrator died with a look of accusatory shock on his face, his hand still held out for reward money that would never be his. The others with him barely had time to scream before they too were cut down. This pathetic little colony would be wiped from the face of Katanos VII, with no survivors left to spread the world of the failure of Valko's guardians. The Jailers spread out through the spaceport, killing everyone the found. The only one they would need alive was Terrano himself.

And they would find him, Yol'ShoValko'Warden was certain. The only blemish would be temporary, and would remain a secret forever.

 

[Fyl Terrano]

It wasn't long after Fyl began to run that the screaming started.

Green blaster bolts gouged chunks out of the hallway just in front of the ex-rebel, and a crowd of desperate colonists came tearing around the corner, terror written on their faces. Fyl stopped short, confused; what were they running from? Was his day about to get even worse by the simple coincidence of wrong place, wrong time? As the attackers came around the corner, however, it all became abundantly clear. Moving in perfect synchronization, their rifles blazing even lines of death across the backs of the crowd like vibroscythes harvesting rows of crops, came a dozen Jailers, the insectoid creatures that Fyl had grown to loathe during his brief stay at Valko.

There was only one reason they would leave that prison in such numbers; they were here for him, to take him back and to make sure no one knew he'd escaped.

Perhaps he shouldn't feel bad; the reason they'd come was that these people had sold him out. But they'd just been trying to survive as their colony continued to rot around them, and now they had been betrayed instead of receiving the salvation they'd assumed they could achieve at the price of his life. He knew desperation, knew how it changed people, and he knew too that they didn't deserve this. But there was nothing he could do, a reality that was setting in more and more often lately. He could only save himself, because against the full might of the shattered moon, he didn't stand a fool's chance. So he turned, taking advantage of his distance, and he ran.

Strange, clicking vocalizations sounded behind him; he'd been spotted. Soon, stun blasts were streaking over his head, dissipating against walls and rows of chairs as he leapt and rolled, dodged and weaved. They wanted him alive, back in his cell if and when the First Order came to check; everyone else was expendable in their eyes. The thought of the kind of cell they would put him in now, a cortosis-lined tomb they could pump full of gas or open to the vacuum of space whenever they wished, a lightless place where he would know only pain and hunger and despair, and the thought lent him speed. Even surrendering to that fate wouldn't save these people now.

The only good thing that might come out of all this was if he could save himself, and he aimed to do that, no matter what it took.

 

[Fyl Terrano]

Leaping over a row of chairs that someone had tipped over in their panicked flight, Fyl took cover behind a support column.

The spaceport was in chaos. The Jailers had managed to seal the main doors, trapping everyone inside like womp rats, and now were moving through the area with life form scanners, systematically cutting down everyone they encountered. In the streets beyond, outgunned security forces had begun to clash with the wardens of Valko, trying desperately to buy the colonists time to escape. But where could they go? Katanos VII was a barren, strip-mined rock, used up by the governments of the galaxy and then spat out. The nearest other colony was days away by foot, and the spaceport had been the first place to fall. There was virtually no way out of this place except a body bag.

Fyl had managed to temporarily lose his pursuers as they dealt with the crowds of people waiting at the spaceport, but with those scanners out he knew it wouldn't be long before they found him again. He needed a plan, some way to get off-planet, and fast. He'd seen the ships that were docked here, a sad collection of ore freighters and obvious smuggling vessels - they didn't even try to hide the drugs they were bringing in, the only refuge for miners who had nothing to look forward to but an early death from exhaustion, malnutrition, and simple lack of hope. One of those ships might be able to carry him out of here, but the spaceport tractor beams were locking them in place.

He needed to get to the security office. He could open the spaceport doors, giving the people here a fighting chance in the streets rather than leaving them to be gunned down en masse, and he could free up his own escape route. Staying low, he moved over to one of the information terminals, checking the bold YOU ARE HERE and comparing it to where he could find the main security station. It was a long way across the building, isolated to prevent its easy capture by marauders. Fyl checked the power level on his blaster, then switched the fire mode to lethal - he was bereft of sympathy for these creatures after what they'd done, and he'd shoot to kill if a fight broke out.

With that ready, he began to creep forward, seeking his way toward the possibility of escape.