Nothing, we just sat there.
Like, really, my dear interrogative application system, what kind of kriffing question is that? 110 gave us the order to move, so we moved. If we didn’t we’d be summarily executed, remember? Or long-distance choke-smashed by your beloved archwizard woo-woo-in-chief. Hard pass on that option, thanks! So we geared up, rolled out, and there we were in the heart of Mos Eisley, getting crispy beneath all those layers of armor and this giant black bodysock, and quite frankly craving a thirst quencher, and I don’t mean the kind that actually quenches thirst. I mean the kind that dehydrates, in fact. A beverage, specifically one that frizzles, to be precise. Jawa juice, in case I wasn’t clear. I wanted a damn drink.
And look: We had no leads really, so what’s one direction or another in that rotting scumrat basin? “I think they may have headed for the cantina,” I said, sounding authoritative and not leaving any room for debate.
But of course, TD-787 wouldn’t be TD-787 if he didn’t play the contrarian at any given opportunity, so he chimes in with, “What makes you think that, Sar?” and I was about to snap back at him when 110—Commander 110, I guess—holds up one hand, all serious like.
Look, I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Mos Eisley but it’s crammed with about eight million hard-up, squirming, slimy, writhing, multilimbed, sometimes tentacled, seething, heaving, bleeding (literally), frothing demented useless wastes of skin and bone and sometimes gear and data. Yes, it’s a spaceport, but if you’re looking for the dead end of the galaxy and its denizens, look no further. So there are plenty of suspicious-looking droids. They hobble past, zip along on their rusty little wheels, stumble by through the sand-crusted streets. They wait outside of junk shops and currency exchanges, bleeping and burping and being their little self-righteous selves.
I don’t like droids, in case you weren’t sure. They annoy me.
Anyway, that’s what made it remarkable that Commander 110 seemed to have such a strong feeling about this speeder coming our way with two droids, an old guy, and a kid driving. They were unremarkable to me in every way, really, but 110 gets his feelings about stuff and runs with it, and he’s the one with the orange pauldron, not me, so…whatever he says, I guess.
We surround the speeder looking all heavy and serious, even though we’re the ones with the blasters. However useless, they still woulda made quick work of the kid and his obviously somewhat-off-the-deep-end grandpa.
110 asks how long they’ve had the droids and they say something. I wasn’t really paying attention, to be honest, because we weren’t that far from the cantina, and I figured if we could wrap this up quick and head over there I could be slurping Jawa juice within the hour, blam! But ol’ 110 has other plans, of course, because the Rebel Alliance is really going to rely on an ancient freak and a teenager who needs a haircut to ferry their top-secret cargo around.
The esteemed Commander 110 demands their IDs. If you could see through these stupid buckets we wear, you would’ve seen my eyes roll so hard. All our eyes, probably, except TD-787 because: annoying.
Then the Old Guy’s like, “You don’t need to see his identification,” and the first thing I thought was, whoa—is this geezer an Imperial? He just had that way about him, like he was one of us somehow, but busted and goofy and strung out. Maybe it was the accent. That thought really didn’t last long though, because the next thing that happened was that I was absolutely, 100 percent sure that we did not need to see his identification. I mean, to be fair, it didn’t seem that necessary in the first place, but listen: You would’ve had to hold me down and shove his scan docs in my face (and probably take my helmet off if you really wanted me to see anything) if you wanted me to look at ’em. It was imperative that I not see them, right at that moment. In fact, all I wanted was to get the krizz out of there. And not just to get sizzled on some Jawa juice, either.
Seems Commander 110 finally came to his senses, too, because then he says: “We don’t need to see his identification.”
Bless! I almost yelled, but I kept it contained.
“These are not the droids you’re looking for,” Old Guy says.
And he was right. He was so right. It was like, of course they’re not!
110 agreed and then Old Guy says that he can go about his business, and I’m like Yes! Yes, Old Guy! Say that! And 110 agrees again! Word for word in fact!
“Move along,” this remarkable little geezer says.
Commander 110 nods. “Move along.” And then, because he’s 110 and he can’t help himself, he repeats it for good measure.
What further actions did you take following the initial events surrounding the incident in question?
Well, we went and got sizzled on some Jawa juice, my guy! What do you think? At that point we were already fed up.
Of course we finally get to the cantina and there they are. No, not the droids we were looking for. Dewbacks. Two beautiful, shining dewbacks. Females, I think; just standing there, breathing in and out and reflecting on their dewback lives, taking in the suns. At that moment, to be honest, I didn’t care about the droids or the Galactic Empire or even the Jawa juice. I just wanted to go up and lay my hand on that snout and close my eyes and just be still, you know?
But the dewbacks being there also meant TD-4445’s guys were around somewhere, so we had to go in and see what we could, lest another unit get the drop on us and deliver the droids instead.
“Look lively, boys,” Commander 110 said, and Crag just chuckled. Then we go in that ruthless dingepot and are instantly surrounded by various forms of star scum and asteroid excrement, the never-ending stench of cheap milk and bodies that have been cramped into spaceships with no showers for far too long.
First thing I see is an Ithorian, and he’s looking jumpy, to be honest. I’m not even trying to smash heads like that, but this Ithorian seems downright shook when we walk in. I send him a scowl, which of course he can’t see, but it doesn’t matter; he’ll be moving along soon enough anyway. The whole joint seems to tingle with the murmur of some mess that must’ve just gone down. One of those little eager-faced freaks with the beady eyes is mopping someone’s blood off the floor, and I hear whispers and grunts about a lightsaber. A lightsaber! I’m tired, man. I’m just tired. The bartender points TD-787 and 110 toward a corner table where some cats involved in the mess were supposed to have been, and I try to take the opportunity to signal that I want a drink. The bartender’s a surly scrug, though; he just scoffs and looks away. And then I noticed Tintop has actually managed to get one. The damn fool’s lifting up his bucket to steal a few sips and I’m about to curse him out when I hear a polite little “ahem” from the seat next to me. There’s a Talz sitting there—you know, one of those little gray hairy things that looks like an Ewok that got punched in the face. It’s sitting at the bar next to me, scratching its icky little proboscis and looking, I think, at me. Then it burbles something. I can’t be bothered with languages I don’t know, so I just shake my head, and then the bartender (speaking of faces that have been punched too many times) goes: “He says the droids you’re looking for headed into the desert with some Sand People.”
Then, as if to seal the deal, he puts a drink down in front of me. I glance over at Tintop, who’s just guzzling at this point, and then across the room to where 110, Crag, and TD-787 are hassling the band. I shrug. Then I look at the drink and the waiting Talz with its beady little eyes. Information recon, right?
“Does he know how long ago they left?” I ask as I lift up the ol’ ’met and take a nice long chug.
The gray guy squabbles some, and then the bartender says, “They just went before you lot walked in. Said they had a bantha with them.”
“A bantha!” Tintop yells in a way that makes it clear he’s well sizzled already. Then he gets a little too close to my ear and mutters, “But can we trust the little fuzz bugger? You know this cantina ain’t exactly Imperial friendly, Ram.”
I shrug. At this point, I’m not sure how Imperial
friendly I am myself, if we’re being honest. Which we are, apparently. I hate my unit; I hate my uniform. I hate that I can be hauled out to any ol’ galactic wastebin on a moment’s notice just to annihilate some random one-celled troglodyte. It’s the constant feeling that the world may be very, very beautiful somehow if only one could remove the crap-stained glasses that come with being a member of this ridiculous army.
Tintop shrugs, too, because whether he agrees with all my deep inner sentiments about the Empire or not, Tintop generally just can’t be bothered. Especially when he’s toe up on the juice.
Crag and 110 come back around to let us know there was no one over there but some smug-looking tool and his Wookiee, and that the band interrogation came up empty. We tell ’em the new info.
“Bugger,” 110 says as we shove our way through the crowd and out of the cantina. “Kriff!”
Describe the incident in question. Be specific!
Ha. Well, about that…Once we left the cantina, everything started happening fast. First of all, those dewbacks were still there, just grazing and smiling even, maybe. Can a dewback smile? I think so. They certainly seemed to see us, nod a little. Immediately, TD-4445 comes up on the comm to be all, “We’re pursuing a lead that some rebels have commissioned a ship and are trying to get off Tatooine with the droids.”
“Our intel says they’re desert-bound with some Tusken Raiders,” 110 says. “Who’s your source?”
“Garindan” comes the gurgled response.
“Garindan the Kubaz?” 110 asks.
“Affirmative. He is following the suspects. Will advise.”
Look, I’m not bigoted or nothing, but the Kubaz are a trash species. Period, point blank, no exceptions. So, like, okay, a long-snouted goggled armpit gave you some information. Are you gonna believe it? I rather think not, frankly. I’m not anyway. I say as much to 110.
“Regardless,” TD-787 blurts out, being punchable as always, “that’s a confirmed Imperial source. We have to follow up his lead first. Right, Commander?”
Maybe it’s the juice, but I almost just deck TD-787 right then and there. I’m pretty sure I’d have been acting on behalf of the whole squad if I had, not for nothing. I mean, those dewbacks were right there and as far we knew, the rebels were getting away as we spoke, just vanishing into the never-ending sands of Tatooine.
Commander 110 shakes his head, then nods, unhelpful as always. “The Imperial lead,” he mutters.
“We have confirmation,” TD-4445 suddenly garbles over the comm. “The rebels are heading for the hangar! All units, converge on Docking Bay Ninety-Four!”
“There’s your answer,” Commander 110 grunts, and then we’re off, before I even have time to object, tearing through the cluttered streets, pushing through a crowd of stinky Jawas. I know this is wrong; I can feel its wrongness all over my body. It’s inescapable. But I’m a solider. A stormtrooper. I’m the faceless enforcement fist of the Galactic Empire. What can I do about it? I shove along with my unit, trying to ignore the deep-down ache that tugs on me like a tractor beam back through the crowd to the front of the cantina where those dewbacks wait.
“This way!” Crag yells, because he always has to be the one that knows everything. And then we’re somewhere we had definitely just been; the winding dusty walls and sandy alleyways and leering stares seem somehow familiar, but this whole place looks like that, so who’s to say? “Now over here,” Crag insists, and we follow, because what else are we to do? We follow orders. It’s the sum and extent of our existence. Say kill, and we will. Say die, and our arms fly up and take the blasterfire full on. Watch our pointless existence extinguished on command. This romp through these crumbling backstreets? Sums up our entire sad lives pretty ruthlessly. It’s clear now none of us have any sense of where the hangar is and it doesn’t matter anyway, because the rebels are probably almost to the far edge of the city by now and about to breach out into the infinite sands.
“Over there,” Crag says, and it seems like he’s running out of steam, or maybe we’re getting close. Then I realize we’re definitely getting close, because a growl of engines erupts all around us and I hear blasterfire from not too far away. Then some hunk of absolute junk hurls up above the buildings around us and launches out into the sky. The comm is thick with static and units yelling for backup, but I’m a hundred klicks away: As soon as the junkship took off, something in me let go and I knew what I had to do. I don’t know how, but I did. It wasn’t even a conscious decision, to be honest with you. Before I realized I had made a move, I was tearing back through the streets. I don’t even know how I made any sense of that dungheap of a city; I just plowed forward like some invisible thread was yanking me along, and then there I was and there they were, still outside the cantina just where we’d left them, the two dewbacks, looking polite and slightly impatient, to tell you the truth.
I was running, I must’ve been, because the closer one reared up a little and snarled as I got close, but then I wrapped one hand on the saddle and I was up on it and I pulled the restraining cord free and we were off!
What were your actions in response to the incident in question?
We charged through the streets of Mos Eisley, me and the dewback. We were one at that moment, an unstoppable wave of man and muscle, teeth and saddle. Smugglers and local denizens dived out of our path. Up ahead, the desert loomed, unfathomable and immense. There was something I was supposed to be doing, I vaguely recalled. Something urgent, supposedly. It didn’t seem to matter, though. All that mattered then was the whisper of desert wind against my helmet, the thundering beast beneath me, the yawning maw of desert ahead.
Rebels. Droids. That’s right. At the edge of town, I slowed the beast down and lifted my macrobinoculars. Sand and emptiness stretched for klicks and klicks ahead of me, interrupted only by an occasional hovel or comm tower.
The beast stirred impatiently beneath me. It wanted the thrill of movement again. So did I. And then, there! On the horizon, the dim shape of a bantha shimmered against the bright sky. A few Sand People stood scattered around it. They were moving over the crest of a dune, would soon be out of sight. I kicked my heels against the dewback and together we launched out into the desert.
What were the initial results of your actions during the incident? Paint a picture!
It’s funny you should ask that. The whole galaxy condensed around me, became the sand and dunes. The world became one, a singular scope of life as it stretched toward an emptiness in a never-ending cycle. The beast heaved beneath me, plunging forward toward that emptiness, too. I took out my datapad, and I’ve used it to transmit this report, which is probably the last you’ll hear from me. At some point, I wasn’t wearing my gear anymore, and then the suns sent their soothing emissaries of light to dance across my skin, and the sand kicked up in a ferocious hellwind that swept out of nowhere and lit the world on fire with screaming and the brittle dust of the desert, and it was like a gentle, terrible whisper that this world I once thought to be dead is so alive, just like me: so alive, and born and reborn in the storm, and absolutely free.
Ryland climbed into the lookout and scanned the sky. The fighters were already in the air, ahead of the transport they were escorting out of the system. He knew he was doing the right thing. He knew Eron and Rhee would take good care of Laina, be good mothers to her, and raise her as their own until they could be reunited. He knew it was too dangerous to keep her with him on Yavin, which was a legitimate military target, should the Empire ever discover its existence. He knew that he could have gone with her, that nobody from his wing would have held it against him, that he could be holding his young daughter right now as they climbed the edge of the atmosphere toward relative peace and safety.
Ryland knew that he was not the only person on the base—hell, he wasn’t the only one on duty at this moment—who had lost something, given up something, made some sacrifice in service of the Rebellion against the Empire. Knowing all of these facts did not make the moment any easier,
or any less painful.
He wiped away tears, held his scanner to his eyes, and said goodbye to his daughter as he watched her transport kiss the top of the atmosphere and vanish into the darkness of space.
“This is Gold Tower to transport Echo Delta One,” he said into his comm. “You have cleared atmosphere and are a go for hyperspace. May the Force be with you.” He didn’t believe in the Force, but today, he would make an exception. He took his thumb off the button. “Take good care of my little girl,” he said, softly. He sat down and wept.
Eighteen hours earlier
Ryland adjusted the camera and softly cleared his throat. He looked at Laina, sleeping restlessly in her crib. She’d thrown the covers halfway off her and had turned almost entirely sideways across the mattress. Her legs kicked gently and her eyes flicked side to side. Whatever she was dreaming about, he hoped it was something joyful. Maybe Fiona was there, with her, maybe the three of them were together again. He would be careful that he didn’t wake her.
He turned his attention to the camera’s lens and began recording.
“Hello, Laina. I’m recording this message to you a few hours before you get on a transport to go to your new home with your aunts. I don’t know how long it’s going to be until I get to see you again, and it’s important to me that you don’t have to wait until then to know who you are, where you came from, and who your parents were.
“By the time you are old enough to see this, and understand it, I hope that we’re watching it together, and I hope that we’re laughing about how silly I look right now. But since I joined the Rebel Alliance, I’ve said goodbye to a lot of friends, and I haven’t been able to say goodbye to a lot more…” He took a deep breath to steady himself. Living under Imperial occupation was terrible, and the Rebellion was not just right but necessary. A lot of good people had given their lives—or, worse, their freedom—in service of the struggle.