A Crash of Fate, Page 2

  Ana Tolla flipped her fire-red braid over her shoulder and surveyed the crowd. Her pale blue eyes had always unnerved Izzy because they looked colder than the top layer of Orto Plutonia. She looked like she didn’t hear Izzy or didn’t care. Her crew surrounded her, a queen holding court. There was Safwan, a young human-Twi’lek male with light peach skin that phased into multicolored lekku and tattoos modifying his muscular arms. Then, of course, there was Lita, who didn’t mind sharing cakes with Izzy after the previous expedition. Last was the beefy, fuzzy-faced Zygerrian, whose name always escaped Izzy because he was surly and quiet in a way only people who’d spent a lifetime hiding tended to be. Izzy couldn’t help thinking that her mother had been a similar kind of quiet.

  When their order arrived—definitely wrong, but no one was going to complain—the crew drank and ate their fill of the local fried meat doused in fiery brown syrup. Izzy felt more like an uninvited guest than an intricate part of a well-oiled crew. Even Damar chimed in on the reminiscing of missions he wasn’t even present at. How about the time Ana Tolla kidnapped a low-ranking senator who owed some Hutts a small moon’s worth of gambling debts? The senator was never seen again. How about the time Ana Tolla was hired to eliminate an oil baron’s prime competition and accidentally set a city ablaze, and the competition along with it?

  Izzy couldn’t bring herself to laugh along but managed a pained grin. Wasn’t this what she wanted? A crew. Something to be a part of. When Ana Tolla was hired for a job, she got it done. There was an expectation that went with her name. If Izzy was going to get rich and survive, she needed to be with someone like Ana. That was what Damar had convinced her was best.

  Damar had been the one to find Ana and her crew in a dusty port in Abelor when he and Izzy were out of fuel, food, and contacts. Izzy had grown up believing that the one industry in the galaxy that would never run dry was smuggling. But it proved difficult getting potential customers to trust her and her ship when every corner of the galaxy felt the ripples of the current chaos. Though it’d been months since the destruction of the Hosnian system and the government of the New Republic, the upheaval that followed had no end in sight. Most of her only contacts were either dead or in hiding. Ana Tolla had lost half her crew, and joining forces with her seemed almost fated. Ana was especially pleased that Izzy and Damar came with their own vessel. Izzy hoped that the next mission would be the one that solidified them as a unit.

  But as Izzy drained the dregs of her Naboo Cooler, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was in the wrong place, with the wrong people, at the wrong time.

  The music played on, the crowd grew louder, and their waitress was nowhere in sight. The collision of nerves and anticipation left Izzy’s mouth dry.

  “I’m going to get another drink,” she said offhandedly.

  “Could you get me a refill?” Damar asked.

  Ana Tolla shook her empty glass between long, calloused fingers. Her finely drawn eyebrow arched up. In her deep, smoky voice, she asked, “Would you be a dear?”

  Then the rest of them piled on.

  Izzy’s eye twitched, but she told herself this was a way to show she was a team player. She wanted to be more than “Hey, Damar’s girlfriend, fetch me the hydrospanners.” Oddly enough, Damar never had to prove himself. He was simply there, with his beautiful cheekbones and easy manner. He had a talent for making himself belong anywhere, or at least convincing people of it. He’d talked the two of them out of enough situations. Though, if Izzy was honest with herself, he was just as good, if not better, at getting them into situations.

  She cut through the crowd, ordered, and lingered at the bar, fidgeting with the brass zipper of her night-black leather jacket. Her drink practically materialized in front of her. She sipped the melon liquid and found that it smelled sweeter than it tasted, but it cost fifteen credits and she was going to drink it. Izzy glanced up at the dark, starry sky. With each jovial note struck by the band, her mood soured.

  Maybe that was all part of Damar’s plan—to truly convince her that he’d forgotten. After all, a month earlier, when they’d fought and she’d threatened to leave, he promised that he had something big planned for her. Huge. Fireworks. Explosions! “Unforgettable” wasn’t quite the word he’d used, but then again, when he held her hands and looked at her in that way of his, like she was the only person in the galaxy, she could fill in the blanks of the things he wanted to say. Damar had a way of making her feel special, like the only girl in a single star system. Sometimes she wondered if he was charming her the way he did others. Sometimes she convinced herself that she was too clever to be fooled. It was easy to trust Damar when he uttered the right words. Izzy fought her own instinct that something was wrong because, deep down, she knew that having Damar was better than being alone.

  But shouldn’t he be more than that?

  Then again, Damar had been the one to pull her from the petty errand jobs she’d been reduced to just to keep her ship in working order. Damar was the one who understood her better than anyone else. Damar never did anything without a little flair and a perfect smile that could crack a moon in two.

  On the cantina patio, he was hunched over a table of half-empty drinks with Ana Tolla and the others, speaking more animatedly than he had all night. Ana rubbed her bare arms against the chill of the night, and Damar handed her his jacket. Izzy grimaced but was surprised that it wasn’t jealousy that needled her; it was disgust. Neither Safwan nor the Zygerrian had rushed to hand over their outerwear to their captain, but Damar had. He was so eager, so needy for Ana’s attention. Anxiety twisted in Izzy’s gut. When she glanced at the band, the Rodian keyboard player winked at her again. Maybe a bug flew into his eye. Maybe he was actually looking at the pretty human girl dancing behind her. Izzy decided to ignore it. A group of women were talking to Izzy’s right, and something caught her ear.

  “Do you think the rumors are true?” one of them asked.

  “I think I want to get as far away from both sides as I can,” another girl interjected.

  “Broadcasts say medical freighters leaving the Mid Rim are being grounded,” said a third. “It’s like they don’t want anyone having access to them. What are sick people supposed to do when supplies run out?”

  “My cousin says he saw in a holo that the Resistance shot one out of the sky!”

  “Tell me you don’t believe that!”

  They descended into rapid-fire arguing Izzy could no longer eavesdrop on. Everywhere she went in the galaxy there were whispers about the Resistance. She didn’t particularly care. All she wanted was to do her job. Smuggling wasn’t what her father had wanted for her future, but neither of her parents was alive to make that decision for her anymore. Besides, as long as she developed a reputation for actually delivering her cargo, she’d be golden.

  A fish-headed Bivall wedged himself next to her to get the barkeep’s attention and shoved her in the process. She sighed hard and looked up at the sky. Maybe there was still time.

  The rest of the drinks finally appeared before her, and she realized she didn’t have enough hands to carry them all. Somehow she managed to transport the two brown bottles, two Naboo Coolers, one rosewater with fizz, and her melon drink in a tight grip against her chest.

  She wove through the dancing crowd, hands and other limbs trying to pull her into the reverie, sticky liquid sloshing over her fingers. Floating orbs of romantic light hung low, and she blew them away. Her eyes flicked back to the door for a moment. The crowd tensed in unison as a fight broke out on the other end of the patio. The first brawl in a cantina only meant it was before midnight.

  Izzy reached the table and slammed the drinks in the center. While the beers and fizz had made it intact, the Naboo Coolers had not. Ana Tolla picked one up and held it at eye level.

  “Did you drink both on your way over?” she asked in her scratchy, deep voice.

  Izzy stared at the crew captain. Ana Tolla was only five years older than Izzy, but she’d made her living takin
g jobs others didn’t want. She was said to have stolen a diamond choker from a Cuyacan princess while the princess was still wearing it, and razed the crops of a small vegetable farmer who refused to sell a plot to developers building metal skyscrapers across the planet surface. Such a woman wasn’t going to be impressed with Izzy’s waitressing skills.

  “You’re welcome,” Izzy muttered, and took her drink from the bunch. She ignored the persistent crawling sensation on her skin that told her something was wrong. She told herself to enjoy the night. The weather was on their side, and the music was upbeat.

  “Here’s to a good run,” Izzy said, and held her glass up for a toast. Every night before a job they’d done the same. But this time, there was a pause.

  All eyes turned to Damar, who ran his fingers through his artfully styled blue hair. He was so meticulous about his trousers, his polished boots, his sleek and unmoving hair. If he fussed with it, mussed it up with twitchy fingers, it meant he was nervous. He hadn’t glanced her way even once since she’d gotten back, which added to the feeling—no, the certainty—that she was missing information. This was not the evening he’d promised her. She would have preferred it if he’d never made a promise to begin with.

  Izzy was still holding up the tall glass of overpriced melon water, but no one joined her in celebration. Though the tiny umbrella had stayed in place, the murky orange liquid had gotten on her blouse while she traversed the dancing crowd. She’d splurged on that blouse. Izzy didn’t have the kind of lifestyle that called for soft fabrics or intricate stitching, but that night was a special occasion. Huge. Unforgettable. Fireworks. All that.

  “What’s up?” she asked. Her smile was tight, and her cheekbones hurt from the strain.

  “Iz—” Damar began, then seemed to swallow his words. A lock of blue hair flopped over his strange gray eyes. “Iz. I am so sorry.”

  Around him, the rest of the crew averted their eyes. Suddenly, everything about the dodgy cantina was interesting to them—the floating orbs, the Twi’lek bartenders throwing bottles across the bar to each other, the garnishes in their drinks.

  “Sorry for what, Olin?” she shouted over the music. “The ‘fireworks’ you failed to deliver?”

  He sucked in a breath, his full lips rubbing together in that way they did just before he made an explanation. No, not an explanation. An excuse. Like the time he blew all their money at the races, or the time he bought an astromech unit with all the guts missing from inside it, or the time he got them arrested for forgetting to clear their location history on their first real job after the destruction of the Hosnian. Why did she keep believing his promises anyway? Why hadn’t she walked away when she’d told him her doubts about Ana and the others. About him. Maybe because this time, the promise was for her.

  “I swear, Izzy,” he’d said. “It’ll get better. Besides, I have something special planned. I’ll light up the sky. Boom! You’ll love it.”

  The Clankers played louder still, the tempo of the bass matching her rapid heartbeat as she waited for Damar to speak.

  But then the music turned into screaming. The sky was finally alight, only instead of fireworks, it was the hazy red of blaster fire.

  Izzy grabbed her weapon and aimed. A group with their faces covered in black masks flooded the patio. Who in their right mind would rob a cantina full of smugglers and bounty hunters?

  The answer was simple—other bounty hunters who were there to collect.

  “We have to go, now!” Ana Tolla shouted at them. Her long red braid whipped in the air. She grabbed the edge of the patio’s railing and hopped over. The others followed. It was a brilliant escape route that led directly to the docking bays where both their ships were stationed. Damar went over the railing. Izzy grabbed hold of the metal. She was ready to jump when something yanked her back.

  Izzy rolled over and kicked. It was the Trandoshan waitress. She was trying to get away. Izzy looked to Damar for help, but he just stood there, dumbstruck. Izzy grabbed her blaster when a member of the black-masked gang grabbed the waitress by the back of her neck, muttering something about a debt owed. Everyone owes everyone in this galaxy, she thought darkly.

  Behind them the other men in masks were raiding the place, turning over tables and smashing drinks. For a flash of a moment, Izzy wanted to stay and help. Then she remembered Damar. He didn’t even move to help her.

  Her eyes found him. He hadn’t moved a millimeter. Ana Tolla lingered a few meters behind him, still wearing the blue leather jacket. Izzy had bought it on his birthday months before. They’d been in a market on Chandrila and she’d used the credits she’d been saving to repair the rear cannons on the Meridian.

  “Now, Olin!” the captain shouted once more, and ran.

  “Izzy,” he said. “I’m sorry. The job—Ana—What I mean is—You’re not coming. Don’t hate me, please.”

  She blinked slowly, as if time were dragging the planet’s orbit to a standstill and she was caught, unable to move a single limb. He turned and left her alone in the middle of a brawl.

  A hand seized her shoulder and spun her around. “Give me your—”

  Izzy’s hand was still around her blaster. She pulled the trigger and the masked man’s last words died with him.

  As the rest of the gang retreated, their prize caught, the band crawled back to their instruments. The waitresses carried their drinks. The cleaner droids swept debris into neat piles and dragged bodies away. It must have been just after midnight.

  She wasn’t new to death and violence, but as she sat on the patio inhaling the stench of smoke and acrid flesh, she considered that she was new to heartbreak.

  “Hey,” said someone in a soft voice.

  “Go away,” Izzy said, and set her blaster on the table and finished the rest of her drink. As fate would have it, Ana Tolla’s table was one of the few left unturned. The sweetness of the drink soon turned bitter. Don’t hate me, please.

  A green hand set a fresh drink in front of her. The liquid was pale green, like the Rodian’s skin.

  Her brows knit together. “What?”

  “Izal Garsea?”

  “That’s a pretty great name.”

  The Rodian chuckled, and it had a strange resemblance to bubbles. “I know. You were named for your grandparents.”

  Izzy stilled but kept sipping, kept pretending that her world hadn’t been rattled moments before.

  “Says who?” she asked.

  “Says someone who has a job for you, if you care to listen.”

  She didn’t want to listen. She wanted to take the drink and go. But where? Her supposed crew had just abandoned her. The boy she’d traveled with for ten months had broken up with her and given her gift to someone else. Izzy found it disconcerting that she cared an equal amount for Damar and the leather jacket. But before she could dive into a hate spiral, Izzy took the drink and brought it to her lips. It was fizzy and fragrant and didn’t make her want to retch, so she decided she’d stay. “I’m listening. How do you know my name?”

  “I make it my business to know many things,” he said. Glass crunched beneath his boot as he took a seat. The music picked up again, and the dance floor was repopulated. “Oh, and by the way, happy birthday.”

  The day after Julen Rakab quit his job as a grain farmer, his body betrayed him and still woke him moments before suns-rise. He could sense that his sister and brother-in-law had left recently, because their small apartment carried an early morning draft. He rolled to his back on the cot, tucked away in his makeshift bedroom behind a cloth divider and the back of the couch.

  Normally, he’d get up and make a pot of caf and get ready for the day, but that morning of all mornings, Jules kept staring at the ceiling, willing himself to sleep just a little bit longer. For thirteen years his body had been trained to be up at first light. He’d done everything he set out to do. He’d kept his word to his parents to stay close to family. He’d saved every credit he could spare, even if it meant taking side jobs on his days off
.

  All of it was put toward the grand, epic future he’d been planning since he was a boy. There were times when that future was clear—buy a ship and see the galaxy like the travelers he’d spent his whole life admiring. He could invest in a business. He was sure Dok-Ondar or even Oga would point him in the right direction.

  In the moments that future dimmed, Jules was bombarded with more practical questions. Sure, he could buy a ship and fly it. But where was he going to go? What would he do once he got there? If he invested in one of the wild ventures one of his friends always seemed to be cooking up, what would he do if he lost everything? The passersby and strangers that walked the Outpost for a day or a year made it look so easy. Jules didn’t look for easy. He’d never been afraid of hard work. But he needed a direction. How could he find adventure if he didn’t know where to start?

  And yet, despite vacillating between fear and certainty, he’d gone through with quitting his reliable job at Kat Saka’s farm. It was the right thing to do. He was sure of it. He was mostly sure of it. By the time he heard his neighbors calling out greetings from the halls, he was 50 percent sure of his decision.

  “Too late now,” Jules muttered to himself. Kat had only grown in business and hired a bunch of new hands for the harvest yield. Depending on whom you talked to, the Outpost either had jobs to spare or none at all.

  Jules’s big feet dangled off the end of the cot. Even though he was nineteen and was pretty sure he’d stopped growing the previous year, he thought he had another couple of centimeters on himself that morning. Either that or the bed was somehow getting smaller.

  Jules threw off the soft wool blanket and gave himself a sniff, the previous night’s revelry coming to him in flashes. After spending his last day harvesting Surabat grain on Kat’s farm, a couple of the older guys had convinced Jules to celebrate the end of an era. His friend Volt was convinced that thirteen years didn’t constitute an era, but Jules hadn’t lived as many lives as Volt claimed himself.