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The
Hyphen 2005 short story by Mark
Newbold Twenty
years after Episode IV – A New Hope Jan Lomona grinned as the crowd gathered around him. So much had changed in his life during the past two years. He’d been hurled across the galaxy in an
escape pod after a bomb had exploded upon his brother-in-law Ryath Centaurs
ship and he’d cobbled together a fortuitous escape. Arriving in the Tingel Arm, the farthest
reach of the Corporate Sector Authority he’d started his career afresh. No one knew him, he owned nothing but the
clothes on his back and the meagre funds on his cred stick, but with his
smuggling skills he began to carve a new name for himself. He quickly re-took the false name of Joel
St John and made headway, eventually arriving a year later on the mountainous
icy world of Ammuud. He decided to make Ammuud his permanent base, far away on the opposite
side of the galaxy from his beloved Setnin Sector. In the Corporate Sector Authority life was
different, a challenge, and it had become something Jan had learned to thrive
upon. After so many years of operating
within the Mid-Rim and Setnin he’d relished the chance to start his smuggling
life anew. And so here he sat, in a
dank bar full of malcontent’s eager for a tale, be it tall or true. The A-desandian leaned back into his seat,
crossed his legs and lifted the chilled bottle of ebla
beer to his lips. He took a long chug,
waited for the assembled to edge forward in anticipation and began to speak. “Nothing’s changed, not since
the first creature put one foot in front of the other until some genius
invented the hyperdrive god knows how many millennia ago there’s been point
A, where you start the journey, and there’s point Z where it ends. So, every trip goes from A-Z. But us free traders, when we’re sitting in
spacers bars and cantina’s telling tales about our exploits we often forget
to mention the bit in the middle. You know, the hyphen. The journey itself. I can’t begin to tell you how many thousand jobs I’ve done, or how
many years I must have logged flying, but I’d guess that a good sixty percent
of my career was taken up by that hyphen.
So naturally it gives you a large chunk of your life to think about
the smaller chunk of your life that isn’t taken up by hyphenating, so to
speak. And the crazy thing is, when I
think about it, more happened to me flying those endless klicks than at
almost any other time. Which, if you think about it, probably made it more
important than point A or point Z. Kids have always heard these stories, about how dangerous and
exciting it is to be a smuggler.
Lifting off whenever you want, answering to no one, master of your own
destiny. And yeah, there is a sliver of truth in that, but the fact is that
every spacer, hauler, free trader and smuggler has to answer to someone. Sometimes it’s the Portmaster giving you
clearance to lift off, other times it’s the finance company chasing up
payments on your ship. But more often
than not in this trade it’s the guy paying the wages, and invariably that’s a
ganglord. And you don’t want to be
bragging about being master of your own destiny too often around them,
because they’ll assume you’re also working for the opposition, and then
things get really sticky. You’re either a contract worker, a salaried operator or an independent. I’m an independent, which means I don’t
work exclusively for any one employer, but I don’t work for more than one at
a time either. It’s probably the
hardest of the three to be, because you’ve got to gain their trust and
fast. I’m lucky, I started out as a
kid and got to know the lay of the land quickly, but hundreds didn’t and
either fell by the wayside or were put there
permanently. How do I explain this? Okay,
let’s say for instance I took a job from Glann Cipple to do five runs a
week. If I were over Chancai, which I
often was, and Wessen offered me a run, I wouldn’t accept it until the Cipple
jobs were finished because they overlap.
And also because if I was stopped and searched I’d have two loads of
contraband aboard my ship, two lies to tell and two angry ganglords wanting
to know what happened. Bad for me and
bad for them, so I don’t do it. So there you have five runs, all of them local stops, five or six
hours per trip. Let’s say six hours
each way. Add on the time doing the
drop, usually two hours after finding the place, moving the load and other
stuff, and finally maintaining the ship, refuelling, stocking up. Say another hour or so. That’s fifteen hours a day, five days a
week, seven weeks a month, 368 days a year.
Even if you wanted to do another job for another operator you probably
wouldn’t have the time or the energy, which is why guys like me were so well
paid. And it’s also why as the years
went by and my fees got higher I was able to do fewer jobs and have some kind
of life. Which
brings me back to the hyphen. In those early days when I was doing five, seven runs a week, my
life, such as it was, was lived out in the journeys between jobs. My social life, my love life, business,
professional, pleasure, everything had to be fitted into those spaces. And thankfully for a long time they
were. I had my fiancée, who was my
best friend, alongside me on a lot of trips and I had a whole gang of co-pilots
who accompanied me. I was able to
conduct a lot of business deals during that time, as well as work on updating
my starmap, which I still correct and update today. I did everything, watched the Holonet,
caught up on the latest vids, perfected my cooking
skills, played Tri-Stun with my droid Aurran. You name it, I did
it on those sometimes endless hours between jobs. And it was a good life,
don’t get me wrong, but after a few years I found myself wishing the hours
away between drops and pickups. And in
this business, that’s one of the many quick ways to early retirement. I think maybe my trick to keeping going was leading my life at
breakneck speed. I never gave myself
the time to get bored, I was always up to
something. Like I said, if there wasn’t some drama with Cipple there was a bust
up with Frans, or trouble with my family back home. Sometimes I’d have bounty hunters on my
tail, which has a way of concentrating the mind. Sometimes I was up to my elbows in shady
deals and I had to stay one step ahead of the game. I even remember a vacation I had on Luronsa
IV that ended up being about the most stressful day I’d ever had, so I didn’t
bother again. Which
didn’t best please my fiancé.” Jan paused to take a sip of his beer as one of the patrons; a
particularly grimy looking native, leaned forward. “So what happened on
Luronsa?” Jan raised his eyebrows as the memories came flooding back. “I’d just come off a
month-long stint working out of the sector for Jabba the Hutt.” That raised an impressed murmur of
recognition among the crowd. “Tatooine
isn’t far from Setnin, but still Glann hated me working for him. Luckily I always brought back some tasty
titbits of information from Jabba’s court, and that was usually enough to
placate him. Anyway, I got back to
Amagad and checked in with Glann, caught up with the guys down at Zythlies on
the night and sorted out my gear for our vacation to Luronsa. We weren’t going until the next evening and
Glann knew that, so he offered me and Frans a quick drop over to Chancai, a
few hours round trip, nothing special.
Frans wasn’t keen but I didn’t think I could say no after being away
for so long so I accepted and loaded the Sunrise up for the trip. Frans stayed
behind to get ready for our holiday and catch up with some things herself, so
I flew with my droids Troopie and Aurran. I lifted off at about 22.00 hours and hammered it to Chancai in
record time, signed in with the Portmaster on Level 14 and made my way to Ziggy’s
Herb and Spice Shop where I was doing the job. I’ve known Ziggy Teflon for the best part
of thirty years and alongside the laws of physics he’s one of the few
constants in the universe. He’s
constantly annoying, conniving, conceited, devious and self-absorbed, which
is why he’s still in the trade. He
doesn’t give a flying Bantha about anyone but himself, and will undercut you
in a heartbeat. Strange then that me and him were friends, but I guess it always pays to
have friends in low places. And I’m
sure he thinks the same. I had Aurran stay with the ship and brought Troopie along with me for
a roll out. Poor droid, he hardly ever
left the ship and it was about time he got a run. Anyway, Ziggy and me walked to the rear of
the shop and moved out back, the grime, grease and noise of the enormous
traffic shaft right behind us, ships rising and lowering as we strained to
hear ourselves think. Crazy as it
sounds, it was always better to conduct our business out there, away from
potential prying eyes. Ziggy had a
surveillance system to die for, and I felt as comfortable there as I would
anywhere else on Chancai. Troopie was
right beside me and I waited for him to open a hatch and pass me a package
with his appendage. I held it in my
hand, weighing it up like a prize cigar, and handed it to Ziggy. He took it, did the same and checked the
seal. Unbroken, as it had to be. I didn’t know what it was and I didn’t ask,
but it could have only been one of two things. DL-9, an illegal spice,
or Janos Jewel, one of the most volatile natural explosives known to nature. I guessed the former, given Ziggy’s trade,
but I may well have been wrong. We talked shop for a while and swapped a few bits of information, as
you do, and I got him to sign for the package and left with Troopie, right
back to the Sunrise. Usually I’d have spent a while there,
checking in with contacts and potential employers, but I was in a rush to get
back. Frans wasn’t a lady to be kept
waiting. One uneventful trip later and I was deciding which shade of slimy
green and bright orange I wanted my shorts to be. Frans was all ready, suitcases waiting in the
lounge of the hotel room we used on Amagad.
It took me maybe ten minutes to shower, grab my stuff and throw it
into a holdall. As usual Frans wasn’t
impressed, but then I hadn’t spent a free day getting ready for the trip like
she had, and besides, I could buy whatever I needed when I got there. We left the hotel, got a taxi back to my
freighter and blasted off. Thankfully the flight was pretty dull, nothing out of the ordinary
happened, but once we hit Luronsa IV…then the poodoo hit the fan. Little did I know when I was talking to
Ziggy someone was listening in.
No-one from the outside, but one of Ziggy’s staff,
trying to make a killing. They
knew I was taking a vacation, put two and two together and came up with
Luronsa. So there I was,
t-shirt and shorts, sunglasses and hot red-haired chick on my arm walking
down onto the beach to catch some rays and brews when six Barabels blocked my
path and started to get gruesome.” Jan
took another swig and leaned forward.
“Now, Frans is a tough lady.
She didn’t need me to take care of her, she didn’t need anyone. I tried the cool route of talking my way
out of it, but she’s a firecracker.
She dropped the first Barabel with a kick to the babymakers and
elbowed another one in the windpipe. I didn’t know what to say but I knew any
chance of diplomacy had just gone south, so I grabbed her hand and we began
to run for it. Do any of you guys know Luronsa IV?”
No one did, which failed to surprise Lomona, and he continued. “It’s sun, sea, surf, bikini’s, all-night
carnivals and liquor. It’s the kind of
place rubes like us deserve to put our feet up for a week every year but never
do. Well, I’d been working flat out
for too long not to have earned a break, and I damn well wasn’t going to have
this one ruined by a gaggle of Barabels.
No offence.” “None taken.” replied the
solitary Barabel sitting at the rear of the throng. “So we’re running and people
are getting out of the way. It must
have looked pretty funny, me and Frans being the height we are, dressed in
carnival colours being chased by four Barabels dressed in black. We reached the edge of the beach and
sprinted onto the sand, running for the surf.
Luronsa has very strict rules about what you can and can’t do in
public, and certain beaches have strictly enforced rules. Lucky for us the beach we’d run onto had a
strict Nudity Only policy, so as we’re running we’re stripping off and
throwing our clothes away, but the Barabels don’t. Two minutes later and a Basser Cadet wagon arrives and hauls the four of them away for violating
local law and carrying weapons, which is prohibited.” Jan grinned. “And the lady and me got to work on our
tans.” The crowd laughed at that and everyone leaned back for another swig
of their respective beverages. Jan
smiled inside. This was just like a late night at Zythlies back on Amagad or
Chancai, swapping crazy stories about his exploits with a room full of
like-minded operators. He accepted
another Ebla with a nod of appreciation and downed half of it as he turned to
the stocky human to his left. “Does it usually get this
busy in here?” The man shook his head and glanced across the room. “Not often. Mor Reesbon isn’t too pleased when the
workers aren’t working. But we all
need to let off steam.” “Amen to that.” said Jan
thoughtfully as he took another draught of his beer. The clan system on Ammuud could be horribly
complicated and often led to open warfare between the seven clans before the
introduction of the Code of Ammuud over a century before. Jan had ended up in Clan Reesbon territory
and found it largely to his liking. He
was able to come and go at his leisure, and rarely encountered any problems
from the local authorities. Which was
how he liked it. He always had, back
when he was starting out all those years ago in Setnin right through to now,
here on the other side of the galaxy. He stood and moved away from the crowd as their conversations turned
to other interests and stepped outside into the bitter cold. He wrapped his heavy duty jacket around
himself and lifted the collar to protect his ears as he walked slowly to the
edge of the bars speeder park. They
were high on a mountain, as most of Ammuud’s settlements were, and the view
afforded was spectacular. Jan sat on a
bench as the wind continued to pick up and lifted the remains of the Ebla
beer to his lips. What was I
talking about back there? He chided himself as he placed the illuminated bottle down on the
bench and folded his arms across his chest.
The hyphen - please, could I sound any more pretentious? He raised an ironic eyebrow. Still, it’s true I guess. It was true and he knew it. A
smugglers life was lived in the hours between jobs. When a starship was office, work horse and
home it could be no other way. He
smiled at the memory of the aborted vacation on Luronsa IV, knowing that such
breaks weren’t really for people like him and Frans, or the crowd he’d left
behind in the bar. All they could
generally hope for was the occasional planetary holiday and the weekend,
unless the money being offered to work was simply too good. Jan thought of all the cash he’d left
behind in Setnin, enough for him to retire on, even now just a year shy of
his fiftieth birthday. He’d always
been careful with his money, only spending it on things that would benefit
his long-term business. His company,
the Trac-Tran Transit Company had continued to be a profitable on-going
concern that always brought the money in and his ship the Berone Sunrise,
while ageing, was still worth a hefty sum.
And it was all waiting for him just a few days journey away in
hyperspace. But something was keeping him here.
Something had changed during his trip across the galaxy, all the way
out here to the Corporate Sector. Something
had managed to pull him out of hyperspace, just before he overshot the Tingel
Arm and left the galaxy forever. The galaxy still wanted him. And he couldn’t shake the feeling that it wanted him somewhere, anywhere,
but the Setnin Sector. He loved Setnin. It was his
home and he was proud of it. As a
product of the sector he had everything to thank it for, and out here where
he knew no-one and no-one knew him he was thankful for the lessons it had
taught him. He knew how to survive,
how to progress and most importantly how to make a living. Lessons he’d learned decades ago came back
to him like newly-learnt sermons and he dodged all the errors the teenage
Lomona had made. It was almost too
easy. He’d managed to get a ship early on.
The Siren was a capable Ghtroc freighter that served the precise
purpose he intended it to. It was
neither his home nor his sanctuary; it was simply a tool of work. Now he lived his hours away from smuggling
in hotel rooms, eschewing the dubious luxuries of a freighters captains life
for a more ordered existence. Initially
he’d built a fast reputation using his own name as he doubted whether anyone
out in the Corporate Sector would know it, but swiftly changed it to Joel St
John when he realised that his name was indeed known, from a previous
excursion out here almost thirty years before. As ever, his past came back to haunt him. He’d had sleepless nights, wondering what was going on back
home. Paige and Ryath must have
believed him dead. His colleagues, the
Cipple Sisters, everyone he ever knew would have assumed he perished in the
explosion that tore the Thunderchild apart. Only he knew different. The galaxy had spared him, and now here he
was, light years away from home in a foreign region of the galaxy, starting
again. And he loved it. He could go home, at any time, no question. He had a ship and money. He had contacts that he could certainly use
to his advantage back in Setnin. And
he had things to set right at home.
But for reasons he couldn’t fathom, and didn’t wish to investigate too
closely, he’d decided to stay. For two years he’d gone to sleep every night knowing that at a
seconds notice he could pack up and journey home. He’d even written a long and heartfelt
letter-search to his daughter and son-in-law but deleted it before sending. He’d tossed and turned, ran scenarios over
and over in his mind and delved deep for a truth that eluded him until he
simply stopped thinking about it and started enjoying himself. Setnin would wait. The
universe didn’t revolve around him after all, despite the shrill cries
of his ego. Paige, Ry, the gang at
Zythlies, the TTTC crew; they’d all get along fine without him. And when the time came to pack it all up
and travel home, well. He’d worry
about the repercussions of that decision then. The wind continued to howl and rise in intensity until Jan couldn’t
stand the cold any longer. He stood
and walked around the side of the simple building out onto the concourse that
led back down to the pedestrian strip that ran alongside the speederway. It was getting icy, the ground was starting
to become slippery and he thanked his lucky stars he’d decided to buy the 150
credit boots instead of the 100 cred bargain pair. He noticed the men a good twenty meters before they realised he had,
the four of them huddled against the cold around a lighter that was sparking
up a dubious smelling cloud of smoke.
They inhaled and stood straight, all well-built and broad against the
cold. Jan slipped his hand deeper into
his pockets, gripping the comforting handle of his P-48 type three blaster
pistol and continued his walk. They
watched as he moved past and fell into step behind him as he lengthened his
stride down the hill towards his hotel room.
Speeders zoomed by and the lights of the town below glowed hazily in
the rising gale as Jan felt their breaths practically on his neck. Time to show
my hand I guess. “Ok guys,” Jan said loudly,
suddenly spinning on his heel and facing the four. They practically skidded to a halt,
surprised at the unexpected move.
“We’ve all got places to be.
Why don’t I just let you past instead of you trying to hitch a
piggy-back ride home?” “And why don’t you keep it
zipped, Lomona.” The closest
man gave Jan a cruel grin as he waited for a reaction, but none came. “That’s right, we know who you are.” Jan saw no need to deny it and cocked his head, his finger seducing
the trigger of his blaster. “Yay for you, but what’s
that got to do with me?” “We know about your
reputation, smuggler.” He said
it like it was an insult, which made Jan involuntarily frown. “Word’s out on you. You ain’t gonna do to us what you did to
Formoon, or Spyte or Jason.” Jan had to bite back the laugh.
These star-starers had managed to attribute the deaths of Glann
Cipple’s major enemies to him, and he wasn’t about to deny it. “They had it coming to
‘em. You on the other hand haven’t
caused me any problems.” He took a
step forward. “Yet.” The implied threat in that sentence was well taken by the four, but
unlike many other operators they took it as a direct threat instead of a
warning. Guess that’s the
difference between the Setnin Way and every other way, mused Jan as he
crouched to avoid the first blow and aimed the nozzle of his blaster through
his jacket pocket to take out the closest two. Their bodies slumped back against the hard
floor and began to slide slowly down the hill as Jan eyed the other two and
took aim. “You punks feeling
lucky?” They shook their heads as Jan
made a jabbing motion towards them with his nozzle. “Well, are ya?” “No way.” the first one said as he began to back up, tapping his colleague on the shoulder and stepping away. Jan began to relax and ease up until he noticed what had just happened. The man at the rear raised a blaster that had been tucked into the back of the closest mans blaster belt, and aimed it at Jan. Years of practise brought Lomona’s own aim to bear and the two hit the floor without so much as a yelp. Jan blew out a long breath as he rose to full height again and checked about. No-one was close, and the howls of the wind had taken the sounds of blaster fire away. He looked ruefully down at his jacket pocket, a gaping hole now torn into the fabric. He quickly rolled the closest two men to the edge of the mountain and hoisted them over the side. That’s the
advantage of building your settlements up in the mountains. Garbage day is every day. Jan
checked around as he collected the other two bodies, who were still sliding
slowly down the hill and rolled them off the edge to join their compatriots in the dark depths of the canyon.
Job done he calmly continued
his walk back to the hotel. No matter where he was and what he did, some things never altered. Danger managed to follow him like a bad
smell, be it here in the Corporate Sector or back in the Mid-Rim. He shook his head as he entered the hotel and acknowledged the
attractive lady who smiled at him from behind the desk. He couldn’t place her species, but she was easy
on the eye and after the incident a few minutes before he needed all the
distractions he could get. “St John, Room 44.” Jan said as the attendant handed the door
key to him. He moved to step away and
paused, checking back to the desk. “Yes sir?” Asked the attendant. Jan smiled as best he could. “Do you know of any unusual
activities happening in the town lately?” She frowned. “I’m not quite sure if I know
what you mean sir.” “Unfamiliar faces, people
from out of the sector.” He grinned
again. “People like me.” She managed to stave off a grin as she shook her head. “I don’t think there’s
anyone else here like you sir.” Jan relaxed and rubbed his hands together as he nodded and moved
towards the corridor that led to his room and a peaceful nights rest. “I guess not. Thanks sweetheart, see you in the morning.” “Goodnight sir.” She replied sweetly as Jan turned and left
down the corridor. She waited until she heard the solid thud of his door closing before
she lifted the comm. to her lips and spoke. “He’s on to us. What should we do?” There was a brief crackle of static and a machine-gun fire of
words. The woman nodded in
understanding and looked towards the smugglers room. “Very good sir, consider it
done.” The Hyphen 2005 short story by Mark
Newbold Twenty
years after Episode IV – A New Hope Histories
– The first story to
tell of Jan Lomona’s time on the other side of the galaxy after the
ship he was piloting was destroyed in a massive explosion, hurling him across
the galaxy and into the Corporate Sector. Now
starting anew, Lomona has to find new contacts and new employers – but the
way things operate out on the Tingel
Arm are quite different to
the way things work in the Mid-Rim. Cast of Characters Jan Lomona Elzeray |