Ranth and Rave

2001 short story by Paul Squire

Six years after Episode IV – A New Hope

Smoke hung heavily in the air, drifting lazily along through the dimly lit spacer’s bar and further obscuring the few denizens who had chosen to spend their mid-afternoon hidden away from the bustling streets of Quallaleb.

The jewel of Jobol’s equatorial continent, Quallaleb nestled in gleaming splendour across the Habrogean Mountains. The city’s myriad of spires and domes glinted in kaleidoscopic colour made all the brighter by the thin layer of freshly fallen snow sprinkled across the rooftops. The volcanic rock and rust red sand of the desert floor so many thousands of meters below contrasted as much with the gentle hues of the city almost as much as the tents and pack beasts of the desert nomads did with the Imperial class spaceport and its never ending stream of transport and cargo ships.

Quallaleb was at a crossroads, as much a haven for its desert people as for its more exotic visitors, and the creds that had made its merchant families fat had also made the city one of the richest in this corner of the Setnin Sector.

But there was another side to the Gleaming City, for richness and beauty also attracted avarice and jealousy, and Setnin’s underworld played for heavy stakes, and sometimes they played rough.

“Hey!” The growl of the Bajudin was almost immediately swallowed up by the bar room’s murky air, but the two human’s sitting opposite heard the bite in it. “There’s only two thousand here.” The creature leaned menacingly across the short table until the whiskers of its snout brushed against the face of the darker of the two men. “If I don’t get the rest, now, my words will turn the ears of the Gleaming City away from your lying tongues.”

“Play it as hard as you like, Majman, but the Paroudin Cartel wouldn’t treat with us if they thought we were fools.”

There was warmth in the quiet voice of the human, but the Bajundin didn’t appear to be listening to the words spoken. Instead dark on dark eyes drew in the malodorous creature’s gaze.

“Maybe,” it conceded after a short pause, and dropped its gaze. “But maybe the Cartel doesn’t trust you.”

“And you do?” The human’s voice came out quickly, but the trace of humour was unmistakeable. “Perhaps then I should pay you the full amount - now?”

“That would be most agreeable, yes.”

“I don’t think so,” growled the second human, and the Bajundin turned its heavy eyes towards him. Its gaze settled on the shoulder holster all but hidden under the man’s heavyset coat and it sniffed discerningly.

“Trust is a fragile commodity here, as is my patience.”

“As fragile as this?” The small gem held between the thumb and forefinger of the first human seemed to draw in what little light there was in the bar and its shine was equalled only by the greedy glint in the Bajundin’s eyes. “Perhaps this bauble, too trifling a trinket for the Cartel to concern themselves with, would help strength both your trust and your patience?”

The shrug from their contact was barely visible.

“My friends,” it said dryly.

Less than a minute later the two humans were alone, their table occupied by three half empty glasses and one holodisk.

“Now we can finally get down to work,” said the first man darkly, all trace of humour gone, as he pulled out a palm-sized scanner. “Let’s see where our friend’s headed.”

“I didn’t take you for the patient kind, Ranth,” commented the second man before finishing his drink.

“No, Centaur,” replied the bounty hunter. “I never thought you did.”

Bozz Yoon scratched behind the reception desk of the Red Star hotel. His hotel he reminded himself with a self-satisfied smile, and not his only one. He’d spent the better part of his adult life setting up the chain of high-class hotels that spread right across the Mid-Rim, but this was his dearest. It had been his first.

He clicked his long tongue against the roof of his mouth in delight as he finally identified the faulty circuitry that had been causing havoc with the desk computers. He enjoyed keeping his hand in, and despite the fortune he’d made from his business, he still garnered more satisfaction from getting his hands dirty than sitting in his executive office ordering his minions about. He smiled up at the desk clerk, waving the circuitry board like a talisman in his clawed hand, and was just about to stand up when he caught the change of expression on the young girl’s face.

Majman had just strode into the lobby.

“Filth,” spat Bozz as he made out the Bajudin’s rough features easily from his hidden vantage point behind the highly decorative desk front. That he had to put up with the Cartel’s presence in his hotel was bad enough, but having this sh—

Two humans entered the lobby, and an ice-cold trickle ran down his spine. He’d seen trouble before. Hell, he’d had to entertain that cretin Demicido on more occasions than he’d care to remember. But these two seemed more…

“I’d like a room,” said Tarr Ranth to the receptionist. His warm baritone voice cutting across Bozz’s train of thoughts like a well cultured vibro-blade through cartilage. “Somewhere on the,” he consulted his scanner for a moment, “fourteenth floor.”

“I’m sorry, sirs,” said the young girl softly, the soft blue tone of her skin deepening to a purple with her nervousness. “We don’t have anyth—.”

“We only need it for one hour,” added Ryath Centaur.

“There’s nothing I can—.”

“— can offer you on the fourteenth floor,” cut in Bozz as he rose up from behind the desk, his three hearts all skipping a beat as eyes as cold as the void bore into him. “However,” he added hastily, “we do have something on the thirteenth that should meet your, ah, requirements.”

There was an awkward pause, and then Ranth leaned in close. His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.

“South facing?”

“South facing,” answered Bozz, trying not to stammer.

“We’ll take it.”

“A wise choice, may I say,” crooned Bozz. “That will be 120 credits, gentlemen, with a 1000 cred deposit.”

“That’s a lot of money for just one room,” commented Centaur dryly.

“Well it is the Honeymoon Suite, sir,” replied Bozz just as levelly. The room was in need of some refurbishment, at quite a cost. Something told the hotel magnet that these two dangerous looking humans were the answer to more than one of his problems. He smiled politely as a handful of small denominations were handed over in exchange for the Suite’s keys.

Ryath Centaur looked down at the pink heart shaped door key in his hand and then towards the back of Tarr Ranth’s head as the turbo-lift doors quietly closed.

“If Lomona ever hears of this...” he muttered to Ranth but the bounty hunter was already shaking his head.

“Not from me,” he said hastily. “Ever.”

“A two thousand credit introduction,” said a melodious voice, the boredom all too clear in its voice. “Acceptable, if a little too light on the pocket.” The large frame of Demicido blocked most of the long window at the far end of the Penthouse Suite, casting a suitably imposing silhouette down the length of the room. “And their vice would be, what, gambling, drugs, pleasures of the flesh…?”

“Information, sir,” answered Majman quietly, nervously eyeing up his ganglords personal staff. One accountant, one scribe, two slave girls whose attentions were currently directed towards self-beautification, four bodyguards, and the Twi’lek’s main enforcer, Harla Ruune. That woman scared him almost as much as the head of the Cartel himself.

“Why is it always information?” ask Demicido listlessly.

The Bajudin started to mutter a reply, but the Twi’lek cut him short.

“It was rhetorical,” snapped Demicido, still staring out the window onto the cityscape below. The evening glow laps were just coming to light and the panoramic view took on a magical quality. Demicido yawned.

“What kind of information?” Even filtered by her black-on-black helmet, Ruune’s voice was harsh, sinister and the Bajudin almost jumped at her question. He could just imagine her scrutinising him and his skin crawled.

“They were looking for someone,” he said quickly. “Another human.”

“Why?” pressed the enforcer, moving round to tower over the trembling lackey.

“Probably a vendetta. You know how these humans are, Harla” commented Demicido. “Still, it might be amusing to watch such a drama play itself out. But then…” he sighed and took the long stemmed drink offered to him by one of his girls. The creature wrapped a lithe tentacled limb around his head, gently stroking his own appendages and he sighed with pleasure.

“I don’t know about vendetta,” whispered Majman into the silence that followed. “All I know is that they were very keen to find their man.” He fingered the expensive little gem in his pocket, and even in his agitated state couldn’t help but run through the creds he’d get for it, with no Cartel percentage cutting in on his profits. “Very keen indeed.”

“And the name?” pressed Ruune’s impatient voice. “You did get the name, little man?”

“Er, yes. They’re looking for someone called Alvarna. Pillot Alvarna.”

“Tasteful,” said Centaur in a voice that clearly meant the opposite. “Now I know where I went wrong with Clara. Not enough…?” He held up the fluffy little gimmick that had been lying on the room’s extremely large and tacky looking vanity dresser and shrugged by way of conclusion. He looked across at the hunched bounty hunter. The man was almost trembling, though he wasn’t sure whether is was with suppressed rage or bursting anticipation. He was surprised at his own nonchalance, but then he wasn’t on the verge of completing a personal crusade. Pillot Alvarna was long gone from Jobol, he was certain, and with him Centaur’s one chance of vindication. He’d hunted Alvarna for eight years off and on. He’d catch up with him again. “And have you seen the control pad for the bed?” he continued. “I’m surprised it doesn’t come with an instruction manual. And a health warning.”

“Are you going to critique the whole damned room, or are you going to help?” growled Ranth.

“Hey,” shot back Centaur as he moved over to the expansive south facing window and the impressive view beyond. “I’m not the dark avenger here.”

The look on Ranth’s face stopped Centaur adding to the jibe; instead he joined the bounty hunter in carefully emptying the contents of the holdall onto the floor.

The temperature of the room dropped with the silence, but then Ranth stood up and with a heavy exhalation of air moved over to the main window. Instead of the darkening city below he stared into his own reflection, and the eyes of his father stared back.

“It’s personal, Centaur,” he said finally. “I wouldn’t expect a mercenary like you to understand.”

“Mercenary?” replied Centaur dryly. “That’s right, I’m just in it for the money.” The sarcasm dripped from his lips, but he doubted Tarr Ranth was even listening to him. “We all have demons, you know. I’d have killed mine if—,” he cut himself short. He’d had Alvarna in his sights, just arm’s length away, when Ranth had got in his way. He’d seen blood then, a berserker’s rage, and Alvarna had slipped through his fingers, again. But Ranth had lost something more.

The rogue Imperial Intelligence officer hadn’t just taken the experienced bounty hunter’s armour and weapons, or left him for dead in a burnt out village. He’d stripped him of his pride, and he’d done it in front of Ryath Centaur. A mercenary that to Ranth’s mind had little understanding of honour, and even less of justice.

“The only thing that connects me to my heritage is my armour. It was my father’s, and his father’s before him,” said Ranth slowly, still staring into the past. “There are men out there, armourers and gunsmiths, who could replace my weapons, fit me a new suit. You know that,” he said pointedly, turning to look Centaur directly in the eyes. They were both customer’s of Grabby’s, and both men had invested thousands of credits in the man’s wares. “But this is part of me. It’s part of what I am. Who I am,” he added quietly. “And I intend to take back what’s mine. If Alvarna gets in the way, then so much the better.”

Ranth’s eyes burned with a zealot’s fury and Centaur turned away to hide his own anger. Just as well that Alvarna wasn’t still on Jobol, thought Centaur, for things would play out very differently.

“Guess this is going to be a short honeymoon then,” said Centaur finally, and his eyes turned to the objects they’d laid out on the floor. “At least it’ll be a blast,” he added, and this time the smile on his face was genuine.

It was an immensely happy Bozz Yoon that called his head of finance into his office. He’d been tempted to involve his security people, but they tended to get a little overzealous when it came to uncivilised guests. Besides, he couldn’t guarantee that some of them weren’t on the Cartel’s payroll, and he didn’t want to give the nod to Demicido before he’d checked his facts.

“You wanted to see me Mister Yoon,” drawled the rather greyish looking alien that walked very respectfully into his office.

Why is it that all accountants, no matter what their species, always look the same? thought Bozz? Even down to their need for artificial eye enhancers. It was one of those universal constants that always made him smile, and he was smiling very broadly.

“Indeed I did. Indeed I did,” he chirped happily. “Pull up a chair and bring up our insurance policy, my boy. Tell me,” he continued after a short pause that barely allowed enough time for the accountant to scan his datapad, “Are there any clauses that prohibit compensation for damage caused through acts of violence?”

“Urm,” began the accountant, unprepared for such a question. “Only if perpetrated by the hotel management, or by Imperial forces. And that’s not going to happen?” he said in a vain attempt at humour.

“Indeed not,” agreed Bozz a little more seriously as he turned towards his comm.-screen. A moment later the image of a rather annoyed Twi’lek appeared on his screen.

“Mister Yoon,” began the ganglord. “You’re timing is a little…inconvenient.”

“I apologise for the intrusion,” Bozz replied smoothly. “I just thought you should know that there were a couple of humans here asking after your Bajudin.”

“I see,” growled the Twi’lek and his blazing red eyes peered at something, or someone, just off screen. “Two humans? Thank you Mister Yoon, I’m grateful for your call.” He continued in a voice that indicated that he was anything but. “Harla my dear, kindly—.”

He didn’t get any further.

The whole building shook, and a trickle of dust flittered down across Bozz’s screen, which had suddenly and abruptly gone blank.

“I think we’ll be refurbishing soon,” said Bozz happily.

A cable shot up through the hole in the floor, and a figure could be seen through the smoke and confusion that was Demicido’s Penthouse lounge. Most of the occupants, those still alive and conscious, were in no position to stop the intruder.

Harla Ruune was a different matter. Her recently acquired black armour had shielded her from the stunning blast that had taken out a sizeable area of the floor, and the filters in her helmet kept her lungs clear of the debilitating smoke.

She liked this armour.

Rolling into a firing position, she unholstered and fired her blaster pistol in one fluid move. One shot was all that she needed, a headshot, but the figure refused to fall. And then she realised her mistake.

There was no heat signature, no heartbeat, nothing that showed on her helmet’s sensors to indicate that this was anything but a decoy.

The window behind her shattered into a million razor-sharp slithers, spinning her round with the force of the explosion. She bled from a dozen wounds where the glass shards had buried themselves between the plates in her armour, but it hadn’t dulled her senses.

Rolling with the force of the blast, she came to her feet, only to have a heavy boot smash into the side of her head. A second kick sent her crashing into the wall behind, and her pistol flying from her grasp.

Tarr Ranth yelled at his adversary, all his rage and frustration finding vent at the impostor before him. He flung his own pistol away and bore down ruthlessly on his dazed opponent.

“Think you’ve got what it takes?” he screamed. “Think a piece of filth like you is worthy enough to wear this?” His fists slammed into the woman, pounding relentlessly, oblivious to the damage his knuckles were taking from the armour. The enforcer tried desperately to block the flurry of blows raining down on her, but the taste of blood drowned her senses and stars danced in front of her eyes. She lashed out blindly, desperate to get some space between her and the madman upon her, and only through instinct did the stun-maul in her glove flare up.

The silhouettes stood out clearly on Centaur’s visor. Three figures staggered through the smoke. All three held a blaster, and each of them was an easy target. Six shots, two each to chest and head, put the gangsters down and the mercenary turned his attention to those left alive in the room.

It wasn’t Ranth’s way. Shooting those who couldn’t defend themselves, but this wasn’t the duelling fields. There was no way that he was going to leave an enemy behind him, no matter how incapacitated. That went double if they were armed.

The glare of a stun charge flashed through the haze and Centaur half saw Ranth stagger back. Beyond him stood an armoured figure – armoured in Ranth’s suit, and there was no clear shot.

“Get down,” yelled Centaur, rifle ready, but the bounty hunter wasn’t listening to him. “Ranth!” he screamed again, but it was too late as he saw the wrist mounted flamer point towards the dazed hunter.

The whoosh of the flames sizzled over Ranth’s head as he dropped to his knees at the last minute, and then he was within Ruune’s reach. Strong arms lashed out and cartilage and bone snapped as he broke the woman’s arm, and severed the fuel line to her short ranged weapon.

She let out a cry of agony as he held her close, his knee stabbing around into the small of her back, but her head jutted down and tore open a gash across his temple. With one last effort Ruune fired up the jetpack, and Centaur’s last sight of the pair was of them still grappling with each other as they were carried out into Quallaleb’s night sky.

The smoke had all but cleared and Centaur scanned the debris. After a moment he walked across the wrecked floor and pulled back the remains of a long table, revealing the torn and bloody body of the Twi’lek beneath.

“Ah, Demicido,” he said ruthlessly. “I understand that Pillot Alvarna is an associate of yours.” He removed his helmet and squatted down next to the battered Cartel boss. Eyes as cold as the void bore down into the ganglords. “Lets talk.”

Bozz Yoon watched contentedly as the builders set about the rebuilding of his top two floors, generously paid for by his insurers. Of course all the work was an inconvenience to his guests, but then every silver lining had a cloud, as his mother used to say.

Demicido had decided that following his narrow brush with death, that a more secure office would be benefiting a man of his stature. Once he was out of hospital the Cartel boss would be commissioning the building of his own fortified home. Not only did that free up the Penthouse, when it was repaired, for a paying guest, but Demicido had handsomely rewarded Bozz for his advanced warning, with the observation that he’d have wished it had come a few seconds earlier.

He’d heard that Harla Ruune had been found, badly beaten, but alive. The enforcer was also in rehab, but had found the time to place an order with an arms merchant. Apparently she needed a new set of armour.

As for the two humans, no one dared ask who they were, or where they went. Or what they’d been doing in the Red Star hotel’s Honeymoon Suite.

Ranth and Rave

2001 short story by Paul Squire

Six years after Episode IV – A New Hope

Histories – Following on from the events of Nine Men Down, this tale shows Tarr Ranth and Ryath Centaur at work, hot on the trail of Pillot Alvarna in search of Ranths lost Mandalorian armour. His first story for almost a year, this Paul Squire story shows Ranth and Ryath in a good working team-up – one that is sure to be repeated.

Cast of Characters

Ryath Centaur

Tarr Ranth

Harla Ruune

Demicido

Majman the Bajudin

Bozz Yoon