A Mother's Touch

DANGEROUS LIASIONS

 A row of well-maintained stock freighters sat on private moorings, away from the public hub. The Exile II was docked in a crowded wing of Nar Shaddaa's starport with tramp freighters, commercial cargo ships, and Republic craft.

From the moment Osha and he descended the ramp of the Exile II, the Stranger walked with a different, swaggering gait, one she remembered from the apothecary on Olega. Disguising his physique, he wore layers of oversized clothes and a woolen coat draped over his muscular arms and shoulders. He appeared much as she remembered him: the fast-talking, over-anxious, bumbling alter ego—Qimir.

"There it is, the Maelstruss," he said, walking toward a YT-1300. "Her owner is Lady Khattarine. She deals in rare antiquities and hard-to-find artifacts." There was high-pitched lilt to his voice and a pronounced speed to how he annunciated his words.

Osha bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. "If we're here for foodstuffs and a generator, why do you need an information broker." Though she was often seen as a lowly meknek, she knew about the hierarchy of the Hutt underworld and its criminal cartels from several unpleasant brushes with smugglers during shore leave. As they maneuvered through the private docking arena, she tried to look tough, lending the belief that she belonged in the unsavory area.

"She's smuggling royalty, Osha, and my contact," the Stranger said. "Let me do all the talking." He walked up to the armed and armored Wookiee guards at the bottom of the freighter's access ramp. After a brief interaction with them, he waved her along behind him as he went inside.

The YT-1300's interior had been heavily modified. The converted crews' quarters looked more like a bodega than a cargo freighter. A Human woman dressed in a white, linen shirt with pronounced shoulder pads and black trousers sat on the far side of the room. She was barely visible amid a haze of incense smoke.

"Lady Khattarine?" the Stranger said, frantically waving his hands to clear the smoke.

"Qimir! Looking not a day older than last I saw you!" She greeted him with a kiss to each cheek. "You really must tell me your secret." Her gray hair was wound into the perfect tail knot atop of her head with not a single stray hair visible. "I was so tickled to get your request."

"It's good to see you again and looking so well." The Stranger inclined his head out of deference. His voice maintained the comical, upbeat lilt as part of his disguise.

Osha smiled demurely and nodded, staying behind him.

"Who's the girl?" Khattarine asked. "Partner or property?"

The Stranger stepped between them, breaking the shadowy broker's calculating eyeline. Osha glared at the woman. "Partner. She's just learning the ropes."

"Too bad. The Hutts are paying top credit for fresh stock right now." She continued to scrutinize Osha like a beast to be bought at auction before turning her attention back to him. "You seem different, Qimir. Settled. Not so blabbery and simpering." She glanced over his shoulder at Osha. "A partner might be a good thing for you. Is she here for the negotiations?"

"No. She's headed back to the ship with our cargo." Eyes narrowed with urgency, the Stranger gestured with his chin in the direction of the public port.

"My pilot can accompany her," Khattarine said. "Been a rash of robberies. The Hutts actually petitioned the Republic for assistance. Can you imagine that? Bringing in Jedi to a damn moon where every body on the surface has a rap sheet! The audacity!"

"The Hutts certainly know how to amuse themselves," the Stranger said, again his eyes translating a warning to Osha to watch her step.

"Thembe!" Khattarine shouted down a passage of the ship. "Thembe, time to make yourself useful." She waited with growing irritation evident in her face. With a hand on her hip, she shouted, "Thembe!"

"Lady Khattarine." A Black man joined them, ducking his head beneath the bulkhead frame to enter the room. Towering above her, he was dressed in black flight pants with a multitude of pockets bulging with tools and a flight coat of brown leather that was at once too big for him and yet, fit in the right places, such as his long, lanky arms and his thick neck. Shoulder-length dreadlocks were twisted in patterned rows across his scalp and bound at the back of his neck with a leather cord, reminding Osha of her mother.

"Where have you been?" Khattarine demanded, her tone caustic,

"Rebalancing the fuel cell lines like you requested," he replied, eyeing Osha and the Stranger with wary ease. A heavy blaster was strapped at his waist and secured down his leg in the style of gunslingers.

"Leave it for now." Returning to her seat, Khattarine took a long drag on a spice cigar and exhaled the smoke. "Soccorans..." She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. "Excellent pilots and mechanics, but not good for much else."

"What happened to your other pilot," the Stranger asked, maneuvering to an upholstered gravity bench.

"The Hutts were displeased with a shipment of Zageri fruits. They went bad in the hold because he took too long delivering them." She leaned forward to pour him and herself a drink from a purple decanter, ignoring Osha. "He went to Tatooine to bet on the pod races, got drunk, and left his cargo to get hot. I let the Hutts render judgement on him." She handed the glass to the Stranger and grinned with dark malevolence. "He didn't survive it." Khattarine raised her glass in a salute, clinked it against his, and sipped from the lip. "Thembe here is a definite upgrade: fast, efficient, and knows the smuggling backroads like the back of his hand. Say hello, Thembe. This is Qimir, a cherished client, and his partner. Ah, I never bothered to ask her name?"

"Mae," the Stranger lied, staring at Osha and imploring her to go along with the ruse.

"Ol'val," the Socorran said. He tugged on a pair of leather gloves and stretched his broad shoulders.

"Thembe, those foodstuffs we picked up on Coruscant are going with Qimir. While we discuss old times and new business, you and Mae can take the shipment and that generator to their ship. Docking bay?"

"Uh, 413," the Stranger said.

"Yes, Lady Khattarine," Thembe whispered. "This way," he said to Osha.

"Thembe," Khattarine called after them. "Uukei." She nodded toward Osha and repeated the word, "Uukei."

"Understood, Lady." Thembe bowed his head and led the way to the rear of the ship.