Bid Against the Thunder || ONC 2020

Chapter 2 -Hand of Sorrow

 Monitoring the instrumentation panel, Tabraile flipped the flight toggles in a choreographed sequence and set the shuttle down in an open field. He tapped insistently at a blinking indicator light, but was disappointed when the switch did not go dark like the others. "Are you sure this is the right waypoint?"  

A barrage of beeps and angry whistles assailed him in response. RK-O9 shot out of its charging station and chided him.

"Settle down. I'm not questioning your coordinates. They're dead on, but we're in the middle of nowhere. Twenty clicks from civilization." He stared through the view port into the darkness of Dantooine's wilderness. "What are we doing here?"

RK-O9 gave a curt answer. It was as close to an insult as any droid could manage.

"Classified? I thought we were on the same team." Tabraile glared down at the droid, who hummed a rhythmic reply. "Apology accepted." He heard the access ramp lowering in the rear of the craft. "Come on, Lady Vannre's disembarking without us. Better get down there. We need to check that landing sensor."

Tabraile snatched his gloves from the console and tucked them under his belt. Stumbling over RK-O9 as the distracted mouse droid made its way to the aft of the ship, he listened to its inquiry and shrugged. "I know it's a brand new shuttle. It happens. Just run that diagnostic."

After sliding down the emergency ladder to the cargo bay, Tabraile readjusted his gunbelt. Left to him by his father, the Caelli-Merced heavy blaster was a familiar comfort. The weapons were worn by high-ranking members of a crime syndicate, the Black Bha'lir, who governed Socorro. A symbol of piracy, the blasters were often cause for harassment from law enforcement. Wearing an Imperial uniform and a captain's insignia plaque, Tabraile doubted anyone would challenge him.

Dantooine was a backwater world, uncivilized and feral like the Danteri primitives that made their homes on its surface. He trotted down the ramp into the encroaching darkness. It was well passed dusk, which meant being smothered within a purple veil of shadows, low-hanging clouds, and unwelcoming skies.

"Security lights," Tabraile whispered into the comlink. The shuttle's landing lamps brightened to illuminate a signature patch of the velvet night.

Lady Vannre walked to the edge of the circle, as if repulsed by the brilliance.

It was cold. Cold enough to take his breath away as Tabraile stepped down the ramp into the purple grasslands. He pulled the gloves from his belt and yanked them on, his fingers growing numb. "Lady Vannre, you might want a jacket or a—"

"Remain here with the ship." Her voice was as frigid as the night air.

"Copy that. If you need anything—"

"I won't." She walked away into the darkness toward the outskirts of a small village.

He believed her. During the five-hour flight, Vannre kept to herself in the passenger compartment. There was no mission briefing, not even a lecture on expectations. Her presence did little to alleviate Tabraile's loneliness and everything to raise a sense of alarm. He hoped the recent promotion had not simply elevated him to another level of Imperial whipping boy.

"RK-O, check that forward strut. It's probably nothing more than some packing tape the techs missed—" The distant sound of blaster fire drew his attention to the village and the path Vannre had taken into the shadows. "Get back inside the shuttle. Prep to leave. Something tells me we might need to lift off in a hurry."

Thumbing the restraint from the blaster, Tabraile drew the gun and sprinted into the darkness. Thanks to his father, he was as adept with blasters as he was behind the controls of a fighter, and he had the bravado and confidence to say so. Afraid Vannre had fallen prey to Danteri natives, he scanned the shadows for hostiles. While the primitives lacked any technology, they were dangerously proficient with stone axes and knives. As far as he could tell, she was not armed.