Free Tales from the New Republic by Peter Schweighofer Page A

would-be Jedi impersonator who had carelessly sliced off one of his own major limbs. Sometimes mishandled tools could be very dangerous.
    Something to keep in mind.
    The small man Moranda had pointed out heaved his travel bag into the transport’s cargo area and then climbed into the passenger compartment, a vague sense of discomfort evident in the twitchiness of his movements. “He’s getting aboard,” Bel Iblis announced, lowering his macrobinoculars as a fresh twinge of guilt tugged at him. “Though what he’s going to think when he gets to Raykel—”
    “Keep watching the transport,” Moranda interrupted him, her voice sounding distracted. “Make sure he’s still aboard when it leaves. Anyway, what’s the problem? He ought to be relieved when he finds out his father wasn’t actually in any accident.”
    “I suppose so,” Bel Iblis said, throwing a scowl at her. Seated at the apartment’s battered dining table, frowning at a datapad, she was unfortunately oblivious to scowls at the moment. “On the other hand, this wild skipper hunt isn’t going to come cheap for him.”
    “Life never has been fair,” she said. “If you’re worried about it, have your Rebel friends reimburse him.”
    Bel Iblis snorted. “The Rebellion is hardly a bottomless money pit—”
    “The transport, Garm,” she said, jabbing a finger toward the window without looking up. “Watch the transport.”
    Swallowing back a curse, Bel Iblis turned to the window and raised the macrobinoculars again. Over the past few days he’d managed to force back the sharp agony of his family’s deaths into a duller ache, a quiet pain that colored every waking minute but which at least left him able to function reasonably well.
    But “reasonably well” didn’t mean there wasn’t an edge of impatience and bitterness to his attitude, an edge this casually arrogant little thief forever seemed to be stepping on. It was a constant battle to keep from blowing up in her face over what under normal circumstances he would have shrugged off as minor personality conflicts.
    But it was an effort he had to make. An effort he forced himself to make. He needed her help to retrieve that datapack, to get this vital information that could conceivably make or break the Rebellion. And besides, his black mood wasn’t her fault.
    Three blocks away, the transport shuddered into motion and lumbered its way down the street. “There it goes,” he announced to Moranda, turning back to her again. “And he didn’t get off.”
    “Good,” she said, setting aside her datapad with an air of satisfaction, taking a draw on her cigarra, and pulling out her comlink. “He wouldn’t have been much use to your friend Isard anyway, but this should give her people something to do while we stir the kettle a bit.”
    “Which means what?”
    “Which means it’s time to give the law a call,” she said. “I’ve pulled a likely name off your pal Arkos’s private list of incorruptible enforcement types. Let’s hope he’s also got the smarts to jump the direction we want him to.”
    She keyed the comlink and held it up. There was a moment’s pause—“Nyroska,” a crisp voice came from the instrument.
    “Hello, Colonel,” Moranda said. “You don’t know me, but I have a small problem here and I thought you might be able to help.”
    Nyroska’s sigh was just barely audible. “If you’ll call your local Security office—”
    “I have in my possession a very valuable and politically explosive item,” Moranda interrupted him. “An item the Imperial Intelligence officer currently nosing around town very badly wants.”
    There was the briefest pause. “You’re misinformed,” Nyroska said. “There are no Imperial Intelligence agents on Darkknell.”
    “Let’s not play games, Colonel,” Moranda said, putting some huffiness into her voice. “You and I both know she’s here. Frankly, she’s pretty hard not to spot, what with that blond muscle-type and his