The Captain
The Broken Vow had seen better days.
Then again, Rolcor Wildstar suspected that was true of most things worth keeping.
The old YT-4800 dropped from hyperspace with a shudder that travelled through the deck plating, followed by the familiar groan of machinery being asked to perform several years beyond whatever lifespan its original engineers had promised. Somewhere aft, something rattled loudly enough to earn a glance from Rolcor toward the bulkhead.
He waited.
The rattling stopped.
"Good enough."
Rolcor leaned back in the pilot's chair, one boot braced against the edge of the console as the stars settled into pinpricks beyond the viewport. The battered freighter moved steadily toward its destination, broad aft hull and forward cargo mandibles carrying enough scars, patches, and mismatched plating to tell half a dozen stories to anyone who knew how to read them.
Most of those stories involved blaster fire.
A few involved customs officials.
One particularly expensive section of hull plating involved both.
Rolcor reached across the console and adjusted their approach vector.
There were easier ways to make credits.
Smuggling, bounty hunting, cargo hauling, protection work, salvage—the galaxy was full of people willing to pay someone else to take risks they weren't interested in taking themselves.
Rolcor had done his share.
This job, however, had started with four words that almost always meant trouble.
One little favor.
He should have walked away right there.
Instead, there was now a datapad resting beside him containing a name, a location, and just enough information to make the whole situation suspicious.
Not dangerous.
Suspicious.
There was a difference.
Danger was honest.
A blaster pointed at your chest was danger. A pirate broadcasting threats across an open channel was danger. An Imperial patrol turning toward your ship with weapons hot was definitely danger.
But a person smiling across a table, sliding over a stack of credits, and saying one little favor?
That was how people ended up shot by someone they hadn't even known was involved.
Rolcor picked up the datapad again.
His green eyes moved across the information for what had to be the sixth time.
Nothing had changed.
He gave a quiet grunt and tossed it back onto the console.
At his side, the worn leather of his coat shifted as he leaned forward. The WESTAR-81 resting against his hip—Grudge—was exactly where it belonged. The modified DH-17 hidden beneath his coat was there too.
The Bad Idea.
Rolcor had always appreciated honest names.
Behind him, the Broken Vow hummed with the familiar movement of his crew preparing the ship for arrival. Cargo secured. Weapons checked. Systems watched carefully enough that anything threatening to explode would hopefully have the courtesy of giving them some warning first.
Rolcor trusted them.
That was a short list.
The galaxy had taught him to keep it that way.
His hand moved across the controls, bringing the freighter onto its final approach.
"Alright."
The word carried through the cockpit and into the nearby compartments.
Rolcor stood, rolling one shoulder before reaching for his coat.
"We land. We find our contact. We hear them out."
He paused.
"And when they tell us this is all going to be easy…"
A crooked grin appeared beneath the dark stubble covering his jaw.
"…somebody remind me we've heard that one before."
Rolcor pulled the coat around his shoulders and headed toward the cockpit hatch.
Outside the viewport, their destination grew larger.
Behind him, the Broken Vow carried on toward it with all the grace of an old barfighter walking toward another bad decision.
One little favor.
Rolcor already hated the sound of it.
Valery Noble