Chapter Text
Part One
How to Make It on Coruscant
Life is a journey. Or so they say.
To me, though, life has always felt more like a hyperspace ride in the tentacles of a purrgil high on cheap spice.
Wild, yeah. Given a choice, I’d ask for something more comfortable. Perhaps a cargo compartment of a pirate ship where everyone is trying to shoot you and no one speaks Basic, Cheunh, or Sy Bisti. But this is not how life works. What you get is a purrgil ride.
There are, however, plenty of things you can do about it. Give your purrgil better spice, for instance. Or fully natural sedative drops for animals if you’re that kind of a person. As my father used to say, you’ve gotta make do with what you have. And you’ve gotta make it work.
But even if you do not possess any illegal substances or herbal remedies in your pockets, and that purrgil is carrying you to your fate faster than the speed of light…don’t worry, alright? Maybe it will take you to a destination that will turn out to be much more beautiful than anything you could ever imagine for yourself.
So enjoy the ride.
— Eli Vanto, Wildest Space: a Complete Guide to Losing Your Virginity in a Star Destroyer Supply Closet
Of all the adventures Cadet First Class Eli Vanto hoped for, this is the least expected one.
In fact, Eli doubts this one is on the list of adventures he would potentially like to experience during the few years in the Navy that he has left.
He wasn’t, of course, hoping for big things. Like discovering a new civilization or something. He would have been perfectly content with something less epic. Fighting some pirates, maybe. Catching some smugglers, preferably those who smuggle something weird. Maybe freeing some slaves. He’s heard slave trade is still a thing in the Unknown Regions. Yeah, freeing some slaves would be cool.
But with his luck, Eli would settle for a krayt dragon sighting. Just to see what actual, non-metaphorical kraytspit looks like. No krayt dragons? Okay. He’s not picky. A decades-old abandoned pirate ship with piles of pirate garbage will do. For some reason, Eli thinks pirate garbage should include a heap of dried-up spice and a couple of skeletons. Skeletons would be nice. At least you can take a couple of holos to look at when you’re twenty-five, working for your parents and finally have your life together.
Eli Vanto is standing ankles deep in squelching, stinky moss-green mud when Captain Voss Parck scowls. Parck looks at the jungle they are surrounded by. And the dark skies.
And then, in a solemn voice, he says just one word.
“Fuck.”
The only smugglers that have appeared on the Strikefast’s radars—to Eli’s recollection—have already left this planet. Or it’s the wrong planet. Eli’s money is on the latter.
“We could, ahem, still study the nature, sir,” Science Officer Spode, a small, portly man in his forties, suggests.
“Real men don’t study nature,” Parck says. “Real men catch smugglers.”
Spode sighs, as if bidding farewell to whatever promising scientific career he had mapped out for himself. Then he looks at the crew. Then at Parck again. And points at the forest.
“I think our shuttle is that way, sir.”
Parck grits his teeth. It is usually hard for him to admit that someone who possesses a biology degree instead of a six-pack and a manly solemn voice can be right, Eli has noticed.
And so they soldier on through the jungle. Parck’s face is grim, Spode is humming a tune that sounds like psychedelic rock. He also manages to pocket some dirt and a piece of a poisonous-looking vine for the sake of science. No one else seems pleased. Soldiering on, Eli thinks, can be quite tedious. But then, all of a sudden, there is no need for it anymore. Behind the trees, Eli Vanto sees a forest clearing. In the middle of the clearing, there is a hut.
“And what the kriff is this?”
It looks like Captain Parck has exceeded his daily quota of fucks.
“Drawings, sir,” Spode says. “I’m a biologist, not an art critic.”
Inside, the hut is tiny, and smells of wood. Eli catches a waft of something smoky in the air, but he can’t place where exactly it is coming from. He has not seen any bonfires nearby, and the idea of a fireplace here seems preposterous. There is simply no room for it.
Drawings of all sorts cover the walls of the hut, pinned to the wood. Some are stocked on the floor, in a neat pile. Pencil sketches, for the most part.
A tall, gorgeous alien woman with sharp features appears on several of them. Eli can tell she is alien by the brow ridges. Some ensigns and Colonel Barris study the sketches of the woman with unconcealed interest. Especially the full-body version.
There are also sketches depicting some scenes, possibly historical. An older alien man ordering his guards to take away a younger alien man. Same younger man standing alone by the cliff. Dignified posture, unreadable face.
In the corner, Eli spots another portrait. This time, it’s an alien man of an uncertain age. Could be twenty-seven, could be ninety-nine, healthy lifestyle and all. Fine features. High cheekbones, thin lips, shoulder-length hair, broad and muscled shoulders. Eli has a sudden temptation to steal this sketch. It would be an interesting addition to his interstellar spank bank, which has lately been updated with Pantoran porn mostly. Eli doesn’t know what kind of skin color the alien man has but hopes it’s not blue. He needs some variety. In a second, the temptation to steal random sketches of hot aliens is replaced by shame. Eli already hates himself for those thoughts.
To start with, it is fucking disrespectful. Nobody has asked the man if he is okay with being the subject of a horny twenty-year-old’s fantasies. And here’s another thing. Eli doesn’t know if Galactic Republic laws apply to a hitherto undiscovered Unknown Regions planet, but if they do, Parck and the whole crew have already committed trespassing.
This thought makes Eli want to get out of the hut as soon as possible.
“So this is where our smuggler lives,” Parck says.
Colonel Barris glances in the corner.
“There is a crate.”
For a brief moment, Parck ditches his usual unimpressed facade.
“I hope there’s spice in it.”
“No spice,” Barris says. “Just…things. Paper. A piece of some mineral. The kind that doesn’t look like drugs. And there’s something written in some language.”
Eli clears his throat.
“It seems to be a variant of Sy Bysti, sir.”
A trade language only used in the Unknown Regions and on some really, really faraway planets that are beyond the Outer Rim. Just like Eli’s homeworld, Lysatra.
Before this moment, it had been just another useless skill Eli Vanto possessed. If you live on Lysatra and work for your family’s shipping company, you actually need it. In the Navy, you don’t. There are translator droids.
And it just so happens that they have forgotten to take their translator droids. Or didn’t take them because Captain Parck presumed all smugglers in the galaxy spoke Basic.
“It’s mostly tracking information and the name of some company. Red Bype or Redder Bype. Also a bit proclaiming the grandeur and honor of that company.”
“So it’s a smuggler’s den,” Captain Parck declares.
Eli has no idea how he drew that conclusion from a shipping company ad. And a piece of a mineral. And some paper.
“More like an artist’s studio, sir.”
“I don’t see why an artist can’t have a real job,” Parck says.
And right at this moment, his commlink chimes.
“This is Major Wyan, captain. We can’t seem to find the shuttle.”
At first Parck’s facial expression doesn’t change.
“What do you mean, you can’t seem to find it?”
His voice is frighteningly calm.
“I mean that there is no shuttle, sir.”
“I see,” Parck says, in the same voice.
Then he puts down the commlink. And sniffs the air.
Eli understands why.
What seemed like a waft of something smoky mere minutes ago has now become a full-on smell of burning.
With a yelp, one of the ensigns drops a black, long piece of an unknown mineral from the box. The mineral is smoldering.
“I told you not to touch it with your hands, you idiot!” Spode sighs, not appearing to have caught the overall panicky vibe.
In a second, the whole box is on fire.
“Fuck!” Parck yells.
Turns out, the quota can be revoked under special circumstances.
And as they all leave the burning hut in haste, Eli can’t help but tear the portrait of the handsome alien from the wall.
Art is important, he tells himself, art should be protected.
“We have found the shuttle,” Major Wyan says.
He makes it sound as if it is his personal achievement.
“I don’t know which part is stupider.” Parck seems to have returned to his frighteningly calm mode. “That you’ve managed to lose it or that you’ve found it after thirty minutes.”
“Or that there was no one in the shuttle,” Barris chimes in.
Or that we’ve burned someone’s house down, Eli wants to add, but holds his tongue. The pencil sketch is in his chest pocket. He is already feeling guilty about it.
“We were all concentrating on the smugglers, sir,” Wyan says in a voice that is too professional for the situation they have found themselves in.
Parck shoots him a deadly stare.
“Seems you were concentrating so hard they smuggled away the shuttle.”
“Or maybe not,” Barris says, looking at the spot where the shuttle was previously parked.
There is a grey pillar of smoke coming up in the air.
Barris lets out a nervous laugh.
“This artist-smuggler is quite considerate. The shuttle appears to be intact.”
“Great,” Parck says. “We’re leaving this planet right now.”
“But the… artist is still here,” Spode says. “It would be a shame not to meet him. Those aliens on the pictures, they seemed to be belonging to an unknown race, no one has discovered a new race in —”
Parck’s voice turns dangerously low.
“There are no aliens, artists, or smugglers on this planet. They are not here. Absent.”
So his daily quota of heroism is exceeded as well, Eli thinks.
Snide remarks that are only said in Eli Vanto’s head are the thing that helps him get through this. This meaning the whole Navy experience. Or life, in general. Humor is his refuge.
He is already making up a joke or two in his head about their situation. Chased smugglers, ended up on the wrong planet. Burned down someone’s house. Almost lost their shuttle. Would have been more fun if they really did lose it. A great opportunity to put Captain Parck’s tough real man skills to test.
This is Eli’s way to deal with the disappointment that is building up in his chest. He’ll just make fun of the whole thing until the disappointment goes away.
And then he hears a faint rustling of the tree branches.
In a few seconds, it becomes less faint.
The man that emerges from the jungle is tall and has long hair. He is clad in cargo pants and a misshaped garment that could have been a jacket in its previous life.
Eli recognizes the man that very moment. He is blue. Of course he is. Not Pantoran porn blue. Just blue.
“Well,” Eli mutters, “Looks like the artist is present.”
He looks the alien up, and something comes to his mind, a quick thought. It is more of an a guess than anything else. An instinctual choice.
Before Captain Parck has time to say anything, Eli Vanto asks the alien just one question.
“Would Sy Bisti be better?”