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Date: <43 (Less than 8 years after the Battle of Yavin)

Nick Fel took a sip of his Fruit Fizz and wished he could drink stim-tea in the cantina without looking conspicuous or, preferably, could down a few Shesharilian vodkas without compromising his ability to complete the mission.

"Isn't this great?" his companion, a slightly younger, slightly taller man by the name of Mike Burn said.

"No," Nick replied disinterestedly, watching a droplet of condensation run a zigzag course down the outside of his glass.

"You don't like being out here in the field, being super-spies, using cool gadgets and doing our bit for the New Republic?"

"Mike, we're in a seedy, quasi-legal bar on a planet nobody's heard of, sober, watching out for a two-bit criminal. The sum total of our gadgets is a pair of military comlinks," Nick hissed. "This is not how heroes of the Rebellion do their bit for the Republic. We fly starfighters."

"But the comlinks are in our wrist-chronos!" Mike said enthusiastically, then muttered, "The place isn't that bad…"

"The band's playing jatz, Mike," Nick said, deadpan. "Jatz!"

"Okay, so they're not the Screaming Jawas but…" Mike trailed off. "He's here."

Nick glanced round casually, pretending to look over at the band of tone-deaf Rodians just starting a particularly bad rendition of 'Mad About Me'. Just past them, a huge bulky alien, completely human in appearance save for his third and fourth arms, was walking into the subterranean cantina. Completely bald and unbelievably ugly, the being's grin gave away a second, unnecessary, clue that he wasn't quite human—his teeth were sharp and there were two rows of them, like those of an Ithorian razor shark.

"Oh," Mike said, having a better vantage point of the entrance than Nick. "It wasn't just a bad holo."

"Booth Seven," Nick said as the beast barged into the area he was watching, the set of dark booths their mark was said to normally use. "Curtain was already closed, there's someone in it already."

"Any idea who?" Mike asked.

"No, they were already in there when we arrived." Nick fixed him with a glare. "Maybe one of our gadgets can see through curtains."

Ten minutes later, as the band finally struggled their way into the middle eight, the goliath slipped out of the booth as stealthily as a seven-foot tall humanoid with four arms could manage and Nick set his glass down on the bar, flipped a few coins after it and stood up. "Time to go."

Followed by Mike, Nick slipped out into the biting midnight cold, up a flight of stone steps and through a narrow passage of bare rock, out onto a promenade of the central trading district, wondering exactly how he'd gotten into this.

Vast quantities of glitterstim were being stolen from shipments heading out of Kessel. The New Republic cared little for Moruth Doole's pocketbook, but these vast quantities of glitterstim were supposedly finding their way to the Empire. Glitterstim was well known for its ability to give a user temporary mind-reading abilities, making it an invaluable interrogation tool. Nick had no doubt that Iceheart could find her own spice or use far nastier techniques, but the New Republic was still, in essence, a rebellion, and it was their job to harass the Empire in any way possible.

The spice was supposedly passing through this planet, Rikskia, and intelligence pointed to one man. Or at least, one alien.

Og Rambis needed picking up, and Colonel Fel and Major Burn were the ones to do it. Apparently.

"There," Mike said, looking around and spotting a dark figure lumbering across a narrow bridge that didn't seem strong enough to support his weight. Headlights from the flow of speeders passing over the bridge cast flashes of illumination across him. Rambis flinched as the beams hit him, and Nick half expected the narcotics dealer to dissolve under the intense light, but he continued on, glancing backwards over his shoulder frequently.

"Edgy, isn't he?"

"Probably a glitbiter himself," Nick replied contemptuously. "C'mon."

The city was constructed as a sprawl of low buildings on either side of a deep canyon. The central trading district was actually built into the walls of the canyon, shops set deep into the rock on various levels, with walkways and rickety lift tubes connecting them. Bridges arced across the gap at seemingly random intervals, each apparently designed by a completely different architect who didn't care if it fitted in or not. Or, Nick thought, perhaps there hadn't been an architect, and a bunch of engineers had just built them where and how they pleased. And maybe the engineers were Kowakian monkey-lizards to boot. The whole thing reminded him of a run-down Cejansij, and, in the absence of sufficient lighting, looked decidedly dangerous. In retrospect, Nick decided while walking across the bridge, considering the stability of some of the bridges and walkways, it was a good thing he wasn't allowed any alcohol.

The spaceport was at the end of the canyon, in a large basin. However, despite vast planes of absolutely nothing on all sides of the basin except this one, the only authorised route into and out of the spaceport was by flying through the canyon, straight through the trading district and under and over all the bridges.

Exactly what spice the nerf-herder who thought that up was high on, Nick didn't know. Perhaps they thought that passing through the trading district would make spacers want to visit the city. Perhaps they thought that rattling windows, high ion counts and the occasional devastating crash made the city more cosmopolitan. Nick didn't know that either.

All Nick did know, as a battered Corellian freighter roared past, was that the whole system made him nervous as a Neimoidian. Not that he wouldn't mind trying it in an X-wing.

Rambis led them on a twisting path across bridges and up and down onto multiple levels of the canyon, but seemed to be heading roughly in the direction of the spaceport. They followed at a casual distance, careful to stay so far back that they'd be lost in the gloom. Rambis' species were not known for their eyesight, and there were very few working glowpanels in this city.

They took different paths to him where possible, in order not to be seen, taking tubes up to higher levels and watching him from above, crossing on different bridges or watching him from the other side of the canyon.

The twentieth or so bridge they crossed was a particularly narrow and dark one, inhabited by a lone individual, leaning against the railings. It could have been anyone up ahead. Some kid with a vibroblade waiting to mug them, or an old man watching starfreighters roar under the bridges. Or one of Og Rambis' associates, who had spotted them the moment they left the bar and was waiting to gun them down.

Nick silently reprimanded himself for his paranoia—whoever it was wouldn't hurt them. As they approached the being, trying their hardest to look like they were minding their own business, Nick could see it was a tall, limber, grey-skinned alien with unhealthy-looking bags under its eyes and tattered, flaking fins projecting from its cheekbones. A native, in the grip of the Rikskian Plague.

That was, of course, the problem. The entire species were carriers, and even the New Republic's medical science couldn't find a way to stop it. It was less of a disease and more a part of their natural life-cycle. It was in their genes. However, in other species it was a disease and a deadly one, hence the planet was quarantined.

While there may not have been a cure for the Rikskians themselves, there was a vaccine that protected other species, such as humans. Anyone wanting to visit the planet had to be vaccinated, allowing them to visit and leave without becoming carriers themselves. Hunter didn't carry any, and local the customs station that vaccinated visitors had been incapacitated by a freighter that clipped a walkway down the canyon and lost control. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on who's perspective you took, as former Imperial officers who had patrolled this sector, Nick and Mike were both vaccinated—the only people onboard Hunter who were.

So now they were in this mess.

All his problems could be traced back to the Imperial Academy. He should've listened to his parents and worked on the ship lot. He'd have been blown to oblivion about six years ago, but he wouldn't be in this place.

A glowpanel helpfully flickered on just ahead of them, activated by a motion sensor they'd just crossed. Handy device, except when you're counting on the absence of glowpanels to keep you safe. Rambis glanced round, desperate to see where the light was coming from, glitterstim driving him to be unusually paranoid. For a brief moment, Nick's eyes locked with his and he knew Rambis was onto them.

"Stang."

The alien spun round with agility that defied his size, long sleeveless coat flaring out as he withdrew two Imperial-issue blaster rifles from somewhere within it, looking like a child's toys in his enormous hands. He squeezed both triggers simultaneously, spitting bolts of energy at a rate which suggested the rifles were heavily modified.

Nick ducked and rolled immediately, decade-old basic combat training springing to life as he pulled a blaster from his battered spacer's jacket. So maybe the Academy wasn't all bad. If you are shot down, the Emperor expects you to survive and return to his service, his instructors had said as they trained him in various forms of combat not related to piloting. Well the Emperor was dead, but the surviving sounded nice.

Wedging himself into one of the tiny crevices leading deeper into the walls of the canyon, Nick squeezed off a shot that went wide and checked Mike's position. His wingman had ducked behind a stack of crates littering the walkway and was firing steadily. Convenient.

His power packs suddenly empty, Rambis turned and fled, bounding away at a speed that contradicted his earlier lumbering.

"C'mon!" Nick shouted, jumping up and launching himself after Rambis. A handful of bridges and jumps between levels later, Nick remember why he was a starfighter pilot and not a sprinting competitor in the Galactic Games. He really needed to get to Hunter's gym more.

It took a few moments to realise that Mike actually wasn't behind him. Sithspit. Where's he gone?

Rambis was pulling ahead, his long legs pushing him at an impressive speed despite his body mass. Nick charged down the bridge and yelped as he hit the edge of the bridge at an odd angle, giving way and sliding off the edge as it crumbled, his body slipping right under the too-high railing. Cursing whichever monkey-lizard had control of the duracrete mixer, he somehow managed to grip the rail, which promptly bent and snapped, sending him plummeting into the abyss, cursing whichever monkey-lizard was given the fusion welder.

His body hit something solid with a thud and a whumph as the air escape his chest and a jolt of pain shot through his side where his blaster dug into him. He clambered around, trying to get a good grip on whatever he'd landed on. Whatever it was, he realised it was moving. And pretty fast.

He managed to open his eyes and groaned. Shops and bridges were rushing by at an alarming speed, and directly below him was the battered hull of a YG-4210 freighter.

"Not good, not good," he muttered, getting a tighter grip on the ship. It was heading in the direction of the spaceport—he'd survive this if he managed to hang on. Of course, he totally lose Rambis but… well, he seemed to recall that these things could travel at around nine hundred kilometres per hour in atmosphere, so the odds were Rambis was nowhere near.

Briefly, Nick wondered exactly what the ship's captain would think when he dropped off the side of his freighter, before he realised he should cross that bridge when he came to it and just hold on.

A flash of red caught his eye as a sporty speeder pulled up next to them with an ease that spoke well of its engine, and the pilot waved to him. Nick blinked a few times, forcing back tears that the wind in his face was causing, and focused on the pilot. It couldn't be…

"Mike?" he shouted over the deafening noise of rushing air and starship engines.

Mike waved some more and edged the speeder closer to the freighter, having to steady it a little bit as the engine wash buffeted him about, and then motioned for Nick to jump.

"Are you crazy?" Nick screamed, knowing Mike wouldn't hear him, but expecting he'd get the message from his stricken expression. His pilot's brain kicked in and he started quickly calculating velocities and trajectories. Actually, I could survive the jump. He motioned for Mike to move the speeder back just a little bit, and let go of the ship's hull, pushing himself off.

He missed.

His fingers grabbed at the edge of the open-top speeder's side, latching firmly onto it. Fortunately for him, the speeder's side was constructed with a little more expertise than the city itself, and the panel held while he clambered up and landed panting in the passenger's seat.

"Never let me do that again," he rasped, "Where'd you go?"

"To steal this speeder."

"Fair enough," Nick said, not wanting to know any more. "What do we do now?"

"Get out of the ship lane," he said, dropping the craft down out of the way of incoming spacecraft to the altitude reserved for speeders. "Then follow that guy!" He twisted the speeder round, cutting across a lane of oncoming traffic, and lined them up with a dark figure racing across a walkway.

"How did you do that?"

"No idea," Mike said, looking as confused as Nick did. "But I say we don't complain."

"Copy," Nick agreed, as Mike plunged the vehicle downwards, landing it roughly on the walkway in Rambis' path. "You don't actually have a licence for these, do you?"

"No, I had an Imperial one, but it was revoked."

"When you defected?" Nick asked, pulling his blaster and jumping out of the speeder.

"Um, no, before that."

Rambis charged towards them, clearly intent on knocking them down and hurdling the speeder. Nick was about ready to fire when Mike charged passed him, hurtling himself at their quarry with a half-enraged, half-terrified cry.

Somehow, Mike managed to drop the beast to the ground, landing in a tangle with Rambis' long cloak. A moment later, Rambis was up again, charging past Nick before he had a chance to react, as Mike lay on the ground clutching his leg.

Nick dashed over, seeing blood dripping from his friend's leg. "What happened?"

"The bastard bit me!"

"Stay here!" Nick spun round and dashed after Rambis, realising that they were almost at the spaceport. The levels above him were starting to taper out and about a hundred meters ahead, the walkway ended in a set of steps, leading down and down to the low warehouses, cantinas, cheap hotels, and other even less reputable establishments of the spaceport.

Nick dashed down the steps and reached the bottom, looking around desperately. Rambis had slipped away.

But no, a large shadow flickered across the dim glowpanel near the entrance to one warehouse and Nick followed cautiously inside, into a dimly lit warehouse full of crates. He leaned down and read the labels on the huge boxes.

Tinned juggerhead, straight from Mon Calamari. Made sense. The Rikskians loved fish, especially since it was said to help fight off the plague. He carefully broke open the container and pushed his hands inside. Row after row of tinned juggerhead, packed in tiny fragments of ice that were slowly starting to melt. Nick figured the transport must've been refrigerated, but this warehouse, cold as it may be, wasn't.

He shook the first pack he came to and it made a dull noise as the fish inside moved about. He peeled the lid back, and sure enough, there were fish. He shook a few more and heard the same noise, then dug down and pulled one out from lower down. He held it up to his ear and shook it, and got a rattling noise back. Grinning like a predator about to pounce his prey, he peeled back the lid and saw a neat row of five black vials. He pulled the lid of one, and, as expected, the wiry substance inside flared briefly and fizzled out.

Glitterstim. Were Nick to ingest the substance as it fizzed on contact with light, he would receive euphoric pleasure and mild telepathic abilities.

NRI would be most pleased.

There was a grunt from round the corner. Nick slowly glanced around and saw Og Rambis, trying to shift one of the crates onto a hovertruck. He crept up behind him, checking his blaster was on stun. He slowly pulled his trigger.

Nothing happened.

With a curse, he realised his blaster must have been damaged when he hit the freighter. The stun setting, at least, didn't work. Worse, Rambis had heard him and turned around.

"Hold it right there," Nick said, making a show of thumbing his blaster to kill and pointing it at Rambis as he turned round, looking somewhat like a Ylesian reek about to charge something.

And charge he did, coming right at Nick, almost close enough that he would have to shoot the thing—which their briefing clearly instructed them not to do unless in dire circumstances. Well this seemed fairly dire to Nick.

Besides, the kill setting might not work either.

Then, the split second before he was about to fire, a blue stun blast arced from his left and dropped Rambis cold.

"About time," Nick said, turning to Mike. "How'd you find us?"

"The comlinks weren't the only gadgets I brought," Mike said with a self-satisfied smirk. Pulling out two large sets of stun-cuffs and securing Rambis, he reached into the alien's coat and pulled out a tiny metal device—a miniature homing beacon. "I put this on him when he bit me. Told you it wasn't a waste of money."

"You considered doing this Intel stuff full time? If they ever let us out of pilot country again, I mean."

"Nah, I'll probably be flying starfighters all my life."

"You make a good super-spy."

"Really?"

Nick just chuckled.