THE VETERAN
Adam Lance Garcia
The war Dexter Jettster had helped start.
A pirate holonet channel, the last bastion of a free press in the Imperial Center, was playing the destruction of the second Death Star on a loop, the shock wave blooming like a flower. Outside they were celebrating, a jubilant roar echoing through the chasms of Coruscant.
The Empire had fallen.
The Galactic Civil War was over.
Dex had heard this song before, played to a different tune but familiar all the same. He heard it when the Nihil had been defeated, when the Republic became the Empire, on countless worlds for countless reasons. The song of hope. Dex knew better; he had learned the hard way that hope was a hollow thing, promising everything and granting nothing. Hope was for the foolish, and tonight the fools were feasting.
Tomorrow, they would wake to empty stomachs.
Dex limped over to the holoprojector and switched off the feed. He had seen enough. Besalisks lived long lives, not as long as some beings, but long enough that Dex wondered if he had lived too long.
He still remembered the shape of the Kamino saberdart, the sharpness of its durasteel embedding prongs. The dried blood that covered its injector needle. He had been so proud, so eager to impress his young friend. He could never have known where it all would lead, that the Republic would fall, that the light of the Jedi would be extinguished, that billions would die. Dex bore the weight of every life lost, but none more so than the boy he had met on Lenahra.
Dex wasn’t sure whether the warrior had died on the front or during the Purge, though he prayed it was the former. He couldn’t bear the thought of his friend being gunned down by his own men. Dex could never forget how the Jedi Temple blazed in the night, how the smoke billowed days after the fires were quenched, how the air tasted of ash, and how soot covered his diner for weeks, no matter how frequently he and Wanda cleaned.
Nearly a thousand years of peace, reduced to dust.
“It’ll be fine, honey, you’ll see,” Wanda had said, reminding him that droids rarely saw beyond their programming.
She broke down three years later.
He lost the diner soon after.
Now, two decades later, his sensory whiskers bristled, the faint scent of smoke wafting through the vents of his cramped Level 2401 apartment. The air was never clean this far down, but Dex knew the smell of fire brought on by laser blasts and what it portended. He tilted his head and listened. Beyond the cries of celebration, he heard the faint echo of blaster rifles. He cursed under his breath. He told himself he should stay put, that it was safer and smarter to remain where he was; that he was tired, so very tired.
But Dex never listened to anyone, especially himself.
He tugged on his old mining jacket, the edges ratty and torn. How long had he had it? Since Nar Shaddaa? Since Athus Klee? So many different worlds, so many stars, they all blurred together. Maybe it was right before Lenahra, before he met the young Jedi Padawan who had lost his way. Dex wondered what the boy would have thought of this day and everything that had preceded it. If the price had been worth the cost. He was practically a pup when Dex last saw him, but his eyes…they had seen too much. Dex winced at the thought. He’d punished himself enough these last twenty-five years.
He stopped at the door and turned back to strap a blaster pistol to his hip. He hated the kriffing thing but needs must. There was no civility in a blaster, which was probably why the Empire loved them so much. They could kill scores without ever needing to look anyone in the eye. The Emperor took that mentality to the extreme, crafting bigger and better blasters until he made a device so nice that he built it twice. The Death Stars. Dex scoffed. He remembered the Starlight Beacon when those in power worked to build things in the hope of creating unity and peace.
How foolish they had been.
Dex punched the control panel with his lower right fist, and his apartment door slid open with a frustrated hiss. He ducked his head so his crest cleared the top of the doorway and stepped out into the hall, which was already bustling with beings reveling in the Empire’s defeat. A resounding cacophony of languages from Basic to Huttese. The faint scent of liquor, primarily refined coolant, wafted across his sensory whiskers as the revelers knocked glasses together in merriment. Dex couldn’t help but smile at the sight. The great thing about Coruscant was that it was a melting pot. Beings from across the galaxy came here for a better life. Biths, Chadra-Fan, and Nazzar all lived in relative harmony with humans, Twi’leks, and Mikkians. That was the thing the Empire never understood with its human-centric policies and personnel. The galaxy was better because of its diversity, not despite it.
“Mister Jettster! Did you hear the news?”
Dex turned to see the young Nautolan who lived down the hall. He smiled broadly, his large black eyes excited and eager, filled with the naïveté of youth.
“Don’t know how I couldn’t, Kamose,” Dex said. He gestured to revelers filling the corridor. “The noise everyone’s making.”
“They’re saying the Emperor was on board the station when the rebels blew it up.”
“The rebels can say whatever they want,” Dex grumbled. “Unless I see a body, I ain’t believin’ anything. Ask yourself, when was the last time anyone saw the Emperor outside a holo?”
Kamose scrunched his face in thought. He didn’t have an answer. “What do you think he was doing there on the station?” he asked instead. “Seems kinda silly to be there if he knew the rebels were coming.”
“The way I remember it, the senator from Naboo played long games. If he was on the Death Star—and I ain’t saying he was—it’s because someone finally outmaneuvered the old monster.”
Kamose nodded in understanding, but Dex could see in the boy’s eyes that he didn’t. “A bunch of us are heading to the Imperial Palace. See what we can get for ourselves. Old man Palpatine’s probably got a lot of stuff we can sell. Maybe we can knock around a stormtrooper or two on the way. Show ’em who’s in charge now.”
Dex noticed the rusted vibroblade sheathed at the boy’s waist. He sighed and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“You want my advice, kid? Stay away from the Imperial Palace. In fact, stay far away from crowds or anyone who talks about knocking around any Imps.”
“But—”
“But nothing.” Dex gripped the Nautolan’s shoulder tighter while his lower right took Kamose’s weapon. The kid meant well but was too young to know how violent a revolution could be. “Go take care of your mother. No matter how you’re feeling tonight, she’s gonna need you more tomorrow.”
“But…you’re goin’ up to celebrate…”
Dex shook his head. “I’m goin’ to see which direction the wind is blowing.”
Kamose firmed his lips, looking as if he was thinking of how he could take his weapon back. But Dex, despite his advanced age, had a reputation and Kamose knew better than to defy his wishes.
The young Nautolan boy nodded, albeit reluctantly. “You think it’s gonna get bad?” he asked as Dex tucked the vibroblade away.
“These things usually do. Head on back to your ma,” Dex replied.
“But Jettster…that blade belongs to my mother…”
“And she’ll get it back tomorrow once I know for certain that you didn’t go and do anything…” Dex hooded his eyes with just enough menace to let Kamose know he was serious. “…foolish.”
With that, Kamose spun around and raced down the hall toward his apartment, tendrils flapping anxiously behind him. Dex allowed himself a satisfied smirk before turning into the crush of revelers so he could make his way to the surface. Someone spilled liquor on him and fumbled their apologies, but Dex waved it off. Let this be the worst thing that happened tonight.
The lifts leading to the upper levels would undoubtedly be shut down. It wouldn’t stop the celebrations from spreading, but it was one of the few ways the Imps could slow them down, and it meant Dex would have to take the long way up.
In another life, Dex had been a smuggler—and many more seedy things in between—and learned much that had kept his days at the diner significantly more interesting than the Great-Works-inspired décor implied.
Coruscant wasn’t just canyons and stratum of durasteel, permacrete, and transparisteel. It was a honeycomb, with networks of tunnels—some intentional, most not—that connected everything from Level 0 to Level 5216 if you knew where to look. And Dex knew better than most.
Making his way to the end of the hall, Dex ducked into the narrow utility closet. Back when this building scraped the starless Coruscanti sky, this closet was used as a charging station for maintenance droids. As droids advanced and the city grew over the centuries, the closet became another useless appendix, a dead end for anyone other than Dexter Jettster. He pulled open a small hidden panel, keyed in an ancient code, and the far wall slid away with a rusty groan, revealing a slanted conduit leading up into the adjoining building. The Aurebesh letter senth was carved into the conduit’s wall, indicating the smuggler’s route. Dex ducked his head down and began his journey to the surface.
The winding path took him through meer-rat-infested halls from the time of the High Republic; through the classiest cantinas of the underworld; and along perilous, wind-whipped, rusted causeways that creaked beneath Dex’s feet and threatened to drop him into the abyss of the forbidden levels. Throughout his sojourn, Dex could hear the cheers of the liberated and the blasterfire of despots.
By the time he was trudging through the CoCo Town sewers, his skin was wet with sweat, his knees ached, and he was breathing heavily. He wasn’t the young smuggler he used to be. Reaching with his upper hands, he shoved aside a durasteel panel and climbed into what remained of his diner’s kitchen.
His heart broke at the sight. Kitchen equipment had been torn free, several windows had been broken, and graffiti covered the walls. It had been years since he closed the doors for the final time. Back then, he thought it would only be temporary until he could get things sorted, but temporary things have a way of becoming permanent. He ran a hand along the dust-covered counter and allowed himself a moment to mourn a dream lost before stepping outside.
The thrum of celebration that had echoed throughout the city was now deafening. Airspeeders flew overhead, dropping confetti. Somewhere a gong was being rung. The sun was beginning to set, leaving the sky a bruised purple. In the distance, the Imperial Palace was alight. Beings filled the streets, shouting, jumping, screaming with joy. Some were banging on impromptu noisemakers, pots, pans, and in one case, a stormtrooper helmet. Dex’s gaze lingered on the helmet, recalling the first time he had seen the clone troopers on the holofeeds from Geonosis and the pride he had felt. The warrior had found his missing planet.
That was before they spread over the galaxy like a virus.
Dex walked with the crowd for several minutes, returning smiles that were offered, embracing those who embraced him. He couldn’t deny it was all very contagious, like being able to finally breathe. For a moment, Dex felt the urge to join fully in the celebrations, to cheer along with the hopeful as they made their way toward Monument Plaza. Maybe it was all finally over; maybe the Emperor was dead; the Republic would be restored.
Maybe Dex’s mistake had finally been corrected.
He pushed that sanguine thought away and began walking against the current of the crowd, his eyes scanning the edges, shifting to rooftops and dark corners where riot troopers could be amassing. He could feel the tension building in the air. On the edge of the joy and relief was a sharpness of anger and malevolence. If the Emperor was really dead, the Imperials would do everything they could to hold on to power; if the Rebellion had indeed won, there was no guarantee that they would rule with benevolence. Dex had seen it before. Power was a death stick, just as addictive and just as lethal.
A high-pitched scream rang in the distance. Towering above most of the people marching through the streets, Dex turned to the sound and saw a pack of humans carrying a stormtrooper over their heads. It was the stormtrooper who was screaming. Dex looked to where they were heading and saw the platform’s edge, the deadly drop beyond. They were going to throw him over.
Dex had no love for the Empire and little compassion for those willing to fight for it, but he knew what was right. Using all four arms, Dex shoved his way through the crowd.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Hey! Put him down!”
But those who caught sight of Dex chose to look away. Who would listen to an old Besalisk when there were tyrants to overthrow? Dex felt a hole open at the bottom of his stomach. He couldn’t let this happen, not after what he had done and everything he had failed to do.
The stormtrooper was begging, voice distorted by his helmet speaker. The rioters ignored his pleas. Several of them were actually smiling. They planted their feet and readied themselves to throw the trooper over the side when a young human girl appeared in front of them, her arms spread wide like a bolo-ball player at the goal line.
“No!”
Her appearance caused the rioters to lose their balance, dropping the stormtrooper unceremoniously to the ground. With no way of egress, the trooper scrambled to the edge as the girl moved between him and the rioters.
“Get outta the way!” one of the rioters barked.
“No,” she repeated, her almond-shaped eyes steeled with purpose. “This is not who we are!”
“I had family on Jedha!” another rioter shouted, unleashing a torrent of grievances from the others. Names of those lost, planets that had been decimated. Decades’ worth of injustices were shouted out in angry, spittle-flecked, expletive-filled cries.
But the girl stood her ground.
“The Empire killed billions in the name of peace and security,” she agreed. “That’s how they ended. It’s not how we’re going to start.”
The man who lost his family on Jedha drew a crate hook from the loop on his coverall leg and stepped forward. He raised the tool over his head, ready to drive its curved blades into the prone trooper’s armor. Maybe he hoped it would be enough to scare the girl away, that the threat of such violence would cow her.
Instead, she met his gaze and dared him to strike.
Dex moved to intercept when the stormtrooper pulled off his helmet. He was a terrified boy, no older than twenty, if that, his face wet with tears.
“Please,” the boy sobbed. “Please, don’t.”
The rioter’s jaw dropped open, and he fell back a step. The Empire had worked so hard to dehumanize its soldiers that it was a shock to see a veritable child beneath the soulless white helmet. The rioter looked from the girl to the stormtrooper and the improvised weapon in his hand. He dropped it to the platform.
“This isn’t who we are,” Dex heard him whisper. He turned away, shaking his head, unable to meet the shocked gaze of his fellow rioters.
The girl knelt and tentatively reached for the boy’s arm. “Are you all right?”
The stormtrooper batted the girl away. “Don’t touch me!” he shouted as he stumbled to his feet. He ran off, helmet in hand, in search of asylum. He knocked past Dex, the harsh scent of sweat and fear lingering against Dex’s sensory whiskers.
A sudden volley of blasterfire echoed up from Monument Plaza. Spinning around, Dex saw the recently toppled statue of Palpatine, the straw that broke the bantha’s back. Just as Dex had feared, Coruscant Security Forces had come out blasters blazing, firing at anyone who crossed their path. Some who weren’t immediately gunned down were running for cover, but many more were throwing pieces of the shattered statue in a misguided attempt to fight back.
It wouldn’t be enough.
Dex felt his lower right hand drift to his blaster but stopped short. The crowd around him also heard the blasterfire, turning the mixture of rioting and celebration into a panicked stampede. The Imps wouldn’t need to fire any more shots to cull the rioters’ numbers; they would do it themselves by simply trampling one another to death. Dex wouldn’t give the Imps the pleasure. Inflating his wattle as far as he could, he barked out a command that boomed over the discord.
“FOLLOW ME!”
Enough of the crowd heard him, stopping several of them in their tracks. Waving his left arms, Dex gestured toward CoCo Town, where the alleys and cross-level passageways would allow everyone to escape the Imps and, maybe, a chance to fight another day. Dex helped several people who stumbled near him, whispering to them places they could hide, forgotten causeways and levels where the security forces would dare not go. He felt a shot wing his shoulder. Besalisk hide was denser than that of many other beings, so Dex only winced in annoyance. Better the blasterfire hit him than any of the people he was helping escape. A few other rioters joined his effort, helping those who fell and carrying those too injured to walk toward safety. One of them was the man with the crate hook. Their eyes met, and they shared an unspoken moment of solidarity; this was who they were.
Dex was the last off the platform, an unconscious decision but one he would have made all the same. He took one last look behind him as the security forces continued to march forward. He saw too many bodies sprawled behind him, the scorch marks of blasterfire evidence of their demise. Dex found it a cold comfort that none had died being trampled underfoot.
Dex thought of Kamose and prayed the boy had indeed stayed with his mother.
He limped his way back toward his diner, new wounds and old joints protesting a night meant for younger people. Night had fallen, and the streets were now mostly empty, with only a few protesters lingering either to nurse their wounds or to aid the fallen. Security force speeders tore high overhead. Dex could hear marching and more blasterfire in the distance and smell the familiar, hateful odor of smoke and ozone. The worst part was that none of this surprised him.
Dex was wheezing by the time he reached his diner. Practically falling inside, he leaned heavily against the entrance as he tried to regain his breath. That was when he heard someone crying, soft and muffled. They were doing their best to hide and failed in the effort. Dex pushed himself from the entrance and took a tentative step forward.
“Who’s there?” he called, underscoring the concern in his voice.
The sobbing stopped with a sharp, panicked breath.
“It’s all right. I ain’t an Imp.” He held up all four of his hands to show he was unarmed. “I came here to hide, too. This place, it used to be mine, so you ain’t trespassing. At least, not the way I see it. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“Then why do you have those?”
Dex stopped short and realized they meant his blaster and Kamose’s vibroblade. He had forgotten he had them. He sighed heavily. “Precaution,” he admitted. “The thing about civil wars is that they don’t end just ’cause one side says so. Right now, one side knows they won, and the other doesn’t believe they lost.”
There was a moment of weighted silence, and Dex worried if he had only made it worse. Then there was the shift of fabric, the sound of boots scraping along dirt and detritus as his guest stood up from behind his old counter. Dex’s small eyes went wide, recognizing the girl from the platform.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Vekin…” she said, almost under her breath. “Vekin Menez.”
“Dexter Jettster,” he said, touching his right hands against his chest and stomach. “I saw you defending that trooper.”
The girl coughed a laugh. “You’re gonna tell me why I shouldn’t have?” she asked as she wiped away her tears with the back of her trembling hand. “I let him go just as the Imperials started shooting.” She scoffed, angry with herself as much as the world. “Can you believe that? Trying to do the right thing…for what? Just so they could turn around and kill us all.”
Dex shook his head. “I want to know why you did,” he said, answering her initial question.
Vekin took a heavy breath. “That used to be the Jedi Temple,” she said, looking beyond the diner’s shattered windows to the Imperial Palace. “The Emperor tried to reshape everything into his image, but he couldn’t reshape that. He made the Temple his palace, tried to shroud it in his darkness, but he couldn’t stop it from being what it always was…a beacon of light.”
“You don’t look old enough to remember the Jedi.”
“I grew up hearing the legends,” she said.
Dex couldn’t help but growl a laugh. “Legends…The Jedi were just as flawed as you or me.”
“You knew Jedi?” Vekin asked in disbelief.
“Many, but only one I called a friend,” he said with a mournful smile.
“Did your friend…?”
Dex shook his head. He wanted to tell her how much he blamed himself; how he had wished he had lied that day; that no matter how much he tried to help after the Purge, it had never been enough to wash away the guilt he felt upon waking and carried with him until he cried himself to sleep.
Instead, he said, “You never really answered my question. Why did you protect that stormtrooper after everything the Empire did?”
“Because the Jedi were like stars,” Vekin said with a shrug. “I’ve never seen a star, but I’ve been told they’re out there. No matter how dark my night gets, they’re still there, burning, making someone’s way lighter.” Her voice caught in her throat; eyes pinched shut. “That’s why I did it…because it’s what a Jedi would do.”
Dex’s gaze dropped to the ground. He knew Vekin was right. A tiny spark of something lit in Dex’s chest, but he wouldn’t let it become a flame. Not yet. Outside, the voice of the Emperor’s grand vizier Mas Amedda boomed over loudspeakers, reminding citizens of the curfew and that the Empire still reigned.
“Do you think they’ll ever come back?” Vekin whispered. “The Jedi?”
Dex’s wattle deflated as he let out a heavy sigh. He’d heard rumors that a Jedi had blown up the first Death Star, but this far from the fighting details were scant, and Dex never trusted information he didn’t learn firsthand.
“I don’t know,” he said aloud, shrugging all four of his shoulders. It wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear, but it was the only one Dex could offer. “You should get home, kid, before the curfew.” He began walking toward the kitchen, where the entrance to the smugglers’ route awaited. “And you ought to stay there because tomorrow is gonna be worse.”
Vekin looked away, knowing he was right. Dex sighed and shook his head. She was too full of hope, too foolish to understand how the galaxy worked.
Dex’s knees popped as he lifted the panel leading to the CoCo Town sewers. He stopped to look back at the girl standing in his doorway, staring at the murky sky. She’d risked her life to protect an enemy because she believed light could shine through the darkness. The sort of thing that boy he had met on Lenahra would have done, an attitude for which the warrior had undoubtedly died.
If this was where Dex had helped extinguish the light of the Jedi, then it only seemed fitting that this could be where their fire could begin to burn again.
“There is truth in legends,” he said.
Vekin turned to look at him, curious.
“This here’s a route that crosses the entire city,” he said, nodding to the smugglers’ route, “leading to places the Imps would never know to look for. Could make a difference in the days ahead. I could show it to you if you’d like.”
He told himself the glimmer in her eyes was just a reflection of the neon signs, but it burned all the same. “I think I would like that,” she grinned.
“It’s a lot of walking,” he warned, “but while we do, I’ll tell you about my friend, Obi-Wan.”