Zoraida Cordova - A Crash of Fate

“It never felt right.” He wanted to impress her. He wanted to let her know that there was possibility in his future. “What about you?”

“There’s not much to tell.” Izzy busied herself with the single-sided menu frayed at the corners. She tucked her hair behind her ear, exposing a metal cuff.

“Oh, come on. When we were kids you wanted to be a senator of a planet you called Ata Walpa and give the citizens all-you-can-eat puffed candies and no bedtimes.”

When Izzy laughed, really laughed, her eyes crinkled at the corners and she clutched her stomach. It was only for a moment, but the pride he felt eliciting that kind of joyful reaction from her—well, it was something he was not supposed to feel so quickly, and he wanted to do it again all the same.

As some of the only children running around their community all those years before, they’d been bonded by sheer default. They cared for each other while their families were at work. They made up entire worlds to discover. Part of him missed how easy it was to make plans when there were no ramifications or expectations or possibilities of failure. He wondered if that was why it had been so difficult for him to decide what his life would be after quitting Kat’s farm. Izzy, by the force of her presence, reminded him of the kids they used to be, the kids who used to climb up spires, run across fields, laugh until it hurt.

“I’m a long way from politics,” she said, worrying at her bottom lip.

“What trouble are you getting yourself into?”

“Why do you assume I’m involved in something bad?”

“I’m born and raised here, remember? I can spot a potentially bad deal from a mile away.”

“Is that so?” She pursed her mouth into a challenge he would have given anything to meet. “Let’s have a look around, shall we? That group over there. What do you suppose his deal is?”

Jules leaned in closer to her, and a stray lock of her hair tickled his cheek. “See, I have an unfair advantage here because I happen to know Schelhorn’s crew. They carry wood shipments for the Wooden Wookiee.”

“Fine, who don’t you know then, if you’re so good at reading people?”

Jules spun in his seat and surveyed the tables dotting the hangar like a mess hall. A severe-looking group clad in black lingered at the hangar entrance. Izzy seemed to notice them just when Jules did.

“They’re here to recruit,” Jules said, careful not to point at them. “But anyone could tell that.”

“That explains it,” Izzy murmured.

“Explains what?”

“I got lost and ran into a stormtrooper earlier.”

Jules’s eyes widened, and it dawned on him that was why she was nearly beating down Dok’s door.

“I’ve got nothing to hide,” she said quickly, almost too defensively. “I’ve never seen one in person before. Do they have to look so—”

“Creepy?” they said together.

They were drawing closer, as if their whispers could only carry as far as the bubble around them.

“When they first arrived they stayed put, but they’ve taken—liberties—with their presence.”

“Can they do that?” Izzy asked.

“Doesn’t matter if they can, they still do,” Jules said. “My sister’s been pulling extra hours on Kat’s farm because half her crew picked up and enlisted. I’m surprised any of the First Order would even want to eat here out of fear of being poisoned.”

When Izzy frowned, that tiny worry mark between her brows was accentuated. “Why’s that?”

Cookie still had his back turned to them, smooshing some kind of meat patties with a large spatula. Juices sizzled on the hot grill, and voices rose around them with lively conversations about fuel prices and the chaos on Toledian after a mining accident destroyed its main city. Normally, Jules would have eavesdropped on every bit of information he could about the galaxy, but for the moment Izal Garsea was a thousand worlds in a single person.

Jules cleared his throat. “Cookie doesn’t like to talk about them.”

Hearing his name, the great Artiodac chef stomped around to face them. Cookie’s arms were two sizes—one meaty and long, the other thinner and shorter. How he fit behind that grill comfortably was a mystery to all, but it was where he looked the calmest. He wielded his spatula on his shorter side.

“Cookie doesn’t like to talk about who ?” he asked in heavily accented Basic.

“Cook!” Jules said, not allowing room for explanation. “I brought you a new customer. This is Izzy Garsea—an old friend.”

Cookie peered at the girl, who stuck out her hand. Jules was half certain Cookie was going to slap it away with his spatula, so he was as surprised as anyone around them when the large, gray-skinned hand closed around hers. He muttered a greeting.

“Old friend, huh?” he said. Then his bulbous eyes went to the black-clad group at the door. The officers seemed to stand straighter out of sheer discomfort, their noses tilted to the sky as if trying to get as far from the ground as possible. They did not enter the hangar. “First Order scum. The nerve to show up here. How far in the galaxy do I have to go to get away from them?”

Izzy leaned forward with deceptively doe-like eyes. Jules had seen her use that look when she wanted something from her father. “I might regret asking this, Cookie, but what did they do to you?”

Cookie turned, stomping heavy feet as if he was locked in a box. Jules was briefly worried the chef would destroy his own grill counter in a fit and then fry up steaks on the embers that remained.

“They blew up the last place I worked. Maz Kanata’s castle.” He growled in the back of his throat, a forlorn look in his eyes. “Shame. Such a shame. That’s why I took my show on the road. Lucky for you lot.”

Jules had heard the story so many times from Cookie, he could nearly recite it. The First Order had come to his world, chasing the Resistance that people whispered more and more about these days. Instead of listening to Cookie, Jules watched Izzy’s facial expressions. Her eyes widened and she gasped at the right moments.

“That’s awful,” she told him.

“I make do,” Cookie said, his voice dialing back to conversational. “Business is good. What’ll you be having?”

Izzy didn’t even glance down at the menu again. “Surprise me. I’m sure it’ll be great.”

Cookie seemed to like that. His wide mouth made a strange movement. Jules thought Cookie looked as though he was in pain, but then he realized that was what must pass for a smile.

As their chef milled back to his grill, Jules couldn’t help staring at Izzy.

“What?” she asked.

“I’m just imagining you charming your way around the galaxy.” He’d meant it to be a compliment, and yet there was a flash of sadness on her face. He wanted to take it back. It had only been a matter of time before he said something wrong. But a moment later she shook it off, then turned back to the hangar and pointed at a young Togruta and a human boy with brown skin and hair buzzed close to the scalp.

“What about them?” she said, resuming their game. “Do you know their story?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said thoughtfully. “Those two are a very dangerous sort.”

Izzy tilted her head to the side and made an incredulous face. “Really?”

Jules could hardly keep his laughter back as he said, “Pirates. Will rob old women of their spectacles if they can. I’d wager they’re on the Doklist and everything.”

As if sensing he was being stared at, the Togruta lifted his head and his face broke into a lazy smile that was anything but dangerous. The pair shouted his name.

“You’re trying to trick me, Julen Rakab.”