*****
Lost Blue
c 2000 Angelia Sparrow
*****
 

It's been five years since Yavin.  Five years since I made the irrevocable
choice.  Five years.

And here I lie, on a bed that isn't mine, while a pretty red-haired slip of
a thing dances for me.  Her eyes are green, like the flamegem between them.
And it's going to be just like Denedra, and Ord Mantell and Lien'ki and all
of the other planets.  She's pretty, but nothing is happening.  I sit up,
and then stand, collecting my vest and boots.  She's disappointed, but a tip
twice what it should be, left on the table, silences her protests.

The bar down the street is typical of spaceport towns like this: a
conglomeration of hundreds of species, with no questions asked.  No
questions asked was one of the old man's conditions.  I didn't ask any, and
I got thumped by meteors, stuck in sweaty armor, shot at, dumped in a
garbage chute, and shot at some more.

I look at the bottom of the half-liter stein of whiskey I ordered.  I can't
have drunk it all this quickly, must have a leak somewhere.  I sit a while
before ordering another.  I'm waiting.  Not sure for what, but I'm waiting.
Part of me still scans the crowd for Chewie, wondering why I'm not seeing
him.  The rest remembers that last trip to Kashyyk, and delivering his body
to his family.  Not that they're there anymore.  Not that Kashyyk is there
any more.

I don't think I can face the night without another drink.  I take this one
more slowly.  Memory is a harder taskmaster than debt ever was.  In life,
you get called on several times to stand in the way of history.  The first
time, I stood, and history ran me over.  I lost a career, my self-respect
and a lot of illusions.  Since then, I learned to stay out of the way, and
this time I think I lost more.

The crockery's empty again, and I stagger back to the ship.  The Falcon's
long gone.  I couldn't fly her alone, and there were too many memories on
her anyway.  The Void Walker is a one-man ship.  I live true to my name now.

I tip the chair back into sleeping position, and lie looking at the ceiling.
  Tomorrow, I'll leave.  I don't know where I'll go, but I know I can't stay
here.  I wonder if I should look for honest work, the Empire's cracking down
everywhere.  And with the organized rebellion so much space dust and
meteorites, it's only gonna get worse.

There's still some leeway out in the Corporate Sector, but it won't be long.
  Not since the Empire destroyed Nal Hutta.  The gangster moon made itself a
target.  Hutts are an extinct race these days, like Wookiees.  That being
the case, I almost wish I'd kept the money I owed Jabba.

Sometimes, I wonder what might have happened if I'd stayed or gone back.
Chewie tried to convince me.  But I was adamant about paying off Jabba and
silenced both my friend and my own conscience.  Then I punched it for
Tatooine.

On nights like this, I wonder what it was like for them.  All those pilots,
all the techs, the Princess.  The pilots, at least, got to go up and fight.
Did the rest just sit there and watch as the fleet of snubs was vaporized,
and the Death Star got closer and closer?  Did any try to evacuate?  If I
try, I can imagine the Princess, with Threepio beside her, watching a tach
readout, and knowing she was living the last minutes of her life, knowing
that her whole dream was dying as well.  I feel sorry for the little
spitfire and wish I could have kissed her just once.  Of all my vast
experience, I've never kissed a princess.

I know where this line of thought is going, but I can't stop it.  The
instrument lights look like X- wing afterburners now, and I remember Luke.
Him in that ugly orange flight suit, furious with me for leaving.  I managed
a pacifying farewell, invoking the Force he believed in.    And I watched
him walk away.  I wish he had taken me up on the offer of a berth on the
Falcon.  I wish I'd knocked him cold, stuffed him in a strong box and loaded
him regardless of whether he wanted to go.  If wishes were snub fighters, I
could send my fleet to destroy that battle-station.

I drop the cube in the player, and watch the scene from the Falcon's
on-board recorder.  Luke, with that silly lightsaber, going up against the
remote.  I watch the holo play to its end, and stare at the lights some
more.  I hope he died quickly, that the ship simply went up in a micronova,
and that he didn't plummet, burning, to crash on the surface of the Death
Star.

I consider running the holo again.  I weigh the pain of seeing his image
with the pain of merely dwelling on might have beens, and drop the cube.  I
watch him, beautiful and awkward, a boy on brink of manhood.  His fair hair,
the desert clothing.  But I find myself missing his eyes.  I know what they
looked like in surprise, in hero-worship, in disgust, in fear, anger and
happiness.  I wish I knew what they looked like half-heavy with sleep,
shining with love or just gazing in wonder on all the places i could have
shown him.  Green lights, white light, amber lights and red, twinkle around
me.  But not a single blue one.  I won't replace my lost blue.