• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

The puzzled look of amazement on Farl’s face slackened into an expressionless mask. “I see.”

Corran smiled. “You needn’t think of it as stolen, since the government that would have demanded payment from you is not legitimate.”

A wry grin twisted the lower half of Farl’s face. “Dealing with pirates and smugglers holds no difficulty for us. The transparisteel and other modern conveniences you see here were not made here, so we have traded with outsiders before.”

“If that’s not the problem, what is?”

Farl frowned. “We’ve always given something in exchange for what we took. In some cases we have hidden people from their enemies. The fish we raise here are considered delicacies on some worlds and are extinct on others, so some collectors favor them. The problem is that a billion credits would buy all of them, and most of this colony, too. We will not take charity, but we cannot offer you value for what you have given us.”

“I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement. You mentioned mineral springs as part of your treatment for the chills before, right?”

“Yes, but I don’t see—”

Corran held a hand up and looked at Ooryl. “Flying in here didn’t I tell you I’d give half a billion credits for a hot bath and a good fish dinner?”

The Gand hesitated, then nodded extravagantly. “Indeed, Qrygg remembers your using those very words. And Qrygg concurred.”

“There you have it, Farl Cort.” Corran opened his hands. “A hot bath and a hot fish for each of us and we’re even.”

The colonial administrator smiled. “I’ll see to it that you get your money’s worth.”

“Liberating the bacta from Iceheart has already done that.” Corran laughed aloud. “Getting to sit in a hot bath and think about how furious she’ll be will make the experience just that much more perfect.”

The moment Tycho Celchu’s X-wing reverted to realspace, a chill ran through him. He had been to Alderaan—to its Graveyard—before. He had seen and flown through the stony disk that was all that remained of the world on which he had been born and had grown up. His last vision of the world as a whole, cohesive ball had come when he shipped out to the Imperial Military Academy and the pride that marked that memory now mocked him.

He had returned to Alderaan before, but he had not yet Returned. Among the survivors of Alderaan, Returning had taken on a reverence and importance unlike any other tradition he could recall. It seemed as if all the mental and emotional energy that had been funneled into the planet’s pacificistic philosophy had been shifted and focused on a person’s Return. Some people even described their Return as a watershed experience, one that changed their lives completely and profoundly, opening them to the greater truth of the universe.

Those claims had been made by people wearing beatific expressions. They talked about what should be done on a Return. They specified what should be said, what should be offered, and what should be expected in return. They ritualized what Tycho felt should be a distinctly individualized experience, then encouraged each other to share their experiences so they could mutually reinforce their beliefs in the healing nature of the Return.

The Return had become something of an industry to service the Alderaanian community, and Tycho had not found himself immune to its lures. After guiding several bacta tankers to Coruscant, Tycho had set down on the planet and spent some time with a few Alderaanian friends. As a result of their conversations, he had decided to make his own Return, and then went out and proceeded to buy all the things he would need to do it correctly.

Following the dictates of others rankled him, but he could not deny that inside he felt a need to do some of the things bound up in a Return. He purchased a Memorial Capsule, then bought little gifts for all of his dead. He picked out things he knew they would have enjoyed—romantic holodramas for his grandmother and sisters, wine for his father, flower bulbs for his mother, and a datacard of the latest recipes for his mother’s father—the gourmet. For