Date: Mon, 07 Apr 1997 16:18:53 -0500
From: Pablo and Julie Hidalgo <phidalgo@CYBERSPC.MB.CA>
Subject: [SW-RPG] FLUFF: Memories of Fire
Sender: Star Wars Role Playing Game Discussion Group <SW-RPG@LISTSERV.AOL.COM>
To: SW-RPG@LISTSERV.AOL.COM
Reply-to: phidalgo@cyberspc.mb.ca
Message-id: <334964BC.3A9@cyberspc.mb.ca>
Organization: Springfield Isotopes
MIME-version: 1.0
Content-type: text/plain; charset=iso-8859-1
Content-transfer-encoding: 8bit

Just going through my hard-drive, and found a tale I thought I would
share parts of. It's not complete, but who knows? Comments would be
appreciated.


PROLOGUE

Memory itself is but a fire of molecular chains that, in moments of
clarity, paints pictures that have a ghostly reality.

But delving into memory is as dangerous as delving into inferno, for
descent into memory will inevitably consume and destroy one.

        -- Ikabuur Senthathis,
           Ithorian scholar.



        She remembered when she could fit comfortably in a drained mining tub,
doubled over with room to spare. Now, she crouched behind some roomy
pressure crates, and could feel the pull of her muscled back. Was she
getting that old? Those mining tubs seemed ages ago.

        The footsteps grew louder, and she pulled her blaster rifle closer to
her. There was a slight clink of metal against metal as the rifle
brushed against her buckle, and for the first time in weeks she wished
she had a palm-stinger rather than this cumbersome weapon. Live and
learn, her mind prodded.

        She listened carefully, straining to hear the words spoken outside the
door. They were a stereophonic mix of highs and lows, sounds
reverberating off each other in a strange, lyrical formation. Although
it sounded like a crowd, she guessed it was only two Ithorians muttering
to each other in their strange double-mouthed dialect. She didn’t
recognize the words, attributing it to some regional tongue.

        She exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. Not
Imperials. She stood up from behind the crate. Her clothes were still
damp from the rain outside, and carried the effluvium of industry.

        She looked around the dark supply room, eventually prying open the
pressure crate that had served as her cover. Inside were only a few
chilled solvents, cleaning agents that would dissipate at room
temperature. She pulled several bulbs out, and placed the rifle in the
crate, disassembling the stalk. Ord Mantell may be a rough and tumble
place, but blaster rifles were not everyday side-arms. Unless you were
Imperial.

        Or worse, carring an Imperial Peace-Keeping Certificate. That would
mean you were a bounty hunter.

        The thought repulsed her. It was a much-maligned profession, but she
hated it with the very core of her being. It wasn’t just principle. It
was survival. And so, she mused, do skifflins hate shrike-wolves? She
dismissed the thoughts. She had better things to do than philosophize on
predator-prey relationships.

        In the corner of the supply closet, behind some spare illumination
rods, was a reflection board used to spread out lighting in compact
rooms. She propped it up against the wall, and took a quick look at
herself.

        She had been called beautiful more than once. But now, she looked like
a rain-soaked cat. She tried straightening her tusselled black hair,
shaking free the droplets of acid rain. As she finger-combed the hair
behind her ears, she stopped to look at the gray streaks at her temples.
Only 22 standard years, she thought. Some trophies!

        She straightened her tunic, hoping it would dry soon enough. Reaching
down to her boot, she secured the knife hidden there. Not a vibroblade,
just extruded polymers. Not a chance risking any weapons detectors.

        Finally, she straightened up, looked her reflection straight in those
green eyes, and whispered, “Let’s join us a Rebellion.”