The Value of Beasts

Zaalbar did not want to die. But more than that he did not want to be a slave, he did not want to lose what little honor and integrity he had left. A madclaw he may have been, an exile he may have been, but a slave he would not be. He would not allow it. He would escape – or he would die.

That was why he ran. As soon as he had looked into his father’s eyes and seen the condemnation, the utter disappointment behind them he had mentally made his preparations. The words that had followed, those of tradition, had been unnecessary. Zaalbar had known his fate from the very moment that he had lifted his paw against his brother. But he had been so filled with rage, so full of madness; he had not given thought to the consequences.

Would he have done it again if given the chance? Zaalbar was unsure. What good was he now to his people? He was an outcast, pursued by the hunters of the sky – the demons from beyond.

No, he thought to himself grimly. They are far worse than the demons of old. Far worse than those told of in legends meant to frighten young children into obedience. Be good, said Wookiee mothers to their children, or the demons from the night will take you away. For ages had such tales been told, so long that no one quite remembered when they began. The tales of scaled lizardfolk from the sky, taking Wookiees away to who-knows-where.

But no, these people were far worse. They had come under the guise of friendship, had offered to the people of Rwookrrorro new tools and weapons by which to make their lives easier. They had promised peace and trade. All they asked was the right to settle nearby, and to make use of the forests for their resources. And Zaalbar’s father had agreed.

But it had all been a trap, a cloak of deception by which to shroud the truth. Zaalbar, like many others, had been unaware at first, had not made the connection between the arrival of the sky peoples and the disappearances of hunters from the village. But gradually he, among others, had begun to suspect the role played by outsiders. And curious as he was, he had not known better than to look into it. He’d followed one of the people who called themselves humans and followed him away from the village, determined to discover what really was going on.

What he had uncovered he wished now to have forgotten. His brother, Chuundar, his second brother and the eldest now that Lowarroo was gone, dealing with the human privately, secretly. With all his heart, Zaalbar had hoped it had been a mistake – it had been other than it appeared, but as soon as he’d seen Chuundar direct two of the Czerka enforcers to bring forward a young Wookiee warrior in cuffs he had known he’d been betrayed.

And, as the elder wooks say, the rest was history.

Now his life was forfeit. As the brother of Chuundar, a Wookiee royal, he had been untouchable to the slavers in spite of the vulnerability of his young age, having only ten years past earned his manhood. But now that his title as prince had been stripped and his village had rejected him he was even more of a target than the common Wookiee. No one would care if he disappeared. No one would care if he was never seen again.

Zaalbar had known that and as soon as he’d left Rwookrrorro he’d fled into the Shadowlands. It was a dangerous place – to live there alone would be suicide. But Zaalbar had reminded himself that all he had left in life was his freedom and if he were to lose that, then survival would be meaningless. Better to die alone and afraid in the Shadowlands than to live life without honor as a slave. So had he been taught.

But he’d underestimated the reach of the slavers. Even here, in the dark land, they follow him. At first he had been unaware of their presence and had allowed himself rest. But one night he’d heard them talking, laughing from behind him. His father had encouraged him, at his brother’s advisement, to learn the language of the outsiders though he could not speak it. For once, the machinations of Chuundar had turned out for the better and Zaalbar now understood that the close encounter had not been a coincidence. The slavers had been talking about him.

Knowing that he’d picked up his pace. To his dismay, he’d discovered the slavers were faster and more than ready for a chase. Though Zaalbar had the benefit of knowing the terrain he was tired and hungry. The hunters, based on what he knew of them, had plenty of supplies to last them as well as far better weapons. All Zaalbar had was his bowcaster and from weeks of living in the Shadowlands he’d emptied most of his bolts onto the local wildlife.

After fleeing his pursuers for two days Zaalbar had come to the realization it was useless. He had to face them and bring an end to this chase, one way or the other. He would kill them or they him. It was the only way.

The village of Warkyyrruk was quiet.

It was unusual, Hanharr knew, for at one time it had been his home. He had been born here, raised here, taught how to hunt by the warriors who lived here. And he had been exiled, dishonored by his “murder” of Tarchitvuk, who’d had the blatant stupidity to steal the claim of his hunt. But it mattered little. This place had been his home and he’d been rejected, only to return to save it.

The blood still stained the wood around him, though days had passed. The stench disgusted him. He held no bloodlust, no taste for blood. But their deaths had been necessary, in order to save them. They had been too weak, too docile to pose a formidable resistance to the corruption that had come from above. They had ignored Hanharr’s warnings, had ignored the signs of trouble. He had told them that their lack of conviction, their fear of tainting their so-called honor would cost them, that it would make them easy prey.

Now his hand had been forced. He’d heard from listening to Wookiees hunters in the Shadowlands, the conspirators who aided and abetted the foul invaders, that Warkyyrruk had been targeted. Knowing then what was necessary Hanharr had left the place of his exile and returned to the surface above, though it would instantly mark him as a target. But as he had expected his people’s defenses had been lax and it had been easy for him to slip in.

Then he’d begun the killing. The children had been the first, for they were the most vulnerable – though at no fault of their own. It was a shame, Hanharr had thought as he smothered them in their sleep, that he must kill them. Unlike their parents they had not chosen to be weak, to favor tranquility over strength. But weak they were and they would not be allowed the time to grow strong.

Killing the adults had been more difficult for though weak in spirit they had possessed the strength of body. Many had awoken and resisted, forcing Hanharr to resort to his ryyk blades for finishing the job. It had been difficult and he had sustained several wounds of his own, which still healed, but it had been worth it. Perhaps in the further Shadowlands beyond, in the life after this one, his people would thank him, would realize what he had sacrificed for them.

Now came the little hairless ones themselves, their weak, frail bodies strengthened by their steel skin and torch weapons. Hanharr was glad at the very least they had showed his people how to construct similar weapons, and he brushed the side of his bowcaster, itself the result of the blending of native Wookiee technologies with the weapons of the sky peoples. Now he would be able to turn his weapons on them, to sow fear in their hearts.

He listened as he heard them approach slowly. Yes… they were unaware of what he had done, unaware that the village they sought to make a prize of had already been cleaned out. Hanharr had burnt the bodies in a great funeral pyre, he felt even the weakling wooks of this village deserved that much, and the houses would be empty. Perhaps that would cause the hunters dismay, perhaps even fear.

But best of all they were unaware that he laid waiting for them and that he was prepared.

He heard one of his traps go off, a carefully weakened section of the walkway that gave way under the weight of the brash outsiders cluttered together. He heard the scream as his first victim fell into the depths of the forest. And he, Hanharr, sharpened his blades.

Hidden, lying in the grass, Zaalbar watched as the slavers approached. Laid out before him he had his bowcaster and three bolts. Hopefully that would be enough.

There were four, so he’d have to take out the last one personally. Two were humans, one was some kind of species with spikes all over its face, and one had strange tendrils extending from the back of her head. They were talking, but quietly and Zaalbar couldn’t hear them. He’d guessed earlier they’d caught on to their being detected and had taken a more stealthy approach. Zaalbar had still known they were following him but it had been increasingly difficult to track their exact movements.

Now they moved into range. Zaalbar closed on eye as he focused on the target, moving the end of his bowcaster slightly ahead of his target – one of the humans. Then, just as the human began to step into his crosshairs, he pressed on the trigger and the bow let loose, sending the bolt screaming forward in a flash of green, hitting the human squarely in the chest. He fell backwards, dead.

Immediately one of the other hunters, the spike-face, turned to his companion to determine whether he was alive or not. The others leapt for cover, of which there was much in the depths of the Shadowlands. As they did so Zaalbar rushed to pull back the bow mechanism and load it with another bolt. It snapped into place and he swung the bowcaster around, taking aim at the spike-face, the bolt slamming into the slaver’s back.

Zaalbar loaded his last bolt. Now the remaining two hunters had found cover and were yelling at one another in one language or the other. Other than the Basic he had learned Zaalbar thought he heard one or two other languages, perhaps profanity. Not dwelling on this much he checked to see if any of the hunters was exposed. Then he heard the squeal of a stun bolt over his head and he rolled to the side, putting him behind a strategically placed stump.

From behind there Zaalbar counted to three and poked around again, checking for targets. He could not waste his last bolt. A glimmer of movement, a head poking its way up. The tendril lady! With little thought Zaalbar took aim and fired. The green bolt flared forward, directly towards the tendril-headed woman – who then ducked beneath her cover again. The bolt screamed harmlessly overhead.

Zaalbar roared a curse and slung his bowcaster over his shoulder. Still growling he rushed through the foliage around him, ducking under the massive roots of a wroshyr tree and flung himself at the slaver nearest to him – the remaining human. He hit the human, sending him sprawling backwards as Zaalbar himself hit the ground. He was beginning to raise himself up off the ground when suddenly something thudded into him, lunging him backwards.

All of a sudden Zaalbar felt himself tangled, his arms caught in a noose of fine wires, growing tighter around him with each second. Roaring he tried to tear it off of him, tried to remove the shackles the slavers had thrown at him. But before he could manage it he felt his limbs go numb and a shock go through his body. And then another. And then another.

He hit the ground. He couldn’t move. His gaze floated upwards and saw the tendril lady looming over him, in her left hand the stun blaster she’d been carrying with her and in her right the some other sort of projectile weapon, much larger, and with a casket in the back filled with bundled packages. Nets.

“Gotcha,” she said, smiling cruelly. Then she shot him again.

Several minutes had passed since the first slaver stepped into Hanharr’s arena. They still were coming. Hanharr had expected as much. The traps might kill the first few into the village but the outsiders were smart and even strong – far stronger than they appeared to be. By now Hanharr suspected they were very careful as to where they were walking, checking for potential traps everywhere.

Which had been Hanharr’s intention. Killing them was of course the goal, but demoralizing them, slowing them, tiring them was an excellent means to the end. The weaker they were, the more frightened, the better for when he confronted them. He savored the coming opportunity – to slaughter the invaders who claimed his flesh as theirs to do with as they pleased.

He could hear them outside now, walking around, cursing, yelling as they burst open the doors of huts and found no Wookiees, dead or alive. They clearly were confused, angry, and afraid. All the better for the coming slaughter.

Then Hanharr heard the footsteps growing closer. They were cautious, but not too cautious, as though the individual was unnerved. Was there a Wookiee behind the door? He couldn’t tell. Perhaps this hut was abandoned just like all the other ones. But it wasn’t and behind the door Hanharr slid up against the wall beside the door, holding his ryyk blades ready for the killing blow.

He waited patiently as they opened the door. One… two… and then he struck. With a roar he swung his left hand upwards, into the slaver’s belly and felt the satisfying gush of blood sprout from the body on to his arm as the ryyk blade penetrated and slit open the hunter’s flesh. One down. How many more to go? Hanharr didn’t know and he didn’t care.

In an instant the slavers were already reacting but Hanharr was faster. With his right arm he stabbed at the slaver who had been right behind the first. There was a crackle of bone as the blade punched into the man’s spine and through it. Quickly Hanharr withdrew the blade as the man cried out in pain and hit the wooden floor. Hanharr growled with triumph and turned his attention to the remaining slavers. There were ten, all running backwards.

Hanharr was neither displeased nor surprised that his enemies fell back. He had them where he wanted them – surprised and scattered. He gave a roar and rushed forward.

Suddenly there was a bang and a flash. Hanharr reeled backwards, reflexively covering his eyes as he did so. He struggled to stay standing as his head swam and lights flickered from behind his eyelids. He opened his eyes, only to become even more bewildered as he found himself unable to focus. Growling with rage he rushed forward, tripping as he went but continuing to surge towards his enemies.

He felt something hit him, surging his body with a painful, tingling feeling. His limbs grew stiff. But still he went on. He would not let these hunters from beyond conquer him. He was a Wookiee warrior and his spirit would remain unbroken. Gradually his vision returned though his mobility did not and he leapt at his attackers, hidden behind a makeshift wall of timber from the village.

Limply, slower than he would have liked, he lifted his arms and swung his ryyk blades. He missed with his left arm but struck with his right, cutting into the neck of one slaver and swiping through. He failed to sever the invader’s head but the wound, he imagined, watching as the alien uselessly tried to hold his blood in, would be enough to do the job.

He spun, swinging again. But the slavers were faster, quicker. Hanharr’s reflexes were dimmed and he felt more bolts hit him, again and again. He slowed, grew dizzy, and felt his reflexes fade from him. Uselessly he bellowed in anger, charging at his enemies. They easily evaded him, continuing to hit him with their weapons.
And finally, unable to fight any longer, unable even to stand, Hanharr hit the ground and all went dark.

“I’m telling you I don’t feel comfortable with what I’m seeing.”

Stun cuffs around his wrists Zaalbar was thrust forward, prodded by the two slavers that flanked him. In front of him stood an officer in a Czerka uniform, the yellow and black a telltale sign of his allegiances. Zaalbar cursed him silently and his brother, for the foul alliance he had made with these invaders. Were it not for Chuundar’s complacency Czerka might never have corrupted Kashyyyk or at the very least have reached much farther than Rwookrrorro. But from what Zaalbar had heard Czerka was everywhere now and no village was beyond its reach.

Also in front of him stood a male of a species Zaalbar was not familiar with, who appeared to be in a conversation with the Czerka officer. He, like Zaalbar, was covered in fur, though it was thinner and softer in appearance than the rough mane of a Wookiee. His ears were pointed upwards, and his jaw jutted outwards from his face. To Zaalbar he was just as alien as all the other invaders and the simple fact that he possessed fur didn’t make Zaalbar feel any more friendly or sympathetic.

“I assure you, Mr. Vri’nel, everything is in order,” the Czerka officer said. “We have done extensive studies on the native life and have determined the local species are beneath primitive status.”

“Beneath primitive?” the furred alien asked inquisitively. “What is that precisely supposed to mean?”

“It means,” the Czerka officer replied smoothly, “that though the native lifeforms might appear to portray some low level of sentience or communicative ability this is an illusion, fabricated by misguided attempts to anthromorphize them. In reality the Wookiees are no more intelligent or capable of rational thought than a rancor.”

“What about the evidence of tool making?” the furred alien persisted. “Or advanced social networks? I have—”

“Excuse me, Mr. Vri’nel sir, but I have a bounty to collect,” the tendril woman who’d captured Zaalbar interrupted coldly. The Czerka officer nodded.

“Ah, yes, I’m sorry Mr. Vri’nel but could we continue this discussion at a later time? I’d be happy to hear what you have to say, though I assure you, any worries the Galactic Committee for Sentient Rights has over Czerka Corporation’s affairs are misplaced.”

“I hope so, for your sake,” the furred alien snapped, his fur rippling. That startled Zaalbar a little, taking him out of his passive state. He’d never seen a creature – offworld or not – do that before. “We do not take kindly to being made fools of.”

With that he bristled again and turned towards the nearby building, leaving Zaalbar behind with his captors. After a moment the Czerka officer shrugged indifferently.

“Bothans,” he sighed. “So nosy.”

With that he turned to Zaalbar and the two slavers.

“Now, what do we have here?” he mused. He began to prod Zaalbar, touching his arms, feeling his muscle tone. It enraged Zaalbar. His lip curled. As the officer reached to check his teeth Zaalbar could contain himself no longer. Exile or no he would not be subjected to such indignant treatment!

“Stop poking me!” he roared, snapping his mouth at the Czerka officer, though he knew of course the Czerka officer likely didn’t understand his language. Nor did the officer even let up. He wasn’t at all intimidated. A moment later Zaalbar understood why.

He’d forgotten about the stun cuffs. With a sudden surge of energy Zaalbar felt his body go slightly stiff and pain pulse through his wrists. He moaned from the pain, a long deep bellow. As soon as he regained control of his muscles he tilted his head to the left to see the tendril woman holding the manual control for the stun cuffs, her hand pressed onto the large button at the center.

“Now, now, Wookiee,” the Czerka officer said condescendingly as he returned to his work, gently opening Zaalbar’s mouth and examining his teeth. “We wouldn’t want any trouble now would we? I don’t know how much you can understand though it’s surely more than those meddling xenobiologists from the Committee would approve of. But understand this. You’re our property now. Nothing more, nothing less. So long as you don’t make trouble, you’ll be treated well. If not…”

He turned his gaze to look at the tendril woman.

“Well, let’s say there will be consequences. You understand?”
Grimly Zaalbar nodded.

“Good. Now this is only a physical examination. We want to make sure what kind of work you’re suited for. From your youth I’d guess you’d make an excellent bodyguard or heavy lifter but that’ll be up to the customer I suppose.”

He closed Zaalbar’s mouth and examined his eyes. Zaalbar felt the urge to bite off the officer’s hand but resisted, hard as it was. After a moment the officer seemed satisfied.

“He’s healthy,” the officer said matter-of-factly, switching his attention to the tendril woman. “That, with his youth, makes him a fine specimen. The young are easier to tame, easier to train – or so I’ve been told. I’ll give you 15,000 for him.”

“15,000?” the male human barked furiously. “Only 15,000? The going price for Wookiee slaves is 20,000!”

“You said yourself this specimen was better than usual,” the tendril woman put in. “He’s young, he’s healthy. So why are you trying to swindle us?”

The officer sighed.

“Please, understand, I’m not trying to cheat you,” he explained. “Things have changed. The market price remains the same but unfortunately what we once paid you is no longer affordable for Czerka Corporation. The few starports we have on this backwater are simply too small to allow for massive shipments – not to mention we’ve been having trouble with the local regimes recently. The cost of production is simply too high to keep paying you what we used to.”

The human stepped forward, clutching his leg as he did so. From what Zaalbar had overheard his attack had caused a bone fracture for the slaver. He wasn’t in the least sorry for that.

“Don’t you dare tell us about the costs of production!” he snapped. “We lost two men down there to this beast and my leg might never be the same after this! And you’re going to sit here and tell me that you can’t afford the cost of production?”

To his left Zaalbar noticed the tendril lady was drumming her fingers along the pistol on her right thigh.

“Calm yourself, Jaran,” she said coolly. Then, turning to the officer she continued. “It’d be bad for business, sir. Bad for Czerka. Bad for you. You don’t want to cheat your suppliers. Otherwise something might happen to your merchandise. And that would be… unfortunate.”

Zaalbar growled at being referenced only as goods to be dealt and fought over but all parties ignored him.

“It’s not up to me,” the officer replied. “I’m only a representative of Czerka’s interests here in this region of the planet. These decisions are made way farther up the ladder than me. Complain all you want but I can’t change it.”

He nodded to the human slaver.

“However, I recognize you’ve suffered… a loss in numbers. As compensation I’m willing to fork over an additional 3,000 to your payroll. But you aren’t getting a centicredit more so don’t bother asking. I’m not here to pamper you and if that means I lose you as suppliers that’s unfortunate but it’s a buyer’s market these days.”

The tendril lady and the human slaver looked at one another for a brief moment in silence. The human nodded. The tendril lady turned back to the officer.

“Alright, 18,000 it is.”

The officer smiled.

“I knew you’d come around. Now sign please right here…”

He handed the tendril woman a datapad, which she briefly looked over, pressed her thumb onto. Then, nodding, she handed it to the human who did the same before handing it back to the Czerka officer. He smiled again and placed the device on a pack of crates.

“Good. The credits will be deposited into your account by the time you reach the nearest banking outpost in the sector. It was a pleasure doing business with you.”

He whistled and two more Czerka personnel arrived, carrying in their arms stun rifles.

“Take this Wookiee over to the dock to be stored for shipment. I believe there’s a load leaving in half-an-hour. Is there room?”

“Yes, sir,” one of the men, blonde-maned, replied. “Only one other Wookiee. Nasty one too, took out more than a few of our men before we managed to subdue him.”

The officer cursed.

“Lovely day we’re having isn’t it? We lose what – a half dozen men – for two Wookiees. I’m telling you – we wouldn’t have these problems if the men up top would quit all this dancing around the Wookiee leadership. Something’s got to be done. Oh well, not my department. Take him away then.”

The two Czerka enforcers came to stand by Zaalbar on either side and prodded him forward with the butts of their rivals. Zaalbar growled lowly but otherwise gave no resistance. They walked for several minutes up the ramp. Around him Zaalbar sniffed at the air, taking in all the aromas of the forest – which perhaps he would never smell again. The fragrant scent of wroshyr needles, the pheromones of all the birds in the branches, the familiar smell of a Wookiee from your own village. The sounds, the sights, everything he’d miss. But he couldn’t understand living without the smells.

Right then he wanted to break away, run, and climb into the trees where the slavers couldn’t follow. But he knew he couldn’t. He was trapped.

It didn’t take long to reach the landing pad. Already there was a freighter, men moving supplies into its hold. Off to one side was a large durasteel crate with a slit in its front. As Zaalbar smelled the scent of an unfamiliar Wookiee growing stronger he was certain that it was there he would make his home for the unpleasant journey ahead.

He almost whimpered weakly at the thought, trapped inside of a box. Like all Wookiees Zaalbar was deeply afraid of closed spaces. Life in Kashyyyk was nothing but open space, at least vertically. The thought of being stuck inside a crate like that, which though large in comparison with all the others would be a small cage for a Wookiee, made Zaalbar shudder. But he bit his tongue and did not make a noise. He would not dishonor himself by showing such fear to these outsiders. They were unworthy.

As Zaalbar suspected the enforcers pushed him towards the crate. The one to his right with blonde hair pressed a series of dials on a pad on the side of the crate. A click followed, along with a hiss as the door inside depressurized. From within came a feral roar of rage, with not even a hint of language in it, simply pure, unadulterated hatred.

“Shut up!” yelled the blonde human. Then they pushed Zaalbar inside. At this Zaalbar could take no more and he tried to resist one last time, thrusting the Czerka enforcer’s hands off of him and trying to avoid getting pushed in. In response Zaalbar felt another jolt race through his wrists, a warning from his sellers.

“Get in you dirty damn wook!” the Czerka enforcer yelled as he hit Zaalbar in the back with the butt of his rifle, forcefully enough even at his small size to thrust Zaalbar for. Growling lowly Zaalbar complied and stepped into the crate. Then, as though sealing his fate, the Czerka men slammed shut the door behind him and locked it. Everything turned to darkness and through the small slit came only the slightest light. For all intents and purposes, Zaalbar was blinded.

It was terrible. The crate was tall yes, and he could stand upright. But he couldn’t sit, lay down, squat, or anything else. It was far too narrow for that. At the most he could press his back up against one side and then squeeze himself downwards, releasing some of the weight off his knees if not all.

Zaalbar was terrified.

Calm yourself, calm yourself… he thought desperately. Panicking won’t help. Father wouldn’t want that in you. Father would…

At the thought of his father tears welled up silently in Zaalbar’s eyes. He tried to hold them back, tried to be strong but it was all too much. He’d been exiled, cast out, disinherited by his family. Even if he hadn’t been taken he would never have seen his father again, never have seen his sister again. He would even miss his double-crossing brother Chuundar, with whom he had grown since he was young. As a slave, he would never see Kashyyyk again either.

Why, brother? Why did you conspire with these monsters? he asked silently. Why couldn’t I stop you? Why did I have to resort to my claws – my claws?! I am a beast, worth nothing, of no value to anyone. Father, you were right to exile me.

Zaalbar felt his claws, felt them as though they were tainted nails punched through his flesh. They were marks now, forever, of his shame. He had misused them in the gravest way possible, he had attacked a fellow Wookiee with them. Not merely with his paws but with the deadly claws themselves, scratching at his brother’s face in his mad fury. How could he have been so foolish? How could he have lost all sanity and done such a thing? Couldn’t he have seen such an act would deny him whatever credibility his claims had?

He was mad. He was insane. He was a criminal. Whatever fate awaited him, it was no worse a dishonor than what he had already suffered and it was no crueler than what he deserved.

It is as though I can still smell the stench of blood on me, he lamented, he brushed his eyes. His eyes were swollen now. I swear – it is as clear as though it were sheer hours… wait.My nose does not deceive me! There is blood, fresh blood nearby – very, very close it—

He stopped. He looked at his quiet, taciturn companion.

The smell is coming from him, Zaalbar realized, startled. This Wookiee… he is covered in blood! What did they… no, wait. The smell – it is a multitude of smells. There is Wookiee blood yes, and lots of it. But there are other smells as well – unfamiliar ones. Did he kill many of their number?

Concerned for his companion’s health, Zaalbar spoke up.

“I do not mean to be intrusive or rude, elder, but are you injured?”

No response. Apparently if he was injured the Wookiee did not intend to let Zaalbar know. He was clearly the strong and silent type, a warrior of few words.

“Did you… did you kill many of them?” Zaalbar asked. “I smell their blood all over you. How many did you kill?”

Still no answer. Zaalbar decided to let the matter go. It was presumptuous and rude, particularly for a madclaw such as himself, to ask too many questions of a fellow Wookiee. A Wookiee was entitled to his privacy, so he had been taught. It was a matter of honor, of keeping certain things to oneself so as to preserve internal strength. So had his father said.

Again Zaalbar felt the tears well up but he bit his tongue and held them back. He must be strong. He must be strong. He must not let this Wookiee see him as a weak and crying child. He was a man. He had passed his Hyyyrtayyk ceremony. He was not to be weak like a child. He must be strong.

It was not much longer before Zaalbar heard a loud whine, the sound of the freighter’s engines preparing for liftoff. He felt himself, the other Wookiee, and the crate they were within lifted and brought onto the ship. Then, a few minutes later, Zaalbar felt the ship beneath him liftoff.

He was leaving Kashyyyk for the first time in his life. And probably for the last time as well.

Hanharr knew he was going to escape.

The only question was how and when. He knew next to nothing about what was going on, about where he was headed, or who would be enough of a fool to claim ownership over him. All that he knew is that he would not live as a slave and that if he could not escape alive than he would willingly lay down his life trying.

Unfortunately that wasn’t enough to formulate a plan and Hanharr knew it. It angered him, infuriated him. He could wait if necessary but the longer he waited the more his chances of a successful escape grew slimmer. Much as he might be willing to die he preferred a free life if at all possible. But the slavers had gone to great lengths to contain him and Hanharr was at a loss as to what to do.

Though he knew next to nothing of how its locking mechanism worked Hanharr knew it was impossible to break open. He had assumed that even before being stuffed in but had gone ahead and tested it while he awaited transport. The lock had held tight against all his efforts to bang it open and when he had grown too determined in his efforts to break open the sensors in the stun cuffs around his wrists had activated a shock, dazing him for a moment and sending immense pain through his body.

If he had thought that banging some more would have done any good he might have risked another shock. But he’d known that it wouldn’t. The lock would hold.

It was almost a shame, but not quite, that he did not understand the language of his captors. If he had he might have known how much time he had before he would be auctioned off. But as it was all he could do was guess and his guesses, given his lack of knowledge on space travel, were likely to be wrong. And he knew enough about these invaders to know that once he reached his destination he would almost certainly be placed in an even more tightly secured situation that he already was in.

The cursed outsider scum have done their job well, he thought. Though I hate them I cannot help but admire their diligence. But how—

His train of thought was interrupted by a low, moaning noise from beside him. It was that other Wookiee, the cursed one whose flesh reeked of youth – inexperience. He was barely more than a child, probably a mere fifteen years in age. And now he was groaning, a pathetic, persistent wailing that grinded against Hanharr’s ears. Wouldn’t the runt shut up?

“Quiet!” Hanharr growled. “Can you not be still for a minute? Ever since we lifted off I’ve heard nothing but your moaning. I have better things to do then listening to a stupid, whining child – like trying to escape.”

“I’m only hungry,” the young Wookiee replied timidly. “I haven’t eaten since before I was captured. I’m famished.”

Oh, so that’s it is it? He hasn’t had his supper has he? Well neither have I, and you don’t see me whimpering!

“You can have all the food you want when you’re a slave, boy!” Hanharr reprimanded. “I’m sure they’ll feed you anything to keep you happy. It’ll probably be the time of your life. Of course, you will have lost your pride, your integrity – your soul and honor. But it’s such a small price to pay.”

He then turned away to ignore the child. He had better things to do than baby-sit some lost child.

“I know that,” the Wookiee replied. “But all the same, I’m hungry. I can’t help it. I want to escape just as much as you but I’m just not used to so little food. I’ll try and be quieter though.”

Hanharr said nothing. There was a moment of silence. Then the boy spoke up again.

“Are you sure your wounds aren’t major, sir?” Zaalbar asked. “They might tend to them if…”

“I will not be coddled!” Hanharr spat. “I am a warrior. I will not let their filthy, hairless paws touch my wounds! They are not worthy and I will not show weakness to them!”

He turned to face the young one though he couldn’t see him at all except for small shadows in the darkness of the crate.

“And it is none of your concern, boy,” he growled, using the word “boy” as though it were an insult. “Concern yourself with other matters, such as how to escape. Anything else is of little importance.”

“I know that,” the boy said again. “But I have no idea how to escape and, unless I’m mistaken, neither do you, begging your pardon for saying so. I would be happy to escape but we can’t.”

“There is always a way!” Hanharr snapped back, frustration ringing in his voice. “We simply haven’t tried hard enough!”

He growled loudly and dug his claws into his palm with fury. There had to be a way. There just had to be.

“If only I knew where we were going!” he grumbled, half to himself. To his surprise, the boy responded.

“I… I might be able to help there, sir,” the young Wookiee said timidly.

“What?” demanded Hanharr. He hadn’t expected help from this child. “What did you say? What do you mean you could ‘help?’”

“I know where we’re going,” the boy answered. “I overheard the slavers talking a while after we took off. They mentioned where they were heading. It’s some planet called Kintan. They said we’ll be there in two days time then. It’s been a while since so… I guess that would mean it’d be a little over a day and a half.”

Hanharr, in spite of himself, was stunned. This Wookiee knew the tongue of the outsiders?

“You know their language? How?”

“Well… not entirely. They seem to speak a pidgin of some kind for the most part. Not all of them are human and the language I understand is primarily spoken by them. It’s called… Basic I think. I can’t speak it of course but I can understand it. The language they speak here is some mix of Basic and a few other languages. It’s hard to understand at times but I got the location of where we’re going among other things.”

Hanharr noted that the boy hadn’t mentioned where he had learned the language or how but he decided to let it go. All things considered, it wasn’t terribly important right now. Perhaps later, once they had escaped, Hanharr would ask him.

“What’s your name, boy?” Hanharr asked.

“Zaalbar, sir,” the young Wookiee replied simply. No ring of the usual “son of this, son of that” genealogy that usually accompanied a name at first meetings. But Hanharr knew better than to delve into his companion’s past. By any stretch of the imagination it could not be filled with more shame than his own, at least by the standards of his people. Hanharr of course felt his past held no shame to it, at least not until now. He had been a free Wookiee and to him, exile was little more than a demonstration that his people were unworthy of him.

“I am Hanharr,” he said, offering his name in return for Zaalbar’s. “Perhaps I underestimated you, young one. What else do you know?”

“Not much that is useful,” Zaalbar answered modestly. “They said they’re going to try and sell us to some people called the ‘Hutts’ for heavy labor but not much else seemed particularly relevant. It’s really little more than small talk. They do seem to think we’re worth a lot though.”

“Fools, the lot of them,” Hanharr condemned. “Whatever strength they possess it is clearly not of the mind.” His own mind began to race. Now he had a timeframe, now he had a partner. The rules of the game had changed and he could now truly formulate a plot. Before, it had all been guesswork, groping in the dark for clues. But now… now he might have the workings of a real escape plan.

It was obvious that, in spite of how badly the slavers treated Zaalbar and him, Hanharr was a precious commodity. Wookiee slaves were not easily captured, less easily transported apparently. If perhaps they had possessed larger ships they would have transported the Wookiees in large groups – dozens, hundreds, perhaps even thousands. But as it was they were limited to a crate or two of them a ship and that made them expensive. Their value was that of a luxury.
So much as they might not care to comfort the Wookiees until after they’d been sold and were expected to work, they certainly did want them to survive the journey. A Wookiee that died mid-journey would be worthless as a slave, worthless as any commodity. The slavers would therefore have to do everything in their power to keep their cargo alive.

Which might give me just the loophole I need to make our escape, Hanharr thought. Zaalbar said he hadn’t eaten since before he was captured. How long ago was that? How long since he last had drunken water? Long enough that he wasn’t starving yet but how long until he really did begin to die of thirst and hunger. Hanharr knew that he himself would probably last longer. He was likely more used to long periods without food or water and had relieved himself in Warkyyrruk after slaughtering the village.

But Zaalbar was very likely in very real danger, or at least extreme discomfort. The slavers would be obliged to help him eventually, so long as they knew of his condition. And, as Hanharr had learned to his annoyance, Zaalbar was a very loud complainer. Knowing that, Hanharr gritted his teeth and relayed his plan to Zaalbar.

“Zaalbar – I made a mistake,” he admitted sourly. “Complain all you want. You have every right.”

Zaalbar seemed confused at first.

“I don’t want to bother you, Hanharr, sir, I—”

“Let me explain, Zaalbar,” Hanharr interrupted. “The slavers have put a high value on our hides. More importantly, they have placed most of that value on us being alive. If we are dead we are of no use to them and they wreak no profit. As such, they have no choice but to keep us alive, even if they feel all right with treating us as cruelly as they wish in the meantime. Stuff us in a crate, covered in our own waste they might allow. But let us starve? Never.”

“Ah…” Zaalbar said slowly. He was not stupid at least, even if young and inexperienced. “I see… you want me to be… hungry.”

“I don’t care whether you are hungry or not,” Hanharr corrected. “Though I suspect that you are already quite. What I care about is that the slavers think you are hungry; that they believe you to be, in fact, starving. If they believe that then they’ll have to intervene, to protect their profits. Even if I remain alive they can’t get enough out of my sale to cover the initial cost for buying both of us from the slavers on Kashyyyk.”

“I see,” Zaalbar said. “So you want me to complain.”

“I want you to complain loudly. And eventually, they’ll take notice and send someone to feed us or at the very least check on us. And they won’t send more than one – two at the most. I can smell their stench clearly and there are not very many of them here. Three, four, maybe five. But they are also overconfident, they believe we are already broken.”

He shook his wrists with the stun cuffs around them.

“These bonds trap us, but they trap their minds more. They think that with these, we cannot resist them. And they would be right, but there are two of us.”

“Two?” Zaalbar asked, confused.

“When the guard comes to feed us he will open the door. When he does I will pounce at him, pinning him to the ground. The stun cuffs, in reaction to such violence, will of course shock me into unconsciousness. But the guard will be trapped, unable to move me off of him without considerable effort.”

He smiled slightly at the thought of that, of himself being unable to move but by such trapping the one who had trapped him.

“At that point you must quickly – but carefully as to not activate the stun cuffs – subdue the guard before he can call out for help. You’d best move as soon as I make my attack so that you may have the best chance of success. Then you must wake me and dispose of the body and…”

He growled bitterly.

“And somehow we must avoid detection by the others slavers so they won’t manually activate our cuffs.”

He cursed.

“Perhaps it would be best just to remove the cuffs then?” Zaalbar suggested.

“Well, yes, of course but… wait.” He paused. Did this young one know something else? “You don’t mean to tell me you can remove them.”

“Well, not right now,” Zaalbar replied, his tone slightly embarassed. “If so I would have. But I know how the cuffs work, though I’ve never used them myself. Essentially there’s a mechanism in the same device they use to manually activate the cuffs, which can be used to disable them and unlock them. The guard who would come to feed us would almost certainly be carrying this device, in case of something like our plan happening.”

“And you would, I presume, lift this off of him when you disposed of him?”

“That would seem the best choice.”

“Amazing… How do you know so much about the outworlders? I had barely encountered them before they came to my village to enslave it.”

Zaalbar mumbled something and then answered out loud.

“I… I… my family knows… certain… things. That’s all I will say.”

Something dawned on Hanharr. The way the boy had avoided speaking of his family so far, the way he acted as though a great shame hung over his shoulders. Could it be… was he more a brother than Hanharr had believed? Could it be…

“You are an exile, aren’t you?” Hanharr asked after a moment of thought. “Banished to the Shadowlands for a crime of misplaced honor?”

Zaalbar did not respond.

“Understand, young one, that you are no criminal. The elders of your village, whoever they are, were fools to throw out one as strong as you. Whatever stains your hands know that I have done far worse and regret none of it. It is your strength that determines your honor and I have seen you boy. You are strong and there is more to you than your shy demeanor lets appear.”

Zaalbar remained silent, turning away from Hanharr.

Hanharr grumbled at the boy’s introverted nature but pressed no further. Whatever past this boy had he quite obviously did not want to discuss it. Again, it was of little use to Hanharr right now. It would be better to concentrate on the plan.

“Very well,” he said. “Now… I will do my part. Can I count on you to do the same and do it quickly?”

“Yes,” Zaalbar said without hesitation, turning around. “Yes, Hanharr, you can rely on me.”

Zaalbar’s stomach growled violently, aching with hunger. It had been two days since his last meal, one day since he had any water to drink. His low moans, his growls for food, were not at all false though he might have not been so vocal if Hanharr had asked him to stop. But that would not happen. Hanharr, if anything, wanted Zaalbar to be more vocal. The sooner the slavers took notice, the better.

The crate stank horribly now, a foul smell that made the situation ever worse. A sickly, rotting stench permeated the air, making Zaalbar wrinkle his nose in disgust every few minutes as he got a stronger whiff.

His back ached; he had been standing nonstop since his capture, except for leaning back against the crate for a few minutes at a time. He had expected he wouldn’t be able to sleep but his body had surprised him and he’d indeed drifted into an uneasy slumber, still standing for a few hours. Zaalbar almost wished he had slept longer, though he knew he needed to be awake in order for Hanharr and him to escape. At least then he wouldn’t be so tired, so miserable.

He wondered about his partner in this plot. Like many a Wookiee Hanharr had proven proud and stoic, taking his pain as a boulder would wind and rain. But in many other, more important ways he was beginning to appear different. Zaalbar was unsure of him. He showed no pretense of respect for others, even amongst his own species, no whispering of ancestors’ names in prayer. If anything, Hanharr seemed to believe in nothing, except for himself.

It worried Zaalbar, but in a way he drew strength from it as well. Hanharr had a strength of will, of confidence, that Zaalbar could not understand. And it was beginning to appear that Hanharr shown Zaalbar one thing that few did, that even Zaalbar was reluctant to give to himself. Hanharr had shown Zaalbar respect and chosen him as an equal, young as he might be, shy as he might be, outcast as he might be. Though Hanharr didn’t know the full story – didn’t know the truth about Zaalbar’s madness or the betrayal of Chuundar, he didn’t seem to give a care.

It was strangely soothing.

Another pang of hunger. Zaalbar let out another moan, letting his frustration, his pain, his hunger, his thirst, and all other factors of his misery come out all at once vocally. He thought he heard Hanharr wince at the sound. The older Wookiee did not enjoy this anymore than Zaalbar and the moaning made it worse. But Zaalbar also knew that Hanharr would not stop him, so he let it all out, endlessly growling and moaning, beginning in Shyriiwook for the slavers to take notice.

Then, as his moan died and he prepared to cry out again Zaalbar heard the slightest noise from beyond. He was exhausted, and so it was not easy for him to focus but he strained his ears all the same. Only he could understand the outsiders – it was up to him to let Hanharr know what the slavers were up to. He only wished he could understand them better, their mixed-up pidgin tongue strained Zaalbar’s already mediocre understanding of Basic.

“…check on them,” finished a voice. Female, Zaalbar thought, though he was not familiar enough with the outsiders to be sure.

Another, gruffer voice yelled back something Zaalbar didn’t quite catch but he could tell the sound, near the end began to drift closer. Shortly thereafter he heard the clank of boots on metal.

“Hanharr,” Zaalbar whispered. “I think one’s coming.”

At that, Hanharr snapped to attention. Zaalbar wasn’t sure if he’d been asleep or not but he suspected not. More likely the bloodied warrior had been waiting in a quiet, restive state in order to save his energy. Zaalbar had to do his part, yes, but Hanharr would have to do his part perfectly. If he missed or didn’t pin the guard correctly…

Well, we wouldn’t be going anywhere real fast, Zaalbar thought grimly.

“You’re sure?” Hanharr whispered back.

“Yes,” Zaalbar replied. “Are you ready?”

Hanharr grunted.

“Of course I’m ready. Are you?”

“Yes,” Zaalbar replied. “As soon as I see you pounce I’ll make my move.”

“No!” Hanharr whispered sharply. “You must act just as I do or…”

He drifted off as the sound of boots came to just outside the crate. Quickly, Zaalbar put himself back into the act, moaning particularly loudly.

“Would you just shut up!” the guard snapped. Through the slit Zaalbar could just barely see the slaver’s face. He was another of the spike-face types, his face a reddish orange color with bony protrusions jutting out of his scaly head.

“Here!” he gruffly said, as he began to unlock the door. Zaalbar readied himself. “Hopefully this food’ll—”

The spike-face had no time to react. As soon as the door was just barely wide enough Hanharr sprung into action. Trying his best to be just as quick, though slower in movement, Zaalbar began moving forwards. As he did so he saw Hanharr’s body slam into the spike-face’s, throwing him against the floor, knocking over a few small boxes as he did so. Zaalbar heard a distinctive buzz, sharp and high in note as the stun cuffs reacted to such sudden and violent movement. Hanharr’s body went stiff but it was too late for the spike-face. The Wookiee now lay on top of him.

By this point Zaalbar had moved into position. Carefully, but not slowly as to not give the spike-face time to call to his companions who must have already been concerned, Zaalbar bent down and grabbed the spike-face by the head, wrapping his joined arms around the spike-face’s mouth and nose. He squeezed as hard as he could manage.

The spike-face did his best to resist. He was not as strong as Zaalbar nor could move his arms thanks to the Wookiee on top of him but he tried all the same. The spike-face’s head swayed violently from side to side and Zaalbar’s arm hairs were sucked into his nostrils as he tried to breathe. Zaalbar felt teeth sink into the flesh of his arm. Sharp pain pulsed through as blood began to seep out of the wound. But still he did not let go. His survival, his freedom, his honor – all depended on this. He would not let go. He couldn’t.

After an agonizingly long moment Zaalbar felt the contortions of his victim cease. Cautiously, he let go. The spike-face had fallen unconscious. Now it was up to Zaalbar to wake Hanharr and proceed with the next part of the plan. Quickly, he shook Hanharr, calling for the elder Wookiee to wake up.

“Hanharr! Hanharr!” he said urgently, trying desperately to be quiet enough as to not be overheard by the crew but loud enough to reach the warrior in his induced slumber. “Wake up!”

Zaalbar thanked the heavens and all his countless ancestors when he saw the Wookiee stir. Slowly, Hanharr shook himself and came to a kneeling position.

“I see you did your work,” he observed. “Now, the stun cuffs? Let’s remove these cursed chains.”

Zaalbar nodded and began to search the pockets of the spike-face. It took him a few seconds but he found the device he was looking for, the one he recognized both from his brother’s dealings with the slavers as well as his own experience when sold. Small, it fit easily into his massive palm. All over it were buttons, one in the center, a small dial on the left side, and two smaller buttons on the right.

Suddenly, Zaalbar remembered that he didn’t know which button unlocked the cuffs. He only knew which button activated the shock manually.

Hanharr apparently noticed his pause.

“Well… remove them! Or did you lie to me?” His tone was threatening, accusatory.

“No!” Zaalbar said defensively. “I… I just need to remember…” Hanharr said something but Zaalbar was hardly paying attention.

Which one is it? Ancestors, please, guide my hand! Which one is it?

But time was running out. He could already hear the crew yelling, calling out to the spike-face to say something, to tell them if something was wrong. But they of course would get no answer and, inevitably, would send someone to find out what had happened. Zaalbar had to act now.

Wincing, his heart pounding, Zaalbar pressed the lowermost button on the right.

The stun cuffs dislodged themselves.

“Well… what’s next?” Zaalbar asked, sighing with relief.

“Now we fight,” was Hanharr’s simple reply. “Hide the body. I’ll dispose of his friends.”

Zaalbar nodded and grabbed the body, hoisting him upwards and them carrying him into the crate, laying him in it. Though it had been too small for a Wookiee to lay in, especially with two Wookiees, Zaalbar was able to lay the spike-face in a surprisingly comfortable looking position. Then, as he was about to close the door he had an idea. He picked up one of the pairs of stun cuffs that had fallen to the ground when unlocked and carefully placed them around the spike-face’s wrists. The cuffs had been tight enough on Zaalbar’s own hands that they just barely were small enough to work on the slaver.

That done, Zaalbar took the stun cuff device and hid it in one of the crates. For once he wondered whether outsiders’ clothing and their pockets had some utility.

He was beginning to close the door when he heard a sharp voice… all too close.

“Stop it right there!” the voice commanded. It was the same voice that had ordered the spike-face to go check on Zaalbar and Hanharr.

Zaalbar turned, to look. It was a female human and she had a blaster pointed straight at his chest. Her face was twisted with a look of absolute fury.

“What are you doing out of your cage, beast? Open that crate right now!”

Zaalbar didn’t move. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a furred hand reach up from beneath a crate a meter away, grabbing a long, cylindrical hydrospanner – that was what Zaalbar thought it was anyway – before falling back out of sight.

“Didn’t you hear me, or did your masters not teach you how to understand?” the woman snapped. “Do it – now – or I will fry your precious fur coat right off!”

Slowly, Zaalbar moved towards the crate, ostensibly to open it. But at the edge of sight he continued to see a shadow on the wall, out of the woman’s sight, move into position.

“Deren, get over here right now! I think we have an attempted—”

She didn’t finish her sentence. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Hanharr sprung, swinging downwards with both hands the hydrospanner right into the human’s skull. There was a large cracking noise and the woman tumbled to the ground, likely dead or dying. There was no cry of pain; it had been far too quick, too clean. From further down the corridor Zaalbar could hear shouts of shock, astonishment.

Hardly thinking, Zaalbar, lunged at the blaster pistol the woman had dropped, ducking beneath a green bolt as he did so. As it sunk into his grasp he twisted out of the way, behind the left wall. Hanharr had, by this point ducked behind the right, and they stood on opposite sides of the corridor, holding as blaster bolts flared past them. Timing himself carefully, Zaalbar spun around the corner and took a shot. He missed, unsurprising really due to his lack of knowledge of blasters, but it caused a brief pause in the fire.

Again, Zaalbar ducked behind the wall, just in time as blaster bolts came streaming out again. Hanharr growled with rage.

“Well this is just perfect! The cowards hide behind their technology! How are we supposed to take control of the ship now?”

Zaalbar gave no answer. He had none. All he could hope for was that they’d somehow gun down the remaining three crewmembers.

Feeling a looming pause Zaalbar ducked out again, firing a series of shots. With urgent rapidity his finger twitched along the blaster’s trigger, sending out a series of bolts. His heart pounding Zaalbar again took cover. However, Hanharr seemed amused.

“That weapon of theirs… it can fire more quickly than a bowcaster,” he observed. “Perhaps…” He grinned.

“Yes, yes!” he growled, almost laughing. “Zaalbar, try doing that again, but for a longer amount of time. See if you can force them to hide for but just a moment. Keep firing even after they take cover. They won’t want to emerge if you do. And then…” He raised his right hand, holding the hydrospanner.

“Then… I can do my part.”

Zaalbar nodded. By now the crew had resumed firing. He waited for a pattern, listening to the average time between their shots. He panted as he did so, his body heat rising from exertion and the adrenaline pumping through his blood. Then, feeling that pause, he darted out again and, without taking any serious aim, fired.

He felt a surge of pain and heat as he felt something impact with his shoulder – a blaster bolt. He let out a roar of pain but kept firing, his finger growing sore. As he did so the crew took cover and Hanharr, after a count of two, darted from his position, roaring with fury as he did so. Zaalbar ducked back behind, not eager to injure his partner. He heard a snap, and then a yelp of fear and the clang of metal on metal. Knowing the moment of victory was at hand, Zaalbar rushed out, running past Hanharr into the cockpit, his pistol pointed at the sole remaining crewmember.

The pilot, of some species with the eyes of a garyyk fly, quickly dropped his weapon.

Hanharr came in soon after, dragging with him in a headlock a weeping, moaning alien of the same species as the tendril lady that had captured Zaalbar. Zaalbar, keeping his eyes focused on the pilot, saw out of the corner of his eye the tendril man’s hand jerked in an angle surely not what was normal for his species. Whether or not it was, there was already a large bruise emerging around his wrist, discoloring it from yellow to purple.

Hanharr’s crimson eyes were full of rage, but even more than that – the thrill of dominance.

“Do any of you scum understand Shyriiwook?” he demanded. Lifting his right arm as though to strike. “Answer – now!”

In front of Zaalbar the pilot merely whimpered, his large eyes bug-like eyes – or, Zaalbar presumed it was a he – beginning to look as though they would pop out of his head. To his side and a little behind him he heard the other prisoner let out a pitiful moan. If either understood Shyriiwook, they weren’t doing a good job at showing it.

“Well – do you?” Hanharr roared. “Tell me or I will tear your throats out with my own hands!”

The prisoners whimpered again, more loudly this time.

“Hanharr,” Zaalbar advised cautiously. “I… I don’t think they do. Otherwise they would have responded. The slavers don’t usually learn our language. They think it unnecessary. Even the Czerka men who sell us don’t bother that often.”

“Then their lives are forfeit!” Hanharr growled and he lifted his right arm again, this time very clearly to strike.

“No!” Zaalbar cried out, surprising himself slightly. Why should he care what happens to these people? They had tried to enslave him after all. But there was no honor, no dignity in slaying defenseless prisoners. It was not the Wookiee way.

Hanharr’s arm slowed, just above his prisoner’s head. The tendril man let out a squeal of terror.

“We… we’ll need a pilot,” he realized. “We can’t drive the ship ourselves. I… I know some things – but not that. We should keep them alive.”

Hanharr paused, seeming to consider this.

“You are right,” he relented and he threw the hydrospanner to the ground. “Merely escaping our prison is not enough. We must find a way to remove ourselves from this ship as well. Our supplies will only last so long.”

His lip curled.

“However… we will only need one to pilot the ship.”

With that he twisted his left arm violently. The tendril man let out a soft, subdued yelp, his eyes bulging. And then it was over. Zaalbar let him go and he hit the floor with a soft, fleshy thump.

“No!” Zaalbar shouted. But even as he shouted Hanharr began to move out of the cockpit – to the spike-face stuffed in the crate.

“They are unnecessary risks, Zaalbar,” the elder Wookiee said as he tread down the corridor. “One prisoner we can manage, one prisoner we can watch and keep safe. But two, three… it is too many.”

Forgetting his own prisoner for a moment, who was now crumpled into a ball on the floor, Zaalbar let his eyes drift to Hanharr. He was opening up a crate… the crate Zaalbar had put the stun cuff device in.

“And they must suffer,” the Wookiee growled bitterly, savagely. “For taking away our dignity.”

Zaalbar watched in horror as Hanharr pressed the largest of the buttons on the device. He heard screams of pain come from the large crate he and Hanharr had been stuffed into, as the spike-face was jolted awake by the pain surging through his wrists.

“You must learn, Zaalbar,” Hanharr continued coldly as he sent another shock through the spike-face, who was now weeping with pain. “You have been educated with false ideals, an illusion of the promise of justice.”

“Stop! Stop!” Zaalbar cried out. Tears were welling up in his eyes. He didn’t want this – not this. He wanted revenge, yes, he wanted freedom, yes, but…

“They have made you soft, Zaalbar, they have weakened your conviction. You must learn to be strong not just in the mind and body, but in the heart. They have stolen it from you, our people. To survive you must reclaim it.”

Another jolt. And then another.

“These slavers, they are weak. But they are yet stronger than our people, Zaalbar. Our people have blinded themselves to reality. They have put a veil over their eyes to disguise the ugly truth.”

Another jolt. By now the spike-face was begging for death, both in the pidgin dialect Zaalbar had heard him speak earlier as well as in some other, even more unfamiliar language.

“You have taken the first step into a larger world,” Hanharr continued. He threw aside the torture device and walked over to the corpse of the human woman he’d killed earlier. “But you must go the full way.”

He bent over. When he stood up again he had a knife in his grasp.

“I will show you how.”

Zaalbar watched as the warrior – the murderer – moved back over to the whimpering crate, thrust open its door and crawled inside. There was a whimper, a scream, and then nothing. A moment later Hanharr reemerged. By now, Zaalbar felt the fur on his face wet with tears. Hanharr moved towards him and placed his bloodied paw on Zaalbar’s right shoulder.

“It will not be easy, Zaalbar, but it must be done. You will learn that it is so.”

He turned to gaze at the crumpled pilot on the floor, whimpering with fear.

“I will leave you to deal with him. You understand his language, you understand their technology. I will deal with the bodies and gather us supplies from wherever these beasts keep them. I care not much where we go from here, only that it is far from where they want us.”

With that he wandered off, leaving Zaalbar behind with the pilot. Wiping his eyes Zaalbar bent down and nudged the pilot with the point of the pistol. The pilot moaned. Slowly, Zaalbar took his paw and laid it to rest on the pilot’s stubbed head. Even more slowly, the pilot lifted his gaze from the floor to the Wookiee, who to him must have seemed absolutely terrifying.

“I will not hurt you,” Zaalbar said softly, though he knew the pilot couldn’t understand him. “So long as you cooperate I will not hurt you. I promise.”

He stood up and gestured to a large screen with a bright white disc on it. He’d seen such a thing before, when the Czerka first had come to Kashyyyk. In their first meeting with Zaalbar’s father they had presented as an offering of knowledge such a device, which they called a “navicomputer” or “star map.” According to them the bright white disc was actually millions upon millions of stars, more than you could count in the night sky.

At first, few Wookiees had believed them, but then they had demonstrated, zooming in on the map, showing how as you got closer the white blur became a seemingly endless array of small, multicolored dots, and that as you got even closer you could see the dots were suns, like bright Rrakyyr in the daytime sky and that around many were planets, just like Kashyyyk. They even showed the village elders the planet from which the sky demons came, located around Rrakyyr, just like Kashyyyk.

When others still did not believe they showed the skeptics the planet more clearly through a long-seeing device that they called a “telescope.” Amazed and astounded the village elders were blown away by this demonstration, which had gone a long way towards establishing Czerka’s credibility. It was tragic, now that Zaalbar thought about it, how what had seemed to be the beginning of a fruitful trading relationship had turned so sour so quickly. Silently he cursed Czerka for their betrayal.

He returned to the matter at hand and fidgeted with the computer, remembering what he could of how the Czerka men had accessed it so long ago, some twenty years before when he was just a child. It took him some time but he managed to get it working. He couldn’t read the names of the planets for though he understood the speech of the outworlders he was unaware of their writing system, so different from the one practiced by the village scribes. But he clearly was able to locate Kashyyyk, based on what he remembered of the earlier presentation.

He was about to point to it, to eagerly tell the pilot to set a course for home when he stopped, his eagerness fading.

What reason did he have to return to Kashyyyk? True, already he missed the trees, their fragrant smell, the cool wind flowing in his fur, the sound of the animals in the night. But he couldn’t go back. Not now. He was a slave, duly captured and sold as according to the laws of the invaders. He could not seek refuge with his people. He was a madclaw, in their eyes surely worse even than the savage Hanharr. Kashyyyk was the home of his heart and always would be. But it was no longer a place where his body could be. If he returned, he would just be captured again.

Sadly, he folded his arms. No, he could never go back. To do so would only bring pain. Better that he let bygones be bygones and move on. There were other places surely that would be safe. Places beyond the reach of the slavers. And if not… well, he would go as far as he could.

He zoomed out. This understandably confused the pilot.

“You… no wanna go back to homeworld, Wookiee?” he asked in broken Basic, worse apparently at the language than even Zaalbar. “You no wanna go home?”

Zaalbar shook his head. He located the location of the ship, represented by a distinctive icon resembling its exterior, and determined from where it was in relation to Kashyyyk the direction in which it was traveling. Then, gesturing with the pistol, he drew an invisible line in the opposite direction for the pilot.

“You wanna go… other way?” the pilot asked.
Zaalbar nodded. The pilot seemed to be catching on.

“You wanna go other way from way we go now?” he asked again. “I can do, I can do, but I no know where in other way.”

Understanding it to be the standard gesture of indifference amongst outsiders, Zaalbar shrugged.

“You no care? Why no care?”

Zaalbar pointed to the pilot, then pointed to the cage, then shook his head.

“You no wanna slavers… anywhere where no slavers, yes? That what you wanna?”

Zaalbar nodded.

“I do, I do,” the pilot said, nodding his head enthusiastically. He seemed to be very happy to have figured out how not to get himself killed. “I do as you wanna, I do it well!”

Zaalbar sighed with relief. Communicating in a language he couldn’t speak and was barely fluent in when the one he was conversing with was even less adept had been exhaustingly difficult. He was glad to have that over with.

The pilot slid, almost bouncing as he did so, into his chair, plugging in a series of new coordinates into the navicomputer. Regardless of his failures in linguistics the alien didn’t seem to be stupid. He knew what he was doing well enough and Zaalbar watched with astonishment at the rapidity of his interactions with the computer as he plugged keys and switched dials faster than Zaalbar’s eyes could keep up.

“Yes, Wookiee! I do good job I will!”

Two days. Two days since we freed ourselves. That pilot better not have been lying to Zaalbar or he will regret it.

Hanharr sighed.

No, he thought sourly. He was likely telling the truth. I must accustom myself to new scales. Fast though this ship may be the journey between worlds is slow, more like the journey between far-away lands than between villages. It will take time. I must be patient.

It was difficult. He had, perhaps unwisely, assumed that his freedom would be quick and easy, particularly after he and Zaalbar had made their escape successfully. The boy had been useful indeed. He was strong and smart on his feet. Those were excellent qualities. He would make a great warrior one day, once Hanharr pushed him in the right direction.

He was blinded by his sense of morality, his sense of right and wrong. Hanharr did not blame him. He was hardly more than a pup. Not so long ago, perhaps a few decades at the most, he had been licking from his mother’s breast. He had not had time to develop an independent mindset, to set himself apart from the meaningless traditions of his ancestors.

But Zaalbar was safe now, safe from fools. The enslavement of them both, while in purpose an evil had in actuality served both theirs’ purpose, particularly once they had freed themselves. It had broken from them the shackles Kashyyyk and its culture had forced upon them. Hanharr was glad Zaalbar had chosen not to return to the forest world. Such a choice, though one Hanharr would have understood, would have been an error. But Zaalbar had shown wisdom. He knew that his path lay beyond – in greater things.

He gazed around at the ship, which soon he would be leaving. It was much cleaner now. He had thrust the bodies of the dead into crates, the crates his “masters” would have most likely asked him to unload, stuffing them in. The beasts that had enslaved him deserved no honor, no ritual, not even the simple burning Hanharr had offered to the fools who had cast him out only to be saved by Hanharr’s blade so few nights ago. They had wanted to make Hanharr cargo. Well, now they were cargo.

But stupid and weak as the invaders were they possessed a strength the Wookiees of Kashyyyk by and large did not have and never would. They had the strength of the heart. They knew that such things as petty morals held them down, made them slaves. They threw off such shackles, acknowledged that there was no right but the right made through forcing one’s will on another. Those that were weak, that did not or could not resist, were deserving of their fate, they were beasts.

And beasts held no value, to themselves or to others, no value but which was given unto them by the strong.

Hanharr and Zaalbar had proven their value and by doing so had proven their stature. They were not beasts, but people. They held strength that most Wookiees would never have, the strength of the heart, the strength to defend and preserve their lives and freedom, to make their honor more than just words. It was worthless trying to defend the others, not when they wouldn’t defend themselves. They were beasts, just as the slavers said they were.

Though Hanharr had felt many of these things over the years, it was only now that the full actuality had been revealed to him. He had always assumed the other Wookiees who did not live like him, did not live as free as he did, were fools. But only the slavers, the ones that Zaalbar called Czerka, had showed him that they were slaves as well. And they were not the only ones. The slavers who had enslaved him, who had thought themselves his masters, they too were slaves, too weak to resist him with anything but numbers on their side and weapons he hardly understood.

But Hanharr would have those weapons and he would no longer allow himself to be hunted like an animal. He, the hunted, the enslaved, would become the hunter. He would become the slaver. He would thrust his will unto the aliens, just as they had thrust their will unto him and he would make them suffer. They would pay, all of them, for what they had done to him. They would understand what it was like to stand in a crate, covered in stench, starving for days on end. Hanharr would make them know.

Suddenly he felt a change in inertia. He was thrust forward and felt his body’s weight shift and change before sinking back into normality. Hanharr recognized the sensation from when they had begun their journey, the jump into or out of “hyperspace.” They had arrived.

He lifted himself and ran towards the cockpit and… was amazed. Before him lay a great, black abyss, that made the depths of the Shadowlands look shallow in comparison. Sunk into its depths lay pinpricks of light – stars, entire suns from what Zaalbar had told him, all so far away from him now as he could scarcely imagined. And he realized…

This is freedom.Will the boy not learn? he thought exasperatedly.

“Why did you do that?” Zaalbar demanded. There was a hint of anger in his voice, which surprised Hanharr. Shock he had expected, the boy was not yet accustomed to a life of violence. But anger… that was not at all what he had anticipated.

“He was a danger to us,” he explained matter-of-factly. “It was not safe to let him live. If we had he would have eventually left this world and betrayed us to his masters. They would come to this world and kill us or capture us again. It is better that he is dead.”

“But he helped us! He saved us!”

“Only under threat of death, Zaalbar!” Hanharr snapped. “Do not forget that he would have killed you or worse sold you to some beastly alien had he been given the choice. It was only our weapons, our strength that frightened him into obedience and made him a temporary ally. He was a slave to his ways, a beast you cannot tame.”

“He was defenseless!” Zaalbar protested.

“So were we when we escaped!” Hanharr growled. He did not like that the boy continued to argue with him. “But we freed ourselves and killed our captors by our wits. Just because a katarn is toothless do not assume it is without claws.”

He looked at the night sky through the window of the cockpit.

“Now that he is dead,” Hanharr continued, “the slavers will never know what happened to us. They will assume perhaps that we escaped, but that it is unlikely. Accidents happen. More assuredly they will believe the ship has been lost or the slavers gone rogue. There will be an investigation, surely, but it will be short and without results. For all intents and purposes, we will be dead to them. We will be free.”

“I… I understand,” Zaalbar said slowly, all too reluctantly. “But… it is without honor to kill a defenseless foe. It is cruel to do what you did.”

Hanharr laughed at that.

“You are naïve, Zaalbar, bred by your tribe for docility. Do not let their sense of morality cloud your judgment. There is no honor but which one has the strength to enforce. There is no cruelty that can be exacted upon those that cannot resist. The value of beasts such as this slaver, such as the Wookiees who will not resist him, is nonexistent. There is only the strong and there is the weak.”

He wiped the blood off on his fur, cleaning the blade before sliding it back into its sheath.

“Come, Zaalbar,” he said quietly as he began to walk towards the exit of the ship. “It is time that we leave.”

He moved towards the ramp and raised his arm to press the switch that would open up the ship.

“No.”

Hanharr stopped and spun around.

“What did you say?”

“No, I… I cannot come with you, Hanharr. It ends here. Our alliance. It ends now.”

“Don’t be a fool!” Hanharr growled. “You cannot stay here, on this ship, there is nothing here for you! You are young so I will forgive your foolishness, but we must leave together! Your skill for technology combined with my ability to hunt would make us a formidable team.”

“I know,” Zaalbar answered quietly. “But I cannot condone what you have done. I cannot travel with you. You believe things that… that I cannot. You do things that… that I will not now nor never allow myself to do. I wish you well, Hanharr, and thank you for what you’ve done for me. But… I cannot go with you. I will not go with you.”

“You fool!” Hanharr roared with rage. He felt the urge to slap the boy, to drag him off, to force him to come. But his better half slowed his temper and stayed his hand. He knew Zaalbar had earned the right to choose his own path, no matter how stupid it was. Zaalbar was strong, even if not as strong as Hanharr himself was. He deserved to discover the errors of his ways himself.

He punched his fist into he button and the ramp slid open with a loud hissing noise, hitting the ground beneath. Growling, Hanharr stormed off of it. One day the boy would see, one day the boy would know his error. And then… then, he would regret choosing the path of his ancestors over Hanharr. But Hanharr would not be there to save him, to coddle him, and welcome him back into his arms. For now and forever, Zaalbar was dead to Hanharr.

It was a long time before Hanharr’s temper began to cool, but the wind and the soft, wet soil beneath his feet went a long way towards helping. Finally, Hanharr felt calm enough to stop and examine his surroundings. He looked behind him; the ship was far beyond now, just a speck in the distance though one still so distinct that he could make it out.

He sniffed the air and listened. He heard night birds twittering, smelled the pheromones of mating animals, and saw, in the distance, the yellow lights of a settlement. And he smiled.

The hunt had just begun.