so that Div could escapeâso that the galaxyâs âonly hopeâ would survive.
All that, and it wasnât me after all, Div thought as Luke slashed and leapt and spun, striving for perfection. But what if itâs him?
B elazura was a sewer.
According to the records, the planet had once been a popular vacation spot, its long stretches of white sandy beaches calling tourists from all over the Inner Rim. X-7 had scanned the holopics in disgust. All that land, wasted on useless pursuits. Pale bodies stretching out under the three suns. Children splashing in the surf. And behind them, acres of lush green hills, cluttered with roaming herds of wilter-beasts and hairy bronaks.
The inefficiency of it was criminalâor should have been, at least.
X-7 climbed out of his Howlrunner and looked around with satisfaction. It was an open-air spaceport, left over from the old days, when it would have afforded views of the sparkling coastlines and blooming hills. Those were all gone now, thanks to the Empire. The hills had been stripped as 11-17 miner droids probed the earth beneath for valuable varmigio and mutonium. Derricks and power generators dotted the water as far as the eye could see. The water itself had turned nearly black with runoff from the factories lining the coast; the three suns were barely visible through the thick haze of brown smog. X-7 took a deep, appreciative breath. That foul stench was the perfume of civilization.
The people of Belazura had plenty to thank the Empire for. Before the Imperials arrived, Belazurans had been useless fools whose skills were limited to serving tropical drinks and pulling flailing Phindians out of the surf. But the Empire had put them to work in the mines and the factories, turned them into productive galactic citizens.
Though none of them looked very happy about it.
Except for periodic convoys of Imperial troop carriers, the narrow streets of Belazuraâs capital city were nearly deserted. Small wonder, as every able-bodied man and woman was either at work or asleep. But those who couldnât workâthe aged, the infirm, the very youngâshuffled down the sidewalks, heads down, shoulders hunched. X-7 had no hope that anyone here would recognize him from his past; Project Omega had rebuilt his facial structure. But even if heâd worn the same face as this Trever Flume, there seemed little chance that any of these Belazurans would even dare look at him.
X-7 had followed the trail of information as far as it would take him. It had taken him here. Soreshâs codes had provided access to an encrypted Imperial network that had revealed all he could ever want to know about Project Omega. How its unwilling recruits were culled from prisoners whose families thought they were dead. How their brains were wiped. How they were molded into slaves of the Empire, convinced that they had been volunteers. How the records of their past were wiped from the system.
But information wasnât nearly as easy to erase as most people thought. It had been well buried, but X-7 had found itâlittle more than a name, Trever Flume. Captured on Belazura at age eighteen, shipped off to Project Omega, where he became its most successful graduate. Code name: X-7.
That was it, the dead end. So X-7 had stolen himself a Howlrunner and flown to Belazura. He wasnât leaving until heâd found some answers.
The simplest way to track down information would have been to report to the Imperial liaison at the spaceport. But X-7 needed to stay off the Imperial radar. And likely some kind of fail-safe trigger in the system existed, designed to red-flag anyone who came looking for answers about Trever Flume.
Instead, he decided to begin his search for the past in a more obvious place: Trever Flumeâs home.
My home? he wondered, staring at the decrepit, crumbling structure that had been Flumeâs last known address. The two-story house was falling apart: peeling paint,
All that, and it wasnât me after all, Div thought as Luke slashed and leapt and spun, striving for perfection. But what if itâs him?
B elazura was a sewer.
According to the records, the planet had once been a popular vacation spot, its long stretches of white sandy beaches calling tourists from all over the Inner Rim. X-7 had scanned the holopics in disgust. All that land, wasted on useless pursuits. Pale bodies stretching out under the three suns. Children splashing in the surf. And behind them, acres of lush green hills, cluttered with roaming herds of wilter-beasts and hairy bronaks.
The inefficiency of it was criminalâor should have been, at least.
X-7 climbed out of his Howlrunner and looked around with satisfaction. It was an open-air spaceport, left over from the old days, when it would have afforded views of the sparkling coastlines and blooming hills. Those were all gone now, thanks to the Empire. The hills had been stripped as 11-17 miner droids probed the earth beneath for valuable varmigio and mutonium. Derricks and power generators dotted the water as far as the eye could see. The water itself had turned nearly black with runoff from the factories lining the coast; the three suns were barely visible through the thick haze of brown smog. X-7 took a deep, appreciative breath. That foul stench was the perfume of civilization.
The people of Belazura had plenty to thank the Empire for. Before the Imperials arrived, Belazurans had been useless fools whose skills were limited to serving tropical drinks and pulling flailing Phindians out of the surf. But the Empire had put them to work in the mines and the factories, turned them into productive galactic citizens.
Though none of them looked very happy about it.
Except for periodic convoys of Imperial troop carriers, the narrow streets of Belazuraâs capital city were nearly deserted. Small wonder, as every able-bodied man and woman was either at work or asleep. But those who couldnât workâthe aged, the infirm, the very youngâshuffled down the sidewalks, heads down, shoulders hunched. X-7 had no hope that anyone here would recognize him from his past; Project Omega had rebuilt his facial structure. But even if heâd worn the same face as this Trever Flume, there seemed little chance that any of these Belazurans would even dare look at him.
X-7 had followed the trail of information as far as it would take him. It had taken him here. Soreshâs codes had provided access to an encrypted Imperial network that had revealed all he could ever want to know about Project Omega. How its unwilling recruits were culled from prisoners whose families thought they were dead. How their brains were wiped. How they were molded into slaves of the Empire, convinced that they had been volunteers. How the records of their past were wiped from the system.
But information wasnât nearly as easy to erase as most people thought. It had been well buried, but X-7 had found itâlittle more than a name, Trever Flume. Captured on Belazura at age eighteen, shipped off to Project Omega, where he became its most successful graduate. Code name: X-7.
That was it, the dead end. So X-7 had stolen himself a Howlrunner and flown to Belazura. He wasnât leaving until heâd found some answers.
The simplest way to track down information would have been to report to the Imperial liaison at the spaceport. But X-7 needed to stay off the Imperial radar. And likely some kind of fail-safe trigger in the system existed, designed to red-flag anyone who came looking for answers about Trever Flume.
Instead, he decided to begin his search for the past in a more obvious place: Trever Flumeâs home.
My home? he wondered, staring at the decrepit, crumbling structure that had been Flumeâs last known address. The two-story house was falling apart: peeling paint,
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