Chapter Text
Present day orbit of Ryloth, 12 BBY
The cargo ship rattled and shook badly as it began to enter the atmosphere around Ryloth. It was an old, beat-up ship—not designed for passengers or their comfort—and it looked like it was held together more by spit and its owner’s prayers than by bolts. Still, it had been headed in the right direction, and the cranky, elderly owner had been willing to accept Boil’s last handful of credits and a few days of unpaid labor in exchange for safe passage.
It may not have been a great bargain but Boil’s life had always been short on fair deals. At least the old man hadn’t asked any questions.
Getting a transport off of Vaklin had been surprisingly easy. Boil had been mulling it over for years, considering all the angles of an escape plan and how he would cover his tracks. In the end, though, it amounted to little more than walking off the Imperial base, covering his face, and boarding the first transport heading Rimward with a captain that cared more about credits than respectability. And so it went from there: under-the-table deals, a bit of bodyguard work in exchange for a ride or a meal, and a half-dozen crowded, stinking bunks shared with every type of unwashed being in the galaxy. Finally he was on the last leg of his trip, and thankfully alone for once, just Boil and a cargo hold full of smuggled droid components.
There was a squeal of metal and the ship lurched alarmingly to the right before it straightened itself out. Boil lost his balance for a moment and banged his left elbow hard on the bulkhead; it hurt, but the armor he still wore on that arm protected him somewhat. Nothing broken, anyway. With a wince he righted himself and braced more firmly against the lashed-down pile of cargo crates that took up most of the hold. Boil flexed his arm slowly, checking his range of motion. The elbow would be fine, but it would probably bother him for days. He may not be as old and decrepit as the ship’s owner yet, but age was coming quickly for him and his few remaining brothers—looking at the wrong side of twenty meant a lot more aches and pains than any of them were expected to feel.
After all, they were never really supposed to get this old.
The metal of the ancient bulkhead shuddered as the ship dipped suddenly, dropping a meter or two in the air before leveling out again. Boil kept his feet this time, his knees loose and his grip on the cargo netting sure. He glanced down to check that his pack was still secure between his legs on the floor. He couldn’t help but remember the last time he had ridden a shaking, swaying ship down to the surface of Ryloth. Back then it had been enemy fire causing the trouble, not an antique of an engine and some questionable-looking repairs, but the effect was the same.
Leaving had been smoother, though. A nice quiet ride up in the LAAT/i, everyone on board too worn out from the long campaign to bother much with anything. No one chatting or joking, all of them too tired and too preoccupied with thoughts of a quick sonic and a solid six hours in their bunks.
All of them except one.
The skies above Ryloth, 22 BBY
Boil swayed slightly side to side as the LAAT/i rose, his arm dangling from the strap above him and his feet braced wide. He let his head hang low, the weight of it stretching his sore neck muscles as he lazily rolled his head from one side to the other. When he rolled it to his right, Waxer came into view.
He was leaning against one of the doors, looking through an open slit with his eyes fixed on the rapidly-fading ground of the planet below them. Boil blinked, lifting his head up to look properly.
Waxer looked… sad.
Frowning to himself, Boil tried to figure it out. The campaign had been a success, Ryloth was free. It had been a long slog for the 212th; there had been several more villages to free after Nabat and then a hot, dusty trek through the Jixuan desert, skirmishing with the Separatists. But after General Windu had taken Lessu the enemy had mostly fled and the mop-up had been quick and efficient. Casualties had been low, especially for a campaign of this scale. Extraction had begun on time and he and Waxer were on only the fourth shuttle back to the Negotiator, where there was fresh caf and, more importantly, fresh blacks.
So why the long face?
By now they had left the atmosphere and would be back on the ship in a matter of minutes. But Waxer’s gaze was still fixed down at the planet, his lips pursed in a little frown. Boil blew out an exasperated breath and let his curiosity get the better of him. He let go of his strap and walked over to lean against the door facing Waxer.
“What’s eating you?” he asked gruffly.
Waxer looked up, startled out of his melancholy. “Oh,” he said. “I was just thinking about Numa.”
Boil raised an eyebrow, glancing out through the slit himself. There was no way to distinguish any of the cities from here, let alone a little place like Nabat. “The girl?” he asked. “I’m sure she’s fine, she’s got her uncle.”
Waxer shrugged and sighed. “Yeah,” he agreed reluctantly. “I just feel bad. I was hoping we’d get a chance to see her again before we left.”
Boil snorted. “Why? No reason to go back once we took the city.”
Waxer gave him a reproachful look. “It was just an idea. Besides, you told her we’d be back.”
“She was scared,” Boil replied, rolling his eyes. “I didn’t mean it. She’ll probably barely remember us anyway.”
Waxer shrugged with one shoulder, turning his gaze back down toward Ryloth. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “but I don’t think I’m going to forget about her.”
Present day Lessu, 12 BBY
Landing in Lessu’s spaceport was certainly less eventful than the landing at Nabat had been during the war, although Boil had to move quickly to slip past the transport authorities once he snuck off the ship. His face was all-too-familiar, of course, and with no identifying chain code and no credits left for a bribe he wouldn’t have made it very far. Even distant Ryloth, on the edge of Wild Space, was under the Empire’s thumb; perhaps even more so than other planets, given its history of insurgency. Lessu had fallen long ago, but some of the other provinces were still holding out.
The Empire wasn't bothering to hunt for an old clone like Boil—he had checked the bounty listings before he left the Arkanis Sector—and he'd like to keep it that way.
Boil hadn’t heard much about Ryloth and its insurgents while he was still serving in the Core—bad news was bad for morale—but after his semi-retirement to the outpost on Vaklin he was able to pick up a lot more news that the Empire considered unsuitable for its soldiers’ ears. The Free Ryloth Movement may not have fulfilled their mission yet, but they were practically a success story by anti-Imperialist standards, considering they hadn’t been wiped out entirely already.
Boil just hoped he didn’t run into any of its members while he was here. The clones may have once helped to free Ryloth, but they had still helped the Empire become what it was today. People tended to remember that these days, more than they remembered the clones as heroes. Boil didn't blame them.
Pulling his hood down a little lower across his face, Boil made his way through Lessu’s streets towards the transport hub for local travel. Nabat was probably a two- or three-day journey, depending on if he could hitch a ride on a speeder or if he had to join a blurrg caravan, but Boil was in no real hurry. He just hoped that it would be his last stop here before he could leave again.
The transport hub was bustling, dozens of Twi’leks of all types loading vehicles and animals, conducting negotiations, wishing each other farewell. There were a few Stormtroopers, but the ones Boil saw didn’t seem to be doing anything other than standing slouched near the entrances and absently waving people past them. Small-scale travel like this must not be of much interest to the Empire—no one with enough money to bribe them.
With a practiced air of nonchalance, Boil strolled across the hub toward some kind of kiosk near the center, hitching his small pack higher on his back. He didn’t have anything worth stealing—worth it to anyone else, at least—but this was just the sort of place where someone might try their luck. The man at the kiosk, a bored-looking Rutian Twi’lek with a datapad in his hand, looked up in surprise when Boil approached him. Humans were relatively rare on Ryloth—at least, outside of an Imperial uniform.
“I am travel to Nabat,” Boil said, wincing internally at his broken Ryl. He was rusty, not having had any reason to practice in nearly a decade, and he had never been all that good at it to begin with. “I can protect, shoot animals,” he continued. “This pays for me.”
The Twi’lek squinted at him suspiciously, but he seemed to understand. “What’s in Nabat?” he asked.
“Old friend,” Boil shrugged. “I wait for his money, but he not give me,” he added with a huff.
The man chuckled, shaking his head. “Old friends never do,” he said. He tapped at his datapad a few times, then pointed over Boil’s shoulder toward a group clustered around a handful of blurrgs. “That caravan leaves in an hour for the Tann Province, they’ll be traveling past Nabat on their way. Talk to Nuida,” he indicated an older, pale green woman, “she might be willing to take you.”
“Thank you,” Boil said, but the man was already heading off, yelling at someone pulling a heavy-looking cart behind them. Boil walked over to the blurrg caravan group.
“Nuida?” he asked.
The older woman turned from her companions and squinted up at him. “What do you want, Human?” she asked in a rough voice.
Boil jerked a thumb back toward the kiosk. “He sends me,” he explained. “I can join you, kill wild animals. I have blasters,” he added, gesturing to his holster. “I am good. I go to Nabat. You travel me, I protect you.”
Nuida raised an eyebrow. “And what if I have no need of your services, hm? What if we reach Nabat and you haven’t had to protect us from squat?”
He shrugged. “When I reach Nabat I pay you,” he lied. “I am get money there.”
It didn’t really matter how Boil got there, so long as he got there in the end, but this was the fastest way to finish his task. One last mission for Waxer, and then he’d get off this rock and never look back. He shifted his weight and looked Nuida in the eye.
She crossed her arms and sucked at her teeth for a moment, just looking. Boil stood straight and still, refusing to be intimidated. After a moment, she shrugged. “Fine,” she told him, “you pay me in dead gutkurrs on the road or you pay me with credits in Nabat.” She grinned, showing many gaps in her sharp teeth. “I hope it’s the gutkurrs, they have good meat.”
Nuida turned and exchanged words with one of the others, too quickly for Boil to catch, before she beckoned him to follow her over to one of the blurrgs. It was as ugly as Boil remembered them being, this one snuffling at the ground in front of the post it was tied to. Nuida walked up to it and slapped it lightly on the side.
“You ever ridden a blurrg before?” she asked smugly.
Boil just shook his head warily. He had heard stories from Lightning Squadron after the assault on Lessu; Syndulla’s blurrg riders were fierce and aggressive and their mounts were twice that, prone to attacking anyone who tried to climb one uninvited. This blurrg, however, looked more sleepy than anything else.
“This is Opika,” Nuida said as she reached out to scratch under its massive jaw. “She is old and slow and too dumb to startle easily. A good mount for an inexperienced rider.” She grinned again, then yelled, “Zhonn!” A young boy, probably around eight standard years, trotted over.
“Zhonn will show you how to ride, Human,” Nuida said as she lay a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “My grandson is the best blurrg-herder in the family. If anyone can teach you, he can.”
Boil looked down dubiously at the little Twi’lek. His expression was neutral but his little orange lekku were twitching mischievously. Nuida wandered off, checking in with the other riders. Zhonn remained, rocking back and forth between his toes and his heels and staring up at Boil.
“Hello,” Boil said awkwardly.
“I’ve never met a Human before,” Zhonn said brightly. “Do you have hair? Can I see?”
Boil scowled. “No,” he said dismissively. He pointed at Opika. “I want to ride blurrg. You teach me.”
Zhonn laughed. “You talk funny,” he said. “Like my little brother, he’s only three.” The boy cocked his head to the side. “Are you a baby Human?”
Boil glared at him. “No,” he said again, more firmly. “No more questions, show me blurrg. Please.”
He had never gotten the hang of figuring out natborn children. Waxer had had a talent for it, but Boil could never predict where their strange little minds would go. He had handled the cadets on Kamino well enough, back when he used to be punished for talking back to his trainer with shifts watching the tubies. Back when there still were tubies.
“Where did you learn Ryl?” Zhonn asked, ignoring Boil's request. “Did you have a teacher? My auntie teaches Basic at the school in Rhovari but Grandmama says it’s a waste of time to learn. But you must speak Basic. Can you teach me any words? I can teach you better Ryl if you teach me some Basic. Do you wanna know the days of the week? We sang a song at school about it. It goes…”
It was going to be a long trip.
The Negotiator, 22 BBY
“Koa, t—tuh—t’pal—t’palo—no, no.”
Boil frowned a little, his eyes still closed.
“T’palu, that’s it, t’palu…. Koa, t’palu m’lash? That’s not…”
Boil turned his head to press his ear against the pillow.
“M’lash… m’lash… was it in… ah, okay. M’ladh. Koa, t’palu ril’ek m’ladh.” There was a satisfied little chuckle, then it was quiet again in the bunkroom.
Boil sniffed and rubbed his face against the pillow. He hitched the blanket a little higher up on his shoulder and sighed.
“Okay, then it’s… bez—bezwa? Sesk… sesk’ryvak. Sesk’ryvak. Bezwa ril sesk’ryvak!”
Boil let out an irritated groan. His eyes snapped open and he rolled over. “Would you keep it down?” he growled out.
Across from him, Waxer looked up guiltily. He was sitting up in his bunk in the dark, his face lit up from below by the datapad in his lap. “Oh, sorry Boil,” Waxer said with a wince. “I thought you were asleep.”
“I was trying to sleep,” Boil corrected testily. “And now I’m awake.”
Waxer winced again. “Sorry, sorry. Usually you can sleep through anything.”
Boil sighed and lifted up his left hand. It was still bound in the bacta-infused cast the medics had given him in the medbay after he’d broken his wrist during the final assault. “This damn thing aches,” he groused.
“They didn’t give you painkillers?” Waxer asked sympathetically.
“Didn’t have enough to spare,” Boil said with a shrug. He heaved himself up to sit facing Waxer and slumped forward, resting his chin on his good hand. “The last campaign depleted the stores and there were plenty of brothers who needed them more than me.” He raised the cast again. “This’ll be healed by morning, it’s just annoying.”
“Sorry,” Waxer repeated. He glanced down at his datapad and bit his lip. “I’ll take this to the mess hall then, you try and get some rest.”
“Don't bother, I’m not gonna fall asleep anyway,” Boil replied dismissively. He stretched his hands high above his head, trying to banish the tiredness from his bones. “Might as well stay up and keep my mind off my wrist.” He nodded his chin at the datapad. “What are you working on?”
Waxer brightened. “I’m learning Ryl!” he said excitedly. “I asked Backchat to send me some of his beginner modules.”
Boil raised an eyebrow. “Why would you want to learn Ryl?” he asked skeptically. “You trying to get yourself a Twi’leki girlfriend?”
Waxer rolled his eyes. “No,” he said insistently. “I figured, if we ever did get the chance to get back to Ryloth and see Numa, I’d want to actually be able to understand her this time. So I’m learning.”
Boil frowned at him. “You really think we’re going back to Ryloth? They doubled the garrison there, I don’t think the Seppies are that stupid.”
“No, no,” Waxer said, shaking his head. “I meant, you know, after the war. I’d like to visit, see the place properly. And check in on Numa. It’d be nice to see her again.”
“You think she’ll remember you?”
“I don’t know,” Waxer shrugged. “But even if she doesn’t, I’d like to make sure she’s okay.”
Boil made a skeptical little sound. “Well, I guess so, but I doubt she needs some clone for a babysitter.”
“Then I’ll make it a quick visit and spend the rest of the time looking around,” Waxer replied, undeterred. “We never did get to visit Lessu, I’m sure there’s a lot to do there.” He tilted his head to the side thoughtfully. “You know… you could come too.”
“Me?” Boil asked, surprised.
“Sure,” Waxer said with a bright smile. “We can both check on Numa. After all, we were both there, it’s only fitting.” He laughed a little. “What would she think if only one of us came to see her? You don’t want her to think you didn’t like her,” he teased.
Boil was still stuck on the invitation. “You really want me to tag along?”
Waxer’s smile softened. “Of course, you should come with me. Maybe we’ll even stay a while, who knows. See the sights, get to know the locals. Try some real, authentic food.”
Boil could only blink at him for a moment. He barely got invitations to sit with other brothers in the mess hall, let alone to tag along on a whole planetary tour. Apparently, he was “abrasive.”
At his silence, Waxer dropped his gaze and reached up to fiddle with the datapad. “But... if you don’t want to…” Waxer trailed off quietly.
“No!” Boil blurted out. “I, uh. Yeah. That would be… that would be nice.”
Waxer’s answering smile made something flutter in Boil’s stomach. He cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair. “Right, well, if I’m coming with you then I guess I should learn some Ryl too.”
Waxer nodded eagerly and patted the bunk next to him. Boil clambered over, dragging the blanket from his bunk along and awkwardly climbing in to sit next to Waxer, mindful of his wrist. Waxer immediately tucked in close, pressing their sides together from elbow to knee and helping Boil to rearrange the blanket over their laps.
It was warm where Waxer was pressed up against him, and this close Boil could smell him. He smelled like any other clone, standard soap and sweat, but for some reason it distracted Boil. Waxer shifted, moving the datapad into the middle so it was visible to both of them.
“You should start with some standard greetings,” Waxer explained, pointing at the screen with his other hand as he spoke. “This one just means, ‘hello,’ which is normal in Ryl, but this one,” he tapped to the next screen, “means ‘respect to you,’ which I thought might be nice for Numa’s uncle.”
Waxer glanced up for Boil’s opinion, which he absolutely could not provide because he had been staring at Waxer’s face while he talked, not at the screen. Boil watched, fascinated, as Waxer turned his head and saw how close Boil’s face was to his, eyes already on him. Waxer’s eyes widened a fraction and then, stars be praised, he blushed.
Waxer quickly looked back down, fighting a smile, and started chattering about Ryl greetings some more. Boil just stared at the side of his head and smirked.
Maybe tagging along with Waxer would be fun. Especially if Boil could get him to blush again.
Present day Nabat, 12 BBY
The high walls of Nabat looked much as Boil remembered seeing them except that the jagged holes had long-ago been filled in, the repaired sections still slightly off-color from the original stone. The city’s entry gate was bustling with travelers and locals alike; Nuida’s caravan wasn’t the only one arriving that day and the area was alive with activity. So different from the barren streets the last time Boil had seen the place.
He raised a hand in farewell as the caravan headed out; Zhonn twisted backward atop his blurrg and waved enthusiastically back. The little nuisance had eventually proven a good teacher and Boil had managed to stay atop the slow, lumbering Opika for most of their journey to Nabat. And his Ryl had even improved a little, though he was too embarrassed to repeat any of the children’s songs Zhonn had tried to teach him.
Nuida had gotten her money’s worth out of Boil on the second day of their journey when a pair of hungry gutkurrs had attempted to ambush their caravan when they stopped for mid-meal. A couple of the others had suffered bad scratches, but Boil had managed to drive off one creature and kill the other—Nuida had sold its meat to a trader at Nabat’s gate when they arrived and had generously given Boil a portion of the sale. She didn’t look back at Boil as the caravan lumbered out of sight, but that was fine with him.
It was safer to be forgotten.
Turning toward the gate, Boil lifted the scarf that covered the bottom half of his face a little higher up his nose. On the road it had protected him from the dust, and here in the city it would hopefully keep anyone from recognizing him as a clone. After all, there were plenty of people here that had seen his face before.
He made his way to the central plaza, where the citizens of Nabat had once been held hostage by the Separatists, and asked for directions to the local school. Boil didn’t know exactly how old Numa had been when they met her—natborn ages were still a bit of a mystery to him—but by now she ought to be a teenager and might still be in school.
As luck would have it, the younglings were being dismissed just as Boil found the building, so he watched from across the street as they exited in small groups, chattering excitedly to one another or running to find parents and friends. But there were barely any younglings around Numa’s age and none with the correct skin color.
Frowning, Boil waited until all the children had left before he approached the school. One of the teachers was tidying up in the lobby when he entered.
“Excuse me,” Boil said, a few steps from the doorway.
The teacher looked up, surprised. “Can I help you?” they said, looking a little bewildered.
Boil sighed. So much for being forgotten. What was a Human doing in a provincial school on Ryloth?
“I looking for a girl,” he explained. “Numa. She is teen years. Teal skin. I do not see her with the others.”
The teacher’s expression turned wary. “What do you want with her?”
Boil’s eyes widened and he shook his head quickly. He hadn’t thought about how this might look. “I am… I know her when she is small. I visiting. I bring a gift,” he said.
This did little to reassure the teacher. “Why not just go to her house?” they asked skeptically.
“I am not—I do not know house. She is with uncle, I am thinking. I only know… I am seen her parents’ house long ago.” He shook his head. “It is empty. I come here to ask.”
The teacher crossed their arms. “Well, you’re right about her parents, but Numa hasn’t gone to school here in quite a while. I’m not sure if she’s even still living with Nilim anymore, can’t remember the last time I saw her.”
Boil frowned. “She is… she is too old than I am guessing? No more school?”
“No,” the teacher huffed. “No, she should still be in school at her age. I don’t know what he’s thinking…” they trailed off. Then they blew out a breath and shrugged. “Look, Nilim lives over in the old quarter, near the courthouse. I’m sure if you ask in the neighborhood someone can point you in the right direction.” They pointed a finger at him accusingly. “But I better not hear any ugly news about a Human hanging around with a teenager. Nilim may let that girl run wild, but we protect our own around here.”
Boil raised his hands placatingly. “I am not stay. I only bring gift, then I am go.” He headed for the door. “Thank you,” he said over his shoulder as he beat a hasty retreat.
He retraced his steps back to the main plaza and then headed east through the winding streets, toward the older part of town where the buildings hadn’t been built so much as hewn from the rock itself. His route took him through a bustling marketplace, lined with vendors and stalls selling wares of all kinds. It reminded Boil of another market he had seen, a lifetime and half a galaxy away.
Mikkia, 21 BBY
“The freshest fish this side of Westwind Bay!”
“Coral necklaces! Pearl earrings! I see something has caught your eye, ma’am—bracelets are on sale today.”
“Fried moonfish egg sacs! Get ‘em while they’re hot!”
The marketplace on Mikkia was, without a doubt, the loudest, brightest, most chaotic and most crowded place Boil had ever been. It completely overwhelmed his senses at every turn. It was an absolute riot of color, the stalls draped in bright fabrics and the Mikkians themselves representing every possible shade. Their wares—conical piles of spices in deep reds and dark greens, glittering gold and silver jewelry, racks upon racks of jewel-toned clothing—were all in competition to catch his eye.
On top of that, the entire marketplace was awash with smells: fried street food, perfumes and soaps of all kinds, fish stalls with the acrid, salty tang of the sea. Every few meters Boil smelled something he had never smelled before in his life, and before he could even identify it he had found a new scent.
The noise was the most distracting though, especially without his bucket to help block it out. The vendors were loudly hawking their wares, shouting over one another to be heard unless they were busy passionately haggling with their customers. There were musicians scattered around, busking for credits, and Boil passed by two different religious ceremonies with a cleric chanting in a rhythmic, nasal tone. Rising above the general noise of the crowd there were the occasional shrieks of playing children and the shrill calls of native seabirds overhead, looking for a chance to swoop down and snatch some morsel off the ground.
It was so much that Boil felt that he was barely taking in anything at all, truly; he just kept a firm grip on the back of Waxer’s jacket as he followed him through the crowd. Waxer, for his part, seemed to be enjoying it immensely. He kept turning over his shoulder to point something out or make a comment, but Boil could barely hear him above all the racket.
Eventually Waxer led him to a little plaza that was less crowded, with food stalls set up around the edges of a little square with a fountain in the middle. Waxer bought a couple of fried… somethings on a stick and led Boil to sit on the edge of the fountain.
“Isn’t this great?” Waxer asked as he took a bite. He made a pleased face at the taste and hummed appreciatively.
“It’s mayhem,” Boil grumbled, shaking his head. His ears were still ringing from a trio of horn players that had accosted them rounding the last corner. “They should add this place to the sim rooms on Kamino for desensitization training.”
Waxer snorted around his mouthful and playfully whacked Boil in the chest with the back of his hand. Boil grunted and batted his hand away. They were both in their grays today, having been offered the chance at a real shore leave and not just an extra day or two planetside before extraction. Mikkia wasn’t Coruscant, but it was a hell of a lot more interesting than another day spent aboard the Negotiator.
“I like it,” Waxer said after he swallowed. “It’s nice to see the way people live, especially outside of a war zone.” He took another bite. “Maybe one day you and I will shop at a place like this all the time,” he added as he chewed. “Do you suppose they have markets like this on Ryloth?”
Boil shrugged and finally took a bite of his fried-thing-on-a-stick. It was really good. “Sure, they must buy stuff somewhere,” he told Waxer.
Ryloth still felt like a far-off dream, especially as the war dragged on into its second year, but it was nice to talk about it sometimes. By now Boil had heard about all sorts of different futures from other brothers: becoming a bounty hunter, settling down on a farm, attending university, learning to play an instrument. Planning a trip to Ryloth wasn’t a very ambitious future compared to some of the things he had heard, but the idea grew on Boil every day.
A lot like Waxer had, actually.
Boil watched as Waxer finished enjoying his food, catching the last few greasy pieces before they fell off the stick and popping them into his mouth. Waxer sighed happily, leaned back on his hands on the fountain ledge, and looked out across the market where it expanded like spokes on a wheel into every street around their little safe haven. He looked so relaxed for once, just taking it all in. Squinting a little in the sun, the asymmetrical panels of his gray jacket hanging open to show the tight undershirt stretching across his chest. His lips, still shiny with grease, were fixed in a little smile as he watched the people coming and going.
Boil had been waiting for a chance to taste those lips. He had a feeling he wouldn’t be waiting much longer.
He finished off his own fried treat and glanced around at the stalls in the plaza. Most of them sold things they couldn’t afford, and even more that there’d be no way to store on the ship in their footlockers, but Boil had to admit that it was interesting to see all these beings just… living their lives. A little piece of what he and his brothers were fighting to protect.
Suddenly, something caught his eye. A stall just on the edge of the plaza, on a street opposite of the way they had come. Boil turned and grabbed Waxer’s hand, standing up and tugging. “Come on,” he urged.
Waxer let Boil pull him to his feet, but when Boil loosened his grip as they started walking Waxer just… didn’t let go. Boil glanced down at their hands, then up at Waxer, who smiled at him tentatively. Feeling his stomach swoop, Boil couldn’t help but smile back. He tightened his grip on Waxer’s hand again and gave it a squeeze.
The stall Boil had spotted sold hard candies, all of them dripped and pulled and twisted into strange creations. Some looked like real crystals, sparkling in the sunlight, while others were curling abstract shapes, curving over and under themselves. Most were carved into little creatures, amazing bite-sized recreations of animals from all over the galaxy. There were pale blue banthas with twisted pink and white horns, yellow nexu spotted in purple and white, blue and purple porgs with plump pink bellies, and an entire rainbow of tookas. There was even a life-size gray and white Kowakian monkey lizard with black candy ribbons for ears and purple tufts of candy floss hair. Boil had never seen anything like it.
Waxer was immediately fascinated and began peppering the merchant with questions. He leaned as close as he could to all the little candy creatures without touching them, nodding along as the vendor explained how the candy was pulled and stretched and colored and shaped. Boil just crossed his arms and watched, leaning his hip against the stall and doing some mental math on how much of their combined shore leave stipend they had left to cover some fancy candy. Waxer had spent most of his money on the cab to the market and that fried stuff, but he never passed up the chance for sugar. Boil had agreed to pay for the cab back to the spaceport, but he could spot Waxer for the candy if it was as expensive as it looked.
If only to see the smile it put on his face.
Eventually, Waxer flagged him over. “I’m trying to decide between one of these crystals,” he explained, gesturing at a pale green candy that reminded Boil of Christophsis, “or maybe a couple of the little animals.” He tapped his finger against his lip. “But they’re so cute, I’m not sure I could bring myself to eat them.”
Waxer glanced up to gauge Boil’s opinion, but before he could answer Waxer gasped aloud, his eyes fixed over Boil’s shoulder. “Look!” he cried, pushing him so Boil would turn around.
Further down the street, squeezed between a stall selling pastel-colored soaps and another selling baskets and ceramic pots, was a table covered in brightly-colored stuffed toys. Waxer drifted over to it, entranced; Boil exchanged an awkward shrug with the disappointed candy seller before he followed.
At the table, Waxer was hovering over a pile of small tooka dolls. As Boil approached he picked one up and held it out. “Look at this!” he cried as he shook the purple and yellow doll. “It looks just like it!”
“Just like what?” Boil asked, glancing warily at the vendor who was eyeing them suspiciously, their head-tendrils waving in a menacing cloud around their head.
“Numa’s toy!” Waxer replied excitedly. “The one she had at her house. She had to leave it behind when the gutkurrs found us.” He gave the doll a little squeeze and it squeaked, just like Numa’s had. Waxer locked eyes with Boil, his face eager. “We have to get it.”
Boil raised an eyebrow. “Why would we do that?”
“We wouldn’t want her to be lonely!” Waxer admonished. “Natborn kids really love their toys, she probably misses it.”
Boil gave him a skeptical look. “You don’t think her uncle has already—”
“How much is this?” Waxer asked the vendor, cutting him off. The vendor named the price, which made Waxer frown. He looked down at the tooka doubtfully, running his thumb over one glossy black eye.
Boil sighed and reached for his belt. Waxer didn’t have enough to pay for the doll and his candy, so Boil would cover him.
But before he could even offer Waxer looked up, his expression determined. “Sold,” he said, already digging into his pockets for his remaining handful of credits.
Pausing, Boil nudged him with his elbow. “What about your candy?” he asked.
Waxer smiled a little regretfully and shrugged. “I can get candy another day. This is more important.” He handed over his credits and tucked the doll under his arm. “She’s going to love it,” he declared, “and that’s worth it to me.”
Boil shook his head fondly and came to a decision. No sense putting off the inevitable. “C’mere,” he mumbled, then started dragging Waxer over to a little spot on the other side of the street, an alcove made by the mismatched corner between two stalls. It was dimmer than the street and nearly full of storage crates, but there was enough room for Boil to crowd Waxer inside and press up close against him.
“You,” Boil said, wrapping his hands around the loose collar of Waxer’s jacket, “are too sweet for your own good.”
Waxer lifted his chin, a dare in his eyes, and tilted his head closer. “Yeah?” he asked, challenging.
Boil just huffed out a fond laugh and leaned in, natural as breathing. There—among the sound of street food sizzling, and the scent of musk-rose perfume clashing with spicy pepper flakes, and the overwhelming crush of ten thousand Mikkians on market day—Boil kissed Waxer for the first time.
And for the second time, and the third, and for a few more after that. In fact, if someone had not shifted a crate from the far side of their little refuge and nearly toppled the whole stack, they might have stayed there all afternoon.
As it was, they broke apart and laughed together, nervous and embarrassed and a little giddy. Boil could feel that his face was flushed. Part of him never wanted to leave the market, chaotic as it was, just so they could keep this little bubble to themselves for a little longer.
Waxer, it seemed, had other ideas.
He leaned back in and nuzzled his nose against Boil’s cheek. “You ready to head back?” he asked quietly. “I’m all out of credits and we should try to get to the spaceport before the rush.” He ducked his head and looked up at Boil through his eyelashes. “If we get back soon enough, I think the bunkroom might be empty,” he added, raising his eyebrows with a significant look.
Boil felt an altogether different swoop in his gut, but no less welcome. “Good idea,” he replied. He reluctantly stepped back as much as he could in the tiny space. “Why don’t you go see if there’s a cab stand at the end of the street? I’ll meet you there, I just want to check on something before we go.”
Waxer raised a skeptical eyebrow at him but nodded, heading down the crowded street away from the plaza. Once he was out of sight among the crowd Boil turned and headed back to the candy stall.
“Can I get two of those crystals?” he asked the vendor, pointing at the candy Waxer had been eyeing earlier. Boil had plenty of extra credits—there was no reason Waxer had to deprive himself of one of his only vices just to make Numa happy on some distant future date. The vendor happily took his credits and wrapped his purchase up in a little brown bag made of real paper.
Candy safely tucked into his pocket, Boil fought his way through the frenzied sea of beings between him and Waxer. He finally found him at the end of the street, leaning against the back of a spice stall. He was hugging the tooka doll against his chest.
“You sure that toy is for Numa?” Boil teased as he approached
Waxer chuckled and squeezed the toy in his arms, squeaking it loudly. “I can see the appeal. It must be nice, having a little friend you can carry around.”
“I guess,” Boil shrugged.
“You don’t think so?”
Boil sidled up to Waxer with a smug look. “What do I need one of those for?” he asked as he slipped an arm around Waxer’s waist. “I have you,” he added, pressing a kiss against his cheek.
Ryloth and Numa could wait as long as it took, so far as Boil was concerned. He already had the future he was looking for.
Present day Nabat, 12 BBY
Nilim’s home, once Boil eventually found it, was an unassuming place two streets away from the town walls. Like many of the buildings in the older neighborhoods of Nabat, the entrance of it was more like a door in the base of a cliff than a proper front porch. But apparently that hadn’t stopped Nilim from using the street in front of his home like one, which is where Boil found him late in the afternoon—lounging in a chair out front, smoking some kind of pipe.
He approached slowly. “Hello,” Boil said respectfully. “You are Nilim?”
Nilim sat up a bit in his seat, surprised. “I am,” he replied, friendly enough. “How can I help you?”
Boil shifted his feet a little. “I am look for Numa. She is living here, with you?”
Nilim gave him a strange look. “Numa? How on earth do you know Numa?” he asked.
“I am… I meet her when she is a child,” Boil explained. “I have a gift.”
Nilim cocked his head to the side and squinted up at him for a moment. Then he inhaled sharply and stood suddenly, nearly toppling the chair. He beckoned Boil inside the house while his eyes darted up and down the street.
Boil followed; inside the front door was a small kitchen that smelled of caf and over-ripe fruit. Nilim sat down at the small table in the center and pointed at Boil. “You are a clone,” he said matter-of-factly.
Boil stiffened where he still stood by the door. His hand crept toward his blaster.
“No, no,” Nilim said hurriedly, waving his hands. “Please, no, you are welcome here. You and your brothers saved us during the war, some of us still remember what happened. The Empire may be no friend to Ryloth, but from what I hear they haven’t treated your lot much better.” He indicated the other chair. “Please, sit.”
Boil tugged out the chair and sat. After a moment’s hesitation, he pulled the scarf covering his face down.
Nilim’s eyebrows rose. “Oh,” he breathed out. “I recognize you! You were one of the clones that rescued Numa!”
Boil nodded, rubbing self-consciously at his mustache, now peppered with gray. He had kept the style long after it had gone out of fashion, but Waxer had always enjoyed teasing him about it and—well. He had just never gotten around to changing it.
“Yes,” Boil answered. “I bring a gift for my visit. Is Numa here?”
Nilim sighed and crossed his arms. “No, she hasn’t lived here in some time.” He shook his head. “She’s always been stubborn, that girl; too much of her father in her. It wasn’t so bad when my children were still at home, but once they grew up and moved out there was no holding Numa back.” He sucked on his teeth a bit and looked at the floor. “She left home more than a year ago, though she was barely here before then.”
“Where she is?” Boil asked, confused.
Nilim leaned forward and said with a hushed voice.
“She is… with them.”
“What them?”
“Syndulla’s people,” Nilim continued quietly, widening his eyes with a conspiratorial look. “The Free Ryloth Movement.” He sat back again. “Numa met some of them at a protest, I think. At first I kept her from getting too involved, made her stick to her school work. But she wanted to be a part of something, wanted to make a difference.” Nilim shrugged self-consciously. “I admit, I didn’t take it as seriously as I should have. Teenage rebellion, I thought. Then before I knew it I come home to find her room empty and a note letting me know she’d gone off to join these troublemakers.”
Boil frowned. The Free Ryloth Movement was sizable and very active, but he didn’t think they were recruiting teenagers. Their work was dangerous, and anyone caught committing treason against the Empire faced the death penalty, no matter their age. Numa might be in real danger.
“Do you can contact her?” Boil asked urgently.
Nilim shook his head. “I don’t have a comm code, but I know where the closest cell is located. I can’t make the time to go out there myself, but I can lend you my speeder bike.” He sighed. “And could you pass on my best wishes to her? Numa’s made it clear she doesn’t want to see me, but I try to check in when I can, see if she’s doing okay. I want to make sure she knows she’s always welcome here.”
“Yes, I will tell her. Thank you,” Boil told him. “I can use speeder bike and return to you.” He rose, eager to get moving. It felt like he was finally making some progress.
Nilim nodded and rose. “It’s parked out back. I’ll draw you a map; if you head out now you should make it before sundown.”
The Vigilance, 20 BBY
“Do you think she’ll be bigger?” Waxer asked.
Boil just hummed vaguely in response. He lay with his head on Waxer’s stomach, enjoying the slow circles Waxer’s fingers were tracing through his hair. In search of a little privacy, the two of them had snuck out of their bunkroom after lights out and down to Hangar 6-D, where they had clambered on top of a blaster-scorched LAAT/i. Waxer was lying sideways across the top, his feet propped up on one of the missile launchers. Boil lay perpendicular to him, his legs dangling off the back between the vents.
It wasn’t truly private, but nowhere on the ship really was. They could hear the bustle of the maintenance crews in the hangar, work always being done even at this late hour, but no one could see them from the ground. It was good enough. They both just needed a little space to breathe.
“I mean Numa,” Waxer continued. “She’ll be bigger right? By the time we get back to Ryloth?”
Boil shrugged as much as he could from his position. “I dunno, natborn kids grow pretty slowly.”
“It’s been nearly two years,” Waxer countered. “Even natborns grow in two years.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Boil replied absently. He lay quietly for a few more minutes, enjoying Waxer playing with his hair, before he got curious. “Why?” he asked.
Waxer sighed. His fingers stilled. “I just… I have this memory of her as a little girl, but she’s grown since we last saw her. So I don’t actually know what she really looks like, you know? And when I think about when we get to Ryloth, I’m just wondering if… if we’ll recognize her. If too much has changed.”
“She can’t have gotten that big,” Boil replied. He reached up and blindly grabbed Waxer’s wrist, giving it a squeeze. “Does it really matter, though?”
“What do you mean?” Waxer asked.
Boil frowned thoughtfully. He tugged on Waxer’s wrist to get him back to his head rub, then let go when Waxer started moving again. “I don’t know,” he said eventually. “I guess… we’re going to Ryloth to see Numa, but… but it’s not just about her, you know? We’re going together, that’s what matters to me.”
He couldn’t see Waxer’s face, but he could hear the smile in his voice. “You’re right, love,” Waxer said fondly. “That’s the best part.”
Boil hummed in agreement and relaxed again into the soothing pattern Waxer was scratching into his scalp. He closed his eyes and drifted, feeling his head rise and fall a little with every breath Waxer took. The noise from the hangar blurred in the background, becoming a low hum of activity, the comforting buzz of brothers working and talking.
He had nearly dozed off when Waxer spoke up again. “Hey, Boil?” he asked tentatively.
“Uh-huh,” Boil muttered back.
“The tooka doll, the one for Numa,” Waxer began. He paused for a moment before continuing. “You’ll make sure it gets where it needs to be, won’t you love? In case I can’t do it myself?”
Boil opened his eyes and furrowed his brow. “What?” he asked. He propped himself up on his elbows and twisted around so he could see Waxer’s face. “What are you talking about?’
Waxer gave him a sad smile. “You know what I mean,” he said gently. “I just want to make sure she gets it, no matter what.”
Boil scowled at him. “You’ll give it to her your damn self,” he said firmly. “So I don’t want to hear it.”
“You know we can’t guarantee that,” Waxer said, shaking his head. “Come on. Promise me?”
“No,” Boil grumbled.
“I outrank you now,” Waxer teased lightly. “I could make it an order. Give you an official mission.”
Boil squinted at him, but Waxer just raised his eyebrows expectantly.
“Fine,” Boil conceded, rolling his eyes. “I’ll make sure Numa gets the doll.”
“Thank you,” Waxer said with a smile. Boil huffed at him, exasperated, and lay back down. Waxer’s fingers wound into his hair again and Boil leaned up into them gratefully.
After a few minutes, he spoke up again. “What do you want to do after Ryloth?” Boil asked.
“What do you mean?” Waxer answered.
Boil waggled his head back and forth a little, considering. “Well, we always talk about getting to Ryloth, but we never talk about after.”
“Huh,” Waxer replied. “I don’t know. I guess we could visit somewhere else. Maybe see where some of our other brothers have settled down. Find work, I guess.” He laughed a little, his belly shaking under Boil’s head. “Actually, I think that’s my favorite part of the whole thing. It’s amazing.”
“What is?” Boil asked, confused.
“The future, after the war. It’s just so… open. Full of possibility. We can do anything we want, love. That’s what’s so beautiful about it.”
Boil just grunted skeptically.
“You don’t think so?” Waxer asked him.
“I guess,” Boil replied slowly. “It just seems like a lot. Too many options, maybe.” He scrunched up his features. “Too easy to make the wrong choices.”
Waxer laughed again and tapped Boil gently on the forehead. “That’s why you have me,” he replied cheekily. “I’ll steer you right.” He dropped his hand down and began massaging the back of Boil’s neck.
He hummed happily. “You always do,” Boil replied with a sigh.