Star Wars - When the Domino Falls by Patricia A. Jackson

“Kaine!” Karl Ancher’s voice boomed over the shrill whine of a defective exhaust rocket. Anticipating trouble, technicians and tourists paused to watch, snarling the flow of traffic through Omman’s hectic starport.
    Beside him, Drake Paulsen flinched, startled by the harsh quality of the Corellian’s voice. Embarrassed by the sudden focus of attention, the 15-year-old Socorran groaned, covering his face with the wide, black collar of his desert duster. Ahead of them, he recognized his father’s lean figure, framed by the battered hull of their freighter, Miss Chance . The outdated YT-1300 sat alone on a private mooring dock, shadowed by the mammoth starport generators.
    Shirt less except for a hand-tooled leather vest, Kaine Paulsen’s lean, muscular frame glistened with sweat. A repulsorlift cargo bed full of unmarked crates sat beneath the freighter’s hull where he had left them. “How are you, Lom?” he asked playfully, using Drake’s Coynite name.
    “Ancher’s on the war path.” Drake whispered. “What’s going on?”
    Troubled by the haunted rings beneath his son’s eyes, Kaine whispered. “Don’t worry,” affectionately caressing Drake’s neck and shoulders. Then he coolly met the Corellian’s ruthless gaze. “Ancher, I’ve been expecting you. Thanks for bringing Drake along.”
    Cold recognition fluttered in the old smuggler’s eyes. “Damn right you’ve been expecting me! If you thought I was going to stand by and watch you make the biggest, dumbest mistake of your life, then you don’t think very much of me. Kaine Paulsen!” Gathering his wits and his breath, Ancher snapped his fingers in Kaine’s face. “I didn’t waste my time and learning to see you go soft on refugees trying to homestead on some miserable, forgotten rock! Lofahchu ets pyroni vyoryn viske .” he grumbled, slipping into a dialect of Old Corellian.
    Kaine laughed suddenly. “Loyalty is a smuggler’s worst vice?”
    Ancher’s face exploded with violence. “The worst! And don’t you forget it!” Silver-white hair crowned Ancher’s handsome face, which was well weathered by a lifetime of scars and wrinkles. Dark eyebrows arched above his eyes, mature, green eyes, clouded by mild regret. Piqued, he crossed his arms over his chest, as if shielding himself from a blow to the heart. His foot tapped querulously against the metal docking plates, an irrefutable sign of the smuggler’s agitation. Despite the furor of incoming and outgoing spacecraft about them. Drake could hear the distinctive drone of Ancher’s cybernetic leg, synchronizing with the Corellian’s foot.
    By sharp contrast, Kaine’s handsome face, so deeply tanned by the Socorran sun, was smooth and flawless, radiating good charm. Unruffled by the Corellian’s temper, he whispered, “Ancher, those people on the Thrugii outpost need food, medical supplies, and anything else I can think of to help them …”
    “Those people need a serious psych-eval!” Ancher spat. “Anybody who thinks they could make a living on that forsaken rock is crazy! And any fool smuggler who would deliver goods, encouraging them to stay, is even crazier! How much are they paying you?”
    “Nothing right now,” Kaine whispered, chided by his mentor and friend. Cautiously, he added. “But when the mine gets started, they offered …”
    “When the mine gets started? Kaine, that rock’s already killed seven generations of miners! Do you really think …”
    “Damn it, Anch! I’m not some kid you picked up on one of your smuggling adventures. I’m a man, a father,” he brushed a reckless brown curl from Drake’s face. “And a damn good pilot.”
    “If those claim jumpers would make peace with the sector authorities, they could get their own pilot and leave you out this mess!”
    “You know that would never happen,” Kaine said quietly. A trio of Imperial stormtroopers walked past, briefly observing them. “The sector authority has that planet locked down