discordant tune as it begins to drag the thugs out toward a back portal door. Temmin calls after: “Cover them up before you go. Use that blanket!” From outside, the mechanized voice: “ROGER-ROGER, MASTER!”
Norra says: “Temmin, I don’t know what’s happening—”
“Mom, not now,” he snaps. “Here, come on.” He hurries across the room, hopping over a pile of spilled junk. He reaches up for the dented skull of an old translator droid and with his fingers forked, presses in on the eyes.
They depress with loud
click
s.
And a few meters away, a shelf slides away, and after it, a section of wall. Revealed behind the opening is a set of steps. Temmin waves her on. “Come on, come on.” Then he ducks down the passage.
This is all a bit dizzying, but what choice does she have? Norra skirts the edge of the junk shop and follows her son down the staircase. Her boots clank on the metal steps—it gets darker and darker until she can’t see anything. And then—
Click.
Lights. Garish, bright, coming on one bulb at a time.
A room like the one upstairs—except the shelves are clean, shining, and home not to junk, not to trash, but to bona fide treasures. Treasures ranging from top-shelf technology to strange artifacts.
“Welcome to the
real
Temmin’s mercantile,” he says.
She sees parts for droids that haven’t existed since she was a little girl. A rack of high-end blaster rifles. A crate of thermal detonators. A shelf of old books and mysterious patina-darkened vases depicting images of men in dark robes with red faces. “I don’t understand,” she says.
“Upstairs, I sell junk. Down here? Different story.”
“No,” she says. “I mean,
we used to live here.
This…this was our home. What happened?”
He stops and stares at her. Regarding her almost like she’s a stranger. “What happened is…you left.” The sudden silence between them rises like an invisible wall. And then, as soon as it arrives, it breaks again, and Temmin is once more wheeling around the room, chattering as he does: “So. Surat knows all of this is down here. That’s not good. And he knows I stole
this,
too—” Here Temmin points to a matte-black crate bound up with carbon-banded locks. “I stole it from Surat. Some kind of…weapon, I guess. No idea what it does. He knows it’s down here, but what he doesn’t know, what he
can’t
know, is—”
Her son hurries over to the opposite corner and whips a blue tarp off something: an old valachord.
Their
old valachord. The instrument wasn’t an artifact from ancient history but rather, from Temmin’s own. (And here the memory hits her like a gale-force wind: Temmin and his father, Brentin, sitting at that very valachord, playing one of the old jaunty miner songs together and laughing.)
Temmin says, “Watch. Or rather,
listen.
”
He taps out five notes on the keys—
The first five notes of one of those old miner songs: “The Shanty of Cart and Cobble.” And with that,
another
door opens up—this one with a pop and a hiss. Even as it opens, a faint breeze keens through the old stone walls beyond. She smells mold, decay, something metallic.
“No way Surat knows about
this,
” he says. It hits her then—the glint in his eyes, the smirk on his face. At first she thought he reminded her of his father. But maybe, just maybe, he reminds her of
her.
“Temmin—”
“So, if we go into the old passages underneath the city and—”
“Temmin.”
She uses her
motherly
voice. The one she uses to get people’s attention. Norra softens it: “Son. Can we…take a moment?”
“Time matters. Those thugs who were here? Eventually they’re going to wake up and crawl back to their boss on the other side of town. Surat won’t let that stand, what I did. He’ll send someone bigger, meaner, or most likely? He’ll just come here himself.”
She walks closer to him. “Temmin, I don’t know what’s going on here. All of this is…alien to me…”
“Because
Norra says: “Temmin, I don’t know what’s happening—”
“Mom, not now,” he snaps. “Here, come on.” He hurries across the room, hopping over a pile of spilled junk. He reaches up for the dented skull of an old translator droid and with his fingers forked, presses in on the eyes.
They depress with loud
click
s.
And a few meters away, a shelf slides away, and after it, a section of wall. Revealed behind the opening is a set of steps. Temmin waves her on. “Come on, come on.” Then he ducks down the passage.
This is all a bit dizzying, but what choice does she have? Norra skirts the edge of the junk shop and follows her son down the staircase. Her boots clank on the metal steps—it gets darker and darker until she can’t see anything. And then—
Click.
Lights. Garish, bright, coming on one bulb at a time.
A room like the one upstairs—except the shelves are clean, shining, and home not to junk, not to trash, but to bona fide treasures. Treasures ranging from top-shelf technology to strange artifacts.
“Welcome to the
real
Temmin’s mercantile,” he says.
She sees parts for droids that haven’t existed since she was a little girl. A rack of high-end blaster rifles. A crate of thermal detonators. A shelf of old books and mysterious patina-darkened vases depicting images of men in dark robes with red faces. “I don’t understand,” she says.
“Upstairs, I sell junk. Down here? Different story.”
“No,” she says. “I mean,
we used to live here.
This…this was our home. What happened?”
He stops and stares at her. Regarding her almost like she’s a stranger. “What happened is…you left.” The sudden silence between them rises like an invisible wall. And then, as soon as it arrives, it breaks again, and Temmin is once more wheeling around the room, chattering as he does: “So. Surat knows all of this is down here. That’s not good. And he knows I stole
this,
too—” Here Temmin points to a matte-black crate bound up with carbon-banded locks. “I stole it from Surat. Some kind of…weapon, I guess. No idea what it does. He knows it’s down here, but what he doesn’t know, what he
can’t
know, is—”
Her son hurries over to the opposite corner and whips a blue tarp off something: an old valachord.
Their
old valachord. The instrument wasn’t an artifact from ancient history but rather, from Temmin’s own. (And here the memory hits her like a gale-force wind: Temmin and his father, Brentin, sitting at that very valachord, playing one of the old jaunty miner songs together and laughing.)
Temmin says, “Watch. Or rather,
listen.
”
He taps out five notes on the keys—
The first five notes of one of those old miner songs: “The Shanty of Cart and Cobble.” And with that,
another
door opens up—this one with a pop and a hiss. Even as it opens, a faint breeze keens through the old stone walls beyond. She smells mold, decay, something metallic.
“No way Surat knows about
this,
” he says. It hits her then—the glint in his eyes, the smirk on his face. At first she thought he reminded her of his father. But maybe, just maybe, he reminds her of
her.
“Temmin—”
“So, if we go into the old passages underneath the city and—”
“Temmin.”
She uses her
motherly
voice. The one she uses to get people’s attention. Norra softens it: “Son. Can we…take a moment?”
“Time matters. Those thugs who were here? Eventually they’re going to wake up and crawl back to their boss on the other side of town. Surat won’t let that stand, what I did. He’ll send someone bigger, meaner, or most likely? He’ll just come here himself.”
She walks closer to him. “Temmin, I don’t know what’s going on here. All of this is…alien to me…”
“Because
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