Smuggler Archive
Thread: The Dallet Series Smuggler Fiction. 3.0 Now Playing
This one's timing is different, it's longer, and it's still in rough form. I haven't had much proofread time, and the writing changed a little because it's turning a little less serialized. Sets up the next few 'episodes'.
Let me know what you think.
"You need to steal better ships, " she said playfully, but not without some irritation. "This one is too cramped."
"It ain't the worst place we've been, " I said mock-darkly. "And besides, we're pretty rich now. We can rent a place if you want to stay here long enough."
"Maybe." She said enigmatically. "I don't know, I've got to look someone up, and then I'll know." She frowned, face creasing in concentration or frustration. "That droid does engineering and stuff right, so he could make alterations to the ship or you know, mechanical junk?"
"Petra, for the price we paid for him, he should be a bloody ship."
"Right. I'm working on something, and I might use him."
"Fine by me. You'll have to ask him though, he's been getting right snarky lately." He has been, I thought, but he's good with a blaster and he saved my ass.
"I noticed, but I like him."
"You like everyone, " I said, and flashed her my most charming smuggler-smile. I gave her the 'hey baby, you come here often look'. I might have had something in my teeth, she seemed inpervious to it.
"No, no, no, " she began flirtingly, "I said everybody likes _me_!" She laughed and wrapped her desert cloak about her. She didn't laugh much, and I felt this wierd sensation in my chest when she did. I think I was... I dunno, maybe enthusiastic? Happy? It was a little like being high, but I didn't get high anymore. It made me nervous, anyway. Drugs were predictable, this wasn't. Unpredictable usually means I'm about to get decked by someone. Maybe I should find out if she was married, it would almost make sense if an angry husband showed up.
"I'm going out. I'll be back later." She gave me one of those ambiguous almost-kiss pecks that means virtually anything, and usually nothing.
"But... " I began, trying to get the words to arrange themselves. I failed. "I thought we were going to hang out and... talk."
"Maybe later, Dal. I shouldn't be long." And with that, she slide by the cargo bulkhead and I heard the ramp closing up behind her.
I've often wondered, when I was sober, why I always seem to end up in places that sell booze. I guess it always boils down to feeling comfortable there. It used to be business, but I wasn't really in that business that afternoon. Who cares, I thought. It's not so easy to snag a Jawa beer and hang out in a library, that's why. Quit worrying about it.
As I approached the local watering hole called 'Carkoon's Belly' (who in their right mind names _anything_ after a great pit of teeth and long waggly tongues?) the droid and I were having a little groundrules talk.
"No shooting people, ok?"
"Affirmative."
"That's yes, right?"
"Correct. Am I to still disregard Imperial Law?"
"Yeah, " I said, wondering what I was letting him slither by me on, "just try not to blow anyone up while you're doing it. And no shooting me or Petra."
"Affirmative, Captain Dallet."
"No 'Captain', ok? No Dallet either. I'm Zillik, remember?"
"I was informed that you wished to remain anonymous." His voice-out volume lowered, I guess that was what passed for conspiratorial comment for droids.
"I've changed my mind. Nobody hides from the Hutts for long."
"Clarify please."
"What I mean droid..." I pondered. Calling him droid was like a kid screaming 'mommy!' in a crowded bazaar, and was sure to draw attention. Not the kind of attention I wanted, really. "We need to come up with a new name for you, 'Droid' doesn't cut it."
"Why? Droid is an accurate description. I am the remote unit of a navicomputer. Droid is accurate." Was I having a drug flashback, or had the droid just spoken redundantly? Either way, he needed a new name.
"How do they give droids names?"
"How does who, sir?"
"You know, people who name droids. Manufacturers or something."
"I believe they specify a model or a design-purpose. Sometimes a slang phoentic develops."
"Huh?" I had to ask, I wasn't really tracking him.
"Sentients that are not significantly enough enhanced have difficulty remembering most details. They use mimetics and tricks to record their data in more than one place. It is a terribly inefficient system, but your short lifespans warrant little redesign."
"Whatever that meant, sure." I was pretty sure he was putting me down. Maybe humans in general, but me in particular.
"I believe droid is sufficient, sir."
"Not specific enough."
"Possibly so. What is your suggestion?"
"How about something easy to remember." Did the droid snigger? I'd have sworn he did. "You're a navicomp..."
"Accurate."
"Yeah, thanks, I get them once in a while. " I smirked, but it was lost on him. "How about we call you NC?"
"Acceptible."
"En-See." I said it really slowly so he could understand it. See, I can be witty too.
"Acknowledged. You were about to explain why I should refer to you as Zillik sir?"
"Yeah, En-See," slow again, "the way I figure it, nobody puts one over on the Hutts. I figure we just give them a story that's fairly accurate and see if they bite."
"Bite?"
"Yeah. I expect that if you spend any time in public or in the network that you'll be approached." This was another of my great ideas, I'd had while I was sitting waiting for Petra to come back.
"I would not divulge any information - "
"Sure you would, they'll pay well!" I interrupted. I liked interrupting the droid.
"Sir?"
"Take their money, we need it. Tell them you're a part of a legally seized vessel, and that I'm Zillik. We salvaged you around Dallet-2, and we're going to take up tourism or something."
"I am not designed for prevarication, sir."
"Well, you probably weren't designed to lie either, but I'm sure you'll manage. Just try to figure out who they're working for, and why they want to know. Any conversation goes two ways."
"Understood. I may need to access certain restricted areas of my programming to emulate psychological function and sentient interaction."
"Ok, knock yourself out." Hey, what trouble could an emotional droid be anyway, right? He liked me, I mean he hadn't killed me yet.
"I believe that is an affirmative response. I will do as you instruct."
"Ok, good." We were at the Belly, finally. Talking to a droid was getting tiresome. "Now listen, you practice doing whatever it is you were just talking about, and I'm going to go in for a drink. I'd get you one, but they don't like droids in here."
"Socially retarded psychoprejudices."
"Yeah, but they have good booze." That was probably a lie, these kinds of places almost never had good drinks. "I'll yell if I need you, otherwise hang out within screaming distance and try to look casual."
"Casual sir?"
"Ok, forget it. Just don't shoot anyone that doesn't need shooting, ok?"
This wasn't the same joint where I'd done my last deal. Killing the kid (or having the droid kill the kid) probably wouldn't have made me that welcome there, so I'd leave it be for a while. This place was a little closer to our berthing, a little less savory, but it'd do in a pinch. So I was planning on casting a net for information. Actually, it was more like I baiting a trap with myself, and waiting to see if I could get out of it before whatever predator that found me tasty could eat me. Not the most comforting metaphor.
It'd been 5 minutes and I didn't hear any shooting from outside, so I assumed the droid was doing alright. If he wasn't, I'd disavow all knowledge of him anyway, unless there was hard evidence linking us. Probably, I thought, En-See had already rigged it so I'd explode or something if I thought bad things about him. He was a bit of an enigma, but I hoped for the moment that he was relatively under control.
"What'll it be, sport?" The barmaid was one of those cyclic image-design consumers that probably started out as a different species and gender, but now closely approximated the average image of the female tendencies of any 3 sentient species. Trust me when I say that one-size-fits-all does not work for anatomical features.
"Ah." I stumbled over my order. Maybe being sober would help out a little bit. "Make it a bliel. Not too dark and with plenty of ice." That was about as no-enhanced a drink as I could get and still pass for normal in a place like the Belly. Not that it was a 'normal' kind of place, but certain social niceties are encouraged. You don't order blue milk and cookies in a swoop bar, but folks would understand that if you were doing business you might want to be a little sober.
"I'll have to see about the ice."
"Nevermind the ice, just water it down a lot." Ice on a desert planet was maybe not the smartest thing to order, so I relented.
"Sure thing honey." Ugh. I hope she didn't think she had a trick up her sleeve, so to speak. Some things are more dangerous than drugs and guns, and transgender transpecies prostitutes are one of them. At least she wasn't a droid, I thought glumly. I'd been in a place once that had a droid with a rotating-turret style of lower torso that boasted its capacity to emulate over 100 species' reproductive anatomy. Its upper torso dispensed drinks. I learned something the day I met that monstrosity. Two somethings, actually:
First, never order a 'special' kind of drink in an unfamiliar bar. Second, never, ever, drink anything dispensed from a device nicknamed a 'prosti-bot'. Patrons that have been in space for a long time, away from both alcohol and the opposite sex sometimes get confused, and that kind of confusion can only lead to trouble.
The 'waitress' returned with my drink. I openly inspected it, and gave her a flat look. No, my look said, a visit from 'Madam Go-Go' will not be required, thank you, I thought. I think she got the picture, but if I read her vague features (calling them mysterious would have been pushing the envelope) I could expect my next drink to be spit in, at best.
I nursed it along for a while, sipping away and nodding when someone's gaze crossed mine. When you're trying to set up a business deal, there's a little bit of a song and dance involved. You need to advertise. Sometimes you need to convince the consumer that he wants to be a consumer. You need a place or a way to meet, a way to discuss terms, and a deal for delivery. When you're doing everything under the table, the dance gets much more complicated. In some of the more popular business bars on Nar Shadda they had a sophisticated setup for this kind of thing. You'd pay for a booth, and the amount you pay gives the folks in the bar some feel for what magnitude of business you want to do. Maybe you sit a stool at the bar, nursing a Sunburn. Maybe you rent a back room because you're trying to fence stolen ships. Once in a while the bar will hold a party, by invitation only. That's the expensive way to sell expensive things, but it's an understood way of doing things, and the Hutts manage it perfectly. The Belly didn't have that kind of class, sophistication, or clientele... but then again I probably didn't rate the big show. I was just trying to fence a bit of hot merchandise, maybe make a nestegg and get off-planet before somebody figured out who I was. Fat chance of that.
What I needed was a local contact, someone to go-between and to know who wanted what. I needed someone who had spent time listening to rumors, buying drinks, and making friends. Sometimes you can work an angle using the bartender, but they tended to be intermediaries to other intermediaries; if they were in business long they wanted to stay that way, and it's hard to make the bar dissolve because a deal went bad. Does drive the property costs down though when the owner dissolves.
I approached the barkeep for my second drink; I wanted to watch it pour and to maybe do a little work.
"Last bliel was a work of art, can I get a refill?" I said to the stocky Sullustan behind the bar.
"Blugh. Blugh. What you say?" Sullustans can't really squint in confusion, they don't have eyelids. If he could have, this one would have.
"Another drink. " I pointed to my empty glass. "Bliel, light." Sometimes I like to raise my voice, as if it'll make them understand me better. This time I refrained.
"Blee-oh. Rojja!" I got the feeling 'Rojja' meant 'affirmative', but I guessed I'd know in a minute.
"I was looking to do a little business today in here, but the place doesn't seem too busy." Who knew, maybe someone would overhear me, and small-talk convinces the weak minded that I'm a nice guy.
"Blee-oh. fie kredee." I glanced at him to see if he was skimming; five credits seemed a bit steep for red-colored water. Maybe he wasn't even an owner. He was gazing back shrewdly. Some times I get this itch, like something's going to happen. All the rest of my life, when I got that itch, I hit a stim as quick as I could, to ride out whatever came. This might make the first time I was ever sober to ride out the tingly feeling. I was pretty sure I liked being drunk better. I slid him a 50-credit marker, on a hunch.
"Thought you might be for real, " he said in unaccented basic. Maybe he was using the money he skimmed to take night classes in speech, but probably not. "You looking to move something, or to find something?" He asked quietly.
"Move. High volume, quick." There we go, I thought, and in-betweener.
"How hot is it?"
"Not very, previous owner didn't have insurance on it."
"That's good. What kind of stuff we talking? Spice? Sentients?"
"Sithspit, no. Military stuff. Light weaponry. Taking credit for trade."
"I know a guy."
"Good." Good, I thought, we get down to business. The ambiguous waitress moved in next to me, maybe she read my improving mood as a chance to go double-or-nothing on me, but the bartender beat me to the punch.
"Scram Jenner, go make sure those two don't steal anything." The Sullustan nodded to a pair of humanoids in dark desert rags that had just walked in. When 'Jenner' left, he continued.
"My cut's fifteen percent." Ah, I thought, his terms. How quaint.
"No way, fifteen was all I could make on the bargain myself. Five. And you cover any 'fees' that come up." A bold (and utterly invalid) counteroffer on my part.
"You're not selling stim to some dusthead here, spacer. You're paying me for what I know, and I already know what you want to move. You're paying for what I don't know when someone asks, too. Ten, and you cover the incidentals."
"Ten, but you've got the incidentals, if you know the locals so well. Keep us out of trouble with the Hutts."
"Done." He spoke firmly, but quietly. "Be back here tomorrow, same time. I'll let you know what I find out."
"Sure thing. Hey, what's your name, anyway?"
"Does it matter?" I thought about that. Maybe it didn't matter. I liked to know who I was dealing with, but I wasn't really dealing with him so much as letting him set the scene.
"Alright, we'll be anonymous if it makes you feel any better."
"Not really Zillik, half the city knows who you are by now."
"What?" I was frankly shocked, or I'd have played it a bit cooler. I'm much cooler when I'm high.
"Yeah, your droid let a couple of our guys get into a bidding war over how much information would cost about you."
"Sweet Asteroids! I've only been in here an hour!" Great Moons, that droid sold me out fast. "What'd the bidding get to?"
"I sent Jenner out when you got here. I think she likes you. I gave her fifty to grease the droid with, who knows what she paid."
"That's not cool, and it's not part of the deal." Jenner would be no part of negotiations. Ever, if I had my way.
"Hell no, that tramp could screw up a free lunch! I was just messing with you. She was kind of peeved though, she spends most of her credit on body work."
"Yeah? You're not paying her enough."
"Blugh! Blugh Blugh!" He laughed, back in his overly moist brogue. We made small talk for a few more minutes in his broken basic schtick, and then I settled up and left.
It would be good to tell Petra we were finally getting rid of the goods, and could maybe do something honest with the funds.
I suppressed a shudder. Since when did I go in for honest work?
"I've got someone for you to meet, " she said. "He's who I was looking for." She had a repressed kind of tension around her, as if how I responded meant something. You learn to read the little things sometimes, when you're trying to get just as much sugar out of a deal as you can.
"Yeah, what's his name?" I said this carefully, playing it out a little more. It's not like I wanted to work an angle on Petra, but subterfuge always puts me on guard right away.
"Kah. He's... he's a teacher. Kind of like those teachers we saw on Corellia."
"Huh?"
"You know, at the group meeting."
"I told you I wasn't ready for that kind of thing yet Petra!"
"I know, it's not that kind of thing." She seemed exasperated with keeping her tension at bay. She wanted her secret out, and I got the feeling it was a good one. "He just teaches spiritual stuff, really good stuff. It'll help you get your brain all sorted out."
"Gee, I used to just use the drugs for that."
"That's not funny, this guy is the real thing."
"Alright, where is he?" Her response was immediate and confusing. She crushed me in a hug, almost driving the wind from my lungs. I definitely need more high-gee work to rebuild my muscles, I thought.
"He has a school, a few klicks from here. We can shuttle out. He's expecting us."
"Alright, let me tell EnSee we're going out."
"Who?"
"The droid. I named him N C for navicomp."
"Dallet, that's as stupid as naming yourself after a planet."
"So, what's wrong with that?"
"Ugh, " she groaned, "nevermind, let's go."
"I think Dallet's way better than Zillik." I mumbled the last bit. Maybe her enthusiasm was infecting me. Nothing a good shower wouldn't fix.
We shuttled to a settlement, as close as promised. It's wierd how much a setting or a situation changes your perspective. Shuttling out on a commuter hitch, I saw plenty of workers and aliens going to and from the city and the villages out in the desert. I saw mothers with children, I saw an adolescent watching a little holo-vid, laughing to himself. I saw a dour off-shift worker, scaley trandoshan face crinkled up in annoyance at the kids running up and down the aisle. I even saw an R2 unit, all the way at the back of the shuttle in the aisle, amusing children by spinning and beeping in some utterly unintelligble pattern. Petra was sitting next to me, and for the first time in years I wasn't catalogging the other riders as 'consumer' or 'mark' or 'narc'. I was just sitting with my girl, my hand somehow found its way into hers, and we were taking the commuter shuttle out to some little berg whose name I'd forget almost instantly. I was sitting there thinking to myself that maybe the legal life, the legit life... maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe it'd be ok to work in the sun and sleep in the dark, and curl up next to someone that you weren't afraid would raid your stash or shoot you while you slept.
But maybe some hate twisted Rodian was even now sniffing across the galaxy after us, and all these cute little thoughts wouldn't even make him blink before he vaporized me.
Apparently this Kah fellow taught mostly in the open air. What he taught looked about as spiritual as Sabacc, but who was I to judge? Kah's 'school' was a training institute, not unlike the gymnasiums I'd seen during my brief and unfulfilling stint in Imperial service. Some of the instructors had an aire of the old drill instructors, and they set me on edge immediately. Granted, they seemed vastly different in terms of demeanor, but the excercises and the looks they gave their pupils made an instant connection in my head. I hated my time in Basic, with a passion. I learned how to slice locker-mechanisms, how to forge quartermaster's requisitions, how to field-strip a single kind of rifle, and a bit about how to use my hands and feet in a fight. Later I learned it was a hell of a lot easier to just use my feet in a fight... use them to get the hell out of the fight. The concept of standing in harm's way seemed mildly retarded to me, and these guys preached it.
The buildings had a prefab flavor. On Tatooine that meant that most everything was various kinds of local plastiweld made of sand, because sand was about as close to a renewable resource as that hot little rock ever got. Sand with the right chemicals becomes structurally stable, and you can make stuff out of it, I thought, but you can never really make it beautiful. Not that I usually cared about architecture, but this was supposed to be a place of spritual enlightenment, and instead it looked like a village made from a synth-city catalog.
"Be welcome here, " said a tall, red-scaled Trandoshan. "Be welcome and rest well."
"Hello again, Master Kah."
"Welcome back, Petra-cha." Said the big lizard, and a gravelly, annoying voice. I've never liked trandos., and this one caught me wrong.
"Petra-cha?" I asked. "What's that mean?" Petra ignored me.
"Kah, this is Dallet, the friend I told you about."
"So I see, my pupil. He is as you said. He is more than you said, too." He fixed me with one of those eerie lizard-stares. That's something else I learned, don't lock gazes with races that don't need to blink. I decided to revert to my bluster because it was my favorite personality to put out there.
"Yeah, you know, everybody says that." Mock-chuckle to let him know I was playing. "Nice joint you've got here. Might use some shade."
"He is much less than you said too, Petra-cha. He has the manners of a ronto."
"Hey!" Who was this guy, to lecture me on manners?
"The suffix cha, " he fixed me with another one of those lizard-evil-eyes that could be pretty frightening to someone else. Ok, it would have been frightening to me too if his palate could have formed the word 'suffix' without sounding like he had a mouthful of broken glass. He continued: "The 'cha' means that I have accepted her as a student. It is an honor, among those who understand it."
"Oh yeah, sounds great. What do you teach?"
"Whatever the student most requires."
"Hah, great. So you can teach anything then, eh?" I was getting cocky, like I said, Trandoshans rub me the wrong way.
"No, I teach only a few things, but those very well. I teach them only to those that require them. You would seek out a shipwright to fix your ship, not a maker of drinks, yes? So the needy seek me out to find what is needful."
"Sure."
"You were right, Petra-cha, he needs much tutelage. Can he survive the training?"
"I think so, Master."
I wasn't so hot on them talking about me like I was an invalid. Especially when I wasn't an invalid.
"Hey, wait a minute, what training?"
"His energy is defocused, scattered. He has been sick. Deathly sick."
"Correct, Kah." Petra was talking again, I was dumbfounded. He could see this how? The guy hadn't known me for 5 minutes, and we'd been keeping my sickness on the down-low. Last I knew the droid wasn't even selling that part. Who knew, maybe the doc from Coronet was making some trade from my name.
"Some day you will read the patterns too, Petra-cha." He smiled, or did what passed as a smile for lizard-people. It looked a lot like the same facial expression 'get away from my food' probably would, but Petra-cha seemed warmed by it. Bah, 'cha'.
"Return in a few days. He can be taught. Quarters will be provided."
"Thank you, Master Kah." Petra spoke with deference, and bowed deeply. Quite unlike the party-girl I'd picked up on Corellia only weeks before. Quite unlike the addict I'd stuffed into an escape pod with enough product to kill herself. Quite unlike the nurse that had saved me from radiation sickness, and delivered me through my rebirth above Dallet 2. Not too much different from the repentant and recoving addict at a meeting of Force-touched dedicates in a support group, but still different than I remembered. I was staring at her in chagrin for long seconds before I'd realized that Kah had left entirely, striding across the open courtyard and beyond the far line of buildings.
"Whoah, Petra honey, what the hell are you talking about? I have a deal to do, I'm not doing some self-defense seminar. I'm sober."
"I know Dal, but this isn't about self defense, it's about the spiritual aspect. You need it for..."
"What, I need it for what?"
"You'll need it for later, with Spakta coming."
"Why Petra, you think he's turned religious or something? The only thing we need for him is lots of distance and lots of guns."
"Guns don't solve everything." She was getting angry at me now, I don't think she liked me poking fun at her 'Master Kah'.
"Money helps too, but guns have always done it for me." I was getting angry too, nobody gets to suborn my business deals.
"Gee Dal, I didn't use a gun when I saved your sorry ass, did I?" Yep, she was definitely getting angry. Over what, this kooky martial-arts guy?
"I didn't ask you to do that." I spoke coldly. It was like saying 'I don't owe you nothin', and it was as stupid as it sounded. Hell, when I said it I knew it was stupid, but that never stopped me before.
She didn't bother to respond, she just shot me a look that was equal parts hurt and hate, and said nothing. That's probably a lot worse than an argument, I thought.
After at least a minute of silence - complete silence because even the shouting students and tumbling fighters had stopped to stare at us by now - she spoke again, very quietly.
"I have to leave for a while, Dallet. I don't know how long..."
"Wait, Petra, I'm sorry."
"I don't care, it isn't about this. I would have to go anyway. I made my choices, and I have to go."
"Where, I mean, what, with my ship?" Our ship, I added inwardly, wincing.
"No, I won't need _your_ ship. I'll be on planet, but gone. Don't follow me."
"By Palpatine's chin, where do you have to go? I have to do this deal, we can be rich!"
"This is more important than money! I'm sorry. I have to go."
"Why can't I come with you?" Great Maker, that sounded pathetic. I should stick to the ones that need me for drugs, some cynical part of me thought.
"Because you need to be here, and learn what Kah can teach you. It will save your life."
"From what? What the hell are you talking about?"
"From yourself." She seemed on the verge of some emotion, but I couldn't tell if it was an urge to forgive me or an urge to smack me. I never did find out, because she turned on her heel and left, and I just stood there like an idiot.
The whole argument was for nothing, after all. After I wandered the bazaar for a few hours I returned to the ship to find some of her things gone, but not all of them. Promising, I supposed, but not very. I showed up at the bar, on time, and the Sullustan had information for me, alright. He had a buyer's wish list for certain equipments, some of which I had. He also said that the buyer was a month out, and that I'd missed him by a few hours. He'd catch up with me for the next dark-phase (it doesn't get dark every night on a planet that sports two suns) in the same place with more details. I was angry, dejected, and single; the precise state I'd spent the majority of my life in. It was not precisely comfortable to me, but at least it was familiar. I wasted the next two days drinking, which was how I dealt with what normal people call 'relationship trouble'. On the 'morning' of the third day, I woke with a blinding hangover (also a prt of my old lifestyle) and made a decision. Two decisions actually. Both days late, but both important.
The first decision was to interrogate the En-See, and see if he knew anything about Petra's little vacation. I wouldn't follow her exactly, but leaving her on her own while some obsessed Rodian was stalking us didn't seem too bright.
"I'm sorry Captain Zillik, but she did not discuss her plans with me."
"You said she told you she was leaving, she was here for an hour, what did you talk about then?"
"She did not tell me where she was going, just that she would be gone for an indefinite period of time."
"That's all?"
"She made some other inquiries of a technical nature?"
"Pardon me? How technical?"
"You wouldn't understand." I'd almost swear the droid was being snide.
"Try me." He could be unplugged, and I had enough of a hangover to try.
"She wished to understand the nature of high-energy powercoupling and inherent capacitance of near-perfect magneto substrates."
"Why, did she need..." I didn't even know what that was, but power-something meant power, right? "Did she need fuel or something?"
"I told you you wouldn't get it, " the droid intoned, and I definitely heard a snicker. "She wanted a small, durable power source for something."
"Like what, a speeder?"
"No, _sir_, more like a blaster power source."
"What, for like a bomb or something?"
"No, I said it was durable. Bombs are inherently non-durable."
"Listen En-See, enough attitude already! What in the nine frozen moons of Spittledown did she want it for?"
"I'm sorry sir, my emotion-emulation software seems quite out of order."
"Sure thing, but what did she want it for?"
"I told you sir, I have no idea. A durable, intense power source, and small. Not a bomb. Perhaps a reusable detonator. Perhaps something as innocuous as a light source."
"Did you give her one?"
"No sir, but I told her how to make one."
"Oh, how?" He rambled for some time about proper shielding and re-uptake, capacitance and impedance, most of which I could follow, but wasn't supremely interested in. When I started to get really bored, I decided nothing was amiss, and started packing.
"You are leaving as well sir?"
"Yeah, En-See, you'll have to hold down the fort."
"Would you care to share your destination?"
"Sure, I'm going to some bloody militant spiritualist camp to learn how to love my inner child while learning how to beat the snot out of 5 different species."
"I wasn't aware that was an option sir, may I attend as well?" Only my droid would think that was a fun outing.
"No, they don't like droids either." Who knows, maybe they didn't.
"Ah, more socio-retards. Understood sir. How long will you be away?"
"Almost a month. I'll take my comms, you can get a hold of me."
"Affirmative sir. Enjoy your stay."
*Later*
The Carkoon's Belly had an interesting guest that night. He'd visited almost a hundred such establishments spread over a dozen different starports on Tatooine. His desert gear was scorched and worn, but seemed a part of him by now. He looked as if he'd been out in the desert for years, but that was an impossbility. Rodians were wetlands-born, and could never have survived long without some marshy retreat in which to recuperate. This one looked like he'd tried though. His skin was darkened and hardened, but not by the twin suns. His eyes had a burned and burning look to them, and his stiff movements showed ovbious pain in the joints.
"Hey sugar, you looking for something... to drink?" A much-altered female visage flashed what humans considered a smile to the frazzled Rodian.
"A drink," he stopped to cough a dry wheeze, "two burners, yes. And information."
"Drinks are the house specialty, sugar, and the information is my specialty."
"I thought as much." The Rodian's eyes gleamed, despite a watery rheume.
The waitress returned a few minutes later with a tray of drinks, more than the Rodian had ordered. She motioned him to a booth in the back. They moved to it.
"Thanks for the drink, honey." The human-ish waitress said. "Name's Jenner, and that's the only piece of information you get for free. Now what exactly are you looking for?"
"A human, possibly a pair. Came into port no earlier than a month ago. Man and woman, nice ship."
"Sorry hun, no 'nice ships' in this port."
"Whatever, tramp, I'm not after the ship. I'm after the man, and his woman."
"Sure thing. Who are you?"
"Information has a price. Even that."
"I'll pay you... in trade."
"I'm not interested in your trade goods, shifter. Have you seen this man?" He held out a holo disc, projecting an image of Zillik-turned-Dallet. He carefully watched her reaction rather than the disc, and he knew immediately she'd seen the man.
"Maybe, " her face turned bland, "but information has a price."
"Name it."
"Twenty thousand. I'm looking at a new pair of eyes."
"I can do that, but it'll take time."
"Fine, but don't blame me if the trail gets cold honey."
"Give me a few weeks to call in a few markers. I'll get your cash. How about some good-faith gesture?"
"Good faith? Please darling, I trade in information and surgical enhancements."
"You'll get nothing if you know nothing."
"Fine, hot stuff. He looked like he was recovering from one hell of a sunburn. Kinda like you, but less... crinkly." She shuddered, thinking about the profound lack of beauty the Rodian possessed.
Spakta shuddered too, but only because he knew he was finally nearing the end of his hunt.
I actually have the next couple of installments of the story set in my head, will probably start on the next one tonight. I left enough hints as to where I'm going, I think. My biggest problem with this one was that there needed to be significant exposition and character development, but it left little room for action. I hope my audience will forgive me. When I got done writing it, I was thinking it felt more like ESB than ANH, but it should set up some really cool adventures in the near future.
Thanks for the feedback!
Tatooine, in the Desert
*Before*
"Breathe." The stern-looking man told me. It's amazing how an air of authority can add something to a command, a single word, that conveys so much. Sometimes you can hear a bit of it in a good Commander. I'd heard it (damnably infrequently) in my short stint in Imperial Service. Most of the time though, all you get is a breathless, mindless idiot who wants with all his being to sound like that, like they deserve 'the Voice', but the only way they know how to do it is to up the volume. One of my Drill Instructors, rancors take his soul, had the Voice. He was frequently loud, but he didn't have to be. It was as if he was talking to some part of your brain that didn't really register the background noises and garbage going on around you. You could be wailing away with blasters and practice grenades, calling out fire patterns or target positions, and in the heat of all that you'd hear it. Two words, delivered quietly enough to suit a funeral. "Cease fire." And everything would stop, because if you didn't stop you hadn't been listening, and failure to obey a command was good for demerits. Demerits were not fun. "Cease fire," he'd say, without turning to look at you or anything. "Cease fire" and you'd better damned well be finished already, because his unit was expected to be hanging on his every word. I did, with one exception. That one exception, early on, earned me a broken wrist in the next morning's 'drill', and I got the message loud and clear. The man says 'cease fire', I stop. Even now, even years later on this sun-tortured desert floor, with some gruff looking human evaluating how I breathe, if I'd heard those two words delivered just so, my heart would probably stop and wait for orders to continue.
I inhaled, hating the exercise. I exhaled, hating it more. This guy hadn't even introduced himself. When I asked, he said I could call him "Sir." He had the voice, sort of. His was some kind of implacable, patient, utterly assertive command. His didn't threaten a broken wrist for failure. His voice said: We're doing this until you get it right or we both die of exhaustion; I have no preference. His voice said: children can do this in minutes, you've taken hours.
"Breathe in. Identify stresses. Hold. Loosen muscles. Give your anger to your breath. Give your fear to your breath. Breathe out, be empty."
"I've got that part -" I started, finally having had enough of the 'spiritual' aspect of learning how to bloody breathe.
"No speech. Speech ruins breathing. Begin again."
I breathed. What the hell, I thought, why not do what he asks. Doing it right can't make me stay out here any longer, right?
I inhaled. I gave the breath my anger. I hated that Petra had left. Petra-cha. I hated this desert heat. I hated the weakness I could still feel in my bones. I had to exhale, without being prompting. "Sir" didn't harass me. I took in another. I hated it again. I hated this retarded breathing exercise. I hated the stupid cot in my little tiny earthen hut. I hated that Petra wouldn't tell me where she had gone. I- I had to exhale again. Captain-teach-you-to-breathe didn't hassle me, again. I hated that some crazed Rodian killer was probably travelling across the galaxy trying to find and kill me. I hated that he was really good at killing folks, because I was only marginally good at not being killed. I gave these to my breath, and gave them back to the desert. I did exactly as instructed. I knew I'd be standing out in the hot suns' light for hours, listening to the theory of breathing. I hated that too, when I thought about it, so I gave it to the wind too. Pretty soon it got easier; "Sir" hadn't spoken for long minutes, and I really was relaxing.
"Assume the natural stance." Oh, "Sir" was still awake, I thought. Of a sudden insight, I didn't respond with 'ok', I just moved to the supposedly natural stance that I'd learned only a few hours before. It was not natural, I thought. It was less uncomfortable than some of the other goofy crap they showed me, I thought, but it wasn't quite 'natural'. Oh well, it could be learned, and I was going to be here a while.
"Shift balance to your right." A few minutes of 'natural' and I was ready for a change, so I accepted.
"Breathe." He reminded me. I'd started to get angry again. I breathed.
"Shift left."
When I next looked up, one of the suns was past its zenith. I hadn't figured out exactly how to gauge time on this planet yet, but I knew that meant we'd been at it for a while, several hours. Several hours doing nothing but learning to 'breathe' and 'stand'. I'd never stopped to evaluate my own breathing or standing skills, but I'd probably have given myself a 'pass' long before now. Seemed a lot like a sleep deprivation tactic to me, or maybe a demeaning kind of soft-torture. Probably loosening me up for the sales pitch, I thought to myself. We'll see, like I told the droid, all information exchange is two-way.
"We are finished here. I am satisfied that you can breathe. You may proceed."
I was better at breathing than the other things they wanted to teach me. I'd been wrong comparing Basic to this camp; the mentality was completely different. In Basic you must learn, it's your only job. If you don't learn, you can be beaten until you do. You are not taught how to learn, just what to learn, and even excellence was sometimes rewarded with punishment. You learned by rote what you might never understand, you learned that you should never try to understand what an officer was telling you to do, or why, just that you should do it immediately and ask no other questions. This place was different, much different.
When I was abandoned after the breathing lesson, I eventually wandered up to another teacher. I asked him where I should go next, and he asked me what I felt I needed the most instruction in. It went like that for a week. This place was completely the opposite of Basic. They didn't care what you learned so much as that you learned something. For them the pursuit was all, the acquisition of knowledge was an afterthought. Don't get me wrong, they made me learn to 'walk' for an entire morning, but they watched the way I learned as much as the fact that I could smoothly shift my balance. If I became frustrated, I could expect to hear "Breathe!" from one of the instructors. For a week I learned the things that a child might be considered an 'expert' at. I learned to breathe, I learned to walk, I learned to fall down, to roll from side to side. For the first few days I expected some kind of spiritual 'pitch', the smooth-talker who tries to sell me on one religious faction or splinter group.
For a week I didn't see the Kah fellow or get any 'spiritual' instruction. I was fed well, and slept as much as I needed. When I woke, the lessons began. It was as if they expected that I would not be lazy or sluggish, that I was doing exactly as some inner voice told me to. I would ask one instructor where to go next, and they would ask me what I wished to learn. I would point to a group of students, and say: "I want to do what they're doing", and we would begin a new lesson. The only things I ever saw were people learning to fall, tumble, walk, breath, simple things. Every lesson was an acknowlegement that most of the physical skills I'd considered mastered, I'd only just begun to learn. At the end of the week when I seemed to be pretty good at breathing, I wondered if I was going to spend the whole month doing it. I was sore the first few mornings, but by now the light workouts were doing my body good, and I'd begun to feel about the best I had since my rebirth around Dallet-2.
A week in, one of the instructors asked me to stay after the last of the day's lessons. This is it, I thought to myself. This is where they give me the pitch! Sign here, I thought, buy into the program!
"Master Kah invites you to dinner this evening, Dallet." She spoke, but she didn't have the Voice. Maybe it's hard to apply the Voice to a dinner invitation, I thought.
"Uh, ok. Where do I meet him?" I'd done a lot of breathing, and a lot of walking, but I'd done very little talking in a week. My throat crackled with the disuse. She apparently found it amusing, I saw about the only smile of my whole stay right then, when I croaked out my words.
"He will meet you in your lodging, in one hour."
"Ok, thanks."
"My pupils have said that you took a very long time to learn how to breathe, but that you progress well now."
"You can tell them I said thanks for the compliment." I almost wanted to get sarcastic with him, but I got the feeling he could skewer me with his eating implement and continue eating without leaving his seat. Well, that and the fact that (grudgingly) of course, I was almost enjoying my stay.
"They do their jobs well, thanks are not required." Oh well, so much for happy chit-chat.
"So what is their job, exactly?"
"You and they have the same job, to learn. Always to learn."
"So this is a school?"
"Of course, Mr. Dallet. Many places are a school, but this is a special one."
"What do they learn here, what do we learn here?"
"Why, you learn whatever you need most!" Maybe he was giving me the religious pitch, I was certainly confused enough to be a convert. I tried breathing, it helped.
"Well, what is that, how to breathe?"
"Sometimes, yes."
"What do I need to learn, Kah?" No "master" for him right now, he was getting on my nerves again.
"Dallet, you need to learn a great deal. Most of all though, you need to learn who you are."
"I know who I am, I'm Dallet. I'm a smuggler. I sell things, people buy them."
"Not at all. Dallet is a place you were, a thing that happened to you. If you were in a swoop accident, you would not be a crash. Neither is your vocation your essence. It's something you do, not something you are. It helps you learn what you are, but nothing more."
"I don't get it."
"I should hope not, you have not been trying very hard. And it is a very hard thing to know who we are."
"Is that was Petra came here to learn, who she was?"
"Petra-cha's lessons are her own to discuss. She came because she was deeply troubled. She had considered suicide. She said she had told you of it. Perhaps we gave her some peace."
"Why did she want me to come here then?"
"I cannot be sure, you understand. She said she felt a kinship to you, and thought you could be helped by our instruction. I agreed with her, after I met you." Well, I thought, that seems reasonable enough. Besides, it got me out of her hair for a month. Breathe.
"She's been here before then?"
"Yes, and she iss a very good pupil. She comes and goes now. I hope some day she will commit all of her time to the study of the Steel Hands, but I fear it is not to be."
"Why's that, and what's 'Steel Hands'?"
"We are the followers of the path of the Steel Hands, the Teras Kasi. It is a thing we are, but it is also a thing we do. I fear Petra-cha cannot abide our ways, and I feel as if the Force has another fate for her." Ah, I thought, finally the religious pitch.
"So you believe in the Force then, is that what this has all been about?"
"You ask as if it is some trick played upon you." He sounded as if he was amused by me. "Dallet, do you believe in gravity?"
"Of course. I've been learning to 'fall' all week, gravity and I are good friends."
"But you cannot see gravity."
"I know where this is going, Kah. You're trying to say that because I can't see it, it doesn't prove it doesn't exist. Oh yeah, well it doesn't prove that it does exist, either."
"Are you saying gravity does not exist then?"
"No, I'm saying my bottom aching from gravity doesn't mean there's some mystical 'Force' guiding my destiny. I've never seen a 'Jedi', but if I did, I bet he'd be a charlatan or a hustler just like me. I'd bet he and I use the same kinds of tricks to confuse people and take their money, or get stuff from them."
"Possibly so, but tricks would also not disprove the Force. Jedi are people, sentient people, just like you and I. Flawed, heroic, tragic, real. You might have met them and never known."
"Why, have you met some?"
"I have trained with them. I am Teras Kasi. I am the balance to the power of the Jedi."
"What? You're like an anti-Jedi?"
"Certainly not. I admire the Jedi. I feel great sorrow that they have been purged, hunted, murdered. Is a police officer an anti-citizen? Of course not. I protect them from themselves."
"Are you going to tell me you use the Force too?"
"Everyone uses the Force. Everyone uses gravity. There is no option not to. All else is foolishness."
"You know what I meant." I was getting angry.
"I did. Breathe." I did.
"Good," he continued, "now I can tell you more. The Teras Kasi police the Jedi, or we did. We understand the Force, at least well enough to know what a terrible weapon it could be in the wrong hands. We do not manipulate it per se, but we learn so see it in action, we learn to move around it. We learn how to fight Jedi that break the rules, whether they wear the bright robes or the dark."
"Guess you're going to be out of business soon, eh?"
"I told you it was a way, an identity, not a profession." He was letting some irritation bleed over. I considered telling him to breathe, but I doubted he'd get my sense of humor.
We hadn't started talking until the meal was virtually over anyway, so there wasn't a lengthy uncomfortable silence. There was a short uncomfortable silence. As he stood to leave, I stood too.
"I have enjoyed this discussion with you, Dallet. You may remain as long as you like to continue your studies. I believe you have much promise."
"Thank you, Master Kah." I guessed it couldn't hurt to be polite. "When will I learn the fighting portion of the instruction?"
"Ah, " he sighed, "that may begin any time, Dallet-cha."
Cha. Now I was like Petra, a little. There were worse people to be associated with. I bowed, ever so slightly. While I was considering an appropriate response, Kah turned and left silently.
*Now*
"Hello En-See." I spoke into the little handset communicator, holding the earpiece up to my ear.
"Hello Captian." He sounded tinny, he must be bouncing the comm signal a few too many times. I know I've asked him to stop calling me Captain.
"Any news NC?"
"Nothing particular sir. Inquiries into your location have been made, and I have made almost one-thousand credits by selling ambiguous hints as to your whereabouts."
"Nice, smooth. Any trouble? You can't sell the same thing to too many people, they get angry."
"I went back to that bar you liked, Carkoon's Belly. I sold information there. I was forced to kill three ruffians in the alley however."
"Killed? I told you not to shoot anyone!"
"You told me not to shoot anyone that didn't 'need shooting' sir. I did not shoot anyone."
"So what, you tripped them and they died?"
"Two fatalities were from a crushed airway, the third seemed to understand the example and required blunt trauma to the head. I am designing new programming to make the effort more fluid next time."
"Great. Me too, actually." I have been, I thought. I'd progressed from 'walk' and 'fall' to 'punch' and 'kick', but they were still amateurish efforts. The instructors said that the striking arts were difficult and could take years. My heart wasn't in them anyway, but my body needed the exercise, and I was getting healthier with each kick. Against all prediction, I was actually enjoying myself. Not learning a hell of a lot about fighting, but I hadn't felt that good in years, and I hadn't touched a stim in weeks. "Any news from Petra, NC?"
"Nothing to report sir."
"She hasn't checked in?"
"She has been back, sir. She left too."
"What, why didn't you tell me?"
"She asked me not to. I told her I would inform you only if you asked directly. You asked directly."
"Palpatine's Balls! If you see her again, you tell her to contact me! I have to talk to her." About what, I had no idea. I did have to talk to her though. If I admitted it, I missed her. The passive kind of power and strength I'd first seen in her after Dallet-2, it seemed to be everywhere at this place. It was like she was just around every corner, just past the edge of my vision, just out of sight. I wanted to commisserate about 'breathe' and 'fall' and our mutual training. I wanted to thank her for setting me up at this place. First she'd saved my life, and now she was trying to save my soul. I wanted to tell her I was Dallet-cha now, too.
"What did she want when she came back?"
"She asked me to help her assemble a power source."
"Like she talked about before?"
"Yes, just like it. We assembled it."
"What's it for?"
"She would not say, and she required that I would not devote my processes to deriving its function. She made me code it into my main program."
"That can be done?"
"Of course sir, I am a computer after all. You need only be at the console, and know the right instructions to give."
"I'll have to remember that. Listen, did she say when she would be back, or where she went?"
"No sir, I'm sorry." Since when can a droid be sorry? I was sorry, I chased her away and wanted to apologize, but now she was gone again. Maybe I really was on my own. It had only been a couple weeks, but it was a long time, subjectively. We'd both had a lot of room to change, and I'd been changing a lot. I could only wonder what she'd been up to. At least she's still on-planet, I thought to myself.
"She left a message sir, in the event that you asked about her."
"Damn you droid, why didn't you say so? Nevermind, play it."
"Playback begins: " it was still tinny, and still the droid, but it modulated out to approximate her voice. "Dallet. The droid says you went to Kah's school, that's good. I hoped you would. I have been very busy. I can't wait to see you again and tell you about what I've been doing. I finally have direction again, I can't wait to show you. I'm sure you'll be surprised. I'll be back in a couple more weeks. I've got to go now, don't blame the droid, I made him promise. I miss you. Recording ends, sir."
"Thanks En-See. You let me know if she comes back. Ring me 'emergency'."
"Affirmative sir."
"Have you made any progress figuring out who's looking for us?"
"Not of any reliability, sir. Most of the connections are masked by go-betweens or computer services. We are making money, but we are not gathering information. One counterproposal has been offered though."
"Really? That's clever. Who?"
"A female human named Jenner has expressed an interest in selling no information rather than buying information about you, sir. She indicated that you knew her, and would be interested in an offer she had."
"Yeah, I can just guess what she wanted to offer. I'm not interested."
"You are certain sir?"
"Yeah NC, discontinue any talks with her, she's a prostitute."
"Affirmative Captain."
"That's all for now. Let me know if the situation changes. Otherwise I'll be back in a couple of weeks."
"Affimative sir. Link closing."
The next week, I didn't precisely give up on the 'striking arts', but I stopped wanting to learn them so badly. The instructors did not comment. I began spending my days going back to the simplest of exercises; breathing, falling, walking. Kah appeared many times, and seemed genuinely happy that I had returned to what he said were "the most fundamental of things, and the most needful". After a week, he introduced me to the first overtly "spiritual" session. It was much like the earlier lessons of "breathe" and "walk", but assumed that you could empty your mind of outside worries and focus on other things.
Despite my assertion that I couldn't do so, I did, alarmingly quickly.
I found that I could sit for hour after hour, emptying my mind of all concerns, turning back in my memories to the moments in the pod, whipping around Dallet-2, cooking in the sun. I could go over in detail every nuance of the brief conversation I'd had with Spakta aboard the doomed ship. In my mind, I could hear the falsehood, hear the faint hints that should have told me he was up to something. I could see in the eyes of a drug-dealing kid the intentions he had to rob and murder me. I could smell the fear of the doctor back on Corellia who was about to sell me out. All these things I turned over in my mind, learning anew the things I should have learned the first time.
*Elsewhere*
Jenner slid lithely into a booth at the back of the 'Belly. Her drinking companion seemed unimpressed at her flexibility, but eagerly grabbed the drinks she had brought. He appeared heavy into his cups already, slouching and breathing heavily.
"Hey honey, it's time to pay up, tonight's the night."
"I'm ready," Spakta said, "I got the money." He did have the money though it'd been damnably difficult to raise. Seemed the Hutts liked to control the Bounty system here on Tatooine, and they preffered live captures rather than hits. Why, he wondered? Because you can capture someone dozens of times, you can only kill them once. No profit in taking a cut of a single job, when you could plan on repeat customers. So he'd had to make sure not to damage anyone too much, and his profits had suffered. Not badly, and he did a few jobs outside of the normal system, so he had his information fee, with some to spare.
"How do I know you won't sell me out, tell him you sold me his location, whore?"
"Well honey, it won't be your sweet tongue that keeps me quiet." She seemed unaffected by the insult. "I won't sell you out. I tried, actually, last week. My new eyes were going to be more expensive than I thought, so I tried to get in touch with him. He didn't want to talk, so now you're the sole buyer. Lucky me, my doctor takes other 'payment options' and I get my pretty new eyes. They go in tomorrow."
"Where is he?"
"Money first." He nodded at her. He slid the credit marker to her, she checked it.
"I don't know exactly where he is, " she said, and Spakta's hand went beneath the table. She hurried on, "but I know where he will be in a few days. Someone has been moving the ship from berth to berth, but it'll be back in... " she looked at a datapad she had in her apron, "L-331 in 3 days."
"How secure is that information?"
"Four sex-acts with the docking attendant, I could have ask him to kill the Emperor if I wanted, he'd do it. The information is solid."
"We're done here then. I expect I have sole rights to this information."
"For now sugar. You let me know if you need anything else."
Spakta picked up his two drinks, and downed them unconscionably fast. Then he left, without another word.
His system wasn't restored enough for that kind of booze though, and he vomited twice in the alley behind the bar. The second timehe didn't get his feet out of the way, and covered his shoes in his partially-digested drinks. He stared at that for a while, then decided to sit down. The streets weren't exactly 'mean' around that part of town, but a drunk was a great target for amateurs, so he figured on letting himself sober up a bit. He passed out waiting.
When he awoke, there was a kind of grunting shuffle, and a familiar smell. Actually, it was two familiar smells, but his sense of smell was superior, and he'd already had time to become used to the stench of his own vomit. The prostitute was in the alley, in the dim almost-night made by the approach of the real night cycle and the closeness of the alley's buildings. Her perfume would have been obnoxious even to her own species. He could smell her from yards away, and she was obviously on the clock. After a mercifully short time, the motion (but not the flow of commerce) stopped.
"That was fun, woman." A voice said. Male, human.
"I told you I was worth it. You'll have to come back tomorrow when I have my new eyes."
"I want to do some more business."
"Honey, I don't think you're ready yet." A girlish titter.
"Not that, I want information."
"Oh yeah?" The sound of clothing being arranged. "I can do that, what do you want to know? I'm expensive, but I'm worth it."
"Sure are." Credit chips clinking. Spakta slid up silently to a crouch, expecting to leave the alley quietly.
"I'm looling for a human woman."
"You found one, hot-pants!" Another giggle, joined by a masculine chuckle.
"I did at that, but this one's different. Not as pretty." Even Spakta could hear the lie in that one. "Her name is Petra Gullings, and she got here about 2 months ago. I think she's still on the planet, maybe around here." Spakta, if he'd had obnoxious ears like a Bothan, would have turned them full into the conversation in surprise. His breath caught, and he felt a wheeze coming on. A faint glow issued from down the alley, the buyer was showing Jenner a holoimage no doubt.
"Hm, honey, somebody else bought that information from me already. I'm not the kind of girl that sells information twice." No, Spakta thought darkly, you're the kind of girl that sells it ten times.
"I'll make it worth your while." Maybe the prostitute couldn't hear it, but Spakta could hear the steel start to slide into the man's voice. A professional, he thought, on the job. He won't be happy if he doesn't get what he wants.
"How worth it?" Maybe she'd heard it too, but her voice was still sultry.
"Twenty large." He answered without hesitation.
"Done. But I don't know where she is, only that her ship will be docked in L-311 in a few days." Spakta wasn't suprised by her treachery, but it just wasn't professional.
"Excellent. I'll be back around tomorrow to see your new eyes."
No you won't, Spakta thought as his hand slid down to a special weapon. If he'd been honorable he might have shouted a challenge out to the other man, maybe even tried to buy him off. But he was too close to his quarry now, and he would not let another hunter flush it.
His modified blaster felt cool and heavy in his hand. The modifications were atypical; they didn't improve range or output, but they modulated the energy that came from the weapon. Most blasters had a high-energy, visible wavelength. This one had a little less energy, but was not visible. A droid could backtrace the bolt's path, and some species' vision went far enough off-spectrum to see it, but not humans. Nothing he could do about the sound, but in a minute it wouldn't matter.
He wheezed, finally, as he came to a full standing stance and fired. The professional had already dropped to a crouch, and begun to spin about. He was fast, almost fast enough to overcome Spakta's advantave. His hand had a little holdout blaster, but he never got to fire it. The first invisible bolt caught him low in the chest, the second caught him in the mouth. Jenner looked the wrong way up the alley for the source of the shots, and caught only one bolt to the back of the head.
"You'll need more than the eye upgrades, honey." Spaktawheezed slowly, rolling her over and rifling her apron. The money he had paid her hours earlier was already gone, but he broke even with the man's money. He rolled the man, got a little more cash, his weapon, and some identification, a datapad. The id was probably fake, but he'd run it anyway. He dragged the bodies into the darkest part of the alley, and made his way out the back into the street, and across town. Might be hours before anyone noticed. It was certainly hours before he could fall asleep, even with a bellyfull of fresh booze in him. He couldn't stop asking himself: Who else is after the woman, and why?
*Meanwhile, back at the Ranch*
I enjoyed my last few days at the complex. I didn't know then that they were my last few days, but in retrospect they were pretty comfortable. Petra missed me, Petra would be back soon, and I was getting something out of my training. I was beginning to feel an ease within myself that I'd never known before. I took new joy in doing the simplest of drills, and got to the point where I could practically meditate and move simultaneously. Kah seemed pleased, and I know I was. I began to learn the patterned attack drills that they teach beginning students, and I found that while it did tire me out incredibly, I could focus my thoughts down to virtually nothing while I did them. Meditation became easy, and important. Feed the worry to the wind. Feed the anger to the wind. Feed anxiety to the wind. Take energy from your breath, balance your stride, be perfect in yourself; these were all the things I learned, when I learned to "breathe". Attack seemed secondary, because I would be untouchable when focused. It was almost too good to be true.
Real night was finally coming. I was meditating on a high rock shelf, watching one sun set impossibly slowly. It wouldn't really set for twenty hours yet, but in my state, I could virtuallyfeel it inch its way across the sky.
Breathe. Focus inward. Think. Remember. Understand.
Why had she saved me? Petra in the pod. Half-dead from the twists of narcotic. Me, naked, dying on a table. Hot and cold, fevering out. Petra and the medicine. She spoke to me, while I was asleep. If I tried, I might even be able to hear her. It was not the time to try, it could wait. Petra in the meeting. Such strength, such bravery. Such fools. Me at the meeting, full of worry. The old-timers preaching about the Force. They had a certain sense of what Kah had, a serenity, but without the steel of Kah's background. They even preached a little like his lessons went. Petra-cha, off questing alone. I missed her. Petra, talking to a droid instead of me. Asking someone else for help to make whatever device it was she needed. Petra, alone and worried.
My mind drifted. Beyond what I had seen, beyond what had brought me here.
Petra, alone in the desert. Petra crouched low over a glowing fire in the false night. Petra, face gaunt and lean from hard days. My vision wavered as I worried for her. Petra, tinkering with something, a kind of a miniature work desk across her lap. Fire reflecting inher eyes, but she still looked so tired. She arched her back and stretched, raising her hands high to work the muscles in her arms. She leaned back down to the desk, set is to one side, and stood up. She picked up what shehad beenworking on from the desk, and held it in her hand. Looked like what the droid had described. Foolish Perta, I thought, we could have bought you a lamp, we could have bought you a hundred lamps.
Back to Petra in the pod. "I tried to kill myself again." She'd said it before. "She had been deeply troubled." Kah had said, only weeks ago. Perhaps we gave her some peace. A high energy device, NC'sartificial voice came back to me. A durable high-energy device. Oh no, I thought. It couldn't be. What did they make you do? What did they make you believe?
A chime interrupted me, an emergency comm. I snapped back to reality with an almost physical thump.
"Go ahead."
"Hey, spacer, it's me." Petra!
"Petra! Where are you? Where have you been?"
"Back at the ship, c'mon home. I miss you! Come back, I have a lot to tell you."
"I'm on my way!" I yelled, dropped the comm into my gear back, and started packing. I tried to banish my gnawing worry, but I would be able to talk to her in just a few minutes, and we'd get it all straightened out. There's one more shuttle tonight, but if I miss it I'll have NC fly the damned ship here!
*Elsewhere*
"Well well well." Spakta mused quietly, and the network droid had no comment to offer. "Transfer that to my datapad, droid."
"One credit transfer charge."
"Accepted, do it."
"Done, thank you."
He stuffed the pad into his pocket, and walked back to his room. His joints still hurt, but the burn seemed to drive him on instead of hobbling him.
"Petra Gullings, " he read to himself softly, "wanted for treason. Alive if possible. Credibleforensic evidence of death for nintey-percent bounty return. Petra my girl, they aren't too worried about capturing you alive. Half a million credit bounty, for such a slip of a girl." He chuckled. Interesting, he thought, and such a high payout... but what's the catch?
"Petra Gullings. Wanted for treason. Treason and high crimes. Warrant issued by one Darth Vader himself. There's only one kind of criminal he's after, my sweet little Petra. Vader hunts Jedi. He'll pay well for you, you little tramp!"
Spakta had no trouble sleeping that night.
Message Edited by FrankLee on 09-12-2004 01:15 AM
