Hurt Vector - 02 . Repetition
Title: 02 . Repetition
Series: Hurt Vector
Character(s): OC - Yain S. Juuri (Mandalorian)
Rating: PG+
Warnings: Star Wars cursing
Words: ~4100
Fandom: Star Wars
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars, or anything in that universe. I'm not making money.
Summary: A pit stop before leaving the system to see a dear friend, and then a few inconsequential deals are made on a desert planet. Or at least, that's how they seem to be.
::EDITED FROM ORIGINAL::
(Fan Fiction List)
[16:09:30]
1 Day Later
one hundred nine days post Order 66
The planet is exactly as I left it-a hot, toxic, floating cesspool of fire dotted with acid-soaked mining facilities. Slaves and indentured servants mill about in the same areas, blocking the major causeways out of the planet-side hangar and begging for a few extra creds between work hours. Unfortunately for them, I need my credits just as bad as the next jumped-up backwater dolovite miner.
It doesn’t take much effort to navigate the crowd and find the exit. My armor does most of the non-verbal negotiating, sending the easily intimidated speedily out of my way on sight alone. Not exactly inconspicuous, but I don’t have anything to hide on this Force-forsaken planet.
Except maybe my face.
I step out from the protective barrier surrounding the hangar. It’s raining and the streets are clear of droids and life-forms alike. My armor handles the acid easily with a thin, personal energy barrier. The miniature power storage used for the barrier can last for another several hours, at least. Which is all good and helpful, but I don’t plan to stick around that long.
Though it’s only midday, the colony is already cast in long shadows, the street lamps buzzing to life very, very slowly. The sky is a blur of angry, rolling green and gray clouds. The occasional flash of lightning lights up the atmosphere with bright silver and casts an intimidating gray pallor over the neighborhood-as if it didn’t already look so friendly and nonthreatening in the first place.
I stroll past the living quarters-a tall, solid building of reinforced duracrete that goes several storeys underground, only somewhat protected from the atmosphere's acidity and the planet's heat. Most slaves, and some of the newer indentured workers, are packed inside the building like domesticated animals. Eating, sleeping, sweating and dying on top of one another. I’ve only been in there once.
I made it a little more… roomy.
Another bounty from that Quarren. Another little bit of money in the numbered account. A piece of me I sold off for a handful of credits, and started off a chain reaction that leads me here. I don't want to be here, but I can't change what happened. After I leave this system, I don't know when I'll be back... if I'll be back. Best to say goodbye now, while the only person who cares for me on this planet is still breathing.
Past the slave quarters is the Medical Center. The tiny building is more like a round dome peaking out from the ground, two massive doors situated close to the street for emergencies. The side entrance is the one used for casual visitors, so I veer down a path to enter that way. Inside, old white lamps swing suspended from the ceiling.
The place smells like disinfectant, antiseptic, and engine grease.
Behind the square front desk is a silver protocol droid, reading over charts and typing something into a desk-mounted console. I turn down a corridor, not bothering to ring up the droid or sign in my local false name onto a chart labeled Visitors.
I’m not sure I want to be here. But my boots keep walking, and I don’t slow down.
I sense her before the doors to the private ward cycle open. It gives me half a second to prepare for the scene within, but it’s not enough. I could have all the time in the galaxy and it still would not be enough.
My heart jumps up into my throat and stays there. A dancing target window focuses on her face and blinks, accessing the holo-net, and transmitting via data-stream: Zabrak - a humanoid species known for having a fierce sense of self-determination and independence. Vestigial horns crown the heads of both males and females. Many feature facial tattoos, made up of thin lines traditionally received during rites of passage that can symbolize many things, including but not limited to family lineage, place of birth, or individual personalities.
I drag my eyes away from the feed and take a steadying breath. My legs find the will to move and I cross the threshold into the personal room. She lays there on a neatly made medical bed, eyes blank and glossy and staring straight up at the ceiling. The med-droid must have just finished checking her vitals.
I haven’t been around long enough to decipher all the strange quirks of Zabrak expressions, but I recognize the one she’s wearing just fine. I’ve seen it far too many times, on far too many different peoples.
It’s all the same to me, now.
The hearts monitor beeps in the irregular rhythm Zabrak are known for, both hearts strong and synced with each other. I scan the screen monitoring her vitals, following the lines with my eyes from the machine to the veins in her bare arms. Her chest rises and falls slowly. Tribal tattoos web out from beneath the black mask strapped over her mouth. It almost looks like there’s an ethersquid sucking her face, with the long black tube coiled over her body and spilling over the side of the bed to connect the mask to the machine closest to me. The wheezing of the mechanical lung is deafening in this small ward.
The slave collar is still around her neck.
“I said I’d be back, Dachi,” I speak softly as I brush stray strands of wavy red hair from her forehead. “I comm’d ahead. The medical droid said there’s been no change in your condition. You’re still unresponsive. Past the point of no return.”
My voice comes out warbled from the speakers of my buy’ce. I’m chalking that up to… nerves. I guess.
I gently rest my hand over the long black tube, the only thing keeping her alive. Every couple of seconds I feel a faint flutter press against the back of my mind. The hearts monitor beeps erratically, then smooths out. I expect her eyes to blink, to swivel and focus on me hovering over her. In my mind, I can just picture her jumping up, well again, and make one snappy remark or another as she clamps me in a rib-breaking hug.
She’s young. Too young for this place. No more than a few standard months older than myself. She’s deceptively strong, had been for as long as I’ve known her. She’d have to be, to survive in this mining colony on some Force-forsaken rock in galaxy-knows-where. Years of hard, manual labor didn’t age her like it should have. And it should have.
I never understood that, never figured out the secret behind it.
Oh. D’ika.
Just wake up and yell at me. Please yell at me.
“Dachi?” I ask. No response, unsurprisingly.
I think about when I last saw her before… before this. She was happy. She was so happy…
I lean forward and ease her eyes closed. They'll dry out if they're left to stare openly at the ceiling. The medical droid should've known better. Stupid thing. I smooth the messy tangle of hair atop her head.
“I wasn’t there,” I whisper, silent enough that I’m not sure if she could hear me, even if she was awake. “I should have been there. I should've.”
Killing didn’t bring her back. Killing never brought anyone back.
I trace her hair line, trail my gloved fingers over the contours of the horns sticking out from beneath her skin, and settle on the mask over her nose and cheekbones.
The machines continue to beep. Her chest rises and falls slowly.
My gloved palm fits comfortably over the mask. I silently will her to look at me. Open your eyes. Look at me. Look at me.
Nothing happens. There is no movement, other than the occasional flashing of the large machine beside the bed and the periodic beeps of the vitals monitor hovering over the right. My hand flexes around the mask.
She’s never waking up.
A moment of weakness seizes me. An impulse. I can see myself forcibly removing the breathing tube. Cut her life support. Watch, transfixed, as her body seizes, goes through the effects of hypoxia. Manufacture an overdose of conergin. Death would be quick. Relatively painless.
I could finally free her.
It takes a few, long, moments for me to regain control over myself. I let go of the mask and slowly pull my arm back, dragging my fingertips along the black tube, down her arm, and coming to a stop over her hand. I watch her face as I settle into the bedside chair, running my thumb over the back of her knuckles.
My hands are shaking. My vision blurs. Pain tightens behind my ribs. It hurts to breathe.
I sit there.
I sit there for a long time.
[16:10:04]
5 Days Later
Jate’kara jerks abruptly as we drop out of hyperspace and into orbit around planet Tatooine. The small comm-unit situated on the piloting console begins to beep. I step away from the galaxy map embedded in the wall and lean over the console.
I stare at the flashing button.
Nate hovers at my right, monitoring the ship’s status. I flop into the pilot’s chair and resume control of Jate’kara. “Contact one of the landing ports around the outer border of Mos Eisley. If everything goes well, we’ll be gone within two days.”
“So request five days, master?”
I shake my head. “Just a three day opening will be enough.”
Nate beeps in the affirmative and rises from the co-pilot’s chair. He floats around and out of sight behind me, presumably to contact one of the many landing pads in the city. While he’s busy with that, I reach over and flip a few switches to activate an alternate transponder code. I am now Jin Tamor, Merchandise Transporter, piloting the Sky Fish. The console lights up vibrantly for a second as the codes switch, deactivating and activating respectively, and the readout buzzes across the small data screen beside the controls.
That done, I return to maneuvering around inside the atmosphere. Burning red sky swirls above, while miles and miles of dry dusty canyon and desert loom below us, zipping past faster than my eyes care to follow. Just over the next cliff, Mos Eisley Spaceport looms in the distance. Hundreds of bulbous shaped building structures dot the horizon, spewing pollution into the air.
It’s the perfect setting for the seedy dealings of the Outer Rim. Or, well, the closest raging pit of criminal activity this side of the Corellian Run.
“We are cleared for Landing Platform ML-16357, Master.”
“Thanks, Nate.”
I adjust the speed of Jate’kara as we near Mos Eisley. Landing the ship is easy, but something tells me that the rest of this trip won’t be. I shake my head and banish my bad feelings, taking a moment to make sure the seal connecting my helmet to the rest of my suit is secure. It’s an unnecessary gesture, but from there I stand and systematically check every piece of my kit, from my chest plates to my shin guards.
The flashing button on the comm-unit catches my eye again. I don’t want to hear the message. I know I don’t.
I activate it anyway.
A miniature blue hologram of my younger sister crackles on. Her pacing form appears to be moving, though the holo remains stationary on top of the console.
“Yan’ika, where are you? For shabla sake, let us know you're alive. Please return this call.” The message ends there and the image disappears.
I stare at the blank space. When was the last time I spoke to Jah’ki?
Oh. That’s right. Over half a standard year ago. Time flies when you’re on the run from ghosts.
I switch off the comm-unit and exit the cockpit.
It’s early morning on this side of the planet. Not quite early enough to warrant waiting inside my ship until the rest of the city wakes up, but still. Early. I walk down the loading ramp as it descends, stopping at the foot of the plank to wait for Nate.
A ta-da tune beeps when he finally arrives, stopping just an arm's length away from me. His wide, large mechanical eyes are dim. Given the dark atmosphere of the port, it's unusual. Nate hovers, looking like a disoriented overstuffed lovechild of a 2-1B medical droid and one of the rust-red 3PX protocol series. There's wear-and-tear on his extra external armor plating, and the repulsorlift engine sputters from time to time. He deserves a thorough look-over from someone who knows more than just how to kick start a fidgety hyperdrive. But I can’t contact them. Not yet.
“You know what I’m about to say, Nate.”
The intensity of the eye lights flicker. “No unauthorized cargo checks. No close examinations of the ship. No unauthorized repairs…”
“And?” I prompt.
He let’s out a few quick beeps. “No browsing the holonet for droids with female programming. Master.”
I reach over to him and pat his metal head while I fish around in my back pouch.
"That’s right. If we need a new droid, I’ll buy one. But not now, and probably not soon. And here." I hand him three miniature grenades-one sonic and two frags. A portion of his abdomen slides out to reveal a hidden compartment. I place the grenades inside and watch as they disappear into my droid.
"Do not," I state with extra emphasis on each word, "use these unless absolutely necessary."
Nate responds with a melancholy melody I don't recognize. I wait a few seconds, but it soon becomes clear he doesn't intend to say anything more.
"Okay then. See you later," I say. Nate floats back up into the ship. The ramp rises soon after.
I wonder what's gotten into him.
"Oi, Mando."
The 360 degree view-screen situated in the corner of my helmet’s HUD flashes a warning signal. I turn to greet the short, hairless humanoid approaching. Hunched over and leaning heavily on a staff taller than itself, its elongated face shakes side to side before rearing up to look me in the visor. Its bald, yellow skin looks like dried and heavily beaten leather, only slightly darker than the ragged linen robe it wears.
I’ve never seen one of these before.
I decide to say as much. "I don't recognize your species."
It growls. "Don't care, kwaag. Payment upfront for use of landing platform."
“You are the owner of this hole?” I look around.
To the left, a globe shaped security droid dips under the hull of my ship and buzzes around us. It beeps in the affirmative, and repeatedly bumps against the side of my helmet.
Stupid, kriffing, irritating…
With as much power as I can muster, I swat the droid away. It screams in a series of loud, high-pitched whistles as it bounces over the sandstone floor.
“Don't knock around security droids, Mando,” the short, rude humanoid grumbles.
I resist the urge to toss the small sentient around, to negotiate free rent, and sift through my back pouch. Credit units aren’t worth much these days, but then again they were never well-accepted out here before. So, instead, I pull out a handful of gold flecked truguts. Kneeling down to eye-level, I hand them over to the sentient.
“This should cover three days stay, with refuel.”
The creature looks at the credits in its clawed hand, and then looks at my visor. I can see the beginnings of an argument behind its eyes, but it gives my helmet-and the blaster in my thigh holster-a few suspicious once-overs. Eventually it seems to decide that the credits are enough and nods once.
“No explosions,” it warns gravely as it limps away. The security droid I swatted earlier rolls across the ground before its repulsor activates and sends it spinning into the air, trailing after the retreating sentient.
I step out from beneath the ship and take a careful look around. The walls are high, and are the same color as every other building on this desert rock-dirty yellow brown. Only one sun is up and barely peaks over one of the walls, casting an ugly red glow over everything in the area. In the distance, a group of repair droids haul a tube bigger than themselves towards my ship and begin hooking up for the refuel I requested.
I exit the hangar and nearly trip over a tiny robed Jawa. It squeals in surprise and runs back to the other four of its kind crowding the opposite side of the doors. The street is dusty and as yellow as everything else. Across the way is a living settlement that appears more like a couple of sphere shaped boulders crammed together in half the space they should’ve occupied.
A couple of children, all of different species, zigzag around me, running in the street and laughing as they toss a sphere-shaped remote between themselves. Even from this distance, I can tell the small droid’s repulsor is malfunctioning, as it can only stay aloft for no more than a few seconds before crash landing into a child’s outstretched hands.
Their ragged clothes, dirty faces, and obvious lack of adequate footwear don’t escape me.
Can’t help everyone. Don’t think about it.
To my right, along the outer walls of the hangar, several vendors are in the process of setting up shop, stocking their stalls with wares varying from food to weapons to droid parts. I walk slowly, pausing by the first stall.
Several bolted together sheets of plastisteel stand against the wall. A canvas coverlet hangs over the top of the stall, draping down the sides and back, and held in place by lengths of twine.
This looks about as secure as a space pod with an open-top sunroof.
A table stretches to each false wall, displaying an impressive number of blasters listed in size and price. Most of them are old models, clearly weather-worn and dotted with sand. The prices are written on pieces of flimsy and bolted down. Behind the table floats a Toydarian, its bulbous stomach peeking out beneath a too-small vest as he continues to place down weapons for display.
My view-screen's data-feed streams: Toydarian - a race of avian beings; strong-willed, resistant to Jedi mind tricks, body odor similar to sweetspice. Reputation for being stingy and bad-tempered. Thought to be distant relatives of the Hutts, due to home planets' proximity to each other. Though stereotypically merchants and con-artists, many may lead respectable lives.
“Are these in firing condition?” I ask.
The Toydarian sets down a small Merr-Sonn holdout blaster and rotates his body to stare at me. “Kipuna koth'galu?” he asks with clear irritation. “Chuba tinka me dwana gulu'punyu? Kava me tari kanuta, tirin? Ne’tapa stoopa tapu, mando.”
I flick my hand in an unimpressed gesture and pick up one of the blasters closest to me. I examine the weapon while my visor automatically pulls up stats. It’s an old, heavy blaster model. “Merr-Sonn. Model 23?” I verify out loud.
“Hopo punyu, mando? Daa'punyu pul'ix tasa'mulia. Ji dwana nuto, nich'konia che kopa- 200.” The Toydarian offers as it resumes stocking the display table.
I turn the blaster in my hands a few times. I don’t need another blaster, but I like how the weapon feels in my hands. The handle’s strangely rounded and the metal is slightly melted on the right side of the barrel. The paint’s flaking in most places, and dirt’s clogged in every exposed crevice. And from the look of things… it would definitely need more than a few modifications.
It’s probably more work than it’s worth. A new scope. Hair trigger. Precision chamber. Maybe a custom power pack.
Yeah. It’s definitely way more work than it’s worth.
“Da dwana. Sold.” I drop five gold peggat chips onto the table and hook the blaster to my belt as I exit the stall. My visor adjusts automatically to the change in light.
I glance at the flashing timer in the bottom right corner of my HUD. 10:29. While it’s never too early to venture into a cantina-especially in the Outer Rim-I think I’ll take it slow. Wait a while. Browse the stalls until the streets get a little more crowded and the spaceport wakes up. Maybe I’ll find more of these cheap, old antiques. Unlikely, but doesn’t hurt to check.
I wonder if they still sell those tiny, sweet pastries around here…
A sphere-shaped remote droid clangs against my chest-plate and falls into my hands. A small Arkanian child, reaching no higher than my hip, collides with my leg. His bright orange skin and pale blond hair, knotted tight in a short braid along the topmost arch of his skull, catches the dim light of the first sun and sparkles oddly. His solid white eyes blink widen to the shape of marbles and lets out a little scream, arms windmilling as he tumbles backwards onto the dusty ground. A leather collar peaks out from beneath the linen scarf he wears over his nose and mouth. Behind him, the crowd of misfit youngling circle around me, one of the girls rushing into help the boy up.
They all have collars. They're all different shapes and sizes but I can recognize a slave collar when I see one.
I hold the droid up, turning it in my palms as I decide what to do. On its backside a small panel is dented inwards, exposing a cluster of damaged wires that spark when I poke them. A shower of sparks rain down when I shake the remote, and a few unseen objects bang round inside the metal shell. The little thing lets out a few shrill beeps in close succession, it's single sight reticule flickering on and off. A few painted stripes stretch around the midsection of the droid, flaking off along the outer edges and along the creases of the metal panels its covered in. The exposed wiring is a concern, but it otherwise looks to be functioning fine without its repulsorlift.
Along the bottom of my view-screen, the data-feed scrambles to produce information about the various species clustered around me. Keeping my head still, I focus only my eyes on the flickering dot at the top right corner of my screen and blink in sequence, shutting off the feed before my system locks up.
“You going to shoot us?” a small, blue skinned reptilian humanoid squeaks in accented Basic.
I angle my head to point my visor directly at the Rodian. In my hands, the remote lets out a series of beeps in a melody that reminds me of a popular child's lullaby from this side of the galaxy.
“Do I have reason to?” I ask. The Rodian child shakes his head.
Back on his feet, the Arkanian boy steps forward. “Are you a mandeerloyan?”
I roll the remote in my hands. “What do you think?”
Before the Arkanian can respond, the girl that helped him up cuffs him at the back of his head. She shoves him too the side and pulls the Rodian back, away from me.
“Stay back, murishani,” she says. “You no hurt us. We moulee-moulee. More than any slave. If you hurt us you pay big money.”
I regard the girl. Her skin is quite tan, but otherwise she looks human. Pure human, maybe? Not that it matters. If I looked hard enough, I'm sure I could buy a slave of any known species I wanted. Oh, the wonders this galaxy offers to those who can afford it.
Well... whatever. “So. Did you want your toy back?”
The droid in my hand lets out several shrill beeps in quick succession, rising in pitch with each sound. The youngling ignore it, and so do I.
“Tagwa,” the Arkanian boy gasps.
“Just one thing.” I bounce the remote droid between my hands, tossing it from one to the other. “There's only one Master to the lot of you?”
“Tagwa,” the Rodian boy affirms. “Yes.”
To own this many... “Who is it you work for?”
“Lorda-”
The girl shoves the Rodian hard, sending him rolling over the sandy ground. “Hagwa,” she snaps with a swift kick to the ground. A cloud of fine powder-like sand scatters across my boots and lower legs.
A hushed silence falls over the younglings. I wait to the count of thirty. No one decides to speak up, but no one moves. The Arkanian boy's face seems fixated on the complaining remote between my hands.
“All right. Here.”
I rear back, and toss the droid as hard as I can over the rooftops of the buildings across the street.
“H-hey!”
“Why?”
“No!”
The human girl roughly grabs the Arkanian boy and hisses, “We go!” to the rest. She stops to throw me a dirty look. “Master will hear about you, murishani!”
As the younglings quickly scatter, I hear, “But what about the remote?”
“Ne'yarpa. Stupid thing broke anyway.”
I watch until they disappear out of sight, then adjust my belt and start walking.
( Previous ) | ( Next )
Notes of Interest
Corellian Run - The Corellian Run was a major hyperspace route running through the galaxy, mapped between 25,000 BBY and 24,000 BBY. It began at Coruscant, going around the Deep Core to reach Corellia, where the Corellian Trade Spine branched off. From Corellia, it proceeded to Nubia, its final stop in the Core Worlds before it traversed the other major regions of the galaxy.
Tatooine - Tatooine was a desert world in a binary star system in the Arkanis Sector of the Outer Rim Territories.
Mos Eisley Spaceport - Mos Eisley was a large spaceport town on the planet Tatooine. It was the largest settlement on the planet and generally known as the "armpit of the galaxy".
Merr-Sonn Munitions - One of the three top weapons manufacturers in the galaxy during the time of the New Republic, falling only slightly below BlasTech in total revenues.
3PX Protocol Droids - Third-degree protocol droids produced by Cybot Galactica in 50 BBY and based on the design of the company's 3PO-series protocol droid.
2-1B Surgical Droids - 2-1B surgical droids were advanced medical droids popular across the galaxy to those that could afford them. Typically cost 4,300 credits.
Arkanian - a Near-Human race which resided primarily on the planet of Arkania, though they were not indigenous to it.
Rodian - a reptilian humanoid species native to Rodia. Highly recognizable due to characteristics in facial structure and skin pigment, and were infamous for their violent culture.
Toydarian - The Toydarians were a race of avian beings from Toydaria.
Zabrak - also known as Iridonians, were a humanoid species native to Iridonia, a planet located in the Mid Rim known for its inhospitable terrain and fierce predatory life.
Weapon Attachments (section of wookieepedia) - http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Category:Weapon_attachments
Curreny (section of wookieepedia: includes Truguts, Peggats, and Credits) - http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Currency
Huttese Translations
Kipuna koth'galu? - Firing condition?
Chuba tinka ji dwana gulu'punyu? - You think/say I sell bad gun(s)?
Kava ji tari kanuta, tirin? - How (do) I make money, then?
Ne'tapa stoopa'tapu, mando. - Don't ask stupid questions, mando.
Hopo punyu, mando? - Know your weapons, mando?
Daa'punyu pul'ix tasa'mulia. - That weapon need work/fix.
Ji dwana nuto, nich'konia che kopa- 200. - I sell (it) to you, one-time price, 200.
murishani - bounty hunter
moulee-moulee - money-money, or work-work
Tagwa - yes
Hagwa - do not
Lorda - Master
Mando'a Note
The diminutive suffix written as 'ika is often added to a name between close individuals, often a good indicator for outsiders to tell if two Mandalorians are family, close friends, or know each other. However, may also be used between rivaling Mandalorians to incite the other to a fight.
Expletives And Slang
Hurt Vector - a person who seems to attract misfortune to themselves and others around them
Kwaag - A Tulgah expletive
Kriffing - expletive
Shabla - Mandalorian expletive modifier, meaning screwed up
Series: Hurt Vector
Character(s): OC - Yain S. Juuri (Mandalorian)
Rating: PG+
Warnings: Star Wars cursing
Words: ~4100
Fandom: Star Wars
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars, or anything in that universe. I'm not making money.
Summary: A pit stop before leaving the system to see a dear friend, and then a few inconsequential deals are made on a desert planet. Or at least, that's how they seem to be.
::EDITED FROM ORIGINAL::
(Fan Fiction List)
[16:09:30]
1 Day Later
one hundred nine days post Order 66
The planet is exactly as I left it-a hot, toxic, floating cesspool of fire dotted with acid-soaked mining facilities. Slaves and indentured servants mill about in the same areas, blocking the major causeways out of the planet-side hangar and begging for a few extra creds between work hours. Unfortunately for them, I need my credits just as bad as the next jumped-up backwater dolovite miner.
It doesn’t take much effort to navigate the crowd and find the exit. My armor does most of the non-verbal negotiating, sending the easily intimidated speedily out of my way on sight alone. Not exactly inconspicuous, but I don’t have anything to hide on this Force-forsaken planet.
Except maybe my face.
I step out from the protective barrier surrounding the hangar. It’s raining and the streets are clear of droids and life-forms alike. My armor handles the acid easily with a thin, personal energy barrier. The miniature power storage used for the barrier can last for another several hours, at least. Which is all good and helpful, but I don’t plan to stick around that long.
Though it’s only midday, the colony is already cast in long shadows, the street lamps buzzing to life very, very slowly. The sky is a blur of angry, rolling green and gray clouds. The occasional flash of lightning lights up the atmosphere with bright silver and casts an intimidating gray pallor over the neighborhood-as if it didn’t already look so friendly and nonthreatening in the first place.
I stroll past the living quarters-a tall, solid building of reinforced duracrete that goes several storeys underground, only somewhat protected from the atmosphere's acidity and the planet's heat. Most slaves, and some of the newer indentured workers, are packed inside the building like domesticated animals. Eating, sleeping, sweating and dying on top of one another. I’ve only been in there once.
I made it a little more… roomy.
Another bounty from that Quarren. Another little bit of money in the numbered account. A piece of me I sold off for a handful of credits, and started off a chain reaction that leads me here. I don't want to be here, but I can't change what happened. After I leave this system, I don't know when I'll be back... if I'll be back. Best to say goodbye now, while the only person who cares for me on this planet is still breathing.
Past the slave quarters is the Medical Center. The tiny building is more like a round dome peaking out from the ground, two massive doors situated close to the street for emergencies. The side entrance is the one used for casual visitors, so I veer down a path to enter that way. Inside, old white lamps swing suspended from the ceiling.
The place smells like disinfectant, antiseptic, and engine grease.
Behind the square front desk is a silver protocol droid, reading over charts and typing something into a desk-mounted console. I turn down a corridor, not bothering to ring up the droid or sign in my local false name onto a chart labeled Visitors.
I’m not sure I want to be here. But my boots keep walking, and I don’t slow down.
I sense her before the doors to the private ward cycle open. It gives me half a second to prepare for the scene within, but it’s not enough. I could have all the time in the galaxy and it still would not be enough.
My heart jumps up into my throat and stays there. A dancing target window focuses on her face and blinks, accessing the holo-net, and transmitting via data-stream: Zabrak - a humanoid species known for having a fierce sense of self-determination and independence. Vestigial horns crown the heads of both males and females. Many feature facial tattoos, made up of thin lines traditionally received during rites of passage that can symbolize many things, including but not limited to family lineage, place of birth, or individual personalities.
I drag my eyes away from the feed and take a steadying breath. My legs find the will to move and I cross the threshold into the personal room. She lays there on a neatly made medical bed, eyes blank and glossy and staring straight up at the ceiling. The med-droid must have just finished checking her vitals.
I haven’t been around long enough to decipher all the strange quirks of Zabrak expressions, but I recognize the one she’s wearing just fine. I’ve seen it far too many times, on far too many different peoples.
It’s all the same to me, now.
The hearts monitor beeps in the irregular rhythm Zabrak are known for, both hearts strong and synced with each other. I scan the screen monitoring her vitals, following the lines with my eyes from the machine to the veins in her bare arms. Her chest rises and falls slowly. Tribal tattoos web out from beneath the black mask strapped over her mouth. It almost looks like there’s an ethersquid sucking her face, with the long black tube coiled over her body and spilling over the side of the bed to connect the mask to the machine closest to me. The wheezing of the mechanical lung is deafening in this small ward.
The slave collar is still around her neck.
“I said I’d be back, Dachi,” I speak softly as I brush stray strands of wavy red hair from her forehead. “I comm’d ahead. The medical droid said there’s been no change in your condition. You’re still unresponsive. Past the point of no return.”
My voice comes out warbled from the speakers of my buy’ce. I’m chalking that up to… nerves. I guess.
I gently rest my hand over the long black tube, the only thing keeping her alive. Every couple of seconds I feel a faint flutter press against the back of my mind. The hearts monitor beeps erratically, then smooths out. I expect her eyes to blink, to swivel and focus on me hovering over her. In my mind, I can just picture her jumping up, well again, and make one snappy remark or another as she clamps me in a rib-breaking hug.
She’s young. Too young for this place. No more than a few standard months older than myself. She’s deceptively strong, had been for as long as I’ve known her. She’d have to be, to survive in this mining colony on some Force-forsaken rock in galaxy-knows-where. Years of hard, manual labor didn’t age her like it should have. And it should have.
I never understood that, never figured out the secret behind it.
Oh. D’ika.
Just wake up and yell at me. Please yell at me.
“Dachi?” I ask. No response, unsurprisingly.
I think about when I last saw her before… before this. She was happy. She was so happy…
I lean forward and ease her eyes closed. They'll dry out if they're left to stare openly at the ceiling. The medical droid should've known better. Stupid thing. I smooth the messy tangle of hair atop her head.
“I wasn’t there,” I whisper, silent enough that I’m not sure if she could hear me, even if she was awake. “I should have been there. I should've.”
Killing didn’t bring her back. Killing never brought anyone back.
I trace her hair line, trail my gloved fingers over the contours of the horns sticking out from beneath her skin, and settle on the mask over her nose and cheekbones.
The machines continue to beep. Her chest rises and falls slowly.
My gloved palm fits comfortably over the mask. I silently will her to look at me. Open your eyes. Look at me. Look at me.
Nothing happens. There is no movement, other than the occasional flashing of the large machine beside the bed and the periodic beeps of the vitals monitor hovering over the right. My hand flexes around the mask.
She’s never waking up.
A moment of weakness seizes me. An impulse. I can see myself forcibly removing the breathing tube. Cut her life support. Watch, transfixed, as her body seizes, goes through the effects of hypoxia. Manufacture an overdose of conergin. Death would be quick. Relatively painless.
I could finally free her.
It takes a few, long, moments for me to regain control over myself. I let go of the mask and slowly pull my arm back, dragging my fingertips along the black tube, down her arm, and coming to a stop over her hand. I watch her face as I settle into the bedside chair, running my thumb over the back of her knuckles.
My hands are shaking. My vision blurs. Pain tightens behind my ribs. It hurts to breathe.
I sit there.
I sit there for a long time.
[16:10:04]
5 Days Later
Jate’kara jerks abruptly as we drop out of hyperspace and into orbit around planet Tatooine. The small comm-unit situated on the piloting console begins to beep. I step away from the galaxy map embedded in the wall and lean over the console.
I stare at the flashing button.
Nate hovers at my right, monitoring the ship’s status. I flop into the pilot’s chair and resume control of Jate’kara. “Contact one of the landing ports around the outer border of Mos Eisley. If everything goes well, we’ll be gone within two days.”
“So request five days, master?”
I shake my head. “Just a three day opening will be enough.”
Nate beeps in the affirmative and rises from the co-pilot’s chair. He floats around and out of sight behind me, presumably to contact one of the many landing pads in the city. While he’s busy with that, I reach over and flip a few switches to activate an alternate transponder code. I am now Jin Tamor, Merchandise Transporter, piloting the Sky Fish. The console lights up vibrantly for a second as the codes switch, deactivating and activating respectively, and the readout buzzes across the small data screen beside the controls.
That done, I return to maneuvering around inside the atmosphere. Burning red sky swirls above, while miles and miles of dry dusty canyon and desert loom below us, zipping past faster than my eyes care to follow. Just over the next cliff, Mos Eisley Spaceport looms in the distance. Hundreds of bulbous shaped building structures dot the horizon, spewing pollution into the air.
It’s the perfect setting for the seedy dealings of the Outer Rim. Or, well, the closest raging pit of criminal activity this side of the Corellian Run.
“We are cleared for Landing Platform ML-16357, Master.”
“Thanks, Nate.”
I adjust the speed of Jate’kara as we near Mos Eisley. Landing the ship is easy, but something tells me that the rest of this trip won’t be. I shake my head and banish my bad feelings, taking a moment to make sure the seal connecting my helmet to the rest of my suit is secure. It’s an unnecessary gesture, but from there I stand and systematically check every piece of my kit, from my chest plates to my shin guards.
The flashing button on the comm-unit catches my eye again. I don’t want to hear the message. I know I don’t.
I activate it anyway.
A miniature blue hologram of my younger sister crackles on. Her pacing form appears to be moving, though the holo remains stationary on top of the console.
“Yan’ika, where are you? For shabla sake, let us know you're alive. Please return this call.” The message ends there and the image disappears.
I stare at the blank space. When was the last time I spoke to Jah’ki?
Oh. That’s right. Over half a standard year ago. Time flies when you’re on the run from ghosts.
I switch off the comm-unit and exit the cockpit.
It’s early morning on this side of the planet. Not quite early enough to warrant waiting inside my ship until the rest of the city wakes up, but still. Early. I walk down the loading ramp as it descends, stopping at the foot of the plank to wait for Nate.
A ta-da tune beeps when he finally arrives, stopping just an arm's length away from me. His wide, large mechanical eyes are dim. Given the dark atmosphere of the port, it's unusual. Nate hovers, looking like a disoriented overstuffed lovechild of a 2-1B medical droid and one of the rust-red 3PX protocol series. There's wear-and-tear on his extra external armor plating, and the repulsorlift engine sputters from time to time. He deserves a thorough look-over from someone who knows more than just how to kick start a fidgety hyperdrive. But I can’t contact them. Not yet.
“You know what I’m about to say, Nate.”
The intensity of the eye lights flicker. “No unauthorized cargo checks. No close examinations of the ship. No unauthorized repairs…”
“And?” I prompt.
He let’s out a few quick beeps. “No browsing the holonet for droids with female programming. Master.”
I reach over to him and pat his metal head while I fish around in my back pouch.
"That’s right. If we need a new droid, I’ll buy one. But not now, and probably not soon. And here." I hand him three miniature grenades-one sonic and two frags. A portion of his abdomen slides out to reveal a hidden compartment. I place the grenades inside and watch as they disappear into my droid.
"Do not," I state with extra emphasis on each word, "use these unless absolutely necessary."
Nate responds with a melancholy melody I don't recognize. I wait a few seconds, but it soon becomes clear he doesn't intend to say anything more.
"Okay then. See you later," I say. Nate floats back up into the ship. The ramp rises soon after.
I wonder what's gotten into him.
"Oi, Mando."
The 360 degree view-screen situated in the corner of my helmet’s HUD flashes a warning signal. I turn to greet the short, hairless humanoid approaching. Hunched over and leaning heavily on a staff taller than itself, its elongated face shakes side to side before rearing up to look me in the visor. Its bald, yellow skin looks like dried and heavily beaten leather, only slightly darker than the ragged linen robe it wears.
I’ve never seen one of these before.
I decide to say as much. "I don't recognize your species."
It growls. "Don't care, kwaag. Payment upfront for use of landing platform."
“You are the owner of this hole?” I look around.
To the left, a globe shaped security droid dips under the hull of my ship and buzzes around us. It beeps in the affirmative, and repeatedly bumps against the side of my helmet.
Stupid, kriffing, irritating…
With as much power as I can muster, I swat the droid away. It screams in a series of loud, high-pitched whistles as it bounces over the sandstone floor.
“Don't knock around security droids, Mando,” the short, rude humanoid grumbles.
I resist the urge to toss the small sentient around, to negotiate free rent, and sift through my back pouch. Credit units aren’t worth much these days, but then again they were never well-accepted out here before. So, instead, I pull out a handful of gold flecked truguts. Kneeling down to eye-level, I hand them over to the sentient.
“This should cover three days stay, with refuel.”
The creature looks at the credits in its clawed hand, and then looks at my visor. I can see the beginnings of an argument behind its eyes, but it gives my helmet-and the blaster in my thigh holster-a few suspicious once-overs. Eventually it seems to decide that the credits are enough and nods once.
“No explosions,” it warns gravely as it limps away. The security droid I swatted earlier rolls across the ground before its repulsor activates and sends it spinning into the air, trailing after the retreating sentient.
I step out from beneath the ship and take a careful look around. The walls are high, and are the same color as every other building on this desert rock-dirty yellow brown. Only one sun is up and barely peaks over one of the walls, casting an ugly red glow over everything in the area. In the distance, a group of repair droids haul a tube bigger than themselves towards my ship and begin hooking up for the refuel I requested.
I exit the hangar and nearly trip over a tiny robed Jawa. It squeals in surprise and runs back to the other four of its kind crowding the opposite side of the doors. The street is dusty and as yellow as everything else. Across the way is a living settlement that appears more like a couple of sphere shaped boulders crammed together in half the space they should’ve occupied.
A couple of children, all of different species, zigzag around me, running in the street and laughing as they toss a sphere-shaped remote between themselves. Even from this distance, I can tell the small droid’s repulsor is malfunctioning, as it can only stay aloft for no more than a few seconds before crash landing into a child’s outstretched hands.
Their ragged clothes, dirty faces, and obvious lack of adequate footwear don’t escape me.
Can’t help everyone. Don’t think about it.
To my right, along the outer walls of the hangar, several vendors are in the process of setting up shop, stocking their stalls with wares varying from food to weapons to droid parts. I walk slowly, pausing by the first stall.
Several bolted together sheets of plastisteel stand against the wall. A canvas coverlet hangs over the top of the stall, draping down the sides and back, and held in place by lengths of twine.
This looks about as secure as a space pod with an open-top sunroof.
A table stretches to each false wall, displaying an impressive number of blasters listed in size and price. Most of them are old models, clearly weather-worn and dotted with sand. The prices are written on pieces of flimsy and bolted down. Behind the table floats a Toydarian, its bulbous stomach peeking out beneath a too-small vest as he continues to place down weapons for display.
My view-screen's data-feed streams: Toydarian - a race of avian beings; strong-willed, resistant to Jedi mind tricks, body odor similar to sweetspice. Reputation for being stingy and bad-tempered. Thought to be distant relatives of the Hutts, due to home planets' proximity to each other. Though stereotypically merchants and con-artists, many may lead respectable lives.
“Are these in firing condition?” I ask.
The Toydarian sets down a small Merr-Sonn holdout blaster and rotates his body to stare at me. “Kipuna koth'galu?” he asks with clear irritation. “Chuba tinka me dwana gulu'punyu? Kava me tari kanuta, tirin? Ne’tapa stoopa tapu, mando.”
I flick my hand in an unimpressed gesture and pick up one of the blasters closest to me. I examine the weapon while my visor automatically pulls up stats. It’s an old, heavy blaster model. “Merr-Sonn. Model 23?” I verify out loud.
“Hopo punyu, mando? Daa'punyu pul'ix tasa'mulia. Ji dwana nuto, nich'konia che kopa- 200.” The Toydarian offers as it resumes stocking the display table.
I turn the blaster in my hands a few times. I don’t need another blaster, but I like how the weapon feels in my hands. The handle’s strangely rounded and the metal is slightly melted on the right side of the barrel. The paint’s flaking in most places, and dirt’s clogged in every exposed crevice. And from the look of things… it would definitely need more than a few modifications.
It’s probably more work than it’s worth. A new scope. Hair trigger. Precision chamber. Maybe a custom power pack.
Yeah. It’s definitely way more work than it’s worth.
“Da dwana. Sold.” I drop five gold peggat chips onto the table and hook the blaster to my belt as I exit the stall. My visor adjusts automatically to the change in light.
I glance at the flashing timer in the bottom right corner of my HUD. 10:29. While it’s never too early to venture into a cantina-especially in the Outer Rim-I think I’ll take it slow. Wait a while. Browse the stalls until the streets get a little more crowded and the spaceport wakes up. Maybe I’ll find more of these cheap, old antiques. Unlikely, but doesn’t hurt to check.
I wonder if they still sell those tiny, sweet pastries around here…
A sphere-shaped remote droid clangs against my chest-plate and falls into my hands. A small Arkanian child, reaching no higher than my hip, collides with my leg. His bright orange skin and pale blond hair, knotted tight in a short braid along the topmost arch of his skull, catches the dim light of the first sun and sparkles oddly. His solid white eyes blink widen to the shape of marbles and lets out a little scream, arms windmilling as he tumbles backwards onto the dusty ground. A leather collar peaks out from beneath the linen scarf he wears over his nose and mouth. Behind him, the crowd of misfit youngling circle around me, one of the girls rushing into help the boy up.
They all have collars. They're all different shapes and sizes but I can recognize a slave collar when I see one.
I hold the droid up, turning it in my palms as I decide what to do. On its backside a small panel is dented inwards, exposing a cluster of damaged wires that spark when I poke them. A shower of sparks rain down when I shake the remote, and a few unseen objects bang round inside the metal shell. The little thing lets out a few shrill beeps in close succession, it's single sight reticule flickering on and off. A few painted stripes stretch around the midsection of the droid, flaking off along the outer edges and along the creases of the metal panels its covered in. The exposed wiring is a concern, but it otherwise looks to be functioning fine without its repulsorlift.
Along the bottom of my view-screen, the data-feed scrambles to produce information about the various species clustered around me. Keeping my head still, I focus only my eyes on the flickering dot at the top right corner of my screen and blink in sequence, shutting off the feed before my system locks up.
“You going to shoot us?” a small, blue skinned reptilian humanoid squeaks in accented Basic.
I angle my head to point my visor directly at the Rodian. In my hands, the remote lets out a series of beeps in a melody that reminds me of a popular child's lullaby from this side of the galaxy.
“Do I have reason to?” I ask. The Rodian child shakes his head.
Back on his feet, the Arkanian boy steps forward. “Are you a mandeerloyan?”
I roll the remote in my hands. “What do you think?”
Before the Arkanian can respond, the girl that helped him up cuffs him at the back of his head. She shoves him too the side and pulls the Rodian back, away from me.
“Stay back, murishani,” she says. “You no hurt us. We moulee-moulee. More than any slave. If you hurt us you pay big money.”
I regard the girl. Her skin is quite tan, but otherwise she looks human. Pure human, maybe? Not that it matters. If I looked hard enough, I'm sure I could buy a slave of any known species I wanted. Oh, the wonders this galaxy offers to those who can afford it.
Well... whatever. “So. Did you want your toy back?”
The droid in my hand lets out several shrill beeps in quick succession, rising in pitch with each sound. The youngling ignore it, and so do I.
“Tagwa,” the Arkanian boy gasps.
“Just one thing.” I bounce the remote droid between my hands, tossing it from one to the other. “There's only one Master to the lot of you?”
“Tagwa,” the Rodian boy affirms. “Yes.”
To own this many... “Who is it you work for?”
“Lorda-”
The girl shoves the Rodian hard, sending him rolling over the sandy ground. “Hagwa,” she snaps with a swift kick to the ground. A cloud of fine powder-like sand scatters across my boots and lower legs.
A hushed silence falls over the younglings. I wait to the count of thirty. No one decides to speak up, but no one moves. The Arkanian boy's face seems fixated on the complaining remote between my hands.
“All right. Here.”
I rear back, and toss the droid as hard as I can over the rooftops of the buildings across the street.
“H-hey!”
“Why?”
“No!”
The human girl roughly grabs the Arkanian boy and hisses, “We go!” to the rest. She stops to throw me a dirty look. “Master will hear about you, murishani!”
As the younglings quickly scatter, I hear, “But what about the remote?”
“Ne'yarpa. Stupid thing broke anyway.”
I watch until they disappear out of sight, then adjust my belt and start walking.
( Previous ) | ( Next )
Notes of Interest
Corellian Run - The Corellian Run was a major hyperspace route running through the galaxy, mapped between 25,000 BBY and 24,000 BBY. It began at Coruscant, going around the Deep Core to reach Corellia, where the Corellian Trade Spine branched off. From Corellia, it proceeded to Nubia, its final stop in the Core Worlds before it traversed the other major regions of the galaxy.
Tatooine - Tatooine was a desert world in a binary star system in the Arkanis Sector of the Outer Rim Territories.
Mos Eisley Spaceport - Mos Eisley was a large spaceport town on the planet Tatooine. It was the largest settlement on the planet and generally known as the "armpit of the galaxy".
Merr-Sonn Munitions - One of the three top weapons manufacturers in the galaxy during the time of the New Republic, falling only slightly below BlasTech in total revenues.
3PX Protocol Droids - Third-degree protocol droids produced by Cybot Galactica in 50 BBY and based on the design of the company's 3PO-series protocol droid.
2-1B Surgical Droids - 2-1B surgical droids were advanced medical droids popular across the galaxy to those that could afford them. Typically cost 4,300 credits.
Arkanian - a Near-Human race which resided primarily on the planet of Arkania, though they were not indigenous to it.
Rodian - a reptilian humanoid species native to Rodia. Highly recognizable due to characteristics in facial structure and skin pigment, and were infamous for their violent culture.
Toydarian - The Toydarians were a race of avian beings from Toydaria.
Zabrak - also known as Iridonians, were a humanoid species native to Iridonia, a planet located in the Mid Rim known for its inhospitable terrain and fierce predatory life.
Weapon Attachments (section of wookieepedia) - http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Category:Weapon_attachments
Curreny (section of wookieepedia: includes Truguts, Peggats, and Credits) - http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Currency
Huttese Translations
Kipuna koth'galu? - Firing condition?
Chuba tinka ji dwana gulu'punyu? - You think/say I sell bad gun(s)?
Kava ji tari kanuta, tirin? - How (do) I make money, then?
Ne'tapa stoopa'tapu, mando. - Don't ask stupid questions, mando.
Hopo punyu, mando? - Know your weapons, mando?
Daa'punyu pul'ix tasa'mulia. - That weapon need work/fix.
Ji dwana nuto, nich'konia che kopa- 200. - I sell (it) to you, one-time price, 200.
murishani - bounty hunter
moulee-moulee - money-money, or work-work
Tagwa - yes
Hagwa - do not
Lorda - Master
Mando'a Note
The diminutive suffix written as 'ika is often added to a name between close individuals, often a good indicator for outsiders to tell if two Mandalorians are family, close friends, or know each other. However, may also be used between rivaling Mandalorians to incite the other to a fight.
Expletives And Slang
Hurt Vector - a person who seems to attract misfortune to themselves and others around them
Kwaag - A Tulgah expletive
Kriffing - expletive
Shabla - Mandalorian expletive modifier, meaning screwed up