A Good Reason to Die
by Josh 'Nova' Caton
In
the watering hole lounge of the vaunted Mon Calamari star cruiser
Liberty,
one joke too many is never enough. And at this time of night, no
subject is too ridiculous.
"What's
this thing rated, anyway?"
Elbows
resting on the table, Bulldog flashed a look of confusion. "What
are you talking about, Ranc?"
"This
table," Rancor said, rapping it with a knuckle. "How much weight
do you think it'll bear?"
Bulldog
suppressed a chuckle but couldn't contain a smile. "Why do you ask?"
"Because
I need another drink, and I need to make sure she'll hold up."
The
pilots laughed a good laugh, a laugh of rest. Even shuttered away
in the belly of a warship, times like these made the war seem far
away.
But
never too far away.
An... unexpected visitor to the lounge interrupted the reverie. The
six pilots wobbled into the closest approximation to military form
they could manage in their inebriated states.
"Colonel
Rambo, sir," said Kallysto, the veteran amongst the evening?s revelers.
"What can we do for you?"
"At
ease, men." Stryker waited for the pilots to return to their seats.
"I apologize for interrupting your R&R time, but something's
come up. We've received a transmission from an unknown individual
on an outer rim planet saying they have information vital to the
Alliance."
"Unknown?" Kallysto asked. "Don't our sources have codes so
we know who they are?"
"Yes,
and this transmission included cleared rebel security codes, although
not ones typically used in communiques with Renegade Wing."
Icestorm
spoke up. "Do we know the nature of the information?" he asked.
"The
source will not reveal much, but hinted that it might unearth a
traitor or series of traitors within the Alliance. He's requested
payment in person for the information and suggested a protocol droid
also be present due to his lack of fluency in basic."
"Sounds
strange," Condor noted. 'do we think it's legit?"
"We're
skeptical. That's why we're sending Syntax. He can handle whatever
surprises might arise, but he can't play an undercover Alliance
intelligence agent unless we invest in a whole lot of synthflesh.
I'd like one of you to forfeit your next few days of downtime to
accompany our 'protocol droid' to the rendezvous point and either
obtain the information or prove it false."
"Where's
the rendezvous?"
<
>
"On Tatooine. Mos Eisley, to be specific."
"I'll
go," Nova blurted before any of the other pilots could speak up.
"Hold
on a minute," Kallysto protested. "Shouldn't we send, say, a former
child actor to play the part of Syntax's owner?"
Nova
gave the former child actor an exaggerated look of shock. "What?
You think you're the only pilot who did a little acting when you
were a kid? I'll have you know you're looking at the guy who played
the lead role in Ballast Primary School's production of The
Emperor and I."
More
laughter, this time with Stryker joining in. The colonel regarded
the dark-haired Buccaneer thoughtfully. "Nova, I think you could
use the ground experience. You'd better get to your bunk. You leave
in five hours. The rest of you, enjoy your downtime." Stryker turned
to leave, but stopped after a step. "Do something about that table,
would you? The thing's bowing, and I'd hate to have to deduct the
cost of a new one from your credit accounts."
Conversation
was brisk in the passenger bay of the Muurian transport
Corona.
Stash, the owner and pilot of the smuggling ship, had been entertaining
the two pilots with tales of outside-the-law adventures. Nova and
Syntax had hitched a ride to Tatooine with Stash, long trusted by
the Alliance as a trader in the blaster coolant freelol variety.
If their mission didn't take long, they'd be riding back to the
Liberty
with
Stash as well.
A
tone sounded, signaling that Stash was needed back in the cockpit.
"Hey,
thanks for the chat, fellas. Been a bit lonely around here since
Bin got busted along the Sisar Run and shipped off to Kessel," said
Stash, as he rose to enter the cockpit.
"Bin?"
Nova asked.
"My
partner of six years. He was doing a solo run, a contract job and
got boarded by an Imp patrol. It was all I could do to keep myself
from charging Corona
into that rock and trying to bust him out, but good sense got the
better of me."
"You
probably would have ended up alongside him in the dark."
"I
know. I do miss the chap though. Heckuva gunner." After a quiet
moment, the cockpit tone sounded again. Stash sighed. "Better see
what's up. You fellas make yourselves at home."
"Thanks,
Stash," Nova said with a nod. He liked Stash, a not-quite-middle-aged
human, and found himself charmed by the spacer's galaxy-spanning
tales. Syntax, on the other hand, was difficult to talk to. Nova
had to admit he was intimidated by the ex-bounty-hunter-hunter turned
elite pilot. He knew Syntax would risk deactivation to save a fellow
Renegade, but that didn?t make the steel skinned droid any more
approachable. Still, after an uncomfortably long silence, Nova started
to speak up. But the droid beat him to it.
"Why
you?"
Nova
was startled. "Huh?" he blurted out.
"Why
are you my partner on this mission?" continued the droid.
"Uh,
because they needed someone to play info trader to your protocol
droid," he quipped.
"I
know the mission parameters, Nova. Why did you volunteer to come
to Mos Eisley?"
"Famous
place, from what I hear. I wanted to see it, that's all." Nova realized
Syntax wasn't going to say any more. "Is it as rough as its legend?"
"Yes,"
the droid said. "But not too rough for me."
Stash
rounded the corner into the passenger bay. "Reversion in fifteen."
Nova
nodded. "Let's hope this guy's info is worth the trip."
"Trust
me," the droid said. "Unless he can tell us where the Emperor keeps
his toothbrush, it won?t be."
Nova
squinted as the bright Tatooine suns glinted off Syntax's metal
shell. Mos Eisley Spaceport was less crowded than Nova would have
guessed, but twice as hot. He tried his best to not look out of
place, but a keen observer would have seen the gait with which the
native Caridan carried himself was a bit more Imperial than
the average sentient strolling the sandy streets. Even so, the close
fitting brown tunic, rough stubble on his chin and blaster on his
hip was enough to fool a pair of Jawas that skittered by, tugging
on Nova's pants and pointing at Syntax. Nova shooed the scavengers
away in a manner that seemed, at least to him, to be very Mos
Eisley.
As
they pressed on through the streets, Nova felt the piercing gaze
of a Gotal in the shadows of an alleyway, but he didn't turn to
make eye contact. Suspicion is about the only thing that grows
here, Nova thought. A few more paces, and Nova's ears picked
up the bubbly tones of a jizz-wailer band. Almost there.
"Ok,
Lommie," he said, using the droid nickname Syntax had picked for
himself. He kept his voice just above a whisper. "You ready for
this?"
"Indeed,
Master. Although I must say this is no place for a droid of my particular
talents," Syntax replied, his voice a good octave higher than normal.
Nova
allowed a short smile at Syntax's acting, and together they stepped
inside the Mos Eisley Cantina.
The
joint was jumping. Aliens of all species chittered, clicked, chatted
and cooed in their varying languages and in varying states of drunkenness.
He didn't see any droids, nor did he see anyone tending the bar
at the time of their entrance. Nova intentionally kept a thumb on
the flechette pistol on his hip as he surveyed the establishment.
"Have
a seat, Lommie, I need a drink."
Syntax
made his way to an out of the way table as Nova squeezed his way
up to the bar. A Twi'lek seated at the bar gave Nova a hard stare,
but Nova dismissed the veiled threat with a nod of the head and
a smile that said, "Try me today, punk." He made eye contact with
the heavyset bartender and ordered a Whyren's Reserve for himself
and the Cantemenin Falie Lager that was to be the signal for their
contact.
He
returned to find Syntax sitting silently. "Anyone give you any trouble?"
"Oh,
no, sir. Though I cannot understand why I would be the only protocol
droid in here, sir. The patrons here are so unrefined that a good
LOM-series droid would be quite beneficial, I should think."
"Great,
Lommie, great." Nova sipped his Whyren's and let the whiskey
linger on his tongue. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a
Trandoshan clearly paying more than just a cursory glance to he
and his droid.
Moments
later, the large meat-colored reptoid stood up from his seat and
made his way to Nova's table. Nova didn't look up from his drink,
even after the Trandoshan stood directly to Nova?s left and cast
its rather large shadow across the table.
"You
musssst be new here," the Trandoshan hissed.
"You
must think I don't mind talking to lizards," said Nova, thick with
sarcasm.
The
Trandoshan put his foreclaws on the table and leaned down into Nova's
face. "This place doessssn't sssserve their kind," he said, nodding
his ridged head at Syntax.
"Oh
Master, perhaps I should?" began the droid, in a plaintive voice.
"Cool
it Lommie," Nova said. He eyed the big reptile and mentally prepared
himself for a fight. "Funny, I don't recall my droid having anything
to drink. It's a slaggin' good thing this hole doesn't serve droids,
because they do a poor job."
"I
don't like droidssss." The Trandoshan pulled himself up to full
height. "And I don?t like you."
"Me?"
Nova said, exaggerating his expression of disbelief. "What's not
to like about me?"
The
Trandoshan's tongue flicked from his nostrils. "You smell like an
Imp."
Nova
let his head drop and forced a chuckle from his throat.
"Well,
you know what they say, don't ya big fella?" The Trandoshan bared
his teeth. "This place can get a little rough-" and then the pilot
struck. With his left hand, he grabbed the reptile by the back of
its scaly leg and slung it into the table's edge. As the beast staggered,
Nova rose from his seat and planted a forearm across its chest.
The Trandoshan sucked for air as Nova let the force of his blow
carry through behind the saurian, then fluidly put both hands on
its back and rammed its head into the table. The hulking creature
crumbled to the floor. It was over so quickly the jizz-wailers didn't
miss a beat.
"Hey,
you!" The bartender called, rushing out from some unseen corner
of the establishment to see to the ruckus Nova had caused. "Take
your droid and get out of here!"
Nova
gave the bartender a satisfied nod and raised the glass of red Falie
Lager above his head- then poured it onto the unconscious reptile
below.
"It's
common courtesy, Master, to leave a gratuity after making such a
mess," Syntax said as they made their way out of the cantina.
"Yeah?
Good idea, Lommie. Hey barkeep!" Nova flipped a credcoin toward
the bartender. "The big fella's sorry about the mess."
Syntax
noted the increase in component temperature as he and Nova stepped
back out beneath the Tatooine suns. He turned his head so his photoreceptors
faced Nova. "You
handled yourself well in there," the droid said as a thrumming swoop
sped by on the Mos Eisley streets. "I was getting ready to take
him down myself."
"Yeah,
well, you forget where I grew up. Carida's a high-grav world. I
haven't been there for years... I bet one of my punches still packs
a little high-grav-trained wallop."
Syntax
scolded himself for not considering the data he had on Nova's background
in his memory core. He wondered whether too much cockpit time was
reducing his capacity to process and cross-reference data, but dismissed
the thought. "Interesting
that you choose to keep that a secr-"
"Whoa,
Syntax," Nova interrupted. "Best stay in character. I think someone's
headed toward us."
Syntax
widened his optic scanning and located the figure Nova had noticed.
A long-snouted Vulptereen was weaving his way calmly through the
bustling street, his path clearly designed to intersect with the
one Syntax and Nova were currently traveling.
"You
think this is our contact?"
"Maybe,"
Syntax responded. "This one is a small-time snoop and data dealer.
I recognize him from a job I pulled at Abregado-rae. Called Flun."
"Will
he recognize you?"
"Not
likely. I was discreet on that job."
Nova
turned down a less congested street and slowed his stride. Moments
later, the Vulptereen was walking in stride with them.
"Kal
chub de Muuriae funda malnodat."
Syntax
responded with "Kal ho."
"Munde
no farun de liften?"
He
translated the Huttese language variant for Nova's benefit. "Master,
this gentlebeing has asked us if we arrived in the Muurian docked
in bay 94. I told him we were. He then asked how much we would pay
for vital information."
Nova
seemed to consider this. "Tell him he should have a Farlie Lager
at the cantina."
Syntax
translated the phrase into the Huttese variant the Vulptereen was
speaking. It only seemed to confuse the Vulptereen.
"Faklen
no bact mun donden," Flun said with a snort.
"Kuba de funda malodat.."
"He
says he doesn?t drink anything that doesn't require bacta to cure
the hangover. His initial offer, master, still stands."
Nova
frowned. "Tell him we've got fifty creds to burn. We'll pay him
what it?s worth."
Again
Syntax translated, and the Vulptereen offered a response. "Fadda
de din de jarra ne. Corona pluren fal ladda."
Syntax's
head swiveled toward Nova.
"What'd
he say?"
"He
said the dock master is overcharging us for
Corona's
berth."
Nova
gave the Vulptereen a vibroblading stare, though Syntax recognized
the look as more falsehood than furor. Nova reached in his pockets
and flipped a single credcoin into the dirt at the Vulptereen's
feet. The Vulptereen looked insulted, but the expression broke when
he saw Nova's gaze. Flun scooped up the credcoin and recessed further
into the alleyway.
"What
now?"
"Back
to the Corona,"
Syntax answered. "My guess is, if someone wants to talk to us, they
will know where to look."
The
only thing waiting for Nova and Syntax back at Corona's
docking
bay was hard labor. Like the pilots, Stash hadn't encountered anything
out of the ordinary. With that, the Renegades finally resigned themselves
to the fact that they'd come to Mos Eisley for nothing. Stash, however,
set them to work loading crates of freelol in to the freighter's
hold.
"Well,
sometimes wild mynock chases are a blessing, boys," Stash said.
"You never know. The chap you were looking for might only have wanted
to blast you."
"Still,"
Syntax said, "I don't like leaving without knowing something about
whoever got a message through to the
Liberty.
As it is, our report is going to be pretty boring?except for the
part about you pounding that Trandoshan in the Cantina, eh Nova?"
Nova
didn't acknowledge the droid's inquiry. Syntax realized the human
hadn't been listening to the conversation at all. Something else
had him lost in thought.
"Hey
Stash," Nova asked as he grabbed a crate of the blaster coolant
from the gravtruck. "How long ?til we burn out of here?"
"A
little over and hour standard, if the port authority stays on schedule,"
the old man said.
Nova
nodded and added another crate to the stack. "Either of you guys
know a good bookstore around here?"
The
bewilderment on the face of Stash and the still silence of Syntax
told Nova that they did not.
Philosophers
could debate for decades on whether artificial intelligence had
instincts, in the way that biological life forms do. But
Syntax didn't need instincts to know something was wrong.
Nova
had been gone for 15 minutes when Syntax's proximity sensors were
triggered. Another being had entered the docking bay- and a quick
directed scan revealed that it wasn't Nova. In fact, it wasn't human.
With
blazing reflexes possible only by impulse through circuitry, Syntax
drew his blaster and dropped into a defensive crouch behind the
gravtruck. "Stash, get-"
The
telltale blue wave of a stun bolt lashed through the docking bay
and felled Stash with a thud. Syntax's diagnostics registered a
power surge in his components, a residual effect of the electricity
of the stun blast. He squeezed the firing stud on his blaster and
sent a line of fire back in the direction of the attacker.
Blue
energy again streaked toward him from the dark of the hangar's entryway.
Again, his diagnostics catalogued the energy as it cruised harmlessly
past. This time, it was no stun bolt. It was an ion blast- specifically
designed to knock out electronic systems. Or, Syntax knew, the occasional
droid. He'd have bet his servos that whatever was firing the gun
was the thing that had brought he and Nova to Tatooine in the first
place.
And
Syntax wanted to get to the bottom of this.
The
droid fired again, this time his line tracking his line of fire
intentionally high of his target. He'd get no information from a
dead thing. He rolled out from behind the grav truck and advanced,
using the Corona?s
landing struts as cover. The droid focused his optic receptors
on the entry way and found a match- male Talz, two meters tall. Two
more ion shots whizzed toward where Syntax had been behind the gravtruck.
The Talz had missed Syntax's move, and the droid wasted no time.
Syntax
sprung from behind the strut and fired two surgical shots at the
stationary Talz- one struck the furred biped in the hand, forcing
it to drop its weapon. The second and third caught the Talz in the
lower abdomen, forcing the Talz itself to the ground in a slump.
Syntax charged, blaster at the ready, to confront his attacker.
The
white-furred creature breathed heavily but, was breathing. Syntax
kept his blaster trained on the attacker. "Keep in mind that that
gut shot could have been right between those four eyes of yours,"
Syntax said. "And tell me just who you are."
"Rablen,"
the Talz wheezed. "I'm a bounty hunter."
"Bounty
hunter? Never heard of you."
The
Talz slumped as if Syntax's remark had been another blaster shot
to his gut. He didn't say anything.
"What
is it you want?"
"I
thought that would be obvious. I wanted to kill you. The great
9-LOM, the bounty hunter's bounty hunter."
A
mechanical scoff came from Syntax's vocoder. "I don't believe you.
You could have taken me out when you stunned Stash over there. Then
when you started shooting at me you used low power ion bolts that
wouldn't have disabled me anyway. You weren't trying to kill anybody."
The droid paused. "You were trying to commit suicide."
The
Talz looked up at Syntax with four dark eyes and shook his head
in mild disbelief. "You are sharp. That's why you were so
good, 9-LOM. Me? I was a lousy hunter. Great tracker, I mean I'm
one of the best trackers there is. I managed to find you in that
rebel fighter squadron and lure you here, didn't I... But I'm
a slagged lousy hunter. I could never close the deal, never deliver
the merchandise. Never. I once hunted this assassin half way across
the galaxy and ended up with a hole in my gut and zero creds. I
never amounted to anything."
"And
you thought getting killed by me would make you famous."
"It
wouldn't be the first time someone got snuffed by you and got a
new reputation by dying, that's sure. And hey, I've got no family,
no crew. I'm broke. I've got nothing to live for, so dying's
as good a thing as any." Raben closed his eyes and leaned his head
back against the stone of the entry way. "So you going to do it
or what?"
Syntax
paused.
"Yes.
I'll kill you. But first you'll do something for me."
Corona
left Mos Eisley spaceport as planned. Syntax was seated at the dejarik
table when Nova emerged from the rear passenger compartments.
"How's
our new passenger doing?" the droid asked.
"Fine,
I guess. The bacta patch will keep the wounds under control until
we can get him proper medical care." Nova sat down beside Syntax
and took out a datapad. "I've got to tell you that's some arrangement
you made. You really going to kill him?"
"No,
probably not unless he gets out of line. I thought Stash needed
and extra set of hands and another two pair of eyes aboard this
bucket. Rablen, or whatever his name is, obviously has some skills
or he wouldn't have been able to get us to Tatooine. I don't think
he's dangerous, and Stash felt the same way after I presented him
with the deal: The Talz gives Stash some help for a while aboard
Corona,
and I'll come back and waste him when I get the chance. I was a
little surprised he agreed."
"I
think the poor furball was just looking for some direction and needed
someone to put him on a different jump course. I gave him a copy
of this holobook I picked up dirtside. Thought he might get something
out of it."
"Ah,
I see you found the bookstore you were looking for."
"Three,
actually," Nova said, leaning back in his chair."?Spaceports have
a market for bookstores, I guess, with all the travelers passing
through. I picked up a couple volumes, but this one little alley
shop, the third store I went into, finally had what I was looking
for."
"So
tell me," the droid said, indicating the datapad, "is this what
made you volunteer to come to Mos Eisley?"
"It's
called Treehome.? Nova said with a nod. "Written by a Wookiee,
Gralbarra."
"I
didn't realize Wookiees were a literary species."
"Sure
they are. I have to use a translator program, of course, but the
spirit of the work survives a switch to basic." Nova seemed to refocus
his attention on Syntax. "Gralbarra uses the Wookiee's treetop cities
as a symbol for everything they want to preserve from the Empire.
The Empire wants to portray Wookiees and other nonhumans as subspecies,
incapable of culture or art. Mindless muscle, in the Wookiee's case.
Gralbarra, and others like him, prove the Empire wrong time and
time again. That, of course, is why the Emperor has a banned book
list the size of a Super Star Destroyer."
"So
you volunteered to come to a hole like Mos Eisley for the chance
to find a dealer who sells banned books? This had the potential
to be a dangerous job. Getting smoked on some book search would
sure be a bad way to die."
"I
don't think so, Syntax. We'd both agree that given the state of
the galaxy, getting vaped fighting the Imps in space is a good reason
to die. And so is this this," Nova said, wagging the datapad in
his hand. "Gralbarra is fighting his own war. And his courage, and
that of those like him, gives me one more reason to keep climbing
into a B-wing. You see?" Nova shook his head in frustration. "I
guess I'm not making much sense to you."
Syntax
seemed to consider this. "While I do not pretend to process the
concept of literature completely, I think I comprehend your point.
By going out of your way to read something a Wookiee wrote, you
fight the tyranny that the Emperor would exert over your mind."
"That
sounds about right." Nova offered the datapad to Syntax. "You want
to read it?"
"Our
new Talz shipmate might enjoy it, but I do not think I have much
use for it, Nova, thank you."
"Suit
yourself." He rose and stared toward the
Corona's
cockpit. "I'm going to see if Stash needs a hand with our next jump
transfer."
Syntax
noticed that Nova had left his datapad on the dejarik table. He
picked up the pad, and, after a moment's hesitation, plugged the
pad into his own input jack. Seconds later, the complete volume
of Treehome was stored in his memory core.
Those
X-wing hyperjumps can be a long haul,
Syntax told himself as the
datadump finished. Just in case he got bored.
