Before long, we arrived at a small settlement—one so insignificant that I couldn't bring myself to call it even a proper village. We wouldn't have stopped here at all were it not for the speeder's hull, which had overheated after a full day of hard driving. And if I ever meet anyone who claims that an overheated speeder hull is a "minor issue," I'll personally strap them to a sheet of metal and leave them to bake on Tatooine for a couple of hours. Besides, we still hadn't seen the slightest sign of pursuit, so everyone unanimously agreed to make a brief stop—even the Jedi, who usually grumbled endlessly about every decision I made.
Surprisingly, the settlement actually boasted something resembling a starship landing pad—though, at the moment, it stood completely empty. Judging by the layer of pristine sand that had accumulated there—despite the presence of protective "shields"—visitors were a rare sight indeed.
And yet, this nameless settlement—nameless because no one on the crew gave a damn what it was called—interested me as more than just a waypoint. We also needed to acquire supplies, and—if we got lucky—hire some local transport that was faster than our current heap of junk. I intended to sell that heap the moment we confirmed whether or not we could actually get a ride out of this place.
We soon drove inside and confirmed that our initial impression of the settlement had been spot-on. It consisted of a few dozen sand-dwellings—distinguished from one another only by their size—and that was the extent of the local architectural "flourishes." Not exactly teeming with tourist attractions, I'll give you that...
Now that we had arrived, it was finally time to determine whether our task would be quick and simple, or complicated and fraught with uncertainty:
"Kaleri—you wouldn't happen to know how to use a 'mind trick,' would you?" "Well, that's just how Force techniques work,"
I clarified. The Jedi rolled his eyes—apparently taking my question as either a jab or an act of boasting—but when the silence dragged on, he finally answered with a resigned air:
"I can do it, but not very well. Hey—I'm not going to do it! I know you probably want me to compel the locals to hand over their money, or something along those lines, but you won't succeed in turning me to the Dark Side! And I won't let *you* pull a stunt like that, either! Listen, these people need food to survive; if we take even a single peggat from them, it could be the death of them!"
Kaleri fumed in earnest, leaving me with no choice but to cross the first option off my list. There was no point in trying to explain to him that I wasn't planning on trading beads for gold—that I intended to do everything honestly—I just didn't want the locals to swindle *me*. But screw it; I'd manage without it. And so, thanks to the stubbornness of one... *ahem*... very "good" person, we ended up having to go from door to door, knocking and asking where we could find the local merchant. Just as Grana and Kem were finally haggling with the only local who owned an impressive-looking speeder—he'd surely built it for racing, though he'd later tacked on an extra passenger basket—we stumbled upon a certain "Mechanic," as all the locals called him. That was my cue to unleash the full force of my eloquence:
"My good man, would you be interested in buying a speeder?" "Never crashed, never repainted!"
I gushed, waxing lyrical—to which a character of some unknown race, sporting eyes perched on stalk-like appendages, skeptically exclaimed:
"Why, this thing was flying around Tatooine back when this place was nothing but solid jungle! This heap won't even make it as far as my garage!" he fumed. However, maintaining my composure, I tried a different tack:
"Isn't the age actually an advantage? It's a magnificent retro-speeder from the days of the Empire—and in working order, too! What's more, Imperial quality isn't like the shoddy junk they churn out nowadays; this thing will serve you for just as many years to come!"
By the end of my pitch, the mechanic actually seemed to be mulling something over; he then clarified:
"So, if I understand correctly, you want to rent a speeder from Ori just to get the hell out of this dump faster, rather than slogging across the desert in that clunker of yours? A very sound idea. Alright, I agree to pay you exactly what that miser usually charges to transport four passengers—but not a single peggat more!"
It seemed that, in his daydreams, he was already repairing my speeder and selling it off to some collector for a fortune—well, good luck to him with that. Still, he was clearly trying to get it on the cheap right now; so, feigning deep offense, I recoiled slightly from him, acting as if I had suffered a cosmic insult. Alas, Kaleri failed to appreciate my brilliant acting performance and promptly executed an inter-universal facepalm, thereby "breaking" the entire "scene." Glaring at him with displeasure, I grumbled:
"We still need supplies for the road. I know you're going to fleece us on this deal anyway, so just agree to it,"
I said with feigned earnestness; the alien, it seemed, finally bought into my "act" and gave a couple of nods.
Yeah, sure—he thought he'd swindled a couple of "suckers" by snagging a speeder on the cheap. But he was dead wrong. Honestly, I couldn't care less about the vehicle itself; after all, we'd stolen it. And if he was foolish enough to go try selling it in the nearest city, well, that was his own damn fault.
And just like that—through this simple little maneuver—we acquired a new mode of transport, along with an incredibly chatty driver to pilot it. He sang the praises of his "baby" tirelessly, even though we could barely hear a word he said over the howling wind in our ears. The decision to hire a "taxi" turned out to have another unexpected advantage: our driver knew the route to Mos Eisley—our chosen destination—like the back of his hand. This meant we could forget about spending nights sleeping in the sand; during the two-day journey, we stopped at small way stations—much like that cave we'd stayed in earlier—and slept on actual furniture. It seemed the local travelers appreciated a bit of comfort, too.
Plus, the local "military types" knew him and didn't bother stopping him for inspections, which allowed us to slip into the city with relative ease. After all, the population here was vastly larger than in Mos Ila, making it a truly impossible task to inspect every single speeder that passed through. Especially considering that every driver in this place was hyper-vigilant—and, in all likelihood, hauling something illicit—which made actually catching and searching any one of them an incredibly difficult feat.
And so, in the sweltering heat of high noon on the third day, we finally reached that accursed city. Incidentally, we flew exclusively during the day the entire time. Why? Simple: the damned old geezer was afraid of scratching his precious speeder against a rock—and besides, by all appearances, he was perfectly comfortable, which was more than could be said for his passengers—that is to say, us... By the end of the journey, I was ready to strangle him—and not even with the Force, mind you, but with my bare hands. The matter of disposing of the corpse had already been settled, too, judging by the predatory glint in Kem's eyes; only Kaleri made any attempt to reason with us, while Grana—worn out by the long journey—resembled nothing so much as a listless marionette, lying motionless in one spot and refusing to make even the slightest unnecessary movement. The driver, meanwhile—blissfully unaware that his fate was currently hanging in the balance—pulled up alongside the first row of sand-dwellings and gave me a pointed look, suggesting that it was high time we took our leave. Deciding not to test Kem's patience any further, I herded the others outside, offloading the duty of keeping an eye on the half-dead Grana onto the Jedi.
Mos Eisley greeted us with a "sea" of scents and the roar of a crowd—enormous by local standards—swarming through the streets; indeed, the place boasted an extraordinary diversity of races and modes of transport. The architecture, however, remained utterly drab: every building we encountered was still constructed from sandstone—or some similar material—and looked... Well, let's just put it this way: I wouldn't live in one myself, though the locals clearly didn't have much of a choice. And to my pleasant surprise, not a single soul batted an eye at Kem—despite his exotic race and his rather intimidating appearance. On the contrary, the crowd paid absolutely no attention to his tall figure, shying away only when—clearly on purpose—he made overly abrupt movements, thereby provoking the locals. At first, I intended to split up and send a portion of my companions to search for the spaceport; however, I soon realized that we possessed no means of communication. Consequently, we decided to stick together—which was, after all, the safer option.
First things first, I dashed off to collect my winnings—which were handed over by a droid guarded by a whole crowd of similar metal automatons. And remarkably, the payout went off without a hitch; the establishment was owned by some distant Neimoidian clan that cared far more about its reputation than about any potential legal trouble on far-flung Tatooine. At the very least, the droids never attacked me, and even half an hour later, no one had come looking for trouble.
By the way, I'd wagered a thousand peggats on my own victory, and thanks to favorable odds, I walked away with a cool 2,429. So, judging by local prices, I could actually afford to go looking for some beat-up old space-clunker—a bare-bones hull with absolutely no bells and whistles—and buy it outright. Though, in all likelihood, getting such a wreck into working order would probably end up costing several times the purchase price.
The next item on the agenda was to charter a ship—or failing that, hitch a ride. Where was I headed first? Coruscant, naturally. I had unfinished business to settle there, and despite the inherent danger of the plan, I felt deep down that I was doing the right thing. Perhaps it was the Force—or something else entirely—nudging me in that direction; maybe it was just sheer stubbornness, or that purely Sith-like urge to constantly surpass my "previous self." Regardless, I've always trusted my instincts, and so far, they haven't given me any reason to doubt them. Which meant: that is exactly where we were going.
As for *how* we were getting there... well, that was where the options came in. The most tempting approach was to walk right up to the shadiest-looking character I could find, ask them to give us a lift—while conspicuously flashing my newfound "wealth" right under their nose—and then, once aboard, let things play out according to the classic script: the moment we dropped into hyperspace, the crew would make their move against us, and I would proceed to cut them all down with a perfectly clear conscience. And just like that, I was the proud owner of my very own starship—no parents, no loans, just mine. That would have been all well and good, except that engaging in space combat aboard a rickety pirate tub isn't exactly the safest pastime; and for all my recklessness, I wasn't prepared to take *that* kind of risk—at least, not while other options remained open. After all, if some idiot—seeing his comrades go down in flames, for instance—decided to take me down with him by aborting a hyperspace jump, sending us smashing into some lifeless rock, then all my strength and knowledge wouldn't do me a bit of good. The odds of something like that happening were simply too high—whereas the odds of dying on Coruscant, strangely enough, were far lower. Especially if everything went according to my plan.
The second option was far more appealing: find an adventurer of reasonably unsuspicious appearance—a local "Han Solo" type—and simply pay him a fair rate for the trip. That way, if he *did* decide to betray us, I wouldn't be too upset; I'd simply fall back on my old, reliable methods.
And so, I set out, making the rounds of every local cantina in search of sentient beings who met my criteria. There were, I must admit, quite a few candidates—whole swarms of them, in fact, if you counted the ones with a distinctly thuggish look about them—but not a single one of the bastards would agree to give me a lift, not even just as far as Republic "territory," let alone all the way to Coruscant.
Honestly, I'd assumed that all these seekers of "treasure"—and trouble—would have the same devil-may-care attitude as the legendary Han Solo, who didn't give a damn where he flew, whether it was straight into an Imperial Star Destroyer or into a cave inhabited by a giant space slug. But alas... These softies were too terrified to even *contemplate* flights far less perilous than that—despite the more-than-generous payment I offered for their services. But then, somewhere around my fourth cantina, luck finally decided to smile upon me; and so—right after the very first Trandoshan mercenary I questioned, who told me off in hissing dialect (presumably sending me somewhere along the lines of a "walking erotic")—a rather unusual-looking character approached me, clad in nondescript mercenary armor. At the very least, I had never seen a race like that before.
Dark skin, a humanoid face—save for the six eyes situated on distinct stalks arranged symmetrically around his head. Unfortunately, Taales's memory—much like my own—was incomplete; consequently, I hadn't the faintest idea what this race was called. Regardless, when he spoke, I was still able to grasp the gist of what he was trying to convey, even though many of the words seemed utterly unfamiliar. It was only then that I realized I had, without even noticing, begun utilizing the Force to communicate with other races; thus, a comprehensive command of their languages was no longer strictly necessary—though most of them spoke the Common Tongue anyway.
In short, he was inviting us aboard his starship to give us a lift—right then and there—straight to Coruscant. And that sounded... well, not the *least bit* suspicious. Especially considering that I had deliberately left my companions outside the cantina beforehand to keep an eye on our surroundings, while he had explicitly referred not just to me, but to the "several sentient beings accompanying me"—a literal translation from his native tongue. This meant one of two things: either he had been tailing me—and for quite some time, too, given that I hadn't crossed paths with the others since entering the first cantina, having simply made a beeline for the next establishment—or he had been actively searching for me from the start. Though, if one were to judge dispassionately, the distinction wasn't all that important.
In any case, how else could I possibly react to such a "generous" offer but to accept it with delight? After all, if someone is *that* eager to have a "meeting" with me, it would be terribly impolite to turn them down; they might get upset and start resorting to petty mischief—like slipping poison into my food or launching a sneak attack in the dead of night. To hell with that; better to just let him reveal his true intentions right away. Stepping outside, I immediately called the others to follow me; our "savior"—who had introduced himself as Gertis Tios—looked deeply agitated, constantly glancing over his shoulder as if fearing he was being pursued, and kept urging us toward his ship.
In truth, however, I could barely bring myself to dignify this elderly "ace's" spacecraft with the title of "ship." I imagined this was exactly what the clunker I could theoretically afford with my own meager savings would look like—yet Gertis spoke of it as if it were a cutting-edge prototype, fresh off the shipyard assembly line.
All in all, it seemed this character had one of two goals: either to talk us into a stupor—much like a maniac leading a victim to the slaughter, babbling incessantly about nonsense to lull their vigilance—or he was simply a particularly elaborate suicide case. The latter seemed increasingly plausible, as his ceaseless chatter caused Kem's already unpleasant face to twist into an ever-more-vicious grimace with every passing second.
Finally, we reached the hangar; Gertis threw open the doors, beckoning us inside with a sweeping gesture of his hand, then immediately strode off into the depths of the structure, leaving me standing on the threshold in bewildered confusion. I had been expecting a rather different sort of "warm welcome," but judging by the dilapidated state of this bucket of bolts, Gertis must have been absolutely desperate for cash—meaning he might very well be offering us a lift with no ulterior motives whatsoever. Still, it paid to be certain, so I called out after the retreating figure:
"Hey, wait up! So, how did you find out about us? Were you following us?"
I spoke in Standard Galactic, but he understood me perfectly; he turned around, casting a bewildered look with all six of his eyes, and clarified:
"A mutual acquaintance told me you're having trouble with the law—and that you wouldn't turn down a ride, even... on *my* ship. I'll give you a lift for just two hundred peggats."
Judging by his tone, it was clear that not just any desperate mercenary would agree to fly anywhere on a vessel like this—a fact he was keenly aware of himself.
"Two hundred? You're really hiking up the price there... What, is work scarce?"
I tossed out casually as I started walking toward the boarding ramp.
In principle, easy come, easy go. Besides, if he keeps his mouth shut about us—and manages to get us past all the "checkpoints" (or whatever they're called, those orbital defenses the Republic likes to station around its planets)—then I won't regret the expense one bit. After all, I'm not exactly "safe" cargo—especially when flying into systems controlled by the Republic.
And yet, despite everything, that uneasy premonition just wouldn't let me go. As usual, however, I simply couldn't pinpoint exactly where the danger was coming from.
"The locals here are just too damn picky,"
Gertis grumbled in response, watching as we boarded the ship. A moment later, the vessel retracted the ramp we'd just ascended; once the hatch had sealed tight, the engine sputtered to life with a strained, wheezing roar.
Judging by the sound, it wasn't just cobbled together from spit and baling wire; it seemed to run exclusively on those very same "components." Yet the main thing was that it actually *worked*—which, given our predicament, was no small feat. Lights immediately flared to life everywhere—previously switched off, presumably to save power—and a second later, I felt a gentle jolt: we had finally lifted off.
The sensation wasn't quite like taking off in a helicopter or an airplane—it was much smoother—but still... damn it, this was my very first spaceflight! Naturally, I was bursting with curiosity—despite the memories inherited from my "body"—so the destination for my first stop on the ship was a foregone conclusion. Gertis, meanwhile—when I poked my head into the cockpit—had already slipped into a sort of trance-like state, furiously mashing a multitude of buttons, toggles, and utterly baffling gizmos, all while regaling me with yet another story.
By the looks of it, even when he had no passengers, he still chattered away incessantly—holding a conversation with the only other nominally "sentient" crew member (who also happened to be the ship's co-pilot): an astromech droid of indeterminate model. The droid remained stoically silent, offering only the occasional adjustment as it twirled its specialized probe within the ship's access port.
We climbed higher and higher, and I was struck by a sudden wave of déjà vu—memories "breaking through" from the mind of Taales. A veritable mountain of recollections flooded my consciousness: times when *he* had similarly arrived at and departed from various planets. One memory, in particular, burned brightest in my mind—the arrival on Korriban.
I was snapped out of my unsettling reverie by a strange sound echoing through the cockpit. I have no idea how long I stood there, lost in memories—not my own, but those of "this body." Consequently, I initially perceived the captain's shouts merely as a continuation of his storytelling; however, once I truly listened, they struck me as far more alarming:
"What are you babbling about, Tin Can? Ked is hailing me on the comms? Right now? Telling me to stop immediately?"
He demanded of the droid. My attention snagged on that familiar name—one I had heard somewhere, sometime before—though I couldn't tell if it was a mere coincidence or something far more significant. Meanwhile, Gertis shouted in exasperation:
"Well, answer the damn call—and make it snappy! I'm running low on power reserves; if we delay too long, we won't make it to Coruscant!"
At that, the droid let out a series of electronic chirps, twisted its metal appendage within its console port, and a hologram materialized on the ship's main display. The moment I saw it, everything came flooding back. Cad Bane—the mercenary from the *Clone Wars* series. Damn him. So much for my vague sense of unease. The holographic image—a male Duros clad in a stylish suit and hat—then began to speak:
"Ah, my dear friend, Gertis Thios! I see you've taken my advice and picked up some passengers. However, we've run into a slight complication... I need them. Now, stop the ship—right now! Or else I'll put a couple of shots through it. How long do you think your shields will hold up?" he asked with a faint smile, adjusting his signature hat, while Gertis shouted back in outrage:
"You're breaking every unwritten rule in the book!"—
but the hologram had a ready retort even for that:
"Exactly—they're *unwritten*. In space, there is only one rule: 'Might makes right'—or, as I prefer to put it, 'Whoever has the stronger shields and the bigger guns is the one who's right.' What do you say? Don't worry; I'll let you and your bucket of bolts go—and I won't even detonate the charges I've planted on it—just as soon as our 'dear guests' board your ship's *only* escape pod, leave all their weapons behind on this vessel, and head in my direction. I need them alive, so don't do anything stupid, Taales—or whatever your name is. Got it?" he asked, turning his attention to me. I simply shrugged in response.
This was turning into quite a situation; it looked like poor Gertis Tios had simply been used as an unwitting pawn. It hadn't turned out well at all—and all because of me, too... Although, he really had only himself to blame for taking a job based on a tip-off from a shady character like Bane... still, though... Yeah.
Meanwhile, Gertis swiveled three of his six eyes toward me, clearly expecting some kind of reaction. Not wanting to disappoint him, I raised my hands in a conciliatory gesture and asked:
"I'm curious: what exactly would a renowned mercenary like you want with a mere... *ahem*..."
I hesitated, searching for a suitable label for myself, but eventually found one and blurted out,
"...drifter?"
"What do *you* think?"
he grinned back.
"Maybe it's about those measly peggats I won by betting on myself to win?"
I ventured.
"2,400—is that really the sum you went to all this trouble for?" "–
Feigning bewilderment, I gave him a mild jab, but Bane missed my irony; instead, he chuckled aloud and added:
'Take them with you—don't you dare leave the money with Gertis, or he'll just blow it on some other piece of junk.' Then he barked:
'Come on, move it! And I know there's a Jedi with you! It's a miracle you didn't get yourselves killed in the very first cantina you walked into, but that just works out better for me. Weapons—drop them on the floor, fast! Then get in the escape pod! And you'—he jabbed a finger at Gertis—'sit tight and don't move, or else... You know me.' At that, Gertis nodded frantically, raising his hands in the universal inter-world gesture of surrender.
I, for my part, made a point of showing my empty palms, while Ked remained true to form:
'Don't get any ideas—the escape pod is rigged with explosives, too. When I come to pick you up, if my scan detects so much as a single blaster on any one of you... Well, you get the picture,' he growled. I headed into the cabin to brief my crew on the change of plans; it seemed this accursed planet just 'refused' to let me go—and I wasn't exactly thrilled about it.
'Alright, ladies and gentlemen: we're leaving all our weapons behind for our dear friend Gertis, and heading for the escape pod ourselves.' As I spoke, I grabbed the nearest datapad and scribbled a quick note:
'The ship is rigged with explosives. There might be audio bugs, but definitely no cameras—I confirmed that with Gertis right away. Quick, Kaleri—disassemble your lightsaber! We're going to smuggle a little "contraband" out with us; if we mask the hilt properly, there's no damn way he'll find anything. Be ready to reassemble it all the moment I give the signal—and then be ready to fight. And for the Force's sake—do it the instant that door opens.'"
"Back away from that escape pod—it's most likely booby-trapped, too. Move it!"
With that, he began prodding Kem—who was particularly displeased at the prospect of parting with his weapon—while the Jedi and I tinkered a bit with our "light-sticks," wrapping certain components in some special foil we'd found right there, just to be safe. Judging by Gertis's incessant chatter, he'd used that very foil to wrap all sorts of contraband on more than one occasion. And while it might not shield an entire electronic device from a scanner, it would certainly do the trick for individual parts.
And so, the time had come to pay Bane a visit; but first, I walked over to Gertis—who was still in contact with Ked—and stated flatly:
"You're coming with us." This threw even the Duro—who had been fully expecting our surrender—completely off balance; he nearly tumbled out of the chair he'd been lounging in so comfortably, his feet propped up on a small side table.
Seeing their collective bewilderment, I clarified:
"Judging by your stories, there's a bounty on your head. I doubt our mutual acquaintance would pass up a chance to make a little extra cash."
With this, I was simultaneously implying that Bane would blow up the ship regardless, and suggesting that—in principle—he shouldn't object to me taking Gertis along; after all, a corpse makes for far more "tangible" evidence than a video recording of a ship exploding. And as for whatever scuffle might ensue later on—well, if he didn't survive it, that would be his own damn fault, leaving my conscience perfectly clear. "Alright, go ahead." — apparently grasping all the unspoken nuances I'd packed into that phrase, Bane gave Gertis—who had gone pale, a look that appeared utterly comical on his alien mug—permission to bail out with us. I clapped him on the shoulder and offered some words of encouragement:
"A good captain will make it anywhere!" — and just like that, we left the *Immortal Baby*—as Gertis's ship was called—and headed for the escape pod.
I have no idea why he didn't just have us stow the *entire* ship—that imposing vessel they'd hijacked from God knows where—down in the cargo hold of their own craft; but oh well. Our long-awaited "warm welcome" was clearly waiting for us.