Hot Potato

[Bear Banthabrand]

“Can I get a half of Corellian over here, pal?”

The Toydarian turned a pair of pink listless eyes on me, and heaved himself from his stool. I watched, exhausted by the sight of small leathery wings working overtime to keep his gut from scraping the counter. Even in his hands, the glass looked small; in mine, it was a tragic comedy. I parted with a couple of chits and sipped to make it last.

Instinct was a funny thing: persistant, nagging, and altogether unignorable. As a result, I found myself in the crummiest watering hole this side of the galaxy, broke, and at the end of my rope. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but instinct, like marriage, turned out to be more trouble than it was worth. And the only way I could divorce the head-wife was with a kiss from Madame BlasTech. Instead, I drank thimblefuls of piss water, and counted down the minutes until I was forced to leave empty-handed. If I couldn’t drown my sorrows, I would at least take them for a paddle.

A debt was owed to the architect of Jovan Station, who, in some drug-addled fever, had neglected to account for the thin sliver of space left over in some forgotten corner of the promenade. There, above the smoked windows, hung a skewed lime green sign that read: Yog’s. Its proprietor, the elusive Yog, had furnished his humble establishment with cheap and pointless rafters - a throwback to home, no doubt, where they probably bedded their sisters and counted with their toes - and a rowdy arcade machine that was wedged into the back. But, hell, I couldn’t begrudge that: Endor Defender was a classic.

There was a light at the end of the room, when a tall drink of something stepped inside. I couldn’t see her face, but I expected it was twisted by the smell of boiled farts wafting from the kitchen. She waded through the coils of cigar smoke and took a seat at the bar. Attractive, in a chiseled kind of way; her edges had edges. And there was something familiar about her. From behind the rim of my glass, I watched.

[Arya Ravenwing]

"Do you sell by the bottle?" Arya leaned forward on her elbows, peeking as far down as she could at what the whiskey selection was on the back wall. The Toydarian fluttered over, blocking her view, and she sat back to keep her face away from his gut. "And, uh, some dark ale. Whatever's good."

The Toydarian grunted, shaking his head, "Not many people come here looking for something good." But he poured a glass of dark and slid it over. Arya sipped it, and found it adequate to her needs. She raised an eyebrow toward the bottles behind the counter, and he sighed. "Pick the one you want, I'll add it to the bill."

"That Corellian whiskey, that one," she pointed. She knew it was going to be overpriced, but she didn't have time to search for a decent liquor store. One drink, and then back to the ship and her antsy cargo. Arya looked down the bar and noticed that one of the patrons had the feel of someone who'd just glanced away from what he was really looking at. She eyeballed him, and caught him looking back at her. He was good-looking, in a scruffy, unwashed sort of way.

[Bear Banthabrand]

Now, that was a look. I held it, fully-loaded, like a blaster ready to go off. She didn’t flinch, even when the bottle was thumped upon the counter, but it caught my eye in the way expensive things do: in the hazy light, the whiskey was blood red.

“Diktat’s Office,” I read from the label, “Folks usually come here to drown their sorrows, not bury them at sea.”

[Arya Ravenwing]

Arya relaxed a bit, and picked up the bottle to give it the once over. "I usually take my sorrows out back and shoot them." She watched an air bubble float through the red liquid as she tipped the bottle to the side, and then set it back on the bar. He was dressed like a spacer - not a transporter, but like someone who was used to hard living and getting physical to get what they wanted. She raised an eyebrow. "You got a lot of sorrows dogging your tail?"

[Bear Banthabrand]

“That’s one way of putting it.”

My non-answer was punctuated with a measured sip of beer. I wasn’t about to play head-shrink with a perfect stranger. She spoke like she’d walked the same roads, but I knew better: too many roads led to places like this. So we found ourselves rubbing shoulders in a den of booze-soaked bums. What did that mean? Maybe I’d find the answer inside those baby blues.

“I’d give you the short version, but something tells me you don’t have the time, Miss-?”

[Arya Ravenwing]

She tipped back her drink, draining it, and then slapped her credits on the bar. "Trust your intuition." Arya tucked her new bottle under her arm, and got up from her stool. She gave him a wink, and headed out through the drifting smoke to the promenade.

[Bear Banthabrand]

Today's Special - Root Stew!

Behind the bar, there was a chalkboard plastered with a sickly green scrawl. Below, scratched in yellow, it said: "Tomorrow's Special - Root Stew!" Yesterday, I tried the root stew for myself; there was nothing special about it. Still, my stomach growled like a wookiee at a finger buffet. I finished my drink and lingered on the spot where the winking broad had vanished. There was only so much hunger a bowl of root stew could cure. Trust your intuition, she'd said. I threw up a hand.

"I'll have the special."

Like hell.

[Arya Ravenwing]

The multi-hued neon sign proclaiming The Blob Place nearly made her pause, but she was on a schedule. Arya checked her chrono. The fuel tank was probably topped off by now, and her crate of supplies was due to arrive. She quickened her pace toward where her ship was docked, bottle safely under her arm.

[Lucky B]

Like a Lokian sulphurlily, Lucky drifted on the burbling people currents, twirling, gaping at the vaulted luminous heights. The promenade orgied colour from tiered landings full of cantinas and shops. The crowds heaved, a swarm of boring bees, always going, never doing. Where was the honey for all their busy work?

Giddy joy sprang up inside of Lucky as he wrapped himself in anonymous invisibility. He was not a metal man anymore. His feet were his to guide; his eyes were his to feast. And feast he would, for the needs of the belly outweigh the needs of the few.

A couple of fur coats waded against the tide. The big one nursed a crate of furish fruit, while the little one knifed safe passage with a sure step and a scowl.

The whisperers whispered.

From his pocket, Lucky unearthed a single credit chit and dropped it. With skillish timefication, he lowed himself to reclaim his castaway coin, and upset the fur coat’s fruit when he rose. What artistry commenced! The furish fruit jiggled and leapt, and Lucky snapped at the flying fruit like the Felucian mantis crab.

“Hail, furful brothers!” he said, juggling, “What fortunery brings us together, in the now, that we may rescue the furish fruit from a messy end!”

While the big one awed the hand-wittery, his smaller harder companion snatched at their unseated goods, snarling teeth like daggers of wet pearl. An ecstasy of fumbling.

“You clumsy buffoon!” said the fur coat. There was a note in his voice that quavered like a trembling kusak pup. He brandished handfuls of fruit with dark intent. “This, here, is a man’s livelihood!”

“Apologies! We mean to listen,” Lucky beamed, “But the whisperers are in a furor and we fear you may be quite mad. Good day, sir!”

Once the fur coat had resumed his march, Lucky flourished a large round furish fruit from his jacket and took a happy bite. It was disgusting.

[Bear Banthabrand]

“Anything I can do to help, mister. Anything at all.”

For the third time, I found myself on the receiving end of that greasy smile. The shopkeeper, a scrawny Neimoidian, liked to remind me he was there, watching. He bowed every time, but not for long: he liked my hands where he could see them. And, while I inspected frozen dinners, he mirrored my every move. When I dared a glance at the fresh fruit, he nearly coughed up a lung.

“Look, buddy, will you relax? I’m not going to steal your blasted namanas.”

A ring of silvery chimes drew my attention to the door, where a couple of Bothans had just walked in. They were a strange sight: one was small, with black fur, and a face to turn blue milk sour; the other was huge for a Bothan, he was carrying a crate full of what looked like bantha balls, and smiled at me as he passed. The little one was all-business.

“Solt. Fifteen Utapaun potatoes, as agreed.” He sounded bored. Every word was a childbirth. “Hand-picked. These, I have inspected, personally. I trust you have the payment ready?”

“Rulph, I’m insulted you would think otherwise.”

To my surprise, the jittery Neimoidian ducked out of sight, and when he reappeared, he was holding a large case. It hit the counter with a thud - that thing was heavy. Rulph snapped his fingers.

“Rubert?” His drone became a whip crack, “Rubert! Get your head out of the clouds!”

The big fella, who had his nose buried in the honey melons, gave a snort of surprise and loped over to his buddy. He deposited the potatoes with a clatter; the others went rigid, and hissed hard words under their breath. Rubert’s ears drooped. “My bad,” he said.

While the small business was done, I pored over the nutritional information on my box of bantha burgers like it was the funny pages. After a moment, Solt, the shopkeeper, said, “There are fourteen.”

“What?” Rulph croaked.

“I count fourteen potatoes here, gents.” Solt’s hands were on the case. “You promised fifteen.”

“There… I counted… I…” Rulph turned to his companion, leapt, and slapped him on the head. “Rubert, you had… one job.”

“Sheesh!” Rubert whined, rubbing his ear, “You told me ta carry the potatas, so I did. I carried ‘em all the way here! Counting was your job!”

“Silence!” Rulph’s beady eyes widened. His desperation stunk more than the tower of Tusken cheese wheels behind me. “The boy. That idiot boy. He stole it from us.”

“Okaaay. Well, gentlemen, I’m afraid that’s all for today. If you could just make your way out. Thank you!”

For the first time, the scrawny Neimoidian left his counter. He sure had some wind in his sails. Before I knew it, he was upon me, taking my bantha burgers. I fired up what I thought was a legitimate complaint, but somehow found myself being ushered towards the door with a web of spindly fingers on my back. Rulph wasn’t far behind, making bargains while Solt clapped out the rhythm of his retreat.

“You can have the fourteen at a discount. Twenty-five percent. Fifty. Pasterly, please!”

With a little help from the shopkeeper, the door rattled shut. In the window, a red light flickered into life that read: Closed. Suddenly, that bowl of root stew seemed like it had been a bad idea all along. I gave the Bothans a look but they were too busy with their ugly ass potatoes.

“We split up. Find the boy. Get the potato. We make the deal. Don’t mess this up for me, brother.”

“Find the boy. Get the potata,” Rubert repeated, as he wandered off.

Now Rulph looked at me - he seemed to be weighing something up behind his eyes. From his pocket, he took a small pouch and tossed it my way. It was full of seeds. If that was supposed to compensate my inconvenience, then Bothans seriously undervalued the humble bantha burger. Still, I helped myself to the seeds, and chewed while I tracked the little guy into the crowd. There was a smell of opportunity about this one.

[Arya Ravenwing]

She pushed the crates into the ship through the airlock, letting them slide further in on their anti-grav fields, and pushed her hair out of her eyes. Time to check on her precious cargo in the hold. Which was open. Arya's blaster was in her hand before she had a conscious thought about it, and she sidled up to the opening that led down into the belly of the ship, peering down the ladder. "Twopio?"

"Oh thank the Maker!" came a strangely muffled reply, and there was some clanging that didn't sound right at all. Arya slid down the ladder and cursed at the sight of Twopio's blue legs sticking out of her smuggling hide. She pulled him out, scraping his paint against the edge of the bulkhead, and demanded answers. "What in the nine hells are you doing in there? And where is Lucky?!"

"Master Lucky decided to leave," the droid said. "He would not be reasoned with."

"Krasst!" Arya realized she was holding her blaster too tightly, and holstered it under her jacket. "Stay here. I'll be back." She climbed up the ladder, and entered the codes to leave the ship. That little bastard was slippery if he'd managed to get out and lock the door behind him, but he couldn't have gotten too far. She stood for a moment, just outside the ebb and flow of the crowds of people and aliens that made up the majority of Jovan Station.

"Krasst!"

[Lucky B]

Between snaking threads of wearified travellers, Lucky wove for himself a pattern of escape. At length, he eyed columns of people tubes with vessels, like fireworks, that twinkled in their ascent and inevitable fall. In pictures and words, a floating sign storied the length and breadth of the station. Lucky pinned his attention to the sign and twisted at the last stubborn tuft of fur on his rankish fruit. It was all but bald now, and perhappibly, a degree eatible. The fur ripped free and drifted spirally to the ground.

“Ahem!” There was a buxom Twi’lek, arms afold, making a warzone of her face as she eyed, first, Lucky, and then the pitiful little tuft, and back again.

“If we do not cast down our unwanted oddments, oh, one with sea-green flesh, with what will the cleaner put food on the family table? We are but links in a great chain - fight not against it.”

The mouth opened like it meant to consume him, so Lucky awayed with all hasterism. Before the people tubes pressed a rag-rich crowd of refugees. They clambered, an unwashed heap, before the feet of a swaggified sort with golden hair. He called himself

“Seezer Silvertongue. And not only am I offering safe passage, but free passage, to all who will pledge their hands to a spot of unpaid labour aboard my trade ship, the humble Workhorse. So, if you wanna ditch this floating rust bucket once and for all, make your way to Bay 36E within the hour - I promise to take care of you.”

A white flash of teeth was the last Lucky saw of Seezer Silvertongue; in a fever of madness, the crowd heaved as one towards the people tubes, and a sandwich of floor and feet made of Lucky a much-trampled filling.

[Bear Banthabrand]

Usually, having a height advantage meant never losing sight of your quarry in a crowd. But when your quarry was a black-as-the-night Bothan inside a bustling space station, well, that changes things. I bobbed and I weaved, rubber-necking at every turn, and whenever I laid eyes on the little runt, I hit the thrusters.

“Exuse me, miss. Coming through. Sorry, pal. Thank you.”

Things were going well: Rulph was in my sights, and he was too distracted to even notice he had a tail. Heh. All that was left, was for me to step in at the opportune moment, and muscle a profit from this… whatever the hell I’d gotten myself into. I took a pinch of seeds and then I stepped in something. The seeds rained down on unsuspecting pedestrians; I was frozen, spread-eagled, like an oversized surfer. Once I was certain there was no danger I was going to end up on my ass, I righted myself.

“What the…”

Wedged in my boot, there was a chunk of something. I worked it free, and held it in the stale light: it was a half-chewed chunk of raw potato with the same hairy flesh as the others. Huh. Looks like the thief came this way, after all. I checked the floor for any more signs of half-eaten food, but instead, I found something else. At a glance, it looked like some poor soul had lost his mind and started tearing out chunks of hair in the middle of the promenade. Caged inside those grey walls with rest of the down-and-outs, I could sympathise. But I knew better: this wasn’t no lock of hair, it came from an Utapaun potato, and a balding one at that. I got myself real low and, sure enough, there was another sad tuft of fur up ahead.

There was no reason to keep tabs on Rulph anymore, not when I had a trail of my own. So I had breadcrumbs for a lead, that didn’t matter: this was some bounty hunting shit.

[Arya Ravenwing]

She had been tempted to dash into the throng and start making her way down one side of the promenade and then the other, but a better idea had occurred, and so she was pointing her finger in the face of one of the Alliance techs instead. "I need to see the security feeds for the airlock leading to my ship!"

"And like I said, we don't usually let civillians -"

"Someone stole something out of my ship right under the nose of the Alliance and you're not going to let me review the file?" Arya put her hands on her hips. "I guess I should go get the Jaani'saarri, then, I'm sure they'll be all over your docking spur and reviewing your protocols for quite some time if they discover that you're letting thieves into the ships docked here."

"That, that won't be necessary!" The tech blanched, and pulled out his padd, tapping a few commands into it's touch interface. "What airlock again?"

"32DD," Arya said, peering over his shoulder.

"Right, of course. Here we go..." Lucky quite clearly left the airlock and headed in a certain direction. It wasn't much, but it was something, at least.

"That should do it, thank you," Arya said, clapping the tech on the shoulder and already looking back at the promenade.

"But, it doesn't show the thief getting on -?"

"I'll handle it from here. Old friend of mine, thinking he's going to stir up mischief, looks like. Thanks again!" The smuggler took off jogging down the promenade, head on a swivel.

[Lucky B]

Either this crowd breaks, or I do!

Barking beratements, Lucky’s spine weathered the last of the stampeding crowd. Relief, like ice pearls, rolled in tingles down his back. In agonish blissphemy, Lucky cat-stretched in the golden sun of his salvation. Short-lived. By the will of a hulkish hand, he found himself footside, where the aches sunk like water into the sand of his skin.

“My furful friend,” Lucky greeted the bejowled one, “You saved us! Plucked, we have been, from the clutches of certainish death!”

He was big for a fur coat, with eyes like swimming pools. On some lazy breeze, his gaze drifted, first, over Lucky, and then towards the fruit in his hands. The swimming pools shrank.

“Hey! You did steal the potata! Give it back!”

His great fumbling paw fumbled air. When it came to starts, Lucky had always been on-pole. He hugged his balding fruit like a newborn. “Mine!”

Jowls aquiver, the fur coat swiped slow-motionly, and with unnotable success. “Mine!”

[Bear Banthabrand]

It was about when my fist struck the big fella in the kisser, when he stumbled bloody-muzzled in a shower of Utapaun potatoes, that I considered the ailing subtlety of my choice. I threw an arm around the wiry kid and offered Rubert a look of consolation.

“Mine,” I heard myself say. The stupidity was infectious.

Towards the turbolifts, I led him, while the onlookers looked and the bystanders stood by. We made it to the lifts without trouble; there was something to be said for shock tactics, after all. Over my shoulder, I saw Rubert scrabbling around on all fours, gathering potatoes, and yelping at clumsy spectators when they offered to help. I’d seen some strange things.

“Inside.”

Without fuss, the kid obliged, and hobbled into the turbolift. In my surprise, I almost forgot to join him inside, with the smell of static and thick soup of multi-species body odour. The wall of shambling down-and-outs was closing in around us, but their advances were stopped short by a fully-loaded shake of the head. This was a private party for me and - a creeping sideways glance, just to make sure - Lucky. You could say that again.

Just before the door whined shut, I spotted a familiar face in the crowd: Miss Trust-Your-Intuition, herself. Next time, the Diktat’s Office was on me.

[Arya Ravenwing]

There was an altercation of some sorts ahead of her, and Arya stood on her tiptoes to try to see over a taller alien. By the time she reached where a Bothan was struggling to his feet and wiping blood from his muzzle, she seemed to have missed whoever had caused it. Looking across the way, she could see two men getting into a turbolift, people talking and some pointing in their direction. The perps, no doubt. Her eyes popped with surprise to recognize the man from the bar, and was that Lucky B beside him?!

She shouted "Hey!" and ran foward, but the doors closed and they were gone. Arya slammed her hand on the slick metal of the turbolift doors, then jammed her finger into the call button. Had they gone up or down? She looked at the floor indicators and cursed loudly enough to draw some shushing from a Cizerack male in a delivery outfit for a nearby fast food kiosk.