Just Like Any Other Day, Almost
"I hate kriffin' Tatooine", the lone traveler groused as he trudged up yet another dune, stopping at the top to shade his eyes for a three sixty scan of the immediate vicinity. A line of footprints trailed behind him, already filling in with the blowing sand. The only landmark he recognized was the double peak now barely visible on the distant horizon, denoting the starting point of his journey.
Two days he'd been traveling. Water gone, speeder gone and his strength quickly waning, his will kept him on his feet and moving forward. That, and his need to find help for the woman he'd left behind.
He could no longer see the smoke plume from the speeder that had burned out a few klicks back. It had been leaking fluid for a while, and the engines had finally seized, stopping the vehicle so abruptly he'd been thrown over the handlebars, knocking the wind out of his lungs.
"I hate kriffin' sand," he'd grumbled, wondering why the hell it was so soft when you tried walking through it and hard as duracrete if you fell on it. The minuscule granules had invaded his clothes when he rolled down the dune and now rubbed and chaffed everywhere with each step he took.
He removed the macrobinoculars from their case that hung from his utility belt and scanned the horizon, then checked the compass on his datapad to verify he traveled in the right direction. His aching legs welcomed the momentary respite.
Raising the binocs to his eyes again, he caught a reflection not too far off his current trajectory and increased the focus until he identified the hulking form of a Sandcrawler. He needed water, and the Sandcrawler was a hell of a lot closer than Anchorhead.
Another two, maybe three hours of travel if the Jawas didn't move it, and if abandoned, at least he would have cover for the night. One more reason for hating Tatooine—it was blazing ass hot during the day and freezing ass cold at night. He would be no use to her if he became just another pile of bleaching bones in the middle of nowhere.
He put the binocs and datapad away and continued down the incline of the dune, gauging his steps so he wouldn't lose his footing. He'd had enough sand pounded up his ass to last a lifetime.
His legs and lower back muscles tightened into an incessant burn almost immediately as he continued the long walk ever forward. He didn't like being alone—it gave him too much time to think and remember and worry.
It was supposed to be a simple delivery—get in, get out, no fuss. The job offered good pay for a few days easy work. A quick drop off of some lockbox full of 'nunya damn business,' an arms shipment for the turnaround and back to normal life, whatever the hell that was anymore.
They had come in low over the planet surface, skirted around Anchorhead and landed way out in hell's backyard. It had looked like a small moisture farm from altitude, but when they commed, the dispatch directed them to a camouflaged hangar excavated into the other side of a sizeable dune.
He'd been uneasy about leaving the ship alone but didn't like the prospect of her going without him either. They'd disembarked, and armed guards led them to the office of one Pabal Sonhem, spice dealer and gun runner extraordinaire who operated just this side of the law and just that side of the Hutts. They should have known better.
Risha was on her way to Dubrillion to do whatever exiled princesses do to stir up shit. Bowdaar, Gus and Akaavi were left on Nar Shaddaa, because, 'instructions, ya know.' Crooks were always so damned particular about instructions, so he and Ky had come alone, despite everyone's misgivings. According to Ky, it wasn't supposed to be a big deal, and they needed the credits.
Now she was sitting alone in their crashed freighter, strapped into the pilot's seat with a piece of metal debris stuck in her gut, stars knew what broken inside, and not enough kolto to heal a paper cut.
Blast! The woman never listened, stubborn as hell and one of the things he loved about her.
They'd just taken off from Sonhem's compound, using the repulsorlifts to gain some altitude so they could break atmo when an explosion rocked the freighter. The ship tilted, and Ky fought the controls to right it as best she could but they were going down, and there wasn't a damned thing she could do about it.
Another explosion boomed from the other side of the ship, somewhere around the med bay. The freighter bucked and started to spin even as it plummeted through the hot, dry air of the planet.
Smoke already filled the ship from the fire in the engine room he was trying to put out when she yelled back to him to hold on and then the ship hit the ground, knocking him back against a wall. It rose again, throwing him to the floor and bounced twice before coming to rest at a roughly thirty-degree angle.
He still remembered the scream of twisting and buckling metal as the ship careened off boulders that pushed the underplating upward and crushed the starboard side like a fizzypop can.
Dazed and half blind from the smoke and sand dust, he tried to get to the cockpit, but too much debris blocked the corridor. He called her name, but she didn't answer. It'd taken him the better part of an hour to cut through the external cargo door with a cutting torch.
He fell out of the hole and made his way around to the front of the ship which was nose deep in the sand, but he spotted the glint of the twin suns off the glass and scrambled up the durasteel plating to get to her.
He wiped the sand and dust from the windshield and used his hands to shield his eyes from the sun's glare so he could peer inside. She was still in the pilot's seat, keeled over to one side, her arms slack, her head lolling against one shoulder and a black stain spreading across the front of her shirt. She wasn't moving, and he couldn't tell if she was still breathing.
Panic and worry were useless emotions that would not serve him now, so he went to that dark place he'd kept hidden for years. That place devoid of sympathy, fear or love; a cold dungeon he'd escaped long ago, but today he reopened that door and stepped through. His breathing slowed, his hands steadied, and a dispassionate calm engulfed him—he had work to do.
The cutting torch blazed to life, and he began burning around the frame of the windshield, ignoring the sparks that landed on his shirt sleeves searing tiny holes into the fabric and the flesh underneath. He never wavered as the torch sizzled through the metal.
Loose, at last; he pried up an edge of the transparasteel so he could lift and remove it, letting it slide down the side of the ship. He wriggled through the opening and across the top of the console, planting his feet on the floor beside the seat where she sat.
He put his ear to her mouth and detected shallow breathing then took her pulse, weak but there. His sigh of relief moved the dark place aside for more humane concerns.
"Thank the stars," he murmured as his gaze shifted down to the bloodstain on her shirt. A long, jagged sliver of metal protruded from the right side of her torso just below her rib cage. He shifted her forward, but there was no exit wound.
She moaned as he sat her upright in the chair and began to scour the cockpit for the first aid kit. After some searching, he finally found it where it had skidded partway under the copilot's chair that now sat askew.
He used his knife to cut her shirt and expose the wound and used the resultant rags to wipe away as much blood as he could before applying the contents of the kolto tube, getting as much in the wound as possible. Packed gauze and tape completed the field dressing. Rough medicine, but it'd have to do.
A groan left her lips, and he held her fast in the seat when she tried to move. "Ky, baby, can you hear me?" he asked as he studied her pale, sweaty face.
Her eyelids fluttered open, and flashes of pain crossed her eyes every time she drew a breath. A little squeak leaped from her lips as she slumped back in the seat after trying to move.
"Be still, Ky, please. You're hurt, really hurt," he pleaded. "I haven't had time to try the comms yet; maybe we can get some help."
"No," she whispered. "If they track the signal they will kill us both. Best they think we died in the crash. They'll eventually come to make sure, but keeping quiet might buy us some time. Yank the transponder, we need to go silent."
Her breathing lapsed into panting as waves of agony tore through her side. She closed her eyes, and a tear cut a trail down her dusty cheek.
"Damn, that smarts," she grunted. "You need to go for help. Get to Anchorhead, talk to Largo, he'll know what to do. Kriff, I'm thirsty."
"I'll see if I can find some water, maybe in the canteens if we remembered to fill them. Be right back and don't move."
"Like I could," she groaned.
He'd found a couple of canteens in the cargo bay, both nearly empty and the water rancid but it was better than nothing. He struggled his way through the wreckage to the galley but all he found there was a half-full bottle of Corellian Rum. No water came from the sink faucets and the storage tanks were behind a bulkhead in the med bay unless the second explosion had blown them out the side of the ship. Either way, he couldn't get to them.
The cooling unit contained a couple of cartons of Aitha, which he took before making his way back outside and through the windshield opening.
"This is all I could find, babe. It's not much so only a sip or two for now," he said while holding one of the canteens up to her parched lips.
Her brows furrowed, and she winced whenever a wave of pain lanced through the wound, but she was lucid enough to talk. "You have to go soon. Leave the Aitha with me and take whatever water is left. Strap me into this chair in case I pass out, and put my blaster in my hand, just in case."
"Ky, honey, I don't feel right just leaving you like this and..."
"Will you just shut up and go. If you stay here, we'll both die, and I won't make it if you move me. Besides, I have a bone to pick with that backstabbing bastard Sonhem when this is all over."
He pulled the transponder before leaning down to kiss her and crawling up over the console. He turned before he exited out the window. "I love you, Ky. I wanted that to be the last thing you hear from me, you know, just in case."
"Yeah, you too, now go."
After performing some creative torch work, he'd finally wrestled the speeder out of the cargo hold and mounted, not noticing the fluid leak. And now, here he was, on foot, not knowing if she was still alive and too many kilometers from his destination.
The Sandcrawler loomed larger on the horizon, and he figured another half hour or so before he reached it. He'd drunk the last of the water a while back, and dehydration was taking its toll. His mind wandered again as he plodded forward, his feet growing heavier with each step.
The fact that she hadn't said 'I love you' back to him still stung but then she never did unless he said it first and sometimes not even then. He knew things had been strained between them lately, but damn, she could die, he could die, that should count for something.
Ky pushed the envelope in every aspect of her life, forever treading that fine line between necessary risk and suicide. Underneath her cool exterior she was wound tighter than a two credit crono, gears and springs ready to explode, and he bore the scars, internal and external, from when she came undone.
He was well aware of the roles he played; doting lover, guard, and comic relief sidekick but she was always waiting for something more. He often doubted he could ever give her what she craved, he just wasn't wired that way. And, whatever darkness dwelled in him, he kept tamped down and hidden. Experiences that had shaped his life could have manifested into a mean streak, but he'd chosen another path. He had his own secrets to keep.
The shadow of the Sandcrawler broke him from the depths of his thoughts and provided much welcome shade. Eight of the half-pint robed figures puttered around with various droids and parts scattered about in the sand, and he noticed two speeders, that had seen better days, off to the side.
He had a rudimentary understanding of the Jawa trade language and was able to purchase some water before inquiring after the speeders. Another idea struck him which would save travel time and asked if they had a holocom unit he could rent or buy. Sonhem might have his and Ky's frequency but would not be scanning for a signal from something new.
Jawas, greedy little bastards, who were more than happy to fleece him for a holocom he could only get to work by holding a piece of metal between two contacts.
Sweat beaded on his face as he continued to enter the code over and over again, waiting for someone to answer.
Finally, a flickering projection appeared, the voice stuttered a greeting, of sorts.
"Cors...at...you?"
"It's me, Largo. Can you hear me?"
"Sig...kriffed...say...gain."
"We're in trouble. Need a shuttle to these coordinates, can you do that?"
"Caught...troub...shutt...be...soon."
The holocom sparked, burned his fingers and died a quick and vengeful death. The important thing was that help was coming and waiting would bring a different kind of agony.
Unable to sit still, he paced from one end of the Sandcrawler to the other. It might have helped if he'd not checked his crono every few minutes but each second ticked one more mark against her life. He was burning moisture and energy he'd need for later, but his restless legs refused to be still. The overwhelming urge to get back to Ky overrode any common sense he had, and tested his patience which was reaching its limit. It was all he could do to keep himself from kicking the Jawa junk, that hampered his path. The passage of time crawled and he wanted to scream in frustration.
The whirring whine of a shuttle coming in low reached his ears, and he flattened himself against the side of the crawler to peer around the corner to see a refitted Rendaran-class shuttle land not far away. Gray in color with faded orange striping, it sported a fire lily, Largo's mother's favorite flower, painted on the blunt nose.
The hatch opened, the ramp extended and a tall man with receding hairline, small sharp eyes, and the beginning of a paunch exited.
"Corso, you can come on out," the man yelled.
Corso Riggs sprinted toward the shuttle, wobbly legged and panting when he stopped at the foot of the ramp. "Largo. Good to see ya. Ky's hurt, and it's bad."
"Then get your ass in here and show us where." Largo motioned him inside.
"You got the coordinates?" asked Dester, one of Largo's men and the pilot.
"On my datapad, but it's not that far, as the shuttle flies. It was a hell of a trip walking," Corso replied and plugged the datapad into the console.
"We're coming, baby, just hold on," he murmured as the shuttle lifted into the cloudless sky.
