CHAPTER THREE: REFUSE-GEES

~ "What you feel is the echo of the minds of these creatures within the Force: their anger, their greed, their desperation. It is life." – Kreia/Darth Traya, describing the currents and people on Nar Shaddaa ~

NAR SHADDAA: REFUGEE SECTOR

Who did the Jedi and the Sith think they were?

What made them believe they had the right to ruin the universe?

Wherever they went, fighting endless wars, they left devastation and tons of wreckage behind.

Refuse. Trash. Not just piles of rubble and twisted metal, but living beings as well. Not so long ago, the Mandalorian Wars had turned otherwise-successful people into homeless refugees, trading their last credits for a ticket to whatever world would take them. Nine times out of ten, that world was Nar Shaddaa. Technically, it wasn't even a world. It was a moon, its name meaning "jewel" in Huttese, but most called it the armpit of the galaxy. It smelled like one. Instead of Tatooine's parched air or Dantooine's fresh breezes, those on Nar Shaddaa inhaled a potent mix of exhaust fumes, rotting waste, and unwashed bodies. Many wore cloth veils over their noses and mouths. The wealthy opted for discreet, nearly-invisible rebreathers.

Ona Li was not wealthy. She was one of the masses in the Refugee Sector, a faceless drone except for her Twi'lek head-tails. Her daily earnings amounted to no more than a hundred credits. She knew she could make good tips as a cantina dancer, but her kind were a cred a dozen. Ona had also considered plying a trade one step down, but decided against it. The Red Sector had also been filled to capacity.

What was left? Janitorial work and food service, which paid even less than her current job with the Czerka Corporation. "Recyclables Procurer," her official designation, sounded better than "scavenger." The stench involved was bad, the humiliation worse, but at least the former kept sentient dreck-flies away.

Today her boss had sent her to scrounge through some recent construction site cast-offs. Czerka had gone on a building binge ever since a Jedi had passed through two years ago – and given Ona hope. She'd never spoken to the woman, but that exile had slaughtered the Exchange's thugs and overseers. No more tributes. No more disappearances or kidnappings. No more threat of being sold to the Hutts. That was the good news. The bad news was that Ona and her fellow refugees still didn't have much chance of moving out of their current sector. They couldn't afford the new high-rise condos Czerka had developed.

Jedi can't fix everything, no matter how hard they try, Ona thought as she adjusted her uniform.

The heap of debris to which she'd been assigned didn't look promising. No mangled steel beams or other pieces of metal she could haul back in her salvage cart, just crumbling drywall and other junk.

Stretching her hazmat mask over her face, the Twi'lek dug in and set to work.

As she sorted through the materials, Ona pondered the grand scheme of things and her place in it. Her role was to dig through what had been thrown away and decide what, if anything, could be reused. Food wrappers? No, though she found some of those in the pile. Huge hunks of plaster that had more dust than substance? Also no. Out with the old, in with the new, and the old got relegated to junkyards like this one. Miscellaneous boards? Hmm. She'd take the ones that were still straight and leave the warped ones.

Does Czerka know how much waste they produce in construction projects? Do they care?

Ona suspected the answers were "no" and "no." Why would they know or care? Czerka Corp was like a Quarren, its slimy tentacles stretching out to every planet that mattered. It didn't intend to share its profits with anyone but high-level executives and shareholders. Employees such as she were future scraps on the discard pile. As soon as they outlived their usefulness, they were disposed of in like manner.

"Cost of doing business," she murmured to herself, startled at the sound of her voice.

A passing salvage droid concurred, beeping and humming in a resigned tone. Not one of Czerka's.

"Hey," said Ona. "Sorry, but this heap's mine. Go through that one." She pointed.

The droid swiveled its head in a gesture of negation, slid its arm into a narrow crack, and retrieved a tiny gray cube. It seemed to be made of some kind of crystal, but didn't refract light like crystals did.

"What's that?" asked the other scavenger. "Can I see?" Surprisingly, the droid scooted closer and dropped it into her palm. Ona rotated it to scrutinize its six sides, peering at each facet. Cool to the touch, the object seemed like it had once possessed a charge but was now silent. Dormant came to her mind. Is this thing a dead power cell of sorts? If so, for what? What's it doing buried in a pile of construction rubble?

The metal salvager reached into the mess again and pulled out something much more valuable: a ring. Ona snatched the gold band before it could vanish into the droid's cargo compartment. Angrily, the machine whirred a warning, but Ona ignored it – until it brandished a blaster pistol.

"Easy there. Easy…" She backed up a few paces. "How about we make a deal? You keep the gray cube, and I'll keep the ring." The droid fired a warning shot, causing Ona to freeze, then spring into action. Knowing her hazmat suit would protect her from detrimental energy, she grabbed a warped board from the debris pile and raised it like a club. Two more bolts from the droid's blaster, which Ona's suit absorbed, then a series of thunks from the board, which shattered on the fourth impact. No damage to its target.

How much more could her suit withstand? Ona didn't want to find out. She stuffed the cube and the ring into a pocket on her utility belt and made a run for it, dodging blaster fire as best she could. Without thinking, she leapt onto the junkyard fence and scaled it, awkward though it was in her bulky garb. When she jumped and landed on the other side, she kept running, knowing bolts traveled through fence holes. Ona didn't stop dodging obstacles and people until she vanished in the crowd of the Refugee Sector.

Home. That was close. I need to decontaminate and see my boss. Show him my haul.

What was her haul? Someone's wedding band, most likely, and a dead power cell? Besides, she'd left her salvage cart behind at the junkyard. She was not going back there while the droid was still prowling.

I can't go to Muro Chano with these. They're garbage except for the ring, which I want to sell.

A pang of conscience pricked her. Ona knew she should try to find the ring's owner first, but what were the odds of that on a moon the size of Nar Shaddaa? Some grunt had probably lost his one piece of jewelry while hammering away on the frame of one of Czerka's condos. Maybe Chano would know who it belonged to. Then again, if the construction worker had been so careless as to wear it on the job, it was his loss, right? Finders keepers? The Twi'lek knew it might not be worth much, but she needed the money.

She needed it even more after she cleaned up, found Muro, and heard what he had to say.

"Disappointed, Ona. Very disappointed. What is this cube? Nothing. As for the ring, I'll give you two hundred creds. Don't know owner. Why you not bring anything else? Steel, wood? Objects of any use?"

"There was nothing we could use." She swallowed hard. "Nothing worth recycling. It was all junk."

"Just like you. Third assignment you've not completed. This was last chance, Ona. You're fired."

Droids weren't the only beings that could fire blaster bolts that hit their target hard. "No. Please."

"Must, must. Can't meet quota, then you not have job. Here's two hundred creds, plus fifty more for trying. Trying not enough. You must succeed. Might have better luck in the nearest cantina or Red Sector."

She wanted to punch him. "Give me one more chance. I promise I'll find something."

"Three failures, then termination. Czerka policy. I not write it. Go bother someone else."

"I search through the dirtiest piles of garbage, endure stink no one else would go near –"

"Yes, yes, and I search through dirty gambling dens in this area for my stinky cousin Ono. He fled Telos because of debt to Exchange. Now he thinks he's safe, but he learn nothing. He still playing pazaak. Little Twi'lek, you annoy me. If you not get out of here, I'll set security droid on you." The Duros scowled.

Ona could do nothing but ball her hands into fists, clutching her cube and her credits, and go.

What am I supposed to do? Two hundred and fifty credits will last me two more weeks. Then? She didn't want to think about then, only now. She sought a quick escape from this moon. How to achieve it? Two ways: drinking and dancing. Not as a worker, but as a customer. She could certainly afford that.

The curio in Ona's palm had grown warm and was growing warmer, beginning to glow.

Diffuse silver light issued from it, light which the Recyclables Procurer had never seen or heard of. She stared at the inside of the crystalline form, hypnotized at the way it seemed to pulse – like a living heart.

"What are you?" she whispered to the cube, not caring if it were a silly question. "Who lost you?"

The pulse continued, steady and strong, increasing the effervescence emanating from the cube. To her astonishment, it murmured back in a familiar-sounding voice, though she couldn't quite place it:

The Force is strong here, too strong. It overwhelms me and perhaps everyone.

She gripped the cube with her fingers, curling them around its sweat-slippery surface like claws.

If the Force is connected to all of life, why doesn't it relieve more of life's suffering? Why doesn't it help these refugees become rich, or at least able to move out of the slum they're in? Free will? I suppose. Is it entirely passive? No, because it shapes our destiny. Is it entirely active? No, because if it were, it would make every decision for us. How does it know when to intervene and when to stay silent? How can it know?

It took Ona a while to listen to all this, because the whispers came in short bursts, yet had no static. It only took her a split second to blurt out, "Why are you talking about the Force unless you're a. . ."

I've always asked too many questions. Maybe that's part of the reason I was exiled.

Ona knew she recognized that lilting cadence more beautiful than a chanteuse's song.

Regardless, we're here, and we don't like what we see. Maybe Hanharr does. He's a bounty hunter, living for the thrill of the kill. All these refugees are beneath his attention – not even prey. They're refuse.

At that word, the Twi'lek wished to hurl the cube against a wall of her cramped apartment. Refuse indeed! Was that what she and her fellow unfortunates had been to the Jedi and her companions? Then Ona realized the exile had been referring to what this "Hanharr" had thought of them. She then relaxed.

The rest of us want to set things right. Crack some skulls if we need to. Starting with Saquesh.

Two years ago,Saquesh had been the Exchange's main overseer in the Refugee Sector, or so the stories went. The stories also said that a certain Jedi and her party had stormed his headquarters and killed him. This news had been sweet, but who knew how long it would've taken for another enforcer to replace him? Thankfully, Czerka Corporation and the Exchange had parted ways and were now professional rivals.

I know it's not the Jedi way, yet negotiating with a slave trader is like doing so with the Sith. No one wins unless one side or the other surrenders – either their credits or their lives. I'm not willing to do either. The refugees deserve a chance at a better life, and even if it means Exchange deaths, I'll give it to them.

Ona liked how this particular Jedi thought. She herself had a chance and tried to seize it, but. . .

As for Czerka? I'm beginning to regret helping them seize Telos. I got paid, but at what cost?

No argument from their ex-Recyclables Procurer.

Whatever the Force has in store for us, I'll be glad to get off this rock and head to Dantooine.

Dantooine? A planet of farmers and endless meadows? What could interest a Jedi there?

I want to see if Kreia's right – if our Enclave is nothing more than a ruin full of predators. Vesi out.

At last Ona had a name to associate with the human face glimpsed ever so briefly. Amber eyes, dark, close-cropped hair. Violet lips, or at least lipstick. If she were a Jedi, she hadn't been fully of the Light.

"Vesi," repeated Ona. "You helped me, and maybe by returning this weird thing, I'll help you."

Where was the exile now? Had she gone back to the Enclave of which she'd spoken? Whether she were there or not, Dantooine sounded like paradise compared to Nar Shaddaa. Fresh air and open spaces. Lots of room to grow. Ona imagined planting a garden, raising animals, and going into agriculture.

"Not bad," she mused. "Not bad at all. I'm more of a city girl, but I need a change of scenery."

She was tired of digging through garbage to see what could be used one more time. She hated her dead-end days, trapped in a maze with the other refuse-gees until they were all bound for the cremation pits. Helping others was one thing, but what if you couldn't help yourself? Ona was no longer employed. If she took Muro Chano's advice, it would be worse. The credits she'd earn would trap her on Nar Shaddaa. Once you began a certain life, you became bound to it, whether you were a cantina dancer or dreck diver.

Thus she spent her 250 credits to stow away in the cargo hold of a starship headed for Dantooine. Ona didn't believe in the Force, but finding the Jedi exile's artifact had been one mother of a coincidence.