03

A NEW JOB

Jaster's ship, a small second-hand G-400 starfighter descended through the humid orange haze of Florum's sky to the landing pad below. Dust blew clear from the wash of the fighter's large twin engines at the end of the craft's wings where the landing gear extended. As the engines wound down, the canopy of the cockpit swung open. Jaster leapt out of the seat, taking a moment to look around. The landing lot was a two rowed procession of crafts of various class and makes encircled by a large fence separating it from the rest of the trade post outside. A fuel depot was set in the center where maintenance droids meandered in wait for orders. A figure approached the pad with a blaster rifle slung over its shoulder and a pair of leashes in one hand, keeping two large, red, spiny scaled reptile like Akk dogs under control. Jaster stepped off of the body of his battered little fighter to the hard, dust blown surface of the landing pad as the leather faced Weequay stepped up to him with an outstretched hand.

"'Allo, landing cost is thirty-five with a rate of ten credits per hour."

Jaster sighed within his helmet. From behind his cape, he dug a hand into a pouch on his belt and withdrew his last handful of chips. He looked at his palm to find six left. He sorted what he needed then deposited the rest in his pouch before dropping a five, ten and twenty chip into the rough skinned hand of the Weequay.

"I need fuel," Jaster said.

With his hand still out, the Weequay's sharp crooked blackening teeth shone in a grin. "That'll be another fifteen."

Jaster glowered at him as he dove back into his pouch and withdrew one of the last three credit chips on his person, holding it for the Weequay to see. "All I have is a twenty."

"No change," he said as he snatched the chip from Jaster's hand. As he turned around to shout at the droids idling by the fuel depot, Jaster snarled at him, bringing his concealed hand to his Westar worn at his hip. The Akk dogs snarled back, as if they sensed what he was considering, swaying their tails and baring their razor sharp teeth. Jaster eased back, releasing his blaster still housed in its holster. "Enjoy, stay as long as you like," the Weequay sniggered as he led the Akk dogs down the lane between the rows of ships in the lot. Still grumbling, Jaster walked away to the gated exit.

The lot was located at the edge of the post which was a moderately populated market place with buildings that reached no taller than three stories. Jaster had once before been to Florrum nearly ten years ago. From what he had seen of it as a boy, much had happened to the place than before, though the place was still overrun by outlaws. As far as Jaster knew, that was the legacy of the sulfurous desert planet. Ten years ago, the world's population very well could have been one single outpost of the Ohnaka gang, a band of swoop pirates led by Hondo Ohnaka himself. This meeting was the first time in those ten years that he had seen the notorious pirate face to face. All that Jaster wanted was just to collect his pay, nothing more and certainly nothing less.

As he walked down the road of the post, he noticed a saloon to the left. With so few credits on hand, he debated within himself. "I could use a quick break," he said within his helmet. Veering towards the entrance.

His path was instantly crossed by three figures in dingy, white armor, blasted by the desert's orange sand. Jaster paused and watched them go by. They paid him no mind but he wondered if that would change had they seen his face. He was well aware that Imperial Stormtroopers these days were enlisted recruits and no longer cloned. But what were the chances that one of those three were veterans of the Clone Wars a decade prior? What were the chances that their faces were exact copies of his own? Jaster continued to the saloon; now he really needed a drink. The dim, hot atmosphere of the saloon was filled with oddly bright music from a lone Rodian on a red-ball jet organ. There was enough of a crowd for him to blend into and an empty space at the bar. A Sullustan bartender stepped up to him smacking his large lips in preparation to speak but Jaster cut in.

"What's strong?" Jaster asked, the vocalizer of his helmet still scrambling his voice.

The Sullustan reached under the bar to bring out a red tinged bottle. "Brought in by tail-head vendor. Make you chizk-face with one glass if you not careful." Jaster placed the a credit chip on the counter which the Sullustan swapped for a glass. Jaster sat at the stool and removed his helmet. His shoulder length curly black hair sat in place, flattened by the helmet. Jaster's tanned complexion was made pale by the lack of exposure. At merely twenty years old, his features were smooth. Very little facial hair shaded on his muzzle. Despite his youthfulness, his brown eyes were heavy with dark bagged circles under them. Placing the dark red painted helmet down on the bar, Jaster picked up the bottle of the liquor and poured a glass. An acidic green liquid filled the small glass with a slight crackle. He frowned at it, as he held it to his eye before sipping a controlled bit of it. The bite was pungent in his mouth sharper than anything he'd ever drank before. Smacking his mouth hard he set it down—not bad.

Near the back of the saloon, a commotion caught his ear as a stubby Snivvian burst out in anger over his spilled drink. The other figure, a tall lanky Trandoshan loomed over the Snivvian, its lizard like face looking down on him with glowing yellow eyes. As the Snivvian continued to complain, the Trandoshan moved with predatory speed, opening its jaw and biting down hand on the shoulder of the Snivvian. The pig like alien squealed and the entire rest of the saloon exclaimed in terror as the Trandoshan's teeth tore through flesh. In a bloody heap, the Snivvian fell at the Trandoshan's bare clawed feet, blood splattering the yellow legs of its flight suit. The Rodian organist stopped playing and the patrons watched uneasily as the Trandoshan chewed its mouthful of flesh, no one daring to speak a word.

Jaster looked around the saloon full of vagabonds and outlaws with a snicker. "What's the matter, never seen a Trandoshan eat before?"

The Trandoshan turned its head to look at Jaster at the bar with narrowed yellow eyes that widened with recognition.

"Well, well. Thisss isss a sssurprisssssse," he hissed with a scratchy reptilian voice.

Jaster knew that voice well, even if he hadn't heard it in years. It was too late, he'd been recognized and he couldn't escape it. "Bossk."

With a low chuckle, Bossk beaconed him over. "Come, sssit with me while I eat." With slight reluctance, Jaster grabbed his glass and helmet and moved across the saloon to the Trandoshan's booth. He set himself down across from Bossk whom sat down again, dragging the Snivvian's body onto the bench beside him. "It'sss been sssome time. Lassst I sssaw you, wasss that courier job on Ssssocorro. Ssstill waiting on my cut too."

"It was a botched job, Bossk. None of us got paid, so you got your cut."

Bossk, grasped another raw, bloody clawful of the Snivvian. "Isss that ssso, I disssa-." Bossk's eyes crossed as the barrel of the Westar hovered inches from his snout.

"Keep it up and the bartender will have two messes to clean up." Bossk looked from the blaster to the young gunslinger across from him. A smile spread on his reptilian face as he eased back with a laugh, flicking out his long, forked tongue. Jaster smirked as well as he lowered the blaster pistol to the table. "Sssso, Boba." Jaster's smirk disappeared at the sound of his given name. "Haven't heard much of you lately."

"I've been going by a different name. Prefer to stay under the radar for the time being."

"Ssso I heard. Jassster now isn't it? Makesss sssenssse to rebrand yourssself, what after a few botched jobsss and all." Bossk smirked to which Jaster eyed him coldly. "Sssstill, if you ssstay too far under, you missssss out on the big jobsss."

"Most of the high profile jobs are for the Empire. I would prefer to avoid that as much as possible," Jaster said, taking another sip of his liquor.

"Then you should look at the other ssside of the law, like Crimssson Dawn."

Jaster set down the empty glass and eyed the Trandoshan. "You have a contract from Crimson Dawn?"

Bossk shrugged. "They contacted me yesssterday to hunt down Tobiassss Beckett."

Jaster's eyes widened. "The guy that killed Aurra?" in his mind, Jaster saw the chalk white face of the Palliduvan bounty hunter; her heavily lidded and shaded green eyes and curling black lips and gaunt cheeks. Her head was completely bald except for the heavy single bundle of vibrant red hair bound at the crown of her head.

Bossk nodded with another flickering tongue. "The sssame. Wasss there when he did it too. Pushed her off of a platform on Bessspin all to ssstop her from shooting sssome whelp." Jaster scoffed, he knew from personal experience better than to put killing a kid past her.

"I assume you're taking the job." Bossk shook his head as he leaned back in his booth. "How come? A man-hunt is your expertise."

"Exxxactly. Let'sss just call it a mercccy. Besssidessssss, I'm not looking to go to Ssssavareen anytime sssoon. That's the last place Beckett was ssspotted and where he killed Crimssson Dawn'sssss leader. Its eassssy creditsssss," Bossk said with an urging tone.

"I'll find my own jobs, thanks," Jaster said as he stood up and collected his Westar 34 and holstered it behind his cape.

"Sssuit yourssself. Sssssee you around, Boba." Without another word, Jaster turned away and walked out of the saloon, back into the heat of Floruum's sulfurous air.