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PART TWO

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The air in the cantina was a thick haze of bluish-colored smoke. It was crowded to the point of being claustrophobic and the constant level of noise was giving him a headache, but Luke welcomed the anonymity that accompanied the chaos and noise as a safe haven--momentarily at least. He slouched deeper into the corner booth, his fingers groping tensely at the cracked plastene seat cover, itching for the security of having a weapon in his hands--but his lightsaber was gone and he did not have a blaster. He gazed intently through the crowd. There was no sign of Rotulle.

The man was late. Or else, he had no intention of showing up at all; a possibility that Luke admitted to himself was likely. However, he was very hesitant to use the Force in any way--even for locating a single person in a crowd--fearing that it might allow for his father or the Emperor to hone in on his location-- one that he was desperately trying to disguise.

He was on the planet Derra VIII, just outside the main spaceport in Kraull, the capital city. Derra VIII was notorious for its disreputable status as a smuggling stop, and Kraull was even more so. It was the reason Luke had chosen to come to this planet. He needed a way to blend in and disappear. He needed a seedy place to pawn off his stolen Imperial fighter.

The cantina's lone serving droid approached him with some difficulty through the crowd. "Good evening, sir," he greeted the Jedi with a slight bow. The robot was an outdated 7-T model and bore the same worn, archaic look that much of this run-down town seemed to have. "How may I serve you today?"

Luke shook his head, waving the offer away. "I don't want anything tonight. Thanks." A dull hunger gnawed in the pit of his stomach, telling a different story. He could not recall the last time he had eaten, but the reality was that he didn't have a credit to his name. He put his hunger out of his mind. It was not the time to think about this. "I'm waiting for someone," he added. The droid bowed slightly and moved away, making its way awkwardly into the thick crowd.

Luke looked down at the dulled tabletop, tracing the swirling mock-wood patterns with his eyes, then glanced around the cantina again, trying to look casual as he carefully scanned faces. Behind the bar, a frazzled woman with bland features and an unattractive knot of brown hair tied at the nape of her neck was the lone server to the impatient and demanding throng of customers. Seated three tables away from Luke, was a crowd of young men who he guessed were all in their early twenties, hardly older than himself, he realized--though Luke himself felt decades older--clad in dark colors, their hair dyed the same unnatural shade of raven black. They sat around the table, guzzling alcohol freely, each sporting a variety of weapons that were plainly visible, and most likely illegal. They were all clearly quite drunk, and Luke noted that even in this crowded cantina, the patrons managed to allow this group quite a wide circle of empty space.

One of the raven-haired young men caught the Jedi's intense gaze and straightened, as if challenging Luke's nerve to stare at him. Luke let his eyes continue to travel casually across the room. This was not a time to call attention to himself.

"Have you been waiting long?" A voice startled him back to the present. Luke glanced up. A man that was perhaps in his mid-forties, short salt-and- pepper colored hair falling over his forehead, slid into the seat across from Luke, signaling the server droid as he did so.

"No," Luke answered, keeping his voice level as he quickly eyed the newcomer. "Not at all." His gaze flickered briefly to the serving droid approaching their table again. "You must be Rotulle."

The man casually lit a thick cigarra, clamping it between his yellowed teeth and exhaling an odoriferous puff of greenish smoke. "The very one," he agreed, taking a long drag of the cigarra and growled up at the serving droid, "Get me a Correlian whiskey."

"Yes sir."

Rotulle faced Luke again. "My guy tells me you were looking for me this morning. You'd better make it quick--I'm very busy."

"Of course," Luke agreed, nodding. He had searched for Rotulle specifically because he knew that Han had had dealings with him and trusted the man a little farther than he could throw him. More importantly, Luke knew that Oswalth Rotulle dealt specifically in stolen ships, an enterprise the Jedi had never thought he'd need until now.

Luke wiped his clammy palms against the pant-leg of the olive green flight suit that he was still wearing. This was ridiculous to be nervous over something so trivial compared with the nightmare the last few months of his life had been. If Han were here he'd laugh at him for acting so juvenile, but Luke had never had the occasion to deal directly with smugglers and he felt like he was in a little bit over his head.

"I recently came in the possession of a one-man fighter that I thought you might be interested in purchasing from me." Luke could feel his face redden. This domain was not his cup of tea, and the smuggler was obviously enjoying the Jedi's discomfort.

Rotulle took another long drag of his cigarra and grinned widely at Luke. "You're talking about the ship in bay 33, aren't you?"

Luke stiffened slightly. Finally, he nodded. "Yes."

The man sat back, his gaze flicking to the ceiling, an amused grin playing across his features "Yes," he agreed. "That is a nice ship." He looked pointedly at Luke. "Looks vaguely Imperial."

Luke was careful not to react. "I'm willing to sell it."

Rotulle laughed; a short, humorless bark. "Of course you are," he said knowingly. "Wanting to get it off your hands real quick, huh? Take the cash and dash." He puffed green clouds at the ceiling for a few more moments before eyeing the Jedi again.

"It's a deal," he said finally. "But due to its distinction as a ship the Empire's probably gonna want back, I have to reduce the price a bit. Five thousand. Take it or leave it."

Luke only barely reigned in an exclamation of dismay. Five thousand? There was no possible way he could even purchase passage off-planet, much less buy his own ship with that small amount. What was he supposed to do with only five thousand credits? For that, he might as well hang on to the fighter--at least he would still have a form of transportation and the ability to leave the planet. Was Rotulle just trying to play him for a poor sucker with which he could easily pull the wool over his eyes?

Still, Luke knew that wherever he went with such a distinct Imperial fighter in tow would trumpet to his pursuers his exact whereabouts, which was exactly what he was trying to avoid. There was no question about the issue: He had to get rid of this ship. But perhaps he would have better luck trying to sell it to another bidder for a higher amount.

As if reading his mind, Rotulle eyed him and growled around his cigarra, "If you're thinking to try to sell it to someone else, don't waste your time. They know better than to entangle in wanted Imperial property--in fact some are even noble enough to report it to the Imps and get in the Empire's good graces. The only chance you have is here." He stuck a beefy finger at the laminated tabletop for emphasis.

Luke leaned back into to cracked plastene seat, suddenly feeling the claustrophobia of hundreds of bodies packed into a tight, smoky, noisy place, and trying to shut out the vague headache that was beginning to form behind his eyes. He glanced past Rotulle, noticing for the first time that some sort of drunken ruckus was in full swing at the table of the raven- haired gang. The serving droid, oblivious to the air of unexpressed menace surrounding the group, had politely approached the table when one of the young men signaled. Luke watched as the droid bowed, speaking to the man, when suddenly the raven-head lashed out with his weapon, striking the droid across the metal-grate face with the butt of his blaster. The droid tottered precariously and tipped, crashing into the edge of the table with a shower of sparks and several flickering lights. The crowd of raven-heads laughed drunkenly at the sight as the droid feebly attempted to right itself.

"I accept," Luke said finally, refocusing on Rotulle who was lazily rolling his cigarra between his fingers. "It's a deal. Five thousand."

"Good," Rotulle nodded curtly, businesslike. He dug in a pocket and casually flicked a single credit chip across the table to Luke. The Jedi pocketed the chip and slid a datadisk across to the smuggler.

"All the codes are there--it has everything you need."

"Pleasure doing business with you," Rotulle said briskly, rising to his feet and taking his drink with him. Luke watched him disappear into the crowd, and then his attention was drawn back to the gang and the toppled serving droid. The crowd of patrons had cleared a wider area around their table, but had feigned being oblivious to the rising commotion. Obviously, no one wanted to tangle with these guys.

In interest of continuing their sport, one of the raven-heads shoved the droid upright again. The robot, slightly off-balanced, metal arms bent somewhat askew, tottered to its feet and shuffled forward. "Good evening," it greeted the back of a chair. "How may I serve you?" Raucous, exaggerated guffaws from the raven-haired gang echoed across the cantina. They had apparently broken the serving droid, and were therefore pleased with themselves.

The droid purposefully trotted toward a wall, bowing and repeating the same polite greeting. It didn't seem to notice any of the annoyed customers impatiently signaling for service as it continued to go about addressing walls, chairs and tables.

The woman behind the bar started noticing the commotion and the waiting customers. "Jaret!" She shouted back in to the kitchen, pushing open its old-style swinging door with her foot as she balanced several tall drinks in her hands. "Get out here--the droid's acting up!"

A thin, sallow-looking man, wiping his fingers on a filthy apron, exited the kitchen and approached the malfunctioning droid the way an animal trainer would advance upon an angry rancor. By now, the crowd had formed a wide circle around him, amused by the latest entertainment, wary of the gang of young men at the nearby table, and totally disinclined to be of any assistance.

The man tried momentarily to pop open the repair hatch on the back of the robot, but he could not open it, and the droid moved ahead, oblivious to everything around it. He turned his head to the woman, a faint expression of helplessness flitting across his features. "Call Aram," he told her. "He'll have to come and fix it." She nodded and turned away from the bar.

The thin man, for his part, looking for all the world like a pleading parent with an uncooperative toddler, followed the droid uncertainly as it made its rounds through the parting crowd, its limbs jerking randomly, eyes flickering on and off.

"Good evening ma'am," the droid said, approaching the empty seat across the table at which Luke sat and bowing cordially. The Jedi looked with disgust from the jeering gang, to the unhelpful onlookers, to the harassed-looking man in the apron, and finally he rose to his feet.

It was the work of a few seconds to get the droid's cover-plate open and yank several wires causing the now-deactivated droid to pause in mid-step and sink like a deflated balloon. The conversation around him stilled, and Luke could feel the eyes boring into the back of his head, waiting to see what he would do. He ignored them and proceeded to slap minute switches and reconnect several wires. He then hit the "reboot" button and the droid started up again with the clear hum of even machinery. The eyes lit up and the robot straightened. Luke closed the cover and retook his seat at the table, ignoring the sudden searing glares of the raven-haired gang, and pushing down the faint tingling of danger in the back of his mind as he watched the droid turn to a man with an empty glass.

"Can I take your drink for you sir?"

The sallow man in the apron came up to Luke, looking a little nonplussed. "You know a lot about droids," he said, sounding surprised. Luke knew that his skill hadn't surprised the man as much as his willingness to help. "Thank you very much."

The crowd, their entertainment over, had already resumed the noisy chatter of separate conversations. Luke smiled genially at the man. "No trouble," he assured the other. "I hope it doesn't give you any more problems."

"Jaret, I got here as fast as I could," a new voice said. A large man with graying hair and crows-feet around his eyes, carrying something that looked like a tool kit in his thick hands, approached Luke's table, and the sallow man turned to greet the newcomer. "I happened to be just here in Kraull-- but I saw the whole thing, and it looks like you didn't need me after all."

Jaret grinned toothily and shook hands with the larger man. "Well we had problems with our droid, but this young man fixed it for us," he gestured to Luke.

The larger man regarded Luke with some semblance of admiration. "Well that was fine work you did there. Do you have a lot of experience working on droids?"

Luke nodded. "I repaired droids for a number of years," he answered vaguely, not wanting to give away too much information about his background to a total stranger.

The man stuck his beefy hand out to Luke. "The name's Aram Kelson," he introduced himself.

Luke shook it. "Luke Lars," he answered, using the name he hoped was not too obvious but would help mask his identity. "Pleased to meet you."

"Are you from around these parts, Luke?" the man seated himself across the table while Jaret, the cook, disappeared into the crowd, returning to his duties in the kitchen.

Luke shook his head. "No, I just arrived in Kraull this morning."

"Are you planning to be in this city very long?"

Luke smiled slightly. "It's funny you should ask that," he murmured. "I'm actually looking for employment."

"Well, I run a small droid-repair shop on the outskirts of Kraull," Aram answered. "We've been looking for an extra hand ever since we lost our man six months ago. Would you be interested in such a job?"

Luke eyed him. This man must be desperate for employees if he was just willing to hire Luke on the spot without knowing anything of his background or very much of his skills except for what he'd just witnessed. But Luke was being offered a job and he could hardly afford to turn something like that down. After all, he needed the money.

Luke's silence must have been long enough to make Kelson notice, for he smiled and apologized. "You must think I regularly troll cantinas for people to hire. I'm sorry if that sounded rather blunt. The wages aren't very much, I'm afraid, but we do have a small room upstairs from the shop where you will be able to stay if you wish." He smiled faintly. "And my wife is a very good cook."

The offer was generous and Luke studied the man's open, honest expression and knew that this was a person he could trust. "Thank you," he said quietly, not quite managing to keep all of the surprise from his voice. "I would really appreciate that."

And that was how, by pure coincidence, or perhaps with the help of the Force, Luke became employed by Aram Kelson.

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