Chapter 5
"Perhaps this wasn't such a great idea," Craddosk muttered to himself.
The reptilian and his partner literally stood atop the prison base. Around them rained blaster fire; they had gotten used to it after awhile. There wasn't any easy way for the cheaply built guards to hit them at such a distance, and both bounty hunters could see the blaster bolts coming from a literal mile away.
Right now the metal part of the team was bent over the rooftop, it's mini torch steadily cutting a small hole in the durasteel. IG-62 nonchalantly bent its neck to one side, saving its artificial head from destruction.
"If there were other ways in I would have taken them," replied IG-62 mechanically.
"Yeah, well..." Craddosk dodged a blaster bolt and landed hard on his shoulder. "Can't you go any faster?"
IG-62 –logically – ignored his partner, which sent warm streaks through the reptile's body.
"Why you son of a..." Craddosk muttered under his breath. He glared down at the pitiful attackers below. They had started scaling robots up the side of the building. These can't stay, he thought ruthlessly.
Nonchalantly he drew his blaster, aiming with incredible hand-eye co-ordination and blowing the guards off the side of the building.
"Well," he said amazed. "That was easy."
His demeanor was broken just as easily in the form of a magnetic grappling hook. It latched itself onto the barrel of Craddosk's gun, and the Trandoshan met the full 200-lbs. head on.
Craddosk, entirely caught off guard, lost his footing on the slippery rooftop. His body made full contact, and he started quickly sliding towards the edge.
Craddosk felt his movement generate enough friction to mildly burn his scales. Furiously, he realized that the grappling hook had wrapped the gun to his right wrist. Hurriedly, still sliding, he brought his left hand up and tried to unwind the cord.
Alarmingly, he realized that the edge was only a few meters away. Thinking quickly, he bent his wrist towards his face.
Three more seconds and he would see if his meager plan would succeed.
The cord quickly shrank over the edge in front of him, and as Craddosk's bound wrist hit the sharp edge the binding material frayed thin and snapped. As a result, a deep gash ran up Craddosk's forearm. Scales and rough skin were left on the edge.
The remaining robots came leaping up on to the roof; some behind Craddosk and some on his sides. Craddosk gripped his right arm tightly with his left, and bared his teeth; they wouldn't take him while he was still breathing.
The Trandoshan reached towards his boot, and pulled out a mini-vibro blade. Flicking the weapon on, he spat upon his wounded arm and rushed forward, plunging the knife deep into his enemy's neck; the robot collapsed silently.
He spun 180º and realized two more opponent's fall in a single swing of the blade. Far to his right a robot unleashed heavy blaster fire; Craddosk ducked under the line of fire and kicked out with his leg. The robot lost it's footing and went tumbling over the edge.
Meanwhile, IG-62 had stuck to his task and succeeded in cutting a hole in the thick ceiling. Craddosk did some quick calculations in his mind, and realized that the circle was 5 feet across, and nearly the same number in depth.
Perhaps he shouldn't doubt IG-62 as much.
Craddosk grabbed the edge with a hand, and swung down. He hung there a moment until he knew he was safe, then dropped down.
He must have been lucky that day; his anatomy cushioned the 10-foot fall.
Djas had a headache. Not brain damage, or a concussion, just a really, really bad headache.
Or, he at least hoped he only had a headache. Having the most feared bounty hunter in the galaxy make you over was not a pleasant experience.
Djas Phur thought all this to himself as he walked down a narrow passage. He wasn't quite sure which passage that was—they all looked the same—but his main goal was to steer clear of the majority of guards.
The passageway was dark, they all were dark, and he heard a faint thumping above his head; like some great and ancient rancor, thumping his tambour in a ritual state.
Trying not to move his bruised ribs, he slowly stopped and gazed at the signs on a wall, which read:
Detention Center – west
Manufacturing Complex – east
Prison camps – south
Unfortunately, the last line was smeared with a thick substance, the origins of which Djas Phur had no anticipation of guessing.
He debated which way to go; each looked equally depressing, but he counted on doing anything to stay away from that walking tank from hell.
Whimsically he decided on the detention center; after all, besides getting beaten and cast aside like a first rate rookie, he still had a mission to accomplish, right?
"Right," Djas decidedly said aloud. "The bounty will be mine... and no one else's..."
He turned left and started walking down the westbound hallway. "No one else's!" He shouted aloud, raising one hand into the air.
Jango Fett wound his ways through the debris, silent, and not saying a thing. Mutely he shoved aside a large, scrapped hyperdrive motivator.
Zam, however, was less calm.
"Lazy idiots!" She screamed in frustration when a large, rusty pipe fell on her foot. "I thought this was a manufacturing complex, not a scrapyard..."
"This section is devoted to unused parts, and those waiting to be melted down."
"Well, it could still use some cleaning up..."
Indeed. The whole room—in all it's gigantic glory—was a rust-red color, and the two bounty hunters walked down a narrow path between a wall of scrap on each side. Debris littered the floor's path, and they climbed over it.
Then, as if it had never existed, the scrap stopped, and the cleaner manufacturing towers, belts, and products started. Noise filled Zam's ears, and she groaned audibly; there were times she felt a Mandalorian battle helmet came quite in handy.
Unlike the crimson area behind them, the towers were placed in a zigzag pattern with belts effectively blocking everything between.
Zam, behind Jango, now walked up to stand at his side. Annoyed and stumped, she looked to him for clues.
Jango stood straight; his arms hung loose at his sides; his spine was straightened. But Zam could tell he was thinking, for his head was slightly tilted at an odd angle, and his hands were clenched into fists. Suddenly, he lost posture and started walking onto the field of conveyor belts.
"Have a plan, Jango?" She called after him, beginning to follow.
"No," Jango said flatly; and he didn't stop walking.
Zam could only sigh and follow.
Jango Fett came upon the first belt, and since it was moving quite slowly, jumped on. Zam followed.
Jango waited until the belt carried him farther down, then jumped onto another cutting sheets of durasteel in half. This belt was a bit more dangerous, because flying sparks could easily put out an eye.
Of course, Jango didn't have to worry about this problem with his gear; Zam, however, did.
This belt was farther away from the next this time; the belt ahead of Jango also carried barrels of flammable spice; one miscalculation on the part of the machine and the two would be smoking nerf.
Not as if Jango appeared to care though, necessarily; and if he did, his actions betrayed his mindset. He jumped into the dangerous line like a fat tourist getting into line at one of Coruscant's prestigious bars—eagerly, almost needingly, and without guilt or second thoughts.
It's not over till the fat man sings, Zam thought with an ugly smirk, jumping between two barrels. In fact, he could sing prestigious opera all he wants while I get out of this gigantic trap.
The next belt, as if in a humorous child's cartoon in which the characters on purpose faced greater and more ridiculous challenges as they progressed, was an oil/hyperdrive-slick product line.
Zam actually felt better about this line, because she had no weapons that could catch fire to the items; she feared a little, though, because Jango was a walking arsenal of weapons of which included many fire-based items.
Jango leaped across the wider opening, landing neatly between two barrels. Instantly, he relaxed; that proved to be a foolish move.
The flawless Jango Fett slackened his arms, letting his left arm fall down and strike the metal barrel--igniting his wrist-mounted flame-thrower.
Red-hot flames leapt out, suddenly heating the conductive metal to burning proportions. The flammable oil's surface set on fire, casting everything nearby into violent hues of red and orange.
Jango leapt into the air, spinning as he did, and disappeared from sight beneath the belts.
Zam was struck dumb. Her limbs seemed frozen to the still-moving belt, and she gaped in confusion. What were her choices? What choices could she make in 10 seconds, before the oil set off a chain reaction and blew up everything in its path?
She focused upon the belt beneath her feet instead. It was moving to her left, opposite of the burning barrel. She decided to follow her belt's path as far as she could.
She turned on her heel to rub, but realized with horror a solemn fact; the spice canisters completely blocked her path of escape.
She stepped instead off the belts, following Jango to whatever path he took, whether it be death, despair, or simply the path of the bounty hunter.
Dexter Jettster found an exit.
Countless hours of vain searching seemed to have finally paid off, for Dexter found himself standing—closely and in shadows—outside of a door.
He contemplated his choices, and the outcome of each. In some sense this door was symbolic, for it held two choices. One, he could go through this door, and be free; for this was an external exit, and the chances of his being able to stowaway on a prison transport were very high.
Or two, he could leave this door be, for he didn't know what was exactly on the opposite side, and his freedom might disintegrate into the complete opposite; he would sacrifice his ever escaping this barren rock.
On one hand freedom, the other... disparity.
He pushed the door open.
Instantly, although it was dark outside, a thin crack of filtered light spilled in through the doorway. He pushed with all his strength against the doorway, and it started to move, slowly but surely. The empty, miserable hallway behind him shrieked with the echo of grinding metal, but the tearing noise only encouraged him to push harder.
Now the door was open enough to let him slide through. Dexter breathed a sigh of relief as his last limb squeezed through the opening. Excitement overtook him; he was as good as free! He looked to the sky, and he saw that rain was beginning to fall steadily down over him; this did nothing to discourage his spirits, however, and he showed it through dancing a brief dance of his homeworld.
Thank the gods he was free! But where to go from here? Dexter Jettster was quite ignorant on the subject of prisoner transportation, for good reasons I might add, but his innocence was a flaw today.
Without sufficient knowledge of the freighter times, he could be out here for weeks, maybe months; and all that time he would have to dodge and hide from the impending guards.
He sat down, mud and all, on the ground, and rubbed his chubby alien chin thoughtfully.
Then gained his key idea.
He now knew that his escape of this rock would not be executed by a public transport; no, not at all.
He would hitch a ride with some bounty hunters.
"Well, how about this?"
Craddosk reached over and plucked a red flower from its gray, box-like vase. The hole IG-62 had carved in the roof seemed to lead directly into a narrow hallway of the greenhouse level. Because of the deficient amount of air in Kessell's atmosphere, green life was often grown to produce oxygen in prison caves where fresh air didn't travel for weeks.
Craddosk twirled the flower in his hand. "Maybe this is the key to our problems..."
"Elaborate."
"This section supplies oxygen to the region of this Prison Base, correct?
IG-62 stood motionless a moment, then spoke. "Scanners indicate that the greenhouse level supplies 99.86% of the oxygen intake within a 10-mile radius."
"Bingo. So now all we have to do is get rid of all this prissy green life."
"Incorrect evaluation," replied IG-62. "By destroying this pivotal floor you increase your odds of dying by 4/5."
"Never tell me the odds," growled Craddosk under his breath, pulling the safety pin off a .66 thermal detonator. "Now help me place these charges or go to the scrapyard."
"I don't rely on your support or weapons. I am fluent in combat technical and at the moment, likewise, I do not rely on your support in that area either."
"You go with me or you die."
"Why?"
"Because to survive in these conditions you need to understand humans' maniacal minds, and their brutality, or be tricked by them." Craddosk said, scowling.
A moment of silence, as the two bounty hunters stared each other down, both sharing the momentary effect of being mechanical, and standing stiff as a sheet of durasteel.
"For the moment I shall go with you."
"Good choice," he replied, his face still crunched into a scowl. With his left arm he reached over, and placed a charge on the wall.
IG-62 did the same.
Craddosk turned his back on the assassin, and plodded down the hallway. One by one he released more charges from his ammo belt, placing them at roughly measured distances from each other. The greenhouse level formed a gradual circle around the outskirts of the tower mounted on the prison base. Eventually, the bounty hunters met up again after traveling the whole circle.
The charges were remote controlled, and IG-62's initial plan was to make a safe distance outside before blowing the level to pieces. Craddosk also hoped that the level crashing would take down a few beneath it.
The circular tube had a single exit, a hallway leading off onto an interior hallway, which led to catwalks branching web-like across a red, crater-like expanse. Craddosk leaned over the railing and peered down. Below him was a sea of scrap pieces, and rising above the metal waves were tall towers of mighty proportions. A few were shorter than others, but the tallest fell short a mere 10 feet below the lowest catwalks.
Craddosk, feeling dizzy, took a step back away from the edge. "We don't want to be down there when the charges are activated," he said silently to IG-62.
"Quite the contrary," it said confidently, and Craddosk knew better than to argue. He frowned, but not because he doubted IG-62; but because the droid was, after all, a droid, and most of the time its calculations were spot-on.
"That's a stupid accent," he said, and swung a leg over the railing. He pulled an electro-grappling hook from his combat belt, and aimed the tiny launcher towards the centermost point on the area's ceiling that he could find. Once he felt the energy cable tighten, he magnetically secured the handle to his wrist-gauntlet, gripped his fists together, and jumped off.
This was nothing new; the Trandoshan had done this type of thing many times before, yet he couldn't help but feel a wave of excitement rush from inside him. Something about the theory of "flying" set him off; he loved the danger, he loved the winds, and most of all loved the freedom of movement.
He swung his legs out in front of him as he swung to the middle, trying to avoid getting his line caught on a catwalk, but his aversions could only last so long. Suddenly, a bridge formed a menacing right angle against his path.
Craddosk cussed loudly, and tried to swing left; nothing. He tried bending the line towards him, but only got a few feet of cable to angle.
He kept his arms loose as the cable made contact with the parallel bridge. Almost easily the line bent over the catwalk. Then he felt the cable tighten, and his whole body snapped forward. His shoulders let out a distressing pop, and his spine stretched too far, even for his alien proportions.
Then the cable slackened, and his movement reversed. Unluckily, the reverse movement wasn't a clean path, and he careened into one of the manufacturing towers' peaks. His shoulder took most of the blow, albeit lucky that it was covered in scales and layered with muscle, but the pain was still intense.
As Craddosk lay suspended in mid-air by his wrist, he wished the pain was merely surface-level. It seemed to snake up the depth of his arm, and felt very cold, like a frigid ice pick jammed into the cartilage of his shoulder.
Barely conscious, Craddosk reached up with his loose arm, and hit the release button on the grappling hook. He plummeted down immediately, his wounded shoulder clutched to his chest as he fell.
He landed in a fairly soft pile of scrap composed of discarded oil crags. Small pieces of glass were thrown into the air when he landed; nearby, a durasteel pile was set into a landslide.
His head rang and his forearm burned. Luckily, his shoulder was numb, so he for the moment he felt no pain. Surface level he was grateful, although consciously he knew that the numb quality was something to worry about.
Rising, he stumbled down the pile. His head spun, and he reached one hand out arm-length to make sure he didn't run into anything. However, he soon collapsed from exhaustion.
IG-62 had been observing this all from a distance. If programming had allowed, it would have most likely shaken its head in sympathy. With divine calculations, IG-62 had evaluated Craddosk's movements and seen the flaws; following programming, he wouldn't make the same mistakes.
Likewise, it launched the magnetic end of the grappling hook near to the middle of the ceiling; however, instead of swinging in the direction of the cable, the droid jumped side, avoiding the perilous walkway completely.
The location was offset just enough that it completely bypassed any walkways or towers; however, it was precisely affixed so that when IG-62 stopped swinging, he was directly above a shorter, flat-topped pillar, to which he easily leaped down with little effort from his robotic muscles. Likewise, the jump completely down to the junk pile far below was effortless.
Quickly, it ran a bio-scan for life readings of its partner. Results came up; he was a few meters to the left. More directly, it stumbled to the lizard-like creature.
Craddosk glanced up at his partner from one eye, but nausea overcame him and he retched blood. He wiped his mouth with a forearm. "Gah... what do you think...gah... we should do now?"
IG-63 pointed the barrel of his gun down a clear path between the pillars. Darkened by the shadows of criss-crossing conveyor belts, it was an incomprehensible soup; and, on the side, looked quite menacing as well.
Craddosk peered closer into the sheltering and tried to pick out something visible; nothing. He was turning away when a blaster bolt's lightning-bright flash made the action spastic. Bringing one arm up to shield his eyes, he twisted away from the near glare and flattened himself on the floor.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Three shots echoed through the darkness. Several more followed; clearly, a firefight was commencing, and he was being left out of the fun.
The Trandoshan drew his sawed-off rifle from its rife and spun the barrel playfully. Eagerly, he commanded: "Let's go." His movement into the darkness would have gone smoothly had a robotic claw not wrenched his arm, and therefore himself, in the opposite direction, making the proud lizard-creature stumble a bit.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" He barked into his partner's photoreceptive monitoring eye.
IG-62 sent forth a string of calculations to his partner. "Readings show a 99.74%/99.77% chance of survival if we refrain from immediate combat."
Craddosk did some quick mental calculations. "And the .23% chance of death is because of...?"
"Stray blaster fire," returned the droid.
"So what you're saying," growled Craddosk, his voice raising, "is that we should stay out of bounds, cower in fear, and, as a result of these actions, lose our bounty?"
"I..."
"Is that what you're saying?!"
"It would be wisest," offered the assassin, in a tone that suggested he might shrug if he could.
Craddosk growled, and turned his back on the droid. With a quick and fluid series of motions, he armed his blaster, revolved it around to his partner's chest, and set forth a string of sloppy fire. The wild bolts blew completely through the droid, knocking it to the ground with a series of small explosions.
Craddosk stood over the smoking and still flaming piece of metal. Struggling with a cocky quip, he finally issued forth the soonest thing that came to his mind.
"Beat... that!" He said, nearly smiling in devious triumph, before spitting on the droid and continuing into the inky darkness.