Off the Grid


Chapter 3

"As always, Anakin, you've left behind a big mess."

"It's not pretty, is it?"

The two Jedi starfighters sat side by side on the dusty surface of the large asteroid, surveying the damage wrought upon the droid fighter by Anakin's well-placed barrage of shots and the resulting high speed impact. The hull had been crushed into a mangled ball, both sides torn wide open, spilling entrails of sparking circuits. Anakin shuddered: here lay another piece of precision engineering brought to utter ruin at his hands.

"I'm not sure there's much left to investigate. I doubt the computer system survived that crash," Obi Wan sighed from the safety of his fighter's cockpit. Outside, there was no atmosphere to speak of; small dust devils danced slowly in the thin, unbreathable layer of gas that clung to the planetoid like ephemeral cob-webbing.

"I dunno. We should let Artoo have a go at it. Maybe the transponder box is intact. We might be able to salvage a security code or last-launch coordinates."

"Either one would be well worth the effort," Obi Wan agreed, running a hand thoughtfully over his beard. "Very well. While you see what you can turn up here, I shall go pay a call on Dex's mysterious friend. He lives a hop, skip, and a jump away."

"Assuming this isn't a wild bantha chase."

"Dex has never let me down yet," the other Jedi replied, reengaging the Delta's repulsors and gently rising a few meters off the surface. "I'll contact you the moment I find anything – or anyone." In a few moments his ship had curved around the close horizon of the tiny asteroid, leaving Anakin to his own task.

"You heard him, Artoo. Get going with the autopsy."

Obediently, the little blue and silver astromech hoisted itself out of its wing socket and landed on the grey dust. Rolling forward to the fallen magnafighter's crumpled bulk, R2D2 extended a computer interface arm and looked for a port accessible to his limited height and reach. He whistled forlornly as he set about work.

"Don't worry," Anakin assured his mechanical companion. "It's better than looking for some cranky old prospector who doesn't want any visitors."


The reclusive prospector's hideaway did not prove difficult to locate. Here in the desolate asteroid field, the single life form who chose to eke out his existence in the middle of cold, swirling nowhere stood out in the Force like a glow-moth in a darkened forest. Obi Wan guided his fighter over the lonely expanse of an ovoid asteroid mass, following this invisible beacon unerringly to its source.

An atmospheric dome rose from the uneven terrain ahead. The artificial bubble was large enough to house a small pre-fab homestead and enough fungoid trees to recycle and regenerate the oxygen supply in a never ending cycle. A few hydroponic crops grew in a reinforced greenhouse within the dome, and some sort of fowl pecked about the soft trunks of the micoarbor. However simple, the prospectors' home was a self-sustaining microcosm.

A double airlock barely large enough to accommodate the fighter was attached to one side of the curving structure. The outer opening slowly rolled open to admit him, idling on repulsors, into the small bay. As the outer door sealed and the lock pressurized, Obi Wan spotted a tall humanoid figure striding out of the squat dwelling toward the inner airlock hatch. Almost two meters tall, the graying and weather-beaten man presented a rough appearance: battered old-fashioned Corellian clothing, two utility belts crossed over his hips, a beaten sun hat (though there was no sun to speak of here, only the ambient glow of the nebula), and a double barreled blaster rifle slung over one shoulder. This person hit the access control on the inside of the dome, permitting the inner hatch to slide open.

"Well? Come on down form that ridiculous racin' pod o' yers and tell me what in the nine hells ye want," the tall man commanded, tired annoyance ringing in every syllable.

Obi Wan opened the canopy and cautiously stepped across the fighter's wing onto the dusty earth, waving a reassurance to the nervously twittering astromech in its socket.

"Well?" the homesteader demanded, leveling the rifle at his visitor's face and looking down at him critically. "How in all the damned galaxy did ye find me, Jedi? And what do ye want, eh? I ain't payin' no taxes! And ye can go tell that to yer corrupt politician friends in the Core. Live free or die, that's what I say."

"An admirable sentiment. I have not come here to collect taxes," the Jedi hastened to assure him, suppressing a smile with some effort. "Jedi have nothing to do with taxes."

The rifle lowered a fraction. "Well, yer still a bunch o' hoity-toity interferin' government puppets," the prospector scoffed. "What do ye want? That's the last time I'm askin' and ye better speak up or ye'll be goin' home with a couple o' blaster bolts through yer mystical head."

It was tempting to use the Force to wrest the rifle out of its belligerent owner's hands – or better yet, to slice the thing neatly in half with his saber. Obi Wan pushed both unhelpful thoughts to the back of his mind and focused on the mission.

"I am here for information only," he said mildly.

"Oh? I ain't fillin' out no star-forsaken census forms, neither! Vape that!" The man spat on the grey dust at his feet.

"Of course you aren't," Obi Wan soothed, shifting tactics and exerting a subtle bit of mind influence on the old curmudgeon. "But you would be happy to help me out."

"The hells I would!" the prospector snorted. "Yer wastin' my valuable time as it is. I got fungi to harvest, repairs to make, blast shields to put up fer the ion storm blowin' in tonight. No time to help you out with yer damned government business."

So the fellow was not susceptible to mind tricks. Fine. One could always negotiate. "You have a great deal of work here to accomplish all alone. I dare say an extra pair of hands would prove useful. I would be happy to help with your work in exchange for information."

This proposition amused the cantankerous elder. "He he he he he," he wheezed. "So now I got me a Jedi farmhand? He he heee. You ever do a lick o' manual labor in yer life, eh? Ye sound like a soft-bred blueblood to me."

Obi Wan shifted his weight impatiently. "My services until the ion storm hits, in exchange for shelter and the benefit of your hard-earned wisdom. Do we have a deal?"

The homesteader lowered the blaster rifle at long last. "Ye really able to move stuff without touchin' it?" he asked. "Heavy stuff?"

"Try me."

The old man grinned slowly. "All right. We got us a deal." Then his expression hardened again. "But I'm warnin' ye – this involves any government interference with my life an' I'll kick ye outside the dome to fend fer yerself. That little toy vehicle o' yers ain't gonna survive a class three ion storm here in the nebula, either, I can tell ye that. First bit o' wisdom for ye – free gift."

"My thanks. Ah…I should mention that I have a traveling companion. Another Jedi. He will also require shelter."

The old man turned on his heel to lead the way back into the fungus farm. "Then you better work hard enough fer two," he called over his shoulder.


By the time the ion storm blew through, bombarding the asteroid field with deadly bursts of radiation, the work was complete. Fungus had been harvested and safely stowed away, the wild Florian fowl captured and secured in their pens, and the protective blast shielding repaired and raised over the dome itself. Both Jedi starfighters and their respective astromechs were sheltered beneath the protective curve of the dome, and the Jedi themselves were harbored under the roof of the prospector's simple home.

The old man's mood had shifted to one of amiable hospitality as they settled in to wait out the assault. "Here, try this," he croaked, pouring amber liquid into three small glasses. "Don't know when I last had a visitor, and don't know when it might happen again. Damn pity never to share this here Munilist Moonshine. Distilled it myself, I'll have ye know. Watch it now – it's got a kick like a Kowakian monkey lizard's mother-in-law." He downed his glass in one long swig and poured himself a generous second helping. "Go on, now. Don't be shy."

Anakin shrugged and followed their host's example, only to find himself half-choking on burning liquid.

"Easy there, youngster," the weather-beaten settler grinned. "It ain't some girlie Core world beverage."

Obi Wan took a single cautious sip, solely for the sake of good manners.

"I got to admit yer a better worker than what ye look to be," the old man said gratefully, beaming at the Jedi master. "I'm getting on in years now – it ain't easy to maintain this place all by my lonesome anymore. If I could pick up stuff an' move it around with my mind, now…that would be somethin'. Don't suppose you could teach that trick to an old gundark like me, now could ye?"

"I'm afraid not," Obi Wan smiled.

"I won't be givin' away yer sacred lore, " the oldster put in. "It would be a mighty help to my old achin' joints."

But the Jedi shook his head regretfully. "There's no secret. It's simply an inborn gift. And I assure you, I know a few aging Jedi masters with stiff joints. We're not immune from the effects of time."

The prospector kicked his boots up onto the top of a nearby workbench turned dining table. The remains of their simple repast – composed mainly of fungus based foods – were scattered across the long, narrow surface. The old man downed yet another glass of Munilist Moonshine and leaned back in satisfaction. "Smoke?" he invited.

"No, thank you," the two Jedi answered in unison, without hesitation.

The settler sighed and folded his worn hands over his chest. "All right. Ye earned yer information, Jedi. Ask away. How can a lonely old feller like me help the likes o' ye?"

"It is the war which has brought us here…" Obi Wan began.

"War? Don't go telln' me there's a war on , now," the old man grumbled, outraged.

Anakin gaped. "You haven't heard about the war?" he exclaimed. "The Separatists? The clone army? Any of it?"

The prospector shook his head. "Should I?"

"Don't you watch the holonet?"

The old man sat forward, eyes blazing. "That filthy brain-rotting morass o' propaganda and bantha chizzsk entertainment? Hells, no. There won't be no holonet here – even if the service relays came out this far. I'm off the grid, boys, like I told ye. Live free or die."

Anakin caught his mentor's eye and pushed on. "So it would mean nothing to you if I told you the Separatists have a hidden refueling outpost somewhere in this sector and that unless we disable it they will launch an offensive on the Mid Rim?"

"Nope. That surely wouldn't mean a thing to me, and it ain't any o' my business anyhow." He took a meditative sip of his drink. "You fellows is supposed to be scholars and philosophers, ain't ye? Well, lemme share some wisdom I read somewheres once."

"What wisdom?" Anakin asked suspiciously.

"Don't give a chizzsk about what ye can't do nothing about," the prospector recited gravely. "What do you think of that?"

"I think it is a…slight…misquotation of Chakora Seva, who was also a Jedi master and a great warrior," Obi Wan replied evenly. "His actual words were suffer no anxiety about that which is beyond your power. It means that one should not allow fear and worry to overwhelm one's judgment concerning events which are outside one's control. It does not advocate indifference, or cultivated ignorance."

The settler dismissed this scholastic quibbling with a wave of his hand. "Yer war isn't my affair," he insisted. "I moved out here decades ago to escape yer damned so-called democracy and corrupt politician's squabbles. And I don't know a blasted thing about no refueling station out here. All I've ever done is a spot o' mining in the gas giants around Aurek 29 and 30. Now: if it's information about mining in the Triburon ye want to hear, that's a different story."

The Jedi exchanged a meaningful look. Anakin's earlier efforts with the destroyed droid fighter had yielded two small prizes: a security docking code and a set of last-launch coordinates originating near the protostar Aurek 29.

Obi Wan rose and refilled the oldster's glass for him.

"Thank you kindly," the man murmured.

"Perhaps you would entertain us with some stories about your mining days. I have a friend who clains that the stakes were even better on the other side of the galaxy – out by Subterrel. " Obi Wan winked at Anakin.

"What?" Their host sat up in affront, sloshing Moonshine over his unsteady hand. "Nonsense. Fools moved over there 'cause they wasn't man enough to deal with it out here. Takes a lot o' guts and know-how to make it mining one of them gas giants. Soup's toxic, even in the upper levels. Besides, tibanna, which is pretty heavy, deep down in the atmosphere, you got other funny compounds. Got to have good pressure equipment to reach the valuable stuff, but then you kick up these drafts of the nasty business. The whole top layer's nothing but ionized tritium. Blocks transmissions, scanners, you name it. If you get lost down in the lower levels, ain't nobody gonna find you unless they're damn fool enough to go lookin' fer ye in person. Nobody'd ever find you hidin' out under the top layer. In my day, smugglers used to hang out there to avoid shipping company officials, hide from other trouble too. Convenient, eh? Not many people know about that."

"I bet not," Anakin remarked. Not many, but he was willing to bet that Dooku was counted among the privileged few.

The old man chuckled. "No sir. And another secret – them gases out there is breathable all right in some of the middle levels – that's where we moored our platforms, mostly. Like a little island trapped between the heavy stuff and the tritium on top. Breathable, like I said – but here's the kicker – half the time that stuff is mixed with some odd byproducts. Hallucinogenic. Fellas would see and hear the strangest things, get up to all kinds of crazy hijinks. Too much time out there in the midlevels an' yer permananetly high as a starcruiser, ye know? Fried. Can't tell ye how many folks I seen jump off the edge thinking they could fly or running from some nightmare delusion."

"Fascinating," Obi Wan commented. "These mining platforms: were there a great many of them?"

The prospector looked at the ceiling as though making a complex mental calculation. "Maybe a few thousand in the hey-day. Don't think any are still operatin' now. But they're still out there. Too expensive to dismantle and remove, see. Easier to jist let the repulsors run down. Might take a century, but what the hells- eventually they jist fall into the soup. They say ye can fall forever into a gas giant's core. There ain't really any bottom fer ye to hit, see? Must be a handful of them old relics still hangin around in the soup out there."

Anakin nodded. "Big old pieces of junk just floating in an invisible graveyard," he muttered. "Sounds like a perfect disguise for a refueling station to me. The tritium gas jams tracking signals and scanners and provides a limitless supply of raw fuel, too."

"It would certainly explain why Republic intelligence couldn't locate any evidence of a space station in this region. They would have to bump into it to find it at all."

"You two sound like you got some kind o' crazy hankerin' to go look fer yerselves," the miner laughed. "So much fer Jedi wisdom. Huh."

"Crazy or not, we need to have a closer look at Aurek 29," Obi Wan asserted. "If the only way t find that station is to bump into it, then that's precisely what we'll do. I only wonder whether our starfighters will be able to handle the atmospheric storms."

"Those tin cans?" the old man coughed. "You need a miner's tug, or a big heavy cruiser. Those little pods o' yers'll be thrown round like dry leaves. You need a real ship. I've still got my old Betsy in the barn back there," he added with a hint of nostalgia.

"Betsy?" Anakin was incredulous.

"She's as reliable as they come," the miner frowned at him. "Even though I ain't used her these ten years. They don't make ships like that anymore. She's older than either of you, easy."

"Would you be willing to loan this Betsy to us?" Obi Wan inquired.

The prospector opened his eyes wide and slammed his empty glass down on the makeshift table. "What? I may be old, but I ain't stupid and senile yet. Like as not, I loan Betsy to ye two Jedi an' I ain't never seein' her again. Bet ye fellows crash a ship a day."

"Not quite that often," Anakin said ruefully. "But fair point."

"Perhaps we can reach another agreement," Obi Wan offered. "Surely there is some other service we can render you in exchange for the use of your transport."

"Not unless one of you's a mechanical genius can fix me a busted zeta-type vaporator. That'd spare me a load o' trouble and credits."

Anakin grinned. "I'm a mechanical genius," he announced. "And it just so happens that I grew up fixing vaporators."

The old man peered at him closely. "You pulling my leg, boy?"

"No, sir."

The miner pushed his unruly wisps of hair back with both hands. "All right. But yer passengers only. Only I flies Betsy. Wherever ye go, I goes with ye."

Obi Wan shook his head. "We are headed into considerable danger."

"Not on my ship ye ain't unless I'm with ye," the miner stubbornly countered. "Take it or leave it, Jedi. It's a package deal. Me an' Betsy together or yer stuck real good in yer fancy plan."

The Jedi exchanged another long look.

"Very well," Obi Wan agreed at last. "As you say, we got us a deal."