Chapter IV
Holy Poly, He Sang
"I'm telling you, he doesn't have the votes. He's full of shit. Plus five." Spinner dealt a Pazaak card from his hand, bringing his score to 19. He stood, allowing Johan to take the remainder of the turns.
"And I keep telling you, Naboo isn't going to vote against Palpatine. They love him. He stood up for them during the blockade." Johan dealt a number of cards from the deck, hesitating when his score hit 16.
"Oh, the goddamn blockade…" Spinner mocked, "That shit was decades ago. Nobody cares anymore." He chomped on a warm candy bar, chewing loudly to taunt his opponent. "You don't have much choice, big guy. Deal or card."
Johan dealt a 7 from the deck, bringing the score to 23, a bust. The other burst out laughing, until Johan produced a 'minus four' from his hand. "Tie," he stated, relieved.
"Sheeit." Spinner held the candy bar in his teeth and gathered the deck to deal a new game.
"You really think Naboo has any interest in Mothma? Some Chandrillan whore just orders everyone to stand against Palpatine, and the Senate magically follows her lead? Don't be a retard."
"You've been spending too much time with Butch," Spinner chided.
The two had rigged a space heater to 400% capacity, taking advantage of a temporary power glut. Their little tent was hotter than a Tatooine dune, enabling them to comfortably play Pazaak in their undershirts. The snow on the ground had completely melted, leaving a layer of muddy soil under the game table.
"Bottom line, Mothma keeps ranting about building the greatest coalition in history, and ten years later, what do the Republicans have to show for it? Former Separatist worlds, Mon Cala, and Alderaan. That's it. She couldn't even get Corellia." Johan watched his opponent stand on 18 points. "And let's say she wins this one. The bill's defeated. What then? No budget increase for weapons development until next year? Who gives a shit? They're scrimping together votes just to put the tiniest dent in the Loyalists."
"You're not getting it. The ARR isn't about one bill, it's about every bill. If Naboo votes against this, they'll vote against everything. And that'll be the end of him. And I don't think-" Spinner drew the last card, which landed him on 24. "Shit!"
Johan laughed and gathered his winnings: 50 credits.
"Bottom line is this," Spinner put his candy bar down. "Palpatine becomes Emperor; promises to overhaul the Republic. No more corruption, no more indecision," He counted the events and promises with the fingers on his right hand, "And here he is still getting stonewalled by Mothma and the ARR. What did we even accomplish by putting him in power? The so-called Empire's just as bad as the Republic."
An icy draft wafted in as Butch opened the flaps. "There's the bugger," he proclaimed in his usual manner, heading straight for the space heater.
"What the hell, man? We're using that," Spinner complained.
"You two shit'eads are drawing more power than 'a bloody motorpool." He violently ripped the extension cord out of the device, silencing its hum. The blizzard outside suddenly felt much louder. "Now fall in. 'Ere's still work 'at needs doin'. They don't pay ye t' gamble."
"Yeah, like you're doing any real work in the cathouse," Johan argued.
"Me free time is me own business. On du'y, ye shits fall in and ye get to work. Now move!"
Johan and Spinner left the tent after putting their padded armor back on. The mud on Spinner's chestplate froze in place the minute he stepped outside. In the distance, Gomen and Rori made their way to the speeder pool.
"Hey! Cargo pad's that way." Spinner pointed them in the opposite direction.
"Colonel's got new orders," Gomen clarified. "Checking out the downed Juggernaut 'cause some idiot left a crate of guns behind."
Spinner, Johan, and Butch walked past them. Spinner picked at his chestplate, trying to get the mud off.
A strange noise caught Gomen's ear. A strained, flowing note from a musical instrument, audible from within the crowd to their left. "You hear that?" He asked Rori.
Rori stopped in his tracks, and perked up his ears. "Hear what?"
"Music," Gomen answered, pensively, "I think."
"Not a thing." Rori picked his pace to catch up. "You must be hearing things."
The simple tune wove through Gomen's mind, plain as day, only fading away as the two reached the speeder bikes. "You're probably right." The less rational part of his mind thought it might be an omen, or premonition. He wasn't force sensitive, as far as he knew, but how could he know for sure?
Rori neatly fit his kitsack to the back of the bike, pulling the strap tight. This was a rookie mistake. If the strap was too tight, it could force the contents to spill during the journey.
Gomen stepped in and put some slack in the strap. "You don't have to come," he opined, trying not to show concern. "These crates aren't that heavy. I can handle it myself."
Rori straddled the bike. "I'll be fine. Let's just get it over with." He flicked a few switches on his bike's console, loudly powering up the engines. The repulsorlifts kicked in, levitating him a few feet off the ground. "Ready when you are, old-timer."
Gomen silently followed suit, powering up his speeder. At once, the two troopers exchanged a glance, and sped off into the frozen haze. For a brief moment, he heard the faint tune once more.
The light slowly dipped beneath the western horizon. The frigid, 30-hour day drew to a close, making way for Ilum's infamous 36-hour nights; which would only grow longer as Autumn turned to Winter.
The blizzard only intensified as the sun set. Winds howled at speeds that could blow starfighters off their landing gears if they weren't properly secured. Smaller droids were brought inside, and larger ones were weighed down with additional ballast. Thire temporarily abandoned his gutted command center in favor of a warm, local restaurant.. He knew that in the morning, it would be filled with snow, and all the work would need to begin again.
Spinner found himself alone with a broken-down Binary Load Lifter droid. Its hydraulics had frozen in the middle of a job, shattering its right arm and cracking open the crate it was hauling. MREs scattered around the snowfield; some half-buried in the rising arctic blanket.
He set to work thawing and draining the frozen hydraulic fluid. This needed to be done before sunrise, lest a wandering animal poison itself with the sweet-smelling substance. Only then could the droid be recovered and scrapped for parts. Repair was not an option.
Most of the fluid flowed out readily, but a portion of it stuck to the sides, unwilling to budge. It would need to be siphoned out with a pump. Spinner acquiesced to the fact that he would need to be there for the next few hours at least. He tightened his heated overcoat over his armor, and put a political holonet show on his datapad. As he stood up to retrieve the pump, however, something caught the corner of his eye: the blurry silhouette of a Twi'lek man, ankle-deep in snow, scavenging the broken crate. He had at least three rations in his arms.
"Hey!" Spinner shouted, "What are you doing there?"
The man jumped, briefly making eye contact before scooping up one last ration and turning to run.
"Stop right there!" He leveled his carbine at the fleeing scav.
The thick snow slowed his gait. Every few steps, his leg fell through, and he stumbled to his knees, with only fierce determination forcing him to get back up.
"I will shoot! Last warning!" Spinner's unheeded warning was followed by swift action. He squeezed the trigger, firing a three-round burst into the scavenger's back. The man fell to the ground, dropping the rations in the snow. Spinner wasn't done yet. He switched to full auto, emptying the entire clip into his target. Every blast echoed through his ears, and through the block. The snow flashed red as the strobing weapon pulsed through its firing cycle. Distant animals howled and roared at the commotion. And no more than 20 feet from the shooter, the blood of a desperate man froze into little red crystals, as it dripped from the scorched hole in his back.
Spinner approached the body, weapon still readied. He had died halfway through the second volley. He had blue skin, and his head-tails barely reached down to his waist. He was no more than 16 standard years old.
Cautiously, Spinner pushed the Twi'lek onto his side and rifled through the pockets on his vest. He had no identification, just a canteen full of water, which Spinner stashed in his bag, and an old survival vibroknife. On inspection, the edge was nearly blunt. It could barely cut the packaging on the rations, let alone anything important.
Thinking fast, he unfastened his chestplate and laid it in the snow, slashing madly at it with the knife in an attempt to leave an impression. The blade proved too dull even for this, and he instead dug the knife into the armor with all his might, carving a deliberate, unmistakable line into the white paint.
The first rule of engagement was to ascertain the threat. A madman attacked him with a razor-sharp vibroknife, and he was forced to defend himself.
The wind died down, if only for a time. Nar Skochans used these precious moments to retrieve anything that was left outside earlier, or push away the snow that had piled outside their doors. Others fueled water heaters to keep their pipes from freezing, often draining their speeders to do so.
Occasionally, they heard the strained notes of a lone musician in the distance, wondering how he had the constitution to play in these conditions. The question went unanswered and unmentioned as they finished their chores and bolted their doors for the night.
All but one.
An old watch tower stood near the center of town; collapsing, dilapidated, abandoned. In the old days, it was used by one side or another to spot airstrikes, warn of enemy attacks, or just for kids to throw rocks. The ladder, fastened to the side with rusted deadbolts, creaked under the weight of a single occupant: a Lethan Twi'lek, decked head-to-toe in wrappings, an instrument case strapped to his back.
He kept a steady pace as he climbed, rhythmically grabbing each rung in time with his heartbeat, pushing his body to heat itself in hopes of offsetting the cold. A pause in the blizzard was a dream come true for him, but he still needed to capitalize on it.
The final rung broke off as he tugged on it. The ladder creaked even louder, nearly putting an end to the man's 200-foot journey. Fight-or-flight kicked in as the man hugged the nearest support beam, wondering if he should just slide down now while he had the chance. But as his body stopped shaking, determination filled his veins once more. He heaved the box off his back, and up onto the tower, then cautiously pushed himself up to join it; grabbing every handhold for dear life. It was only now that he realized he had broken his rhythm. His heart pulsed with the beat of a wild Fambaa stampede as he pushed his body over the edge and onto the relative safety of the platform.
He lay flat on his back but for a moment, letting the frigid air coat his lungs. Rising to his knees, he unclasped the instrument box to reveal an old hunting rifle in three parts: the barrel, the scope, and everything else. He removed the pieces, and hastily started screwing the barrel to the receiver.
"Dob? Dob! This isn't funny, Dob. You need to come inside!" A green-skinned woman called for her children from below. She may have thought her kid was playing on the ladder. "Dob, you get in here this instant!"
The Lethan slowed his breathing, and carefully finished attaching the barrel, but chose not to grab the scope until she had gone inside.
"Dob, you little brat! I'm freezing my ass off out here, and you just don't give a shit." Her flashlight shone on the tower's guardrails, waving back and forth before finally vanishing with the soft pitter-patter of a child's footsteps. "There you are! What were you thinking, you're going to give me frostbite!"
"Moooooom," the child complained, "I was helping Luka with the heater. It's not my fault."
"Let Luka handle his own goddamn heaters from now-" a steel door slammed, drowning out their conversation.
The Lethan exhaled, then fetched the scope from the box, quickly (and somewhat loudly) snapping it to the top of the receiver. Finally, he pulled himself up and rested the rifle on the guardrail. He pressed his eye up against the thermal scope, aiming south toward the administration district, on the prowl for a distinct heat pattern.
Every stormtrooper glowed bright white; every Twi'lek glowed red, and every cold-blooded Rodian a pale blue. But one other notable race inhabited this rock, and in numbers small enough that if he saw one, it was bound to be the target.
A speeder emerged from administration, headed west into residential areas. Two blue figures sat in the front, with a strange blob in the back that was difficult to discern. It seemed to shift in color; white, green, blue, red, as if it couldn't decide if it was hot, cold, or something betwixt.
He felt the cool breeze on his right side. The wind was picking up again. A blizzard wouldn't fool the scope, but it would make escape practically impossible. Time was running out.
The speeder coasted to a stop, and the blob in the back split into two figures. A red one stayed behind, seemingly curled up and not moving. The other one casually hopped off the side with something in its hand. Its head was green, while the rest of the body glowed bright white.
This was the one.
He gripped the rifle steadily, then emptied his lung. His heart once more paced to the rhythm of a drum, as he lined the crosshair on the target's center of mass. The target leaned on the side of the vehicle, talking to the drivers, completely unaware of the threat.
A squeeze of the trigger fired a bolt of molten plasma, the kick nearly knocking him off his feet, and tilting the barrel toward the stratosphere. The Lethan regained his footing on the icy platform, resisting the urge to escape as he took one last look at his handiwork.
The speeder.
The driver.
The still figure in the back.
The target, still green and white, and running straight for cover.
On second glance, the driver had slumped dead on the control panel, as the figure beside him jumped out to find cover of his own.
Escape was no longer in the cards.
Zeroing in on the target once more, he fired shot after shot into his cover, hoping to pierce through the sheet metal, but to no avail. Soon, stormtroopers appeared on the scene, and they needed only follow the noise.
Bolts of plasma whizzed past his head, as he sustained fire on the target, not letting him peek outside for even an instant. Determination had set in, not to survive the firefight, but just to finish what he started.
But as the troopers' shots got closer, it was just a matter of luck before one hit him, straight in the head. His cranium knocked back from the force, as he collapsed on his back. His mission was over; the target, still unscathed.
A pair of riders emerged from the squall. Soldiers. White knights in padded armor, astride repulsorlift steeds. Before them stood the wreckage of Bantha Seven. A beast of durasteel and modern gunnery, felled by the oldest of elements; stranded in the depths of the alabaster haze, bleeding toxic fuel on the cold ground.
Rori was first to dismount, while the other rummaged through his pack. His eyes drew to the narrow creek of pitch leaking from the chassis, snaking through the snow like ink dripped on fresh canvas. "It's surprisingly intact," he noted. The elements hadn't been kind to the structure, but little was outright missing.
"Too cold for scavs. They'll probably strip it bare come sunrise." Gomen approached on foot, as the other followed behind. The bikes' fog lights sliced a hazy path through the moonless night, as each dancing snowflake cast a different shadow.
But Rori spotted something else approaching the juggernaut. Deep impressions in the snow that the storm hadn't yet filled. Footprints. "Careful. We might not be alone." He cautiously readied his weapon, just in case.
"I see them," Gomen confirmed. He approached the prints, and kneeled to examine them more closely. "Keep watch," he ordered. The tracks stretched from the juggernaut's loading ramp to a point several meters away, likely where their owner boarded a speeder. They were quite deep, but badly weathered. It was impossible to tell what sort of shoe made them, or even whether they were coming or going. Their depth may have been more of a clue than their shape. If they were more than a few hours old, then the being that made them must have been quite heavy. "Scavs might have beaten us to the blasters," he reasoned.
"There's only one set of tracks," Rori countered. "How did he come and go without making a second set?"
"Could be the first set just got buried, and the added weight is the only reason this one's still here." He paused to think. "Or he walked in his own tracks… in which case…"
"A trained tracker." Rori surmised, "Not just a scavenger."
Gomen readied his weapon and pointed it abreast. "Stay close and watch my back. I'm going for the wreck."
The pair crept toward Bantha Seven, crouched and staggered to be smaller targets. Gomen took point, keeping his blaster forward. Rori followed behind, walking backward and checking their flanks. The snow crunched under their boots, as the howling wind underscored each movement. As they approached the entrance, Rori turned around and flipped on his blaster's flashlight to get a better look inside.
"Turn that shit off," Gomen ordered, "If there's a sniper out there, you're broadcasting our position."
"I need to see inside," Rori argued stubbornly. "We'll be in and out before-"
A volley of blaster fire rang out from the north. Half a dozen blaster bolts flew by the pair. One struck Rori in the chest, knocking him on his back. Gomen ran inside the vehicle for cover, keeping his back to the wall. Two more volleys passed by, each one either hitting the armored vehicle, or just missing altogether. He peaked out to fire a volley in the shooter's direction, hoping to suppress them long enough to get to Rori. Unfortunately, his efforts were met by yet another oncoming volley of plasma. Rori still lied flat in the snow, but his scorched chestplate was moving. He was breathing, for now. Gomen needed to change tactics. He flipped his flashlight on, hoping to gauge the distance of his enemy, and peaked out to trade volleys once more.
This time, he saw the shooter. Humanoid, but too covered to tell what species for certain, and a literal stone's throw away from him. Not a sniper, just a dedicated ambush.
With this knowledge, he primed a thermal detonator, then waited for his foe to reload. Once the fire broke, he peaked out once more with his blaster in one hand, and a live grenade in the other. He fired several shots downrange to suppress the enemy, then chased it with the detonator.
"E chu ta!" The interloper yelled, running away from the blast.
As the explosion devastated his opponent's cover, Gomen quickly grabbed his comrade's arms, and dragged him inside the vehicle. The blast had knocked the wind out of him, but the armor did its job and absorbed the majority of the heat. If he could get medical attention, he'd pull through. For now, bacta would have to do. Gomen took a tank out of his pack and hooked it to the cargo netting in the vehicle's ceiling, then threaded the IV tube and pierced it into Rori's right arm. He noticed something else weighing down the cargo netting, but he couldn't look just yet. He was just satisfied that it wasn't moving.
Flipping his flashlight back off, he returned to the breach and tried to pinpoint the shooter. The last volley was a good minute ago, but that didn't mean they were gone. The grenade was a clever play, but his aim was way off. The blast was easily survivable.
Finally, the next volley came, but the interloper had switched angles, and now fired directly into the loading ramp, forcing Gomen to relocate. Thinking quickly, he dove into a prone position and fired wildly into the mists, hoping to force the shooter out of hiding. His magazine finally ran dry, and he quickly stumbled behind a rock to reload. He braced for the next volley as he fumbled with the clip, hoping it didn't hit Rori. This only made the delay more painful.
Gomen stayed behind the rock, out of options. He had lost track of the shooter again. He could have been anywhere, attacking from any angle. No position was defensible. The only option was offense.
He flipped his flashlight on. The shooter knew where he was. No point in hiding. He stuck to a row of jagged rocks, hoping to jump behind them should he need to. Still, no volley came. He was reaching the edge of the bikes' fog lights, where his torch would be the only source of light. He swept the light around the area, then dutifully advanced, leaving the relative safety of cover.
The wind picked up around him, obscuring his view even more. He could still see the wreck behind him, but anything else, in any other direction, was a haze. His trek into the unknown only paused for a moment when he felt his foot hit something. Not a rock. It had a bit more give than that. He took a quick sweep with his flashlight before allowing himself to look down, only to be greeted by the bloodstained corpse of his assailant. He had been killed by the mad volley from earlier, about 5 minutes ago.
Gomen exhaled, then reached down to grab the enemy's blaster, and walked back to the wreck. Only now did he notice he had a limp. One of the bolts must have hit his leg, and adrenaline had carried him through the fight. He allowed himself to collapse on the ramp, massaging his wounded leg. Rori's bacta IV looked to be working. Rori was stable, for the moment.
Gomen shined his torch into the vehicle, finally getting a good look. As expected, no blasters. The gun the shooter was using, an old E-5 Trade Federation rifle, was not one of the stolen weapons. Something else caught his eye, however. A small pool of blood had gathered on the floor of the vehicle.
Not mine, not Rori's, he thought. Couldn't have been. It must have dripped down from…
He made the mistake of looking up.
A nude body lay suspended in the cargo netting, its arteries cut, and its blood drained like a slaughtered nerf. A tortured expression permanently etched into its… into his face. This was Willy's body.
Someone didn't find his little stunt very funny, Gomen thought. It was a clear revenge killing, designed to send a message.
His intimate areas had been crudely removed.
Gomen stumbled to his feet, and walked over to check on Rori. His pulse was stable, but the bacta was running out. There was no time to call for backup. He needed to get him back to Nar Skocha, immediately. Disconnecting the IV, he threw the unconscious trooper over his shoulder and limped outside. Their combined weight left rather deep footprints. Gomen shuddered at the thought.
Quickly, he secured Rori to the back of a speeder bike. The other bike, unfortunately, would just have to be left there. Gomen's leg had started to bleed. He didn't have time to think about that, though. A life was in his hands. The repulsorlift roared to life, and the pair once again sped into the night, this time on a single steed.