Star Wars - Droid Trouble Read online

  “Well,” he said as he lifted the lighter of the two and dropped him over the edge of the speeder, “I hope you taste better than you smell.” As he watched the Rodian roll down the pit into the Sarlacc’s throat, he wondered just briefly what happened to its victims. Sure he’d heard rumors, but none had been conclusively proven. He shook the thought away, swearing to never find out first hand.

  The whistling sound of something headed toward him at high speed brought Bola back to reality. He gazed skyward, but whatever it was, was hidden in the light of the second sun. He hefted the Barabel over the edge of the speeder and dropped him into the pit.The heavier Barabel sank into the sand, but a thick tentacle shot from the Sarlacc’s throat and quickly dragged him past the rings of fangs filling the maw, into the blackness beyond.

  Bola balanced himself and looked skyward for a glance at the craft that was bearing down on him so quickly.

  A sudden rush of air rocked the speeder as the craft hurled by, not more than 20 meters overhead. Bola was thrown out of the speeder. He reached out with his left hand and grabbed for the foot step. He caught himself and glanced down. Fear gripped him as he dangled over the Sarlacc by one arm. He pulled himself back into the craft.

  He sat down, breathing heavy and shaken. For the next few moments, he tried to ease his breathing and lose the thought of falling into that disgusting pit of death. Silently, he swore he’d never get this close to that monstrosity again.

  It wasn’t until he heard the explosion that Bola realized the craft that buzzed him wasn’t someone deliberately trying to kill him, or kids from Anchorhead messing around. He turned the speeder toward the smoke rising over the dunes and hit the accelerator, hoping that this wasn’t another mistake.

  The shuttle slammed into a sand dune, tearing the bulk of the lower starboard wing off, and thrusting Ab’Lon into unconsciousness for the duration of the crash. When he’d finally regained some of his senses, he could dimly hear a low moan, followed by a fweep from somewhere behind, accompanied by the soft crackling of electricity all around. An odd sense of vertigo made his fog enshrouded head spin, and he coughed violently as thick black smoke filled his lungs.

  It wasn’t until he opened his eyes that Ab’Lon realized the shuttle was lying on its side — what was left of it anyway. The restraints pushed against his broken ribs and with every breath a new sensation of pain rippled through his battered body. Everything hurt.

  He tried to release the restraints with the broken fingers of his right hand, while getting a firm grip on what was left of the weapons console with his left.

  After about 30 seconds of fidgeting with the latch, it popped free. His grip on the console was instantly broken and he hit the starboard wall — now the bottom of the cockpit — with a thud. It took him a few minutes to get to his feet. He crumpled back to the floor several times in pain as he tried. He had a very difficult time breathing and his right arm had gone completely numb after the fall.

  Several rays of daylight slipped through cracks in the hull, furnishing just enough light to assess the damage. Fweep was still strapped in, but one of the cockpit chairs had been dislodged and was lying on the floor in a mess of debris. The battered and dented little droid seemed to be on the verge of falling. He released a series of shrill fweeps as various electrical wires surged near his swiveling dome. Very little of the cockpit had escaped damage and there was no way Ab’Lon could get the little droid down without some assistance. He scanned the area for anything that might help.

  The entry ramp was lying partially open and he decided that it might be his best chance. Slowly, he worked his way through the wreckage toward the sunlight streaming in. Part of him hoped and part of him feared that maybe someone saw the crash who might help him.

  The wreckage was scattered across a 300-meter radius, but somehow the bulk of the craft remained in one piece. It was of alien design, but resembled an Ambassador-class shuttle Bola once saw while investigating a case on Coruscant a few years ago.

  He drew his heavy blaster pistol from its holster and, working his way through searing shrapnel, moved toward the cracked-open entry ramp. He half expected a stormtrooper or two to leap out, but the sheer devastation of the ship quickly put those fears to rest. He was six meters away when something stumbled out of the shuttle and fell face first into the sand.

  Bola edged up closer, half expecting a double-cross, but that was his nature and it was a difficult feeling to ignore, even in these circumstances. The back of the creature’s royal blue and gold vest was torn and scorched. Its back heaved, obviously gasping for air. Furry, taloned fingers clawed slowly, uselessly at the sand. The fur along the back of its neck stood on end, occasionally rippling in the hot desert breeze.

  Placing his left boot under the creature’s right shoulder. Bola cautiously turned it over. A low groan escaped its lips and its chest heaved in a series of choking coughs. The mottled, singed fur of the creature’s face partially covered some nasty wounds. Its clothing was torn and hanging, revealing a disfigured, badly battered chest. A single piece of jewelry hung around its neck — a silver pendant. It was partially blackened, but the workmanship was exquisite. Bola shuddered — he wasn’t even sure if a bacta tank could save this creature from death.

  Slowly, the creature’s eyes moved, at first fluttering, then finally opening. Bola peered down into the creature’s wide, violet eyes, looking for any sign of life.

  “You,” the creature visibly gulped, starting the thought over. “You must help me, Artoo,” it muttered between breaths. “Get the Artoo unit,” it sighed heavily, nearly losing consciousness.

  “What Artoo unit?” Bola asked, vaguely wondering how hard the creature had hit its head.

  “In the …” it started, but was interrupted by an abrupt wail of clicks, whistles, and moans. Bola moved cautiously into the mangled craft, leaving the battered creature muttering something to itself. He climbed over the twisted metal of the cockpit, glancing at a growing fire in the hold, before peering in.

  He wondered how anything could have survived the devastation that surrounded him. A quiet moan, followed by a fweep, surprised Bola and he turned, training his blaster on the noise. There, clinging to the cockpit floor, which now stood vertically, was an Artoo unit. It was partially strapped to a swivel chair and wedged against a damaged computer console. Bola tried to stifle a smile, but the scene was just too comical.

  “C’mon,” Bola said with a hearty smile, “let me help you down from there.”

  The droid moaned and fweeped throughout the process — a process which taxed Bola’s patience to the point where he was tempted to shut down the annoying little droid and leave it there. But after about five minutes it was quietly working its way out of the craft. Bola moved to the creature, still lying on its back in the sand, and felt for a pulse.

  It opened its eyes and gazed up at him. “Take the droid,” it started slowly, “to the Alliance.” Its hand grasped Bola’s shirt, and it pleaded, “Please.”

  Bola looked directly into the creature’s eyes, and grasped the other’s hand. “What’s in it for me?” he asked coldly, throwing the creature’s hand to the ground.

  The creature bared its teeth, its ears pointed skyward, fur rippling along its neck. “What?” it growled.

  “You heard me,” Bola said, matching the other’s gaze. “I am not taking that squabbling droid anywhere for nothing.”

  The creature’s blown temper, combined with its injuries, must have been too much for its body to take. Unconsciousness doused the fire in its eyes, and Bola watched as the creature’s body went limp.

  Ab’Lon could feel the twin suns beating down on his aching body. A rush of hot desert air slammed into his face as his head rolled to the side. Most of his body had gone numb, and the parts he could feel rippled in waves of pain. A sense of movement, the quiet whine of an engine, and the arid desert wind slapping him in the face were more than enough clues to relay the obvious. He wondered where he was going. A thousand des
tinations coursed through his mind, not the most unpleasant of which was an Imperial holding cell.

  The vehicle that carried him came to an abrupt stop and he could feel movement beside him. The horrible stench assaulting his nose was nearly unbearable. He could smell dead and decaying carcasses and biological waste, among other atrocities he couldn’t begin to define. It was nearly enough to awaken his unconscious body, but not quite.

  “Well, here’s your final stop en route to the Alliance,” the vaguely familiar voice rang through Ab’Lon’s mind. Something was tugging at or lifting his body, he wasn’t sure which. He tried to scream, to explain the importance of his mission, anything, but his battered body refused to respond.

  “Just thought you’d like to know,” the voice began again. “I’m gonna find out how much of a reward is being offered for the information in this droid. I’d be willing to bet a sabacc pot that the Empire will pay better.” Ab’Lon desperately tried to match a face to the voice, but recognition seemed just beyond his grasp. There was a short pause in which he could feel his body being moved around, yet he was powerless to stop it. “Well, be seeing you,” the strangely familiar voice rang out as his body was released.

  He fell for what seemed an eternity. All the while he wondered how all his carefully laid plans had put him into this position. He was supposed to be a savior for the Alliance — now no one would know of his sacrifices. Someone else had the fruits of his labor and there was nothing all his years of planning could do to alter that — no contingency that might save him.

  Just as he convinced himself that he had been flung into the void, he hit the unforgiving sand, pushing out whatever air remained in his lungs. He could feel himself rolling over, as if he were tumbling downhill, and again he was powerless to stop it.

  Something wrapped about his waist, stopping his descent. Needlelike projections pierced his skin through the tattered rags that served as clothing. All the pain that had plagued his body was suddenly gone. His entire body went numb and he could slowly feel his consciousness slipping away. The quiet whine of a vehicle speeding away was the last thing Tereb Ab’Lon heard before unconsciousness claimed him for the last time.

  The lone figure stood in the shadows of the docking bay, the tips of his cranial tentacles bouncing erratically. His boss had only entered the freighter five minutes ago. Just speaking to Rebel operatives was considered treason, let alone making a deal to sell information to them. And of course, Bola just went off to make the deal, leaving Tavri to watch for any Imperial activity or, more likely, spies.

  Tavri’s gaze left the ship and wandered about the old, stone docking bay. Burn marks littered the walls and, in several places, large chunks of stone were missing. Probably the result of blaster fire, Tavri thought. The machinery was dirty from hundreds of years of overuse, no one bothering to tinker with or clean anything that was still functional.

  He gazed up into the Tatooine sky — even from this cruddy old docking bay it was incredible. The suns set one at a time, making for lasting and beautiful sunsets like no other world could offer. It’s a shame that the rest of this dustball isn’t as fascinating. Tavri thought to himself, returning his gaze to the ship.

  Something glittered in the waning sunlight over top of the freighter. Tavri stared a little harder, then quickly glanced around at the old machinery. None of it showed the slightest reflection.

  He drew his heavy blaster pistol and whispered into the comlink clipped to his collar. “We may have trouble, be ready to get out of here.” Almost as if on cue, the low hum of the freighter’s engines warming up filled the docking bay.

  Tavri, staying in the shadows, moved around to the opposite side of the freighter. The sounds of scuffling and something clattering on the floor, followed by a shush, rang in his ears. Whoever they were, they weren’t very good at being inconspicuous. That could be good, and bad. Tavri slipped into an opening beneath the noise and started up the stairs.

  He paused about midway, listening intently to the quick grunts that sounded an awful lot like — giggling. After pausing two more times, he finally arrived at the top of the stairs and carefully peered into the small controller room.

  Two Ossans sat in the middle of the room. They seemed to be playing some kind of game. Tavri watched as they flung small polished, circular rocks toward a short series of small triangular rocks that made up some type of obstacle course. Each face of the triangular rock that was hit glowed slightly. The point of the game seemed to be to hit as many faces with one fling of the rock as possible. The Ossans giggled with each fling of the rocks — Tavri couldn’t help a slight smile.

  A new voice mewed in, startling him. He gazed over one Ossan’s shoulder to see a Jenet sitting at a small metal gadget, which he immediately recognized as an Imperial listening device. Silently, he cursed himself for getting caught up with the game.

  “I hired you two to watch my back, not play games,” the creature hissed. Tavri didn’t know much about Jenets. But he did know they had perfect memories and an incredibly advanced sense of hearing. “Now get off your butts and guard that stairwell,” he said, obviously upset. Tavri couldn’t blame him — Ossans are very childlike. If not for that, their immense strength would make for great protection.

  The Ossans grumbled as they put their game away. Tavri switched his blaster over to stun and, as the Ossans began to stand up, hit them each with a blast. The bright blue aura of the stun blasts got the Jenet’s attention. Tavri switched the blaster back and moved toward the frightened creature.

  “What are you doing here,” Tavri asked, although the question was rhetorical.

  “I, uh, was just…,” the creature started.

  “For a species known for their perfect memory, you sure seem to be stumbling for words,” Tavri interrupted. “Now tell me, who hired you?”

  The creature went for its weapon, but Tavri’s blast hit it square in the chest. The smell of charred fur assaulted his nose as he grabbed the equipment and started for the stairs. He stopped just long enough to grab the small sack the Ossans had put their game into and began to descend the stairs.

  He smiled to himself as he switched on the comlink and gave Bola a run-down of the events.

  “Good job,” Bola’s voice blistered through the comlink. “Everything went perfectly. In two days we’re going to be 50,000 credits richer.” Tavri smiled broadly at the thought of his cut and started for Bola’s place to celebrate.

  Tereb Ab’Lon

  Type: Bothan Diplomat

  DEXTERITY 2D

  Blaster 2D+1, dodge 4D, running 2D+2

  KNOWLEDGE 4D

  Bureaucracy: Bothawui 7D, bureaucracy: Imperial 6D, business 6D+2, cultures 4D+1, law enforcement 5D. law enforcement: Imperial 8D+1, planetary systems 5D+1

  MECHANICAL 3D

  Communications 7D+1, space transports: Bothawui diplomatic shuttle 4D+1, sensors 3D+1

  PERCEPTION 3D+2

  Bargain 7D, con 6D+1, persuasion 8D

  STRENGTH 2D+1

  Climbing/jumping 4D, stamina 3D+2

  TECHNICAL 3D

  Computer programming/repair 5D+1, droid programming: Astromech 5D+2, droid repair: Astromech 4D+1

  Character Points: 3

  Move: 10

  Equipment: Comlink, datapad, hold-out blaster (3D)

  Capsule: Tereb Ab’Lon is an average politician with dreams of greatness. He’s not known for taking chances, but is quick to leap on the failure of others. He is very cunning and sly, creating elaborate plans to further his name and position. His plans are devoid of real risk, plans that keep him from assuming a real position of power.

  Tereb found his calling in the Rebel Alliance. To them, his position is one of greatness, giving him access to Imperial plans they couldn’t possibly gather themselves. He still likes to play things cautiously, awaiting the chance to get that one vital bit of information that will help bring about the downfall of the Empire.

  Nim Bofa

  Type: Detective for Hire


  DEXTERITY 3D

  Blaster 5D, blaster: sporting blaster 8D, brawling parry 6D, dodge 8D, melee combat 5D, pick pocket 6D, running 7D

  KNOWLEDGE 3D+1

  Alien species 8D, bureaucracy 6D, business 6D, cultures 7D, languages 6D, planetary systems 5D, streetwise 9D

  MECHANICAL 3D

  Astrogation 4D+2, communications 3D, repulsorlift operation 5D, sensors 4D, space transports 5D+1, starship gunnery 4D+1

  PERCEPTION 3D+2

  Bargain 7D, con 10D, forgery 10D, gambling 8D, investigation 13D, persuasion 8D, search 12D, sneak 8D

  STRENGTH 3D

  Brawling 5D, climbing/jumping 4D, stamina 3D+1, swimming 1D+1

  TECHNICAL 2D

  Computer programming/repair 7D, droid programming 3D+1, first aid 5D+2, security 8D+2

  Dark Side Points: 1

  Character Points: 13

  Move: 10

  Equipment: Comlink, datapad, sporting blaster (3D+1), vibroblade (STR+3D), knife (STR+1D)

  Capsule: A self-styled detective for hire. Nim Bola has made a good, if not dangerous living for himself. The thrill of adventure and financial rewards have made him one of the better detectives in the galaxy, free-lancing his skills out to the highest bidder. He’s always been one to take chances, often losing a month’s pay on the sabacc tables, but he always seems to come out ahead in the long term, very rarely accepting defeat. He’s perhaps best known for his ability to deal with anybody, from the foulest Gamorrean to Imperial officers, a practice most see as extremely dangerous and stupid.