Star Wars - Shifting Gears - Unpublished Read online

  “Lovely planet they sent us to, El-Tee. Positively rustic. I might even go so far as to call it quaint”

  “Quit complaining, Arvee. Vengler’s just a little primitive, that’s all.”

  “Primitive? We landed on a plateau, not in a spaceport. No amenities. Not a cantina in sight. Why not call the place what it really is, sir? A dirtball.”

  The Rebel lieutenant scowled at the toadlike quadruped, his second-in-command, then pointed toward the darkening hills. “A little dirt never hurt anyone. ’Sides, we won’t be here long. We cut through that gap and surprise the Imperials on the other side. There’s not many. A couple dozen stormtroopers, support staff. Should be able to take them without much of a fight. We’ve got plenty of room on the shuttle for prisoners.”

  “Prisoners?”

  “Yeah, prisoners. This’ll be easy, Arvee. Piece of Mundlop zilg-dicody.”

  “Easy,” Arvee repeated. “Too bad I’m allergic to zilg.”

  “We free the miners,” the lieutenant continued, “then it’s leave time for all of us on a big Ithorian herd ship.”

  The lieutenant had to admit he shared Arvee’s view of the backwater world. Vengler was largely uncivilized, particularly this continent, and being on the fringe made it easy pickings for the small Imperial unit that was reported to have moved in and taken over the quendek mine. If it hadn’t been for an Alliance spy planted in the complement of a passing merchant frigate, the Imperial presence on Vengler probably would have gone unnoticed for years. Better to bring in a detachment now and shut it down right away, the lieutenant thought—before the Imperials have a chance to build weapon emplacements and set up a base.

  “Easy. Phfhffftt!” Arvee squatted on his rear legs, scratched at a wart, and reached for the blaster rifle slung over his mottled back. “Right, El-Tee. Easy for you humans.” He scrunched his lips into the approximation of a pout and eyed the rest of the Rebel force—nearly all of the 150 were Corellian recruits. There were a few Devaronians and a couple of Sullustans in the mix, but he was the only one who walked on all fours. “Easy ’cause all this dust doesn’t bother you two-leggers much. At least this beats resting in my bunk and watching the stars go by,” Arvee huffed. “One small outpost. Too bad there aren’t two or three. I really like to shoot stormtroopers. I’m good at it, too.” Arvee hunkered down, his brown bumpy hide helping him blend in with the rough landscape. A hint of a smile crossed his bulbous lips. “Hey, El-Tee, can I take point?”

  The lieutenant nodded, and the toadlike scout scuttled quickly ahead. The rest of the Rebels trailed behind him. As the stars began to wink into view, they quietly made their way through the gap in the hills.

  Arvee sneezed. “I really hate all this dust,” he cursed under his breath, as he ran a webbed digit across the blaster rifle’s trigger. “Good thing we won’t be here long.” He reached the far end of the gap and glanced across an uneven arid field. “Why, I could take them all out without a bother. Fast. All by my scaly lonesome. Forget prisoners. And then…” His raspy breath caught in his throat and his legs locked in place as he spotted something at the edge of his vision—several Imperial system patrol craft. There was a building behind the ships. “That isn’t one outpost,” he whispered in as soft a voice as he could manage. “Or two or three. It’s an Imperial base. With lots of weapon emplacements.” The dust swirled around his hind legs as his comrades caught up with him.

  “It’s all this dust!” the freighter pilot groaned. “Dust ’n sand. Every time I stay in Mos Eisley for more ’n a few days the stuff gets in my droid’s joints. Makes it act up or shut down. Can ya do somethin’ about it?”

  Amalk Wulqpark eyed the sand-pitted protocol droid the pilot had roughly ushered into his shop. “You shouldn’t leave him outside then,” Amalk suggested. “Dust wouldn’t be a problem if you kept him on your ship.”

  “Can’t keep it on my ship. I need it nearby ’n case I come across someone or somethin’ I wanna talk to. For business.”

  “And you conduct your business on the street?”

  “Sometimes. ’N in the cantina, too. But the cantina rules… well, they won’t let me take it inside,” the pilot returned. “So I keep it just outside the door. Next best thing.”

  Then you must spend an awful lot of time inside the cantina, Amalk thought, for all this dust damage to occur.

  Amalk leaned across the counter and ran his age-spotted hands over the droid’s tarnished face. It was a kind gesture that was lost on the pilot, but not on the ailing droid. “You’re in need of an oil bath, my new friend,” Amalk said softly. “Hammer out a few of these dents.”

  “Huh?”

  “I said fixing him shouldn’t be too much of a problem,” he said more loudly. “It looks like his photoreceptors are damaged.”

  The pilot raised an eyebrow and his lips parted in an unspoken question.

  “Photoreceptors,” Amalk explained. “Your droid’s eyes, the devices that snag the light rays—natural and manufactured—and convert them into electronic signals. The signals are processed by the video computer at the base of his head and are translated into images so he can see. Operates on the same principle as human eyes. In any event, the casings are cracked. Dust got inside and choked the workings.”

  “Hate all this dust,” the pilot grumbled.

  Amalk’s rheumy blue eyes narrowed. “Hmm. Not just the casings. You’ve got other problems, too, don’t you fellow?” He was chatting to the droid, and the droid began to talk back.

  “What’s that noise?” the pilot cut in. “That squawky stuff? Somethin’ wrong with its vocalizer?”

  “Vocabulator. Speech synthesizer.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I meant. Is it broken, too?”

  Amalk shook his head. “It’s not noise,” he muttered. “It’s language.”

  “Not one I understand,” the pilot retorted.

  “Few do.”

  But Amalk was one of those few. What sounded like insects buzzing around the cramped shop’s interior was a specialized program language. Droids often used it to communicate among themselves. It was largely unintelligible to organics. Amalk buzzed fluently—questions upon questions tumbling from his lips. The droid quickly provided answers.

  “So you travel a lot, I imagine, being a freighter pilot,” Amalk said, finally returning his attention to the pilot.

  “Yeah.”

  “Get to see much of the galaxy?”

  “Yeah. I get around. Even been to the Corporate Sector a few times.”

  “Ever travel in Imperial territory?” Amalk asked as he popped the chestplate off the droid and looked inside.

  “Yeah. Not that it’s any of your business, though.”

  “I’d bet that’s dangerous. Imperial assault shuttles buzzing around, maybe even a Star Destroyer. But then you look like you’re not afraid of much.”

  “I’m not.” The pilot puffed out his chest. “Besides, it’s not all that dangerous for me. I got some contacts, do some odd jobs for ’em now and again. Just occasional stuff. Stay friendly with ’em and you’re better off. Healthier and wealthier. Know what I mean?”

  “Indeed I do.” Amalk’s thick fingers prodded the droid’s wires and circuits. “Hmmm. What have we here?”

  The pilot moved closer, tried to peer over Amalk’s shoulder to get a look inside the droid’s chest.

  “Not good,” Amalk tsked. “Not good at all. See this?”

  “What? Dust got inside there, too?”

  “No. The locomotor. It’s wearing out. It will need to be replaced right away. Your droid probably won’t be able to take more than another hundred steps or so under his own power before the locomotor bur
ns out.”

  “Good thing I brought it to ya to fix then.” The pilot looked pleased with himself. “Back at the hangar, they said ya was the best. Also said that your lift tube didn’t go all the way to the top level… if ya know what I mean. Said ya think more of droids than people. Don’t matter to me none about your preferences. Me, I’m just passin’ through, an’ I need ya to fix it.”

  “Him.”

  “Huh?”

  “Fix him. Fix your droid.”

  “Yeah. What’s a locomotor? I know ships ’n all. Been flyin’ a freighter for years. Droids, well, that’s somethin’ I never took to studyin’.”

  “A locomotor is the servomechanism that gives your droid—and other protocol droids, scout droids, and others like them—the ability to walk, to move.”

  “So can you replace it?”

  “Yes. No problem. But not at the moment. I don’t have any spare locomotors in the shop. They’re on order. Expected on the next merchant transport.”

  “When’ll that be.”

  “Next week.”

  “So whadda I do? I gotta be leavin’ in a day, no more ’n two. Got someplace I gotta go, an appointment ta keep. I need it ta translate for me.”

  “Him.”

  “Yeah. I need him ta translate for me.”

  “You could buy another protocol unit. I have a few on sale.” Amalk eased away from the pilot’s droid and gestured at his shop’s walls.

  Amalk’s shop consisted of one large room, which when it was built would have been called spacious. Now it seemed small and crowded. The walls were lined with droids. Like soldiers, a few dozen protocol droids stood in a row, their silver, gold, brass, and bronze metal plating gleaming in the light that spilled through the lone window.

  Nearby were several R2, R4, and R5 units, and something that looked like a prototype or a modification of another R-series model. Remotes of various sizes hung from the celling, blinking and whirring like cantina decorations. Not true droids, they were programmable to perform simple functions and had no independent initiative.

  There were also medical droids, mining droids, power droids, companion droids, exploration droids, scout droids, geo-survey droids, and more. One, which looked like a refitted interrogation droid, was busy dusting the place. Behind the counter were shelves upon shelves filled with metal legs, arms, wheels, treads, spools of wire, circuits, chips, and hundreds of small tools.

  “I kinda like that silver one,” the pilot said after looking everything over. “Haven’t had a silver one before. Is it on sale?”

  Amalk nodded. “Yes, he’s on sale.”

  “How much?”

  “Trade in this droid, which I’ll repair when I get the locomotor shipment, and throw in seven hundred credits. The sliver droid’s yours.”

  “Six.”

  “Six-fifty.”

  “Deal.” The pilot fumbled in his pocket for a credstick. “Got a restraining bolt for it? Notice none of your droids here got ’em attached.”

  “Haven’t had need for them.” Amalk reached under the counter and fumbled around. “This’ll serve.” He passed it to the pilot, and the transaction was concluded.

  “Uh, thanks,” the pilot said as he exited the shop. “Wouldn’t be able ta get my business done properly without one of these droids.” The silver protocol unit cast a last glance at Amalk, uttered a string of rushed sentences in a program language, and followed his new owner.

  “Is the pilot gone?” This from an outmoded geo-survey droid.

  “The ignoramus,” a partially-repaired chef droid retorted. “I’ve known smarter remotes.”

  “He’s crossing the street,” a gold protocol droid said. He was craning his shiny neck as far as it would go and leaning away from the wall for a better view of the departing customer. “There. Out of sight. Headed with C3-LD8 toward the hangar. Poor Eldee.”

  The other protocol droids moved away from the wall and started chatting to themselves and Amalk. The R5 units chirped and hooted. And the chef droid ran through the ingredients it needed for Amalk’s dinner.

  “Good riddance to that customer,” the gold protocol added. “Tatooine will be better for his departure. At least he’s the type Amalk likes to sell to.”

  “Thank the Maker I am rid of him!” the sand-pitted protocol droid said. “I had quite my fill of working for that boorish man. Occasional dealings with Imperials, he claims! Hah! He works for them all the time, is leaving now for a rendezvous with an Imperial captain. They use him, though he doesn’t realize it. Hire him to make runs into neutral territory or to Alliance-held worlds. He is not very bright for an organic, does not see how they manipulate him so. Does not see how truly evil they are. And might I interject that there is nothing wrong with my locomotor.”

  “I know,” Amalk said.

  “Then why…”

  “Because I am very bright for an organic,” he returned. “It’s a long story, my new friend. You see…”

  “Company!” the scout droid announced. The gold protocol droid leaned back against the wall and his fellows quickly joined him. They pretended to shut themselves off. The R5 units fell silent.

  A soft buzz cut through the air as the door opened. Amalk watched a pair of Jawas trundle inside. They were leading a quartet of battle-damaged astromechs, one of which was pulling a one-legged protocol droid.

  “Snizniber lr’tzt,” the taller of the two hooded figures began. “R’trastnitatat duratzat. Elrzer tanna dint a minz! Rzdez.”

  The sand-pitted droid began translating, a deal was struck, and Amalk passed over a bag filled with hard credit chits. The Jawas left quickly, cutting toward the cantina.

  “Looks like blaster fire. On all five of them.” It was the deep voice of the scout droid. He stepped close to Amalk’s new acquisitions, and his shoulders moved in the approximation of a shudder. Jawas always made the scout droid more than a little edgy.

  “Perhaps. But the scoring looks like a vibroweapon of some sort,” added one of the medical droids. “Note the cut along right wheel-mount. And that is likely what sheered off the leg of the protocol unit. I have witnessed…”

  “I agree,” interjected the gold protocol droid. “Why, when I served on a mining ship in orbit about Tibrin there was a Gamorrean who…”

  “No. Definitely blasters,” the scout argued. “Rifles likely.”

  “Blaster fire!” the lieutenant yelled. “Rifles! It’s a trap! Fall back to the ship!”

  The high-pitched whines of blaster rifles cut through the air. Dirt showered up where the bolts missed the Rebels and instead hit at their feet. Where the bolts didn’t miss, the Rebels fell, clutching their legs and chests. The scent of burned cloth and flesh was heavy in the air. A dozen men were on the ground, dead or dying in the space of a heartbeat.

  “Fall back! Now!” The lieutenant pressed himself against the side of the hill. He cursed himself for cutting through the gap. It was a perfect site for an ambush, he realized. Only thing was, the Imperials weren’t supposed to know company was coming. They weren’t supposed to be lying in wait. And there weren’t supposed to be so damn many of them.

  He craned his neck forward, straining to look at the top of the hill across from him, eyes stinging from the dust that was flying everywhere. There! Prone, a few dozen stormtroopers. He saw the moonlight glinting off their white helmets. All armed with blaster rifles, looks like, he thought. Probably pistols for close-in fighting— though he knew his men wouldn’t be able to scramble up the hillsides quick enough to get close. Must be an equal number of stormtroopers on the hill above him. A whole lot more than the Alliance intelligence report said would be here.

  “Can’t fall back!” came a cry from somewhere behind the lieutenant. “Coming in the gap behind us, boxing us in like Roon mogos!”

  “How many?” the lieutenant shouted.

  “Twenty, thirty!” came the hoarse reply. “Hard to tell. The dust’s so thick!”

  A decision, the lieutenant thought. Have to make
a decision now.

  “Swarming us from the base up ahead! Coming at us on speeders!” The lieutenant recognized that voice. It was Arvee, his second. “I’d say your informer was wrong. El-T. I’d say we’re the zilg-dicody, and the Imps are gonna feast on us!”

  “No!” the lieutenant screamed. “We’re not going down tonight!” He darted away from the slope and hit the ground, rolling and dodging blaster fire. He paused only to take a couple of shots at the white helmet peering over the hilltop, then he kept rolling, not bothering to see if he had hit the stormtrooper. Have to get a look at the other side of the hill, he thought. Just to be sure. Maybe my guess is wrong, maybe there’s not a few dozen stormtroopers up there. Maybe we could charge up that hill, circle round, get back to the shuttle. Maybe… The keen whine of a tripod-mounted repeating blaster cut through the din. A knifing pain shot up the lieutenant’s right leg and into his stomach. Then the lieutenant felt nothing, couldn’t move. Dying, he thought, probably lasered my leg off. Can’t feel, can’t hardly swallow. So cold. “Arvee! Your command now! Get the men out of here!”

  He didn’t hear the toadlike quadruped’s reply. The lieutenant was beyond hearing anything.

  “Fall back!” Arvee hollered. “Might be fewer in front of us, but it’s suicide heading toward the base.” He slung his blaster rifle over his back and scuttled toward the bulk of his men, moving faster without having to hold onto his weapon. He leapt over the body of a Devaronian, registered that at least a third of his fellow Rebels were littering the dusty ground. Should have brought more men, more shuttles. But this was supposed to be a small operation, he thought. Where did all the Imps come from? Must’ve been monitoring our descent. Waited till we were easy pickings.

  Just ahead to his left, three Corellians were squeezed together in a niche under a rocky overhang. They were taking turns poking their heads out and shooting at the white helmets on the opposite ridge.

  “Too many of them!” Arvee called as he scampered toward the trio. “Fighting retreat!” He paused when he reached the overhang, slung his blaster rifle off his back again and took aim at a stormtrooper descending the opposite slope. His webbed finger pumped the trigger, sending light-blue bolts of energy kzinging off the dirt and rocks, finally finding a mark on the trooper’s torso. The stormtrooper fell. But there were more coming over the ridge now. “Leave me one of your rifles!” he barked. One of the Corellians complied, then the three took off running.