“Patrons kept murdering each other,” the bouncer grumbles, his claw out to the droid. “Blaster.”
“They still do,” Zuckuss half whispers.
4-LOM shrugs, turning in his targeting blaster. “My whole body is a weapon anyway.”
“Well then your whole body can’t come into Freerago’s,” the bouncer says flatly.
Zuckuss chortles. “Now, now, the good droid was simply making a mild humorous remark at Zuckuss’s expense.”
The bouncer cocks a hairy eyebrow at all of us. “Who’s Zuckuss?”
There’s an uncomfortable pause. Then I turn over my own weapon, a Magalor seven-caliber roto-snipe 500, and go ahead in. (FULL DISCLOSURE: Like 4-LOM, my whole body is also a weapon if you count the mech suit and also I am trained in several different martial arts from around the galaxy.)
Freerago’s Satellite Diner is alive with laughing Rodians, gossiping Ithorians, a single very morose-looking Hutt with various bodyguards positioned around the place, and a cluster of hairy little grease-stained Bonbraks who’ve probably just gone on break from the repair garage next door. I do love this place.
“So,” I say, sliding into the booth after Zuckuss, “you’ve given up bounty hunting and you’re entering the field of philanthropy.” I pointedly place my recorder device on the table, red recording light glaring.
“Given up bounty hunting for good!” Zuckuss insists, slamming both hands for emphasis.
Across from us, 4-LOM stares emptily at the raucous patrons.
“And what brought about such a sudden change in careers?”
“I mean!” The Gand motions around vaguely, mutters something unintelligible.
“I’m sorry?”
“He received a message from the Void,” 4-LOM says. “Remember, Zuckuss?”
Zuckuss jolts. “Ah yes! As a practitioner of the ancient findsman tradition, Zuckuss is highly tuned in to the quiet inner stirrings of the galaxy, ah-hmmmmm!”
“Why are you humming?” I ask.
“It is how Zuckuss tunes in to the galaxymmmmmmm!”
4-LOM shakes his head, his attention once again on the restaurant around us. “Is that Pratkak the Sver? I thought he was dead.”
“Was it also a quiet inner stirring of the galaxy that led you to become a bounty hunter in the first place?”
“Mmmmmmm…” Zuckuss hums, perhaps stalling for time.
“What’ll it be, young fellas?” a wizened old Dug asks, loping over to our table on his long leglike arms. His nametag says BEEZNUSA, and he looks like he’s seen his share of excitement. The fur is still singed around his one missing eye, and glowing star map tattoos sparkle from the long-toed feet he uses to wipe down our table.
TK-7: Evocative details!
“Nothing for me,” 4-LOM says glumly.
“Do you have rehydrated Mistiflax?” Zuckuss asks.
“Huh? No, man,” Beeznusa snorts. “That stuff is…” He eyes Zuckuss for a moment, seems to reconsider what he was going to say. “It’s hard to keep fresh.”
“Mmmmrrrrrrr just a caf for Zuckuss. Lots of cream.”
I order a caf, too, black and sweet, and the waiter is turning to head off when a loud voice cuts in from the doorway. “And a blue milk for me, budzo!” We all glance over to see a human with exceptionally shiny teeth and an overly assertive tan line fastwalking toward the table. His brown hair has been gelled into a sharp triangle. “Hold the foam, aha! Extra shot of sulfur, thanks!” He looks quite pleased with himself. The Dug nods and ambles off.
“Not to worry, friends,” the guy says, looming over us all like an obnoxious fake-tanned embodiment of a garbage disposal in a cheap suit, “I got the bill, aha!”
“Who is he?” I ask Zuckuss.
The Gand shrugs. “Vap Tomulus.”
TK-7: Oh! I have worked with this Vap Tomulus several times. I believe it is he who sent us the press release leading to this article. He’s always very courteous and friendly in his messages. Sometimes a little more than is necessary.
“He is responsible for crafting our message to the masses,” 4-LOM adds.
Vap slides in next to him. “Can I sit? Thanks great okay! And you must be the young Parapa boy I hear so much about. Fabulous, fabulous, I love it. And I love that you’ve taken to journalism! Way to go against the family legacy, am I right? I know a little something about that myself, actually, going against family legacies, hey—but that’s a whole other story, really.”
I just look at him, the glowing red eyes on my mech suit inscrutable.
“Good, great,” Vap warbles. “Fantastic. Anyway, don’t mind me, I’m just here to keep an eye on my clients and make sure they get a fair tail shake, if you take my meaning, aha!” He smiles, and it’s all teeth, like the man’s whole head just became a giant shining mouth.
“You were just going to explain where all the donations are going,” I prod.
“Oh, yes, yes,” Zuckuss says. “Well, since Zuckuss and his compatriots are no longer engaged in the illicit business of bounty hunting—”
“Which we can neither confirm nor deny any of us were ever involved in,” Vap puts in. Everyone ignores him.
“As part of our new entrepreneurial endeavor, we have set up a fund to help the orphaned children of Korbatal”—here Zuckuss shakes his head mournfully—“a small moon in the Trymant system that has been very sadly destroyed.”
TK-7: Oh no! What a terrible tragedy! I had not heard. Very thoughtful of them to dedicate themselves to such a noble endeavor!
A quick database search indicates that Korbatal was indeed destroyed along with several other moons in the Trymant system…two centuries ago in one of the Emergences related to the Great Hyperspace Disaster.
TK-7: Oh.
“Those poor orphan children must be very old,” I say tonelessly. “How sad.”
“Mmmmmmmm,” Zuckuss drones.
“The thing is,” Vap cuts in, “the foundation hopes to help poor orphaned children from ruined planets all over the galaxy! There are so many, you know.”
“Like Alderaan?” I suggest, and the table goes suddenly quiet.
Quick jabs about politically uncomfortable genocides aside, though, the story here is that these fellows are clearly not as on the level as they’d have the galaxy believe. Unfortunately, while that is apparent to anyone paying an iota of attention, there is no actual story here until these facts can be proven.
“One caf, dark and sweet,” the grizzled waiter says, plopping a tray of drinks down. “One caf with extra cream for Zuckuss, and blue milk, no foam, double shot of sulfur for the loud weirdo.”
We all stare at each other for a moment.
“Anything else?” Beeznusa asks.
“The point is,” Vap says, pointedly ignoring him, “we’re here to do AHHHHHHH!!” His explanation becomes a guttural scream as a shining blade sweeps down from behind me. The edge slices a smooth chunk of flesh off his shoulder and thick black blood squirts all over 4-LOM, who yelps, lunging to the side.
TK-7: Oh dear!
“Ah useless and beasteesh pile of-ah execremento!” a familiar voice hollers as two powerful mechanized legs clomp down on our table. Caf and blue milk fly everywhere as people all around gasp. It is a voice I have heard all my life, a voice that used to sing me to sleep when I was a just a tiny Frizzpup, a voice that means home to me.
TK-7: It is our publication’s policy to italicize all non-Basic languages, including whatever this is.
“Mozeen Parapa!” Zuckuss yelps, searching his robes for the blaster he deposited at the door. “How did you find us!?”
TK-7: Wait…
FULL DISCLOSURE: Every Frizznoth mech suit is equipped with a cloaked binary beacon device that alerts any member of their respective ca
rtels to their exact location. This is well-known information among our people and was not concealed at any time.
TK-7: This seems problematic. I’ll have to check with legal. Let’s delete for now.
“Nevarr mindah that!” Grandpa Mozeen yells triumphantly. “My peapohl chaave abeena escouring theeah galaxzee fora you!”
TK-7: Okay, you know what—no one can understand this. I’ll go ahead and take the liberty of translating your grandfather’s garbled gibberish into regular Basic for our readers for the rest of his statements. You’re welcome!
“Honorable Mozeen,” Vap whines, “you have to understand, I am in the process of raising the money to reimburse you! It’s complicated!”
“Mmmmmmmmm!” Zuckuss moans. 4-LOM has both hands up; his gaze scans the startled patrons, looking, perhaps, for someone to help. No one does.
In truth: This turn of events, while exciting, may well ruin the story I am working on. I sit perfectly still, which is easy to do in a mech suit, and let it all play out. What else can I do? But I feel the larger truth I’ve been searching for slipping away like so many grains of desert sand.
TK-7: Calm down.
“I am not here about the uncut Argazdan diamonds you stole from us,” my grandfather says. Zuckuss and 4-LOM exchange a glance as my own eyebrows rise to the top of my head. “Although,” the old man adds, “that did help us track you down.”
TK-7: Oh, interestingly, there was a single Argazdan diamond included in the memo we received about this assignment! I placed it in the charitable donations, and that’s where it will stay!
“You didn’t mention you used stolen Argazdan diamonds as seed money for our venture,” 4-LOM points out.
“And you didn’t share any with Zuckuss,” Zuckuss adds.
Various customers are creeping their way toward us, I realize. One of the Ithorians. A Zabrak who had been dining alone. Someone in a full-body armor suit with a limp who was waiting for takeout when we arrived. These must be Vap’s people, probably waiting for some signal of what to do.
“I’m not here about the diamonds!” Grandpa Mozeen snarls in the voice that means violence is about to erupt. “I came about the massacre on Suba Tren.”
A clatter erupts from the kitchen, and then a huge Gamorrean storms out, snarling and spluttering. That would be Freerago.
“I didn’t murder those Frizznoths on purpose!” Vap pleads.
“Then I, in turn, won’t murder you on purpose,” Grandpa Mozeen says.
“No bloodshed in Freerago’s!” Freerago roars.
“Not to worry,” Grandpa Mozeen chortles, “this won’t take long.” Then with a single swipe he lops off Vap Tomulus’s head, which lands with a thunk and a splish on the wet table. “Oops.”
TK-7: Oh dear!!
“Grandpa!” I yell.
The visor whirs up from Grandpa Mozeen’s mech suit, and his pleased little face winks down at me. “How are you, my boy?”
“Betrayal!” 4-LOM yells, letting off a volley of laser blasts from a tiny TYX blaster he must’ve concealed from the bouncer. Most go wide—he’s still trying to extricate himself out of the seat over Vap’s headless corpse—but a few glance off my mech suit.
“Barabarabara kikataaaa!” someone yells at the far end of Freerago’s, but I can’t make out who. More blasterfire flings toward us from the doorway as the group of burly Ithorians pull out clubs and start whacking away at anyone nearby.
“Get down!” Grandpa Mozeen yells, but he doesn’t get down; instead he kicks Zuckuss in the face and then leaps off the table into the knot of grappling bodies. Zuckuss spins and drops with a wheeze. Something wet is dripping onto my mech suit. Something red, I realize, following the shiny puddle to Vap’s torso, which has collapsed onto the tabletop.
That’s the moment when the world seems to catch up to me. Everything had been so quiet up till then, so loud and so quiet, like all the yells and thumps and laserfire voided each other, became a blur of white noise that meant nothing, everything and nothing.
This is when, normally, I would jump in and make sure the old man is all right. But in truth, the old man is very much all right and clearly in no need of backup at the moment. Plus, I’m supposed to be here as a journalist, not part of the chaos. And anyway, now more of my cartel members have joined the fray; they must’ve been waiting just outside the diner. There’s Beebatee, a cousin I grew up with, and Zafeen, who told me she was in love with me as we hid beneath the stairs at Mar Kalapa’s compound. They clomp between the tables in their shiny mech suits, running interference as Grandpa Mozeen fights through a throng of what I assume to be Vap’s crew.
Each thump and blast is crisp now. I’ve lost track of my primary subjects, 4-LOM and Zuckuss. I can’t make sense of the fighting, but I can feel the internal sway of it, the momentum that carries it along the edge of the diner and directly toward…me.
“Down I said!” Grandpa Mozeen yells again, and finally I throw myself under the table just as the Dug who had brought our drinks pops out from behind a counter with a massive blaster cannon gripped in each foot. The guy looks like he’s been waiting his whole life to unleash fiery death on two dozen customers.
“I warned you fools,” Freerago mutters, jumping for cover.
Fwajoom! Fwajoom! Fwajoom! Fwajoom! Beeznusa’s lasers thunder out, shattering glass and sending everyone into a frantic dive for the floor.
“You know, Parazeen,” my grandfather says as he crawls under the table beside me, “we are all very very proud of you.” He slides open the face guard on his helmet, and I do the same.
“Grandpa,” I say. “Pleaseah don’t do athees. Notta now.”
TK-7: Oh gosh—not you too!? But you’ve spoken such perfect Basic throughout this article! Alas, I shall go ahead and fix up all of your statements as well. You’re welcome!
“Bah! I do what I want.” He waves me off. “We have never had a journalist in the family!”
I sigh. I’ve lost my subjects and everything is a mess.
“What’s a matter, Para?” Zafeen snorts, shoving Vap’s legs aside so she can fit under the table with us. “Are you mad we jacked up your big story?” She slides in beside me and pops open her visor so I can see her smirk, and I can’t lie, it gets my pulse up, remembering all that we almost had, all we may still become.
TK-7: Oh my!
“No,” I lie, but it crumbles immediately when their chuckles erupt on either side of me. “Okay, a little, yes! I was onto something big! This was my first break with the Digest.”
More fighting breaks out overhead, and Grandpa Mozeen says, “Ah yes, the publication where they have been wasting your talents and leaving you to fester and mold, bringing them caf while they write boring puffy garbage about how wonderful the Empire is, hm?”
“That’s the one.”
“What is the heart of the story you are trying to tell?” Zafeen asks, and she’s not smirking anymore, she means it.
“It’s about how there are different kinds of criminals,” I say, realizing the truth as I speak, “and while the galaxy just sees lawlessness as one big bad thing, the truth is, there are gangsters like Zuckuss and 4-LOM, who prey on the helpless and hunt down freedom fighters for cash to uphold this vile regime.”
“Grr,” Grandpa Mozeen growls.
“And there are gangsters like…” My voice trails off as I glance between the open gazes of my lifelong friend and my beloved grandfather. “…like us,” I finish, and then I bask for a moment in both of their smiles. “We Parapas may not follow the law, we may not be the most diplomatic or compassionate, no, but we hate the Empire, and we have a code.”
“Well,” my grandfather says, with love in his eyes, “then you better get moving.”
I follow his gaze to where Zuckuss and 4-LOM creep on hands and knees tow
ard the door.
“But I…” My voice trails off as I realize what the old man means, what I have to do.
“We will watch your suit, hm?”
I nod as the suit powers down around me. Then I hop out and make my way quickly across the carnage-strewn floor.
* * *
—
The whole world is a sweaty, stuffy cacophony of nastiness. I can barely breathe, and at any moment I might be discovered and killed.
Still…This, this is it. This is the true fieldwork, the hard-core journalistic unstoppable ferocity that I have been waiting for so long to release on the world! This is what I was born for. Grandpa Mozeen, Zafeen, and Beebatee are one kind of warrior, it is true. But I have found my own kind of warriorship, my own fire, and sure, sometimes it involves sneaking aboard an Imperial Star Destroyer while hidden in the stinking folds of a notorious Gand’s cloak, but it is a fire nonetheless.
TK-7: I…I have just gotten word that someone has sliced into our main server and published this story! As is! With all my comments!! What’s going on, Parazeen!?
From somewhere nearby, I hear a deep breathy voice. It is muffled, reaching through all this fabric and armor, but it is unmistakable. And most important, it’s loud enough to register on my recording device. “There will be a substantial reward for the one who finds the Millennium Falcon,” Darth Vader says. “You can use any means necessary, but I want them alive.” There’s an awkward pause. “No disintegrations.”
I hear Zuckuss let out a raspy, excited sigh.
And I smile.
TK-7: Call the office right now
WAIT FOR IT
Zoraida Córdova
Boba Fett had many skills, but only a single virtue. Patience wasn’t it.
After being summoned by Darth Vader with the lure of a new bounty, Fett made the impossible decision to drop everything he was doing, and that included a job. He didn’t want anyone to think he was going soft, that he couldn’t handle a mark, no matter how small. The bounty in question was a squirmy little Sullustan with floppy jowls who’d broken a contract with Jabba the Hutt. The galaxy was lousy with idiots. But where there was an idiot, there was a case of credits Fett could collect.
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