Galaxy's Edge

by Delilah S. Dawson

  Near a patch of rugged stone, they intercepted a rough sort of dirt road. “We call this Savi’s Path,” Salju told Vi. “It starts at the ancient ruins, which are considered dangerous or holy, depending on who you ask. But if you follow it in this direction, the path will lead you straight to Savi’s scrapyards and then the market. His workshop and storefront are in BSO—which is what locals call the outpost.”

  Up ahead, the tall trees thinned and parted, and Vi could see evidence of civilization. The buildings were a hodgepodge of old and new, as if everything here had been built on something older using whatever materials could be found. Tarps and striped canvas awnings stretched between tall structures, providing shade for the colorful figures bustling to and fro on the paths underneath. Lanterns and censers bobbed from posts and swung from ropes, and good smells danced on the wind, promising rich spices and fire-roasted meats. The buildings favored roofs with flat domes, whether dull concrete, painted in bright colors, or crafted of metal in various stages of rust and verdigris. The structures seemed to be cut from the planet’s natural features, almost as if they’d been carved from natural rock or built up from the ground itself like a child’s sandcastle. Vi could hardly tell what was old and what was new.

  “What’s that stuff on the spire?” Vi asked, pointing to something growing on one of the many spires for which the outpost had been named. Although they looked like brown and dark-gray rock now, Vi had read that they had once been trees, petrified after eons in the elements. At this particular spire, several locals in colorful vests and sweaters were standing on ladders, scraping a strange yellow substance off the stone and into buckets.

  “Golden lichen,” Salju said. “A local delicacy. They call it gold dust. It can be used in paints and dyes or as a garnish for food.” As if she could see Vi counting the patches of gold on various spires and structures, she added, “Seems like easy pickings, doesn’t it? But Oga also controls the gold dust market, so I wouldn’t get caught poaching her lichen.”

  “Trust a crime boss to monopolize anything of value,” Vi grumbled.

  “Just assume that Oga controls everything—or at least takes her cut.” Salju pointed to one of the bigger structures. “We call this part of the outpost the Land Port. That’s my filling station, where I handle the smaller vehicles—speeders, speeder bikes, and crankbikes. Fill ’em up and fix ’em up when they break down.” She next pointed to a beige structure with three matte-gray dome roofs sprouting antennas and other crude tech—but tech nonetheless. “But that’s where you’ll want to go first—Mubo’s Droid Depot. He’s a reasonable fellow, if not to everyone’s taste.”

  Outside the depot’s trapezoidal open door waited a host of different droids, ranging from astromechs and power droids, to round BB units, to a very familiar undercarriage with an arm laid in front of it like an invitation: Pook’s stolen parts.

  Oga’s people worked fast.

  “Let’s definitely talk to Mubo. Although you had me at ‘reasonable’ and lost me at ‘not to everyone’s taste,’ ” Vi said, scrutinizing the state of the droids on display. In her experience, the droid shops with clean, working droids tended to have proprietors with whom she could do business, whereas the crustier, sparking droids suggested someone who was only interested in credits instead of someone who enjoyed working on bots and bringing them, as a fellow on Coruscant had once put it, “back to life.”

  “Oh, it’s not that he’s bad.” Salju lowered her voice as they approached, cutting her eyes at the passerby inspecting the depot’s wares. “Just a bit eccentric. Manic, even. Mubo has a one-track mind, and that track is droids. He’s a character, but he loves his work, and I think he might be sympathetic to your current problem.”

  Salju didn’t try to help Vi out of the landspeeder, but she did stand nearby, just in case. As Vi limped under the awning of the Droid Depot, a cheerful and well-kept white-and-navy R4 droid beeped in welcome. She noted that none of the droids were sparking, and that Pook’s rear end had been polished to a shine.

  The shop was dark and cool within, and the familiar smells of metal, oil, and the sharp burn of solder made Vi feel right at home. Every surface was crowded with droid-based wares, and colorful droid appendages dangled from a conveyor belt overhead, zooming aroun the room with lively efficiency. It had a junky but whimsical feeling, as if every droid, part, or upcycled project might be exactly what some customer was looking for. Taking in the thoughtful chaos, Vi approved of the general bustle and friendliness of the shop’s technicians.

  “Bright suns, Salju!” called a high voice, and a stocky Utai with grayish skin waved from where he stood on a ladder behind the counter. He was working on a KX droid, goggles over his distended eyes as he waved a blowtorch in a careless sort of way.

  “Mubo, your—” Salju called, pointing worriedly at the waving flame as it came perilously close to a moldering bit of tarp.

  But the Utai ignored the warning, scuttling down the ladder with the torch in hand. “My latest droid!” he said proudly. “Isn’t he a beaut? Picked him up for a song and a wink.” He hopped to the ground and waddled around the counter—up until the hose on his blowtorch ran out of length. It nearly jerked out of his hand, and he yelped something in his native Utai, stared at the blue fire like it was a naughty pet, turned off the gas, and extinguished the flame.

  “Mubo, this is my new friend Vi,” Salju said with a small bow.

  “Bright suns to you, too!” He lifted up his goggles and gave Vi a curious glance. “You look like someone who needs a droid.”

  Vi was well aware that her smile was wry and not nearly as innocent as his. “I do. Or, to be more accurate, I need half a droid. Maybe two-thirds.”

  Mubo cocked his head and pointed at a wall of rusty shelves holding thousands of stacked droid parts. “Well, you’ve come to the right place.”

  “Vi’s ship crashed. Jerdan and Royce, you know,” Salju said. She and Mubo shook their heads as if in understanding of the embarrassing business. “And when she came to, someone had stolen the bottom half of her PK-Ultra droid, as well as one of his arms.”

  “How rude!” Mubo said, looking truly scandalized and putting a stubby hand over his heart. “It’s one thing to take a droid apart for noble reasons, but to tear one in half for coin is insulting to all who love our metal friends.”

  “And it looks like you paid coin for my droid’s parts.”

  Mubo’s head reared back, and he gulped and fidgeted with the goggles. “Oh. Yes. I see now. Half of a PK-Ultra droid and an arm. That’s your unit out front, isn’t it? I thought the price was too good, but it was the sob story that drew me in.” He leaned toward Vi. “Fellow sold the parts to me at a good price this day, said it happened in a crash.”

  “It did. My crash.”

  Vi and Salju waited while Mubo took off his goggles, tried to clean them, smeared their lenses thoroughly with the oil on his hands, and put them back on.

  “I can’t give it to you,” he finally said. “Because that’s bad business. But I’ll sell it to you for exactly the same as what I paid for it.”

  The price he named was in the local currency, spira. Once Salju helpfully told her the rate for converting spira into credits, Vi realized it was more than fair, and she reluctantly paid him a downpayment from her emergency stash. For all that Pook was gloomy and a little annoying, he was the key to a successful mission here. He was the one who would do the physical work of building out the site that would act as a Resistance command center and recruitment facility, erecting bunks and stacking crates and, hopefully, one day, installing power and lights and walls, and he needed legs and both arms to do it.

  “Tell you what, though,” Mubo said. “I’ll put him back together for you for free. Your sob story’s worse than the original one, and if Salju says it’s true, then it’s true. Where is he? Er, the rest of him?”

  “On the edge of the old
post,” Salju said.

  “I thank you for your kindness, and we’ll bring him to you tomorrow,” Vi broke in. Sure, Salju knew where her transport was, as did the gang of thugs who’d stolen from her. But from here on out, Vi wanted to keep the exact location of her headquarters a secret. For all that Salju and Mubo seemed like good people, such crossroads generally attracted less honest and altruistic folk, too. It was always possible that someone might recognize Vi from an old holo and attempt to make quick credits by turning her in.

  Mubo smiled. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Good trade. May the spires keep you!”

  Salju led Vi back outside, where the sunlight seemed unusually bright.

  “I get the ‘bright suns’ greeting, but what’s ‘may the spires keep you’?” Vi asked.

  One hand shielding her eyes, Salju pointed to the rocky spires rising from the surrounding forest. “We don’t know much about the civilization that was once here. Where they came from, who they were, what happened to them. We use what they left behind, but for the most part their legacy is shrouded in mystery. The one constant from their world to ours is the spires, these petrified remains of ancient trees. So we honor them with that reminder. The outpost was named for one in particular—you’ll know it when you see it.”

  “Fair enough.” Vi should’ve known—it was common across cultures to choose something big and mysterious and constant and treat it, well, if not as a god, then as something of importance, something that could change luck or add protection. And the spires were ancient, mysterious, and ever looming. Might as well code them as protective rather than ominous. The sooner she learned the town lingo, the sooner they’d accept her as a known quantity. “Where to next?”

  Salju stopped to consider it, looking Vi up and down.

  “Before you go looking for your belongings, you’ll probably want to adopt some of the local wardrobe. The way you’re dressed now brands you an offworlder, and offworlders are harder to trust.”

  “I’m not giving up my jacket,” Vi said, a little more fiercely than necessary.

  Salju held up her hands. “Oh, you don’t have to! But a local scarf, vest, or wrap would help you blend in a little better, or at least show that you’re trying. Come on. We’ll stop in at Arta’s place.”

  “I don’t have money to spend on looking sharp,” Vi reminded her.

  But Salju just kept smiling—could anything stop that smile? “Just a cheap used wrap, then. But trust me: Fitting in could be the difference between a fair price for your goods and a deal that’ll set you back. Black Spire—well, we take care of our own.” She paused. “And to some, that Resistance symbol is a target.”

  Vi sighed; she’d hoped to find the local populace on the side of the Resistance, but of course there were always going to be detractors. “Okay. Maybe you’re right. Let’s go.”

  She briefly wondered if Salju would get a cut of any business she brought in, but she had to smother that thought. After all, Mubo had sold her Pook’s missing pieces for far below the asking price and had even offered to help fix the droid—and the guileless Utai actually looked excited about the prospect. Places like Black Spire Outpost, far away from the rest of the galaxy, became tightly knit communities. Residents cared about one another and about their home. And what she’d seen of Salju so far suggested the Batuuan was genuine.

  They walked through the market, and Vi saw stalls selling refreshments, lanterns, toys, pets, and artifacts. People chatted with neighbors, wove on lap looms, or ground grains into masa on worn stones. Sunlight slanted down through strips of fabric overhead, and small avians flitted everywhere, darting from the crumb-laden stone floor to nests hidden in the eaves. Lanterns of all sizes and shapes dangled from gently swooping power cords, casting warm light into even the most shadowy corners. Vi couldn’t help stopping to inspect some charming carvings in a shop that appeared to be closed; she was especially interested in one showing the Jedi crest, flanked as it was by two pudgy and curious-looking bird statues.

  The local architecture favored domes and swags and three-quarter arches, and the windows were all divided into smaller panes of glass, making everything feel decorative, like the icing on a cake. Balconies and turrets made patches of shade over handwoven baskets of fresh vegetables and fruit and mounds of powdered spices. Vi loved visiting markets like this, where she could exchange credits for goods farmed or crafted by callused hands and taste food one step away from nature.

  In the midst of the market’s splendor, one landmark stood out: a black spire different from all the rest. Instead of the usual gray and brown stone, it was all black and smooth as volcanic glass.

  “I’m guessing that’s the black spire of Black Spire Outpost?” Vi asked.

  Salju smiled, kissed her pinkie, and touched it to the spire. “It is indeed, long may it stand.”

  “Why is it different from the others?”

  “There are many stories. My favorite is the one about how, long ago, when the ancients dwelled here, there was once a fearsome monster in the forest called the Naklor, a hairy beast with long claws made of bone. It came out at night, when the moons were darkest, to steal gruffins and the men who went out to milk them. Soon the villagers began to suffer as the milk dried up and the hunters disappeared. So the local matriarch took her staff out to fight it, and their battle was mighty. Finally, she struck the Naklor with such power that it burned to a cinder where it stood, and this is all that’s left of its shriveled husk. Some say its heart still lurks within, thirsty for blood. When I was little, we dared each other to kiss it, but we only used our pinkies.”

  Vi chuckled; she’d heard this sort of legend before. “So nobody thinks it’s just a really old tree, huh?”

  Salju winked. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  As they continued walking and she watched the locals go about their business, Vi had to admit that Salju was right about her clothes—nearly everyone wore some kind of woven tunic, shawl, vest, or scarf over their practical cargo pants and heavy boots. Sure, there were people wandering the market in the leather jackets and capes of smugglers and the easy coveralls of long-range haulers, but that only made them easier to pick out from the locals. When Salju led her into a warm and inviting space filled with unique clothing, Vi knew it was the right choice.

  Overhead, colorful spools of thread dangled like galaxies filled with stars, while rolls of luscious fabric hung down like curving rainbows, each sporting a handwritten tag. It felt like an artisan’s cozy workshop, and Vi actually found herself fingering some of the hanging clothes—on a clearance rack.

  “Salju!” A slim and graceful Twi’lek woman in a beautiful magenta kurta appeared from between two lush purple curtains behind the main counter. “I told you this tunic was just the right color for you.” She and Salju embraced, and Salju turned to introduce Vi.

  “This is Arta Kleidun,” she said. “Arta, this is Vi.”

  “Bright suns,” Vi said with a warm smile.

  Arta inclined her head and returned the greeting. “I saw you touching the shawls. Are you looking for anything specific?”

  “I’ve been admiring the local fashions,” Vi told her. “What would you suggest?”

  “Her ship crashed, and her cargo was stolen, so she’d like to fit in,” Salju added helpfully.

  Vi schooled her face not to show her annoyance at that. Spies didn’t reveal any more information than was necessary, and now that Arta knew her purpose, she might charge more or spread word among the merchants.

  But Arta’s smile disappeared. “Oga’s boys. I saw Rusko and his gang hauling in some sleds of goods from the old post earlier. I swear, just when you think things are getting civilized—”

  “You didn’t come here to be civilized, Arta,” Salju reminded her.

  Arta rolled her eyes and shrugged. “I like a little color in my life. Doesn’t mean I think we should stoop t
o stealing from the travelers who keep us in business.” She walked to the selection of shawls that had caught Vi’s eye and selected a pretty one in dark orange with a geometric pattern in deep red around the edges. “This would be nice with your complexion, bright without standing out too much.” She expertly draped it over Vi and tugged here and there, making adjustments. “I saw your eyes light up at the brighter colors, but one mustn’t look like they want the attention sometimes, eh?” She gently steered Vi toward a mirror, and Vi turned this way and that, admiring the clever style, which loosely hid everything above her knees yet made it easy for her to access her weapons.

  “And with a few adjustments, you can…” Arta trailed off as she restyled the shawl to hide all but Vi’s eyes. Clever girl!

  Vi nodded and grinned. “I didn’t come to Batuu for fashion, but I’m not disappointed,” she said. “How much?”

  Arta held up a small tag affixed to a corner of the shawl, which showed the original price in spira, crossed out with a welcome discount. “I can tell when someone’s looking for a deal,” she admitted.

  Vi gladly paid her in credits, and as they left, she returned Arta’s “May the spires keep you!”

  Outside, she let herself breathe out a little. Bit by bit, she was moving through her troubles. Up next—

  Vi’s stomach, much against her wishes, growled.

  Salju looked at her and smothered a laugh.

  “Being in a crash makes a girl hungry,” Vi admitted. “Do I smell meat?”

  Salju pointed to a wide-open door farther along. “That would be Ronto Roasters—a local favorite.”

  “Then let’s go there.”

  Vi was glad to notice that the locals weren’t staring at her quite as much as they crossed the market. The delectable scent of roasting meat continued tickling her nose, drawing her forward, and she knew she’d made the right choice.