Galaxy's Edge

by Delilah S. Dawson

  The temperature changed as Rusko dragged Vi through the door and slammed it shut. They were in a hallway carved from the same material as the rest of the outpost, with walls and floor of the same porous, creamy stone. It was cool here, and a damp breeze blew in from somewhere far off along with the plink of water, suggesting perhaps another cenote or spring. Someone had installed lanterns far overhead to light the way down the hall, and that was the direction they were headed.

  “Stop wiggling, bait,” Rusko growled. His teeth ground together like razor blades near her cheek. “Or I’ll accidentally bite off your ear. It’s not like you need both of ’em.”

  Vi wanted to inform him that she would be happy to stop struggling if he would just carry her in a reasonable manner instead of juggling her like she was a greased puffer pig, but instead she let her breathing speed up almost to a pant and whimpered, “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “Already told you what was wanted. I don’t repeat myself.”

  He carried her through another arched door and into a room with much better lighting. It resembled a throne room, with a tall, wide chair hewn from the rock and draped in cushions and blankets. On it sat—well, a shaggy tooka-cat, splayed out in sleep. Vi gave a wiggle and scanned the rest of the room as best she could. She noted a desk and a woven carpet, worn but finely crafted. Movement by the door caught her eye as N’arrghela ducked inside, cradling her bowcaster. Behind the Wookiee came Oga Garra.

  The crafty Blutopian’s eyes were but tiny dimples on either side of her leathery gray head, and she regarded Vi thoughtfully as she sat at a desk in the corner, plucked a piece of clamfruit from a waiting bowl, and peeled it, releasing an unpleasantly briny scent.

  “You understand Huttese?” Oga asked—in Huttese. Her voice was like claws on a slate.

  “Tagwa,” Vi answered, her voice small, as if she were frightened.

  Oga’s pink-tinged mouth tentacles shuddered. “Your accent’s garbage,” she continued. “So if you understand Huttese and I understand Basic, let’s do each other a favor and speak our native tongues. My protocol droid is a pain in the rump.”

  Vi nodded meekly, because that’s what a simple scrapper would do. “Okay.”

  “Where are you from?” Oga sucked up the clamfruit pulp, and Vi struggled not to grimace; it sounded like an angry squid circling a toilet bowl.

  “Chaaktil.”

  “More recently.”

  “Cerea. I was moving a shipment—”

  Oga tossed the clamfruit rind at her, effectively shutting her up.

  “I know you’re with the Resistance,” Oga said.

  Vi didn’t answer immediately because that’s what a scared person would do—they’d be frozen or in shock.

  “I…I…” she started.

  “Put her down, Rus.” Oga reached for another clamfruit. “Nobody can talk near those teeth.”

  Vi was ready when he dropped her, but she stumbled anyway, using the moment to scan the area. Her own teeth ground together with rage when she saw some of her stolen cargo piled in a corner—the most sophisticated tech they’d brought. Generators, nav machines, and her long-range comm—the one she would’ve used to contact Leia to let her know that the mission was off to a good start.

  By the time she stood, she’d already recomposed her face to show fear and shock instead of fury. Nice girls didn’t get dragged out of bathrooms by sentient sharks, after all.

  “I don’t know what you’re—”

  “Say it,” Oga pressed. “You’re Resistance. You were seen in the market wearing a jacket with a starbird crest two days ago, before you covered it up. Don’t tell me you just found it during your travels.”

  Vi straightened the shawl she’d bought to hide that very symbol and stepped forward to meet Oga’s eyes. The gangster was not the sort of person who would abide fools. But she also wasn’t going to appreciate arrogance or sarcasm.

  Fine. If she wanted a straight shooter, she would get a straight shooter.

  “I’m with the Resistance,” Vi confirmed. “And yeah, I earned this jacket.”

  Oga nodded and thoughtfully sucked up another clamfruit.

  “Raaaawgh,” N’arrghela groaned.

  “No, you can’t pull off her arms,” Oga said. “Patience. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get blood out of that rug? Honestly.”

  Oga stood, picked up a small dish of something blue and gelatinous, and walked over to Vi, which made life even more uncomfortable. Instead of a rock and a hard place, Vi was stuck between a shark and a squid-thing, underground, and her allies and friends had no idea that anything was even slightly wrong.

  “Why did you come to my planet?” Oga asked between messy slurps of her snack.

  Vi kept her face neutral, even when pearls of goop sprayed her cheek.

  “I’m supposed to build an encampment here,” she finally said.

  There was no point in lying about it, Vi reasoned. If Oga hadn’t guessed already by her cargo and her jacket, she would discover the truth soon enough when Vi started building and recruiting. Dotti was probably singing about it upstairs. And even if Vi had chosen to keep her secret tonight instead of telling her co-workers, recruitment involved telling prospective recruits who you were and what you were doing, so it’s not like she could’ve hidden her activities from the cunning and well-informed gangster for long, anyway.

  “A Resistance encampment? On Batuu? Why? This place has no strategic value.”

  Vi exhaled. Time to put her cards on the table.

  “The two things the Resistance needs most right now are bolt-holes and new blood. A place like this with a busy spaceport and folk looking to get lost—that’s mighty attractive.”

  Oga squelched a wheezing sigh and moved a step closer. She had a powerful, animal musk about her with a tinge of the sea, and Vi wondered what she and Rusko liked about this relatively dry stone-and-forest ecosystem, so far from their own watery planets.

  “They got a lot of money, the Resistance?”

  Vi shrugged. “More for ships, fuel, rations, and other goods than for ransom, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m nobody special.”

  “Of course not,” Oga agreed. “Or else they wouldn’t have sent you here.” She held up the small glass dish that had held her snack and inspected it closely before slurping up a few bits of fizzing goo. “Look here: I don’t believe in the Resistance. They’ve got powerful enemies. And I don’t want powerful enemies, so I can’t have offworlders calling down trouble.”

  She crushed the glass dish between her fingers. The juice stung Vi’s eyes, but she didn’t flinch.

  “I get rid of trouble, Vi Moradi, and it doesn’t come back. That’s why I’m the one in charge. So you can stay here as long as you have spira to spend, but you don’t want to get on my bad side.”

  Vi stepped closer, chin up. “You know the First Order is all bad side, right?”

  Oga laughed, and it sounded like a clogged drain. “I like people who bring me money, and if the First Order is as powerful as I hear, they might just do that. So far, you’ve only brought me annoyance and a pittance in exchange for some yarn. Guess who I like better?”

  With a sigh, Vi swiped the clamfruit juice and blue spatters off her face. She was definitely going to have to wash her clothes now. “The only reason you’re still in charge here is that the First Order hasn’t decided to take it away from you. That’s what they do—they show up and take. They destroy. Land, buildings, weapons, lives. That’s what the Resistance is trying to stop.”

  When Oga’s thick, rubbery fingers patted her face, it took everything Vi had not to slap her hand away. “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me, little scrapper. I do fine.”

  Vi snorted. “Sure you do. Sending your muscle to steal from unconscious visitors who just survived a crash is a brilliant strategy.” />
  Rusko roared and stepped forward, but Oga stopped him with a look.

  “You’re brave, I’ll give you that,” she said, and her long fingers stroked what might’ve been called a chin. “And maybe a little stupid. I might have a job for you.”

  Vi’s eyes flashed at Rusko and N’arrghela. “If it’s joining your crew, the answer is no.”

  Oga laughed a gargling laugh and slapped the Karkarodon on the shoulder. He didn’t budge. “That wasn’t the offer. They’d spend days picking bits of you out of their teeth. But let’s say I recently came into possession of some cargo that might be of use to you.”

  Vi made a wrap-it-up gesture. These games were so time consuming.

  “Yes, I would like my cargo back. What do you want?”

  “There’s this ancient Batuuan artifact. Dok-Ondar’s been looking for it, but he’s cleaned out most of the valuables in the ruins and still can’t find it. I’d love to have it in hand before he does. Got a buyer all lined up, and then I wouldn’t need to give Old Dok his cut. I want you to find it for me.”

  Vi’s look was skeptical. “Why trust a stranger like me when you could send anyone?”

  Rusko growled, N’arrghela screeched, and Oga held up a hand to silence them.

  “I did. I sent several anyones. Some of ’em I actually liked. They didn’t come back, and now none of my people are willing to try again. The ancients left their traps, see, and then Dok-Ondar didn’t clean ’em up. But you’re small, expendable, and probably trained for this sort of thing. Sneaking around, getting past traps. We don’t know much about the civilization that used to live here, but we know they left behind a lot of ways to kill people, once you get deep into their world. And we know they hid their most valuable belongings where nobody could see ’em. Scrap of what we found says ‘shining in the dark.’ ”

  “So it’s underground,” Vi said.

  “Looks like it.”

  “And do you have a map?”

  Oga shook her head like Vi was a fool. “Old Batuuan people didn’t leave maps, girl. The ruins are a maze of caverns and tunnels, and I reckon the prize is still in there somewhere. And if it ain’t, well, then it’s down another hole.”

  “Sounds cozy,” was what Vi actually said, but she was thinking about how this assignment could have a major payoff. Not only could she get on Oga’s good side and earn back some of her cargo, but if everyone else here was frightened of the ruins and Vi could survive them—and map them—maybe the Resistance could use them. Crait was never far from her mind, where an old cave had been the only thing that had saved the Resistance from total annihilation at the hands of the First Order.

  “So you’ll do it?”

  Vi put a hand on her hip and grinned. “Let’s set the ground rules. One: If I retrieve this artifact, I get my cargo back.”

  Oga nodded once. “What’s left of it.”

  “Two: Considering I’m planning to stick around and I hear you own or control just about everything here, I’d like permission to temporarily use the ruins as part of the Resistance command post.”

  The Blutopian put her head on the side. “I don’t really care what happens at the ruins unless someone is turning a profit, at which point I’ll want my cut. But I can ignore some activity if it benefits me, eh?”

  “We won’t be turning a profit, and I think we’ll definitely benefit you. The Resistance has fleets that need fuel. Troops that need food and clothes and weapons—and trips to the cantina. It’s not like anybody else is using the ruins. And when we leave, they’re all cleaned out of scary traps and ready for you.”

  Oga ambled to the bowl of clamfruit, pacing and slurping as she thought about it. Rusko grumbled about his cut of the cargo, and N’arrghela ran her fingers up and down her bowcaster, crooning at it. Vi suddenly noticed the Talpini squatting motionless in the corner of the room, his broad lips turned down and his bright-blue eyes unblinking; he might’ve been carved of stone except for the flicker of light on his eyes. The tooka-cat woke up, shook itself, hopped to the floor, and pawed at Oga’s legs hopefully until she tossed down a bruised and stinky fruit.

  “Fine,” she finally said. “But remember: You don’t own the land. And if anything’s missing from the cargo you claim is yours, that’s none of my business. I’m doing you a favor. Even if you succeed, you still owe me. Everyone does.” Oga held out a leathery gray hand dripping with clamfruit juice, and Vi reached out to shake it. In careful Huttese, squeezing the bones of Vi’s hand, Oga intoned, “Du bargon Oga es du bargon macroon tee-tocky.”

  A deal with Oga is a deal for life.

  “Mendee-ya jah-jee bargon,” Vi responded in Huttese, using her proper accent this time. We have a deal.

  Oga nodded and the tentacles around her mouth curled up. “Come to the cantina on your day off. Rusko will show you where to go.”

  “But what is it? What am I looking for?”

  “The ancients loved nature, especially water and stars,” Oga said with a rubbery shrug. “Strange folk. Their greatest artifacts glow or shimmer. Might be a gemstone statue of a god, might be a piece of jewelry, might be a crystal. You’ll know it when you see it.”

  Vi nodded. “And when I have the artifact in hand?”

  “Bring it back here, and don’t put it in any hand other than mine if you want to live, much less collect. Don’t you get it, girl? As long as you’re in Black Spire Outpost, this cantina is the center of your world.”

  Oga nodded with finality and turned her attention to the clamfruit, and Rusko shoved Vi’s shoulder hard enough to make her stumble.

  “She’s one of us now, Rus. Don’t damage the goods,” the Blutopian called over her shoulder.

  “I don’t work for you,” Vi called sharply. “I work for General Organa.”

  At that, Oga laughed so hard that the tooka fluffed up and ran away. It was a sound that might’ve shattered glass.

  “That’s not how things work here. You’re far away from this general of yours, and you’re doing a job for me, and you live in my outpost on my rock, so, yeah, you work for me. Everyone in Black Spire does, whether they know it or not. You’re one of us.” Oga turned back around, and her face did something horrible that might’ve been called a smile, somewhere in the galaxy. “Besides, the alternative to being one of us is being an offworlder, and you never want to be seen as an offworlder, an outsider, a stranger. We charge extra for that. Welcome to Black Spire Outpost.”

  She went back to her clamfruit, and Rusko shoved Vi, and Vi started walking. She was completely sober now, and without the buzz of the alcohol, her back hurt from scrapping, and she’d been gone far longer than she’d meant to be. But at least she was returning to her camp with hope. All she had to do was defy death in a place that had already claimed the lives of several people Oga actually trusted. That couldn’t be too hard—her minions appeared to have been chosen for their muscles, teeth, and unhinged natures, not their cleverness, training, or subtlety.

  “Oh, and little rebel?” Oga called right as Vi was about to step back into the hallway, because much like generals giving bad news, that was always when tough gangsters chose to drive the knife of their rule home.

  Vi stopped.

  “Yeah?”

  “I can’t stop you from talking in the cantina, but if I hear you’re bothering other customers, I’ll have N’arrghela rip out your tongue, and maybe a few teeth.”

  Vi shook her head but did not turn around. “Anybody ever tell you you’re a real benevolent despot?”

  Oga’s caustic laugh made her wince as it bounced off the stone. “All the time, girl. All the time.”

  Rusko marched her back down the hall, through the darkness, and up to a wall. His heavy hand pressed down on her shoulder to indicate she should wait. He put an eye to a tiny crack in the wall, opened the door into the bathroom stall, and shoved Vi through.


  “This here’s a one-way door,” he said, low and deadly. “Don’t tell anybody, or we’ll know who told. And maybe we’ll let N’arrghela pull off one of your arms anyway.”

  “I’m one of you now, remember?” Vi said, turning around to give him her best unimpressed look.

  “Not to me, you’re not. And not to Oga, neither, unless and until you deliver that artifact.”

  Rusko slammed the door, leaving Vi alone in the bathroom. She exited the stall and went directly to the mirror, where she did her best to scrub the clamfruit juice and specks of blue slime off her face.

  Black Spire Outpost, she was learning, could be a very messy place. She’d thought it would be easy, coming here and selecting a site and building a tidy headquarters. She’d thought the task beneath her. But the experience so far had been rife with chaos and uncertainty. It was startling, being so far from the Resistance and hearing someone respond to General Organa’s name not with respect or hatred but with crude, mocking laughter.

  Right now, she and Archex and Pook represented the sum total of the Resistance presence on Batuu, and they had almost nothing. Without resources and credits, it was hard just to scrape by in the galaxy, much less build something lasting. If she could pull off this job for Oga, they’d have a place to stay, and maybe even the beginnings of a headquarters.

  At least now, they had hope.

  THE WALK BACK TO CAMP FELT a lot longer at night, and all Vi could smell was clamfruit juice. She’d learned much at the cantina and wished she could talk it over with the general. But no—not until she got their long-range comm back. And she wasn’t even sure if that equipment was included in Oga’s deal. For all she knew, she could risk life and limb to get a sacred pet rock in the ruins and receive nothing but a box of bolts in return.