A Bitter Winter
By Patricia A. Jackson
In the unrelenting glare of Tatooine's twin suns, the Dune Sea appeared to be ablaze. Featureless interruptions of hardened loam and a massive expanse of desert swells created an infinite canopy of thermal combs. A low-lying wind blew across the dune crests, persistently pushing grit and sand into the Steadfast's docking boots.
On the advent of evening, the temperature pressed the indicator scales beyond maximum, stifling an anxious Drake Paulsen as he paced in the shadow of his Ghtroc light freighter, the Steadfast. Agitated, he snatched at the sleeves of his flight jacket and threw it up the ramp into the corridor. It was little comfort against the hot winds. The young Socorran brushed his hands through a shaggy brown mane of loose curls, subsequently fingering the golden earring at his left lobe.
Blowing in from the deep desert, the direction of the wind shifted abruptly. Like most of Tatooine, this particular place had no name, no merit, only a set of coordinates which had reached him through the trusted mouths of fellow smugglers. Get to Tatooine; a friend of your father's is in trouble. Precise coordinates and vector planes had followed. Conveying an urgency that went beyond its cryptic meaning, the information had been in Socorran, meticulously rehearsed by those ignorant of the language. Responding to that call, Drake had traveled half-way across the galaxy, arriving only moments before the prescribed hour.
A mournful wail echoed softly from the interior corridor of the Steadfast. Hands on his hips, Drake turned to the shadowed outline of his partner, the Wookiee Nikaede. Mentally translating words and phrases, he shrugged pensively, noting the curved outline of the bowcaster clasped in her hands. "You'll never pinpoint anything with that storm coming in," he growled, his voice unintentionally harsh.
Beyond the dimming horizon, a wall of sand and dust had created a massive opaque cloud that was moving in their direction. Keenly, Drake could hear the winds, a distant rumble that reverberated against the low-lying back of the ridge. "Just keep your eyes open," he grumbled and resumed his pacing.
Within an hour, the storm's forefront had arrived, blowing sand and stinging debris. Prepared to face the brunt of the storm, Drake donned his flight goggles. "Nikaede!" he shouted from the ramp. "Seal up the thrusters! This might get ugly."
Reminded of the ash storms that plagued his birth world, Drake stared into the storm, dissecting Tatooine and replacing each image with a vision of his homeworld, Socorro. These abrupt thoughts of home struck a nerve, stirring a terrible sense of misplacement and emptiness within him. Distracted, the young pirate did not notice the approach of danger until the sound of footsteps echoed above the wind. Startled, Drake turned, drawing his blaster in one fluid motion. "That'll be far enough!" he growled in Basic, recognizing the tattered robes and breath filter of a Tusken Raider. Cloaked in the violence of the wind, the desert scavenger paused briefly, regarding the pirate with cool arrogance before resuming his menacing advance.
"Move on!" Drake barked, as the intruder took another step closer, forcing him another step back. "I'm warning you," he hissed. His back met an abrupt resistance, the body of a second Tusken Raider. "Nikaede!" he shrieked, as other shadows began to move along the perimeter of his ship. Elbowing the desert scavenger, he bolted toward the ramp.
The raider stumbled back, doubled over, shedding rags and bits of cloth from its head. "Drake," its muffled voice cried. "It's me! Tait Ransom!"
Despite the raging dust cloud, Drake could not mistake the wild, black mane of hair that emerged from the disguise, nor the earthy brown face framed within it. "It is you!"
Roaring vehemently, Nikaede sprinted across the lowered ramp, cradling her modified bowcaster. She growled fiercely, moving protectively to her captain, who was surrounded by strangers. "Relax, Nik," Drake chuckled. "Look who it is."
"Still keeping the same company, I see," the smuggler grumbled, massaging a bruised rib. "Look, Drake," he said curtly, "there isn't much time. I'm glad to see you got my message."
"You sent that distress call?"
"Not for myself," Tait replied. Pursing his thick lips, he whistled sharply, a wavering note that transcended the wind. In answer, several figures scurried across the sand, through the darkness, and toward the ship. They carried a limp, unmoving body between them as they approached. Struggling weakly, the human's face was bloated and flushed with fever, heavily scarred and mutilated.
"Toob!" Drake cried in horror. He recognized the hideous scars, knowing them to be nearly two years older than they appeared. One eye was missing, the socket smoothed over with a discolored patch of scaled skin. The other eye was not human, but rather a cybernetic implant that flashed intermittently, as if malfunctioning.
"It's a bitter winter when a smuggler reaches the end of his days," Tait whispered sadly. He stepped to the side of the ramp, ushering his men onto the freighter.
"What happened?" The Wookiee snarled with menace – Drake silenced her with a stern glare. "Show them to my quarters!"
As the Socorran turned on him for answers, Ransom waved a dismissive hand before his face. "Forget the details, Drake, I don't really know them. I don't know what's wrong with him or how he got that way." Bending at the waist, he shook the sand from his breath filter, tapping it lightly against his heel. In an odd dialect, he motioned his people away from the Steadfast.
"Well what do you know?" Drake griped.
"He's dying," Tait whispered arrogantly. "And he'd be dead by now if I hadn't stuck my nose in it." He watched the Socorran carefully for a reaction. "Jabba has a quirk about people dying in his palace. A useless death is a senseless death. If it isn't entertaining or at least profitable, then it's bad luck. And Jabba hates bad luck." Shrugging, Tait started back into the storm. "He ordered us to dump him in the desert. Fortunately, I had a spice shipment to deliver and it gave me enough time to get the word out."
"But why?" Drake demanded. "Toob has never failed Jabba!"
"It's got nothing to do with failure, Drake." Recognizing the Socorran's temper, Tait hissed, "Don't get any fancy ideas, kid! This isn't Socorro and we're not talking about Abdi-Badawzi." He snatched Drake by the collar, pleased by the frightened glaze that clouded the boy's eyes. "This is the real league out here. Your daddy isn't here to pick up the pieces if you mess up." Releasing the Socorran, he whispered, "You're better off on the other side of the galaxy." Ransom donned his mask and breath filter. "Wait until the storm passes before you leave the planet." As silently as he had come, he vanished into the sandstorm.
Sprinting up the ramp, Drake initialized the closing sequence. A sudden gust of wind shook the Steadfast, rattling through the ventilation ducts and open cylinders. "Nikaede, anchor the landing struts and lock down every vent!" His voice echoed down the passage, muffled by the howling windstorm outside. "Make sure the drive coil shields are in place!"
Exiting the captain's quarters, the Wookiee roared her acknowledgement, pausing only briefly to stare at her partner and then into the cabin. A mournful wail escaped her toothy mouth.
"Don't worry," Drake whispered. "I'll see to him myself. Just get those vents closed and make sure the hyperdrive is functional. We might need to use it in a hurry." As the Wookiee retreated, the Socorran hesitated in the doorway of his personal quarters. Reluctantly, he stepped inside, forcing a long, shuddering breath into his lungs. Kneeling beside the built-in bunk frame, he stared at the withered figure beneath the blankets and watched as the old man shivered and moaned deliriously. Retrieving the medical kit and an antiseptic towel from inside, he gently dabbed at Toob's feverish forehead, frowning as the dirt and grit rubbed off onto the c
loth, leaving behind the mutilated, sunburned flesh of the Corellian's face. "Toob?" he whispered.
Fluttering, the eye opened, its edges swollen and red with fever. Seated in the loosened socket of flesh, the cybernetic unit whirred noisily, focusing on the young pirate. Briefly, a thin smile parted Toob's blistered lips. "Drake," he mumbled hoarsely. "Is that really you, boy?"
"Who else?" Drake whispered. As he had so often done as a child, he took the smuggler's hand and pressed the palm against his forehead. Fighting back tears, he recalled the strength of that hand only 10 years ago and how it had once been able to cradle and protect him. Drake stared, unflinching, into the Corellian's ruined face, remembering how a traumatic encounter with a homemade thermal detonator had left seven men dead and two survivors, one missing a leg, the other his eyes. All the results of one bounty hunter's failed attempt at fame. A smooth, yellowed patch of calloused skin covered what should have been the left eye and socket. Shortly after losing the right eye to radiation, it was replaced with the cybernetic optic.
Flushed with cold sweat, Toob stammered, "I...I knew that rascal...Tait Ransom... would find you," he croaked. Seized with a violent spasm of pain, the Corellian cringed, coughing. Moaning miserably, he relaxed against the pillows, temporarily trapped between unconsciousness and waking.
"Easy," Drake crooned. "You're safe now. Save your strength." His words fell on deaf ears as he gathered the covers beneath the old man's neck. "Nik!" he hollered into the internal comm. "Raise my cabin temperature by 10 degrees."
Drained and demoralized by the fall of a childhood hero, Drake held onto Toob's hand, resting his forehead against the cold, unyielding flesh, as if anchoring the Corellian to the material world. Inundated by a flood of childhood images, he grinned, recalling the bawdy words of a smugglers' bar song, one that Toob had often used in place of a lullaby. Remembering the warmth and power of the man's embrace and the hoarse chorus of words, he began to sing. "I've been on both sides of a blaster. I'm known by the enemies I keep. I'm punching up a jump to disaster. Sweet lady," he yawned mightily, "sweet lady, kiss me, kiss me please." Drifting, he mumbled, "I've run...the Kessel...and survived..." As the stupor of exhaustion stole over him, he quietly fell asleep.
* * *
"I've run the Kessel and survived the show! Made the billboards in Mos Eisley; but I'm no hero, just a lonely rogue. Sweet lady, do you have something special for me?"
Startled by the blusterous chorus, Drake awoke. Disoriented, he tumbled from the bunk, cocooned inside the blankets. As he raised his head to the fading shadows, he soundly bashed his forehead against the bed frame. Invoking several Socorran curses, he massaged the raised bruise and sat up in a clutter of blankets and pillows. Mentally retracing his steps, he recalled the desperate message that had carried to him to the distant world of Tatooine and his maddened attempt to break the rules of hyperspace to arrive at the prescribed coordinates at the appointed time.
Several hours had passed, according to his indicator, and the muddled Socorran could not remember giving the order to leave. Abruptly, his mind conjured the unsettling images of Toob's bloated, gray face and the jumbled voice of Tait Ransom and the coming sandstorm. Stumbling through the door, he scrambled into the corridor as the raucous chorus echoed from the aft section of the ship.
"Won't vanish in no Imperial Census! No, I won't work the Emperor's mines! Ain't scared to make that Final Jump alone, as long as I bid all my mates clear skies!" A melodic verse of Wookiee broke in between the refrain. "That a girl, Nikaede! Now, I'll go and get Drake," Toob grunted. "You head up to the cockpit and set a course for Redcap."
"Redcap?" Drake mouthed, listening to the hiss of deck plates sliding into place. Moving into the accessway, he spied Nikaede opening up the last of the drive coil shields. Toob was nearby, watching her. "Why Redcap?"
"Drake!" Toob cried earnestly. His face was still flushed with fever, his voice scratchy, inflamed with infection. "What's the matter, boy? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Crossing his arms over his chest, Drake leaned against the bulkhead. "I'm not so sure I haven't."
Grinning playfully, Toob limped over to him, palming the young Socorran's forehead with his hand. "Can a ghost do this?" he teased. He turned to the Wookiee, "Set a course for Redcap. With everything she's got!"
Nikaede hesitated. Though she liked the old man and had grown to trust him, even in the absence of her captain, she was reluctant to overstep the bounds of loyalty.
Drake grinned, his faith in friendship renewed. "Go on, Nik. Redcap."
"You have yourself a fine first mate there, Drake. Finest mechanic I've seen this side of the Outer Rim."
Not to be distracted from his question, Drake whispered, "What's on Redcap, Toob? And don't tell me it's a rubber ball conversation and that it will bounce right over my head. This is my ship," he stated matter-of-factly. "If you're up to your neck in bantha fodder, I want to know how and why."
"Fair enough," Toob conceded. For a moment, Drake could see through the thick scars and scaling skin to the old Toob, brown-eyed, flushed, and always grinning with mischief. "It's the biggest spice shipment you or any smuggler has ever seen. Enough spice to make me a king! Why, with my share, I could buy this dustball and turn it into a retirement home. And I tell you what Drake, I'm gonna make sure Marji cuts you in on the deal."
"Marji?"
"Saylor Marjan, a friend of mine from the old days." Abruptly his face darkened, showing the strain of illness and worry. "Speaking of those days, I have something for you." Pulling the chain and metallic tags from his vest pocket, Toob handed the military IDs to Drake. "These were your pop's," the Corellian whispered. "Heard he made his fortune some years back and I thought you might want to have them."
Drake took the chain, quietly staring into the metallic etchings of his father's name, rank, and unit. "A colonel?" he scoffed. "He was one of the Black Bha'lir? Is this real?"
"Does it feel real, boy?" Toob scolded. There was a sharpness to his voice. "Your daddy could out-fly a TIE fighter with one hand on the throttle and the other on a bottle of Corellian whiskey. Called him the Socorran Scourge--" The smuggler's eye dimmed without warning. He collapsed to his knees, leaning heavily against the corridor wall.
"I gotcha," Drake gasped, holding the slumped form against his body.
"What happened?" Toob grumbled.
"I think you better lie down until we get to Redcap." Helping Toob back to his quarters, he fended off the smuggler's coming protest by adding, "You can tell me all about the Black Bha'lir and how my father ended up being a colonel."
"Well, what you'll hear is authentic," Toob insisted. "On my bloodstripes, it's a true story."
* * *
Twelve kilometers behind and below the narrow mountain ravine, the sprawling mouth of Tyma Canyon began to vanish beneath a wandering blanket of lavender-pink clouds, a peculiar phenomena unique to the sullen gray skies of Redcap. The infamous chasm sloped and divided for several hundred kilometers, crisscrossing the barren, flushed face of the planet's surface, forming the only possible landing ledges within a 20-kilometer range of the mountain settlements above the rim.
Leaving the Steadfast safely hidden in the basin region, Drake bartered a bottle of Socorran raava and a few power cells in exchange for a pair of olai. Left behind in the wake of dwindling mineral resources and mine closures, the creatures were late descendants of those that had worked in the mines. Aggressive yet enduring, the animals had spent nearly a decade evolving within Redcap's hostile environment, multiplying and spreading over the planet's surface.
Drake watched the olai's ponderous head, bobbing left to right with each stride. The bulbous, hollow horns that grew and curled about the creature's head and neck gave the impression that the animal was struggling to carry its own bulk. Exhausted and moody, the mare threw her head in protest, spraying her chest and legs with foam. Noisily rasping her teeth over the metal bit, she clenched and hauled at the reins, hurling herself and
her rider over the final ridge.
Loosened in a fall farther down the mountain, a broken mountain cleat clattered noisily against the iron-mounted shoe. Drake listened to the dim rattle, reliving the near fatal spill. He shook his head dubiously, wishing that he had never accepted Toob's impetuous challenge to race up the mountain. Chastising himself, Drake realized that in Toob's shadow, he was still a little boy and the smuggler had used that to his advantage.
Still shaken by the crash, Drake pressed a confident heel to the mare's side and urged her to gallop into the narrow ravine. Slumped over in the saddle, Toob's feverish face glistened with sweat and the smuggler grumbled unintelligibly. Drake gently pulled the reins from the Corellian's loose hands and attached a lead rope to the olai's bridle.
Annoyed by the old man's beguiling force over him, Drake planted a firm kick to the olai's side, ignoring a streak of red clay across his flight goggles. His eyes followed an unerring path of vague childhood memories – obscure recollections that beckoned with the promise of help and security in the good will of an old friend. If his instincts were accurate, he would find sanctuary in the small hunting lodge, which sat only meters from the main trail, nestled in the crook of the Juteau Settlement gates.
Beyond the rustic rooftop and the modest corral, Drake could see the veiled outline of houses, shelters, and shops. Along the main road, several glow lamps had been activated, chasing away all but the most persistent shadows. From the dim, night skies, a light drizzle fell, lending an unnatural thickness to the footing. The click of the olai's metal claw echoed noisily against the rutted trail, as he swung into the front yards. And despite the unmistakable sharpness of the mountain cleats, the animals stumbled frequently.
Drake guided the mare to the corral fence and halted. Stiff and saddlesore, he kicked free of the stirrups and dismounted. With deliberate slowness, he gently swept his hands over the olai's broad back, surveying the extent of damage covering her black hide. Severely bruised by the fall, the mare flinched beneath his touch, nickering polite criticism to her handler. Vividly made aware of his own sores, emotional and physical, Drake grinned and scratched her velvet-smooth muzzle.
Star Wars - A Bitter Winter - Adventure Journal #5 Page 1