"It's time to say goodbye." Placing my backpack by my foot, I drop to one knee in front of the shorty, who stood before me with slumped shoulders. Over the several days of our journey together, the little shaman's apprentice had grown attached to me and spent much of her time nearby, trying to teach me the spoken Jawa language—which, I must admit, was quite the ordeal. "I think we'll see each other again."
Carefully patting the little alien on the shoulder, I stand to my full height without further words or tearful goodbyes and walk away from the Sandcrawler's parking spot, where the Jawa clan had set up their small camp.
Ahead, literally a hundred meters away, a human moisture-farming settlement was visible, so my path was clear. But I had only taken a single step when a tiny palm gripped the edge of my cloak.
Turning around, I caught an amusing sight: my little friend was torn between looking at me and looking at her elder kinswoman, who was watching us intently.
A strange pantomime lasted for a few minutes before, hunching over discontentedly, the Shaman waved her hand and erupted into elderly grumbling, accompanied by abundant gesturing.
In contrast to her mentor, the apprentice began to jump joyfully in place, after which she darted into the Sandcrawler and, barely a minute later, stood before me with a backpack over her shoulder.
It looked hilarious...
"Isn't that bag a bit big for you?" Glancing doubtfully over her shoulder, I had a flashback to my service in the Helldivers. I remember when the first prototypes of the support drones were just coming in—essentially a gun on a small drone that helps spread the seeds of freedom across worlds. Everything would have been fine if it weren't for the massive charging station carried on one's back... God, we were so exhausted from hauling those things around. We had to carry an extra twenty kilograms on our spines for two whole years before the smart guys on Super Earth built a much more compact and lightweight version.
And here we were again. The little Jawa looked much the same. Her backpack was nearly larger than she was; it was truly amazing how she could carry it.
And she clearly hadn't packed it with fashionable outfits or other nonsense. I can see a piece of an antenna sticking out from here.
"It'll do."
If I were to paraphrase the entire sequence of sounds, shouts, and hand-wavings, it could be summed up in those two words.
"If you're sure... it can be dangerous with me. And the galaxy isn't particularly tolerant of your race..."
Carelessly waving her paw, the Jawa confidently adjusted her backpack and, with her head held high, walked further, overtaking me and heading into the town first. She waved to her companions in farewell, though I'm sure she told them much more than a simple "later."
Approaching the settlement gates—which were wide open in anticipation of trading with the Jawas—I froze for a moment, staring at the familiar features.
"Moisture Farm Station Number Six..." Reading the crooked sign, from which a couple of letters had fallen off, we walked inside, pursued by the gazes of suspicious guards... Yeah, one guardian of local order was "better" than the next. Thin, haggard, and most importantly—old. A pair of men with old blaster rifles could barely stay on their feet. Faces covered in wrinkles, missing teeth, sagging skin, gray hair... "It's a bit depressing here... A cemetery would be more cheerful."
At the Jawa's questioning look, I merely wave my hand, for which I receive a couple of weak punches to my thigh.
"Like a child, honestly."
Passing through the gates, we found ourselves in an old, dusty town barely making ends meet, and you know... the place perfectly matched those who defended it.
When I entered this old town, I immediately felt as if time had frozen here. Dust floats around me, shimmering in the sun's rays like a ghost of the past. Every step produces a creak, and cracks are audible underfoot, as if the earth remembers its old times.
Removing the cloth from my face, I feel the taste of decay and smoke on my lips—smoke long gone, leaving this dying settlement behind, but... it's as if the very spirit of the village is trying to convey to me what happened a few months ago.
My eyes carefully look around, noting small details that the residents tried to fix, but still, too many traces remained.
The houses around look worn out, the paint on them has peeled, and the scaffolding that supported them has been swept away by time and human hands.
I walked around the corner of one of the buildings, once a shop, and peered inside through torn curtains—emptiness and ruin reign there. The remaining items are covered in dust, like memories of bygone days.
Several traces of blaster shots adorn the ceiling and walls. Apparently, they tried to wash or paint over them, but it was of little use, so the shop was simply draped with fabric...
"An expensive luxury. Or do they have that much surplus?"
Looking over the people inhabiting the village, I began to understand the reason.
The rare passersby remind me of ghosts. Their faces are haggard, and it's clear how poorly they are doing and that only the habitual stubbornness characteristic of all Tatooine residents keeps them living.
There are no young people here, only old men sitting on benches like forgotten statues. Their conversations are quiet, and it seems they are reminiscing about what once was, communicating with the ghosts of their memories.
They talk quietly among themselves, barely moving weathered lips that haven't known moisture for days.
Water... the mere thought brings sadness. The station where it was extracted is destroyed, and there is no hope for restoration. I look at the holes in the ground, the breaches from explosions. A place that once gave life, and I can guess how many people wanted to find it here. Now their dreams have collapsed, and the air is filled only with dust and bitterness.
Food, surely, has also become a deficit. I see how every word of the old men is a cry for help, even if they don't utter it aloud. Every morsel they try to find becomes a symbol of the struggle for survival in this empty and forgotten place.
Hiding behind my leg, the Jawa emitted a quiet, sad squeak, reminding me of a dog in that moment. The little alien was surely able to sense much more with her incredible sense of smell.
"Let's go. All is not lost yet," I said, gently nudging her in the back and ignoring the hostile and mocking looks the locals cast at our backs. "We need to find the head of this place and find out what happened, though I already have a rough idea..."
At that exact moment, turning the corner of another building, we came out into the central square, where a large platform rose in the very center, upon which gallows were located. Four classic nooses, three of which were occupied—evidently recently.
The bodies, still intact and not yet rotted, swung in the wind. One of the condemned had frozen in an awkward pose, having tried at the last moment to tear the hempen ring on his neck. His hands, apparently, had cramped, and now he remained hanging in that position, amusing the old men enjoying the spectacle.
Stepping across the parched square, we drew more and more attention. At some point, the locals began to emerge from their houses. Elderly men and women, clutching weapons in their hands, looked aggressively in our direction and, as we approached the gallows, they too began to come out into the square, gradually surrounding us.
Everything froze the moment I took the last step, standing opposite the dangling corpses. The dead were dressed identically... well, as identically as people in the sandy wastes can dress, where all clothes are hand-sewn or cut from the remnants of colonist supplies.
"Do you pity them?"
A voice sounded behind my back. Without turning around, I cut my eyes toward the tense crowd, ready to snap at any moment. Spears, pickaxes, blasters, and a few powder rifles and pistols. Cheap homemade stuff, but even so... they could finish off the shorty huddling against my leg, even as she tried to cover herself with her cloak.
Placing one hand on her head in an attempt to calm her, I moved the second to the side, simultaneously turning my torso so that, in the event of a shootout, I could easily draw my weapon.
"No, not until I find out why they were hanged."
"For good reason."
A loud spit was heard, after which someone began to walk slowly toward me until an old man—a true wreck barely standing on his feet—stood level with me... But in his hands, he held a genuine blaster carbine with a magazine sticking out of the side. Not a remodeled pistol and not a single-shot rifle so loved by desert dwellers—no. This was a piece of military-grade weaponry...
Pointed right at me.
"These are raiders... well, that's what they call themselves," the old-timer said, poking a crooked, trembling finger toward the corpses. He circled me until he stopped opposite my face. "They used to live at Station Twelve, a couple of dozen kilometers to the north."
"I take it an honest and full life wasn't for them?"
"You've hit the nail on the head, boy." Grunting, the old man climbed onto the platform, showing me his open "piggy bank" of a mouth. "Working isn't for those bastards."
The barrel of the carbine poked the first corpse, which swayed from the heavy shove.
"This one used to be a water-hauler. I remember him; he'd occasionally trade tools with us for extra water." Discontented grumbling sounded from somewhere to the side, but it seemed the old man heard it too, as his voice gained strength and volume. "But instead of working as his ancestors did, he chose the path of a raider and a rapist!"
A sharp swing of the hand, and the rope is cut by a long knife, resembling a cross between a dagger and a scimitar. The corpse tumbled into the hatch open in the floor, hitting the ground and kicking up a handful of dust.
Looking at the face of the hanged man, my own face contorted into a grimace. A horrific death. It seems the guy's neck held, and he suffered for a long time, slowly dying of strangulation under his own weight.
"This one," moving to the second, the village head—clearly the one in charge—struck him with the butt of his weapon several times, spitting and swearing, "a boy, the nephew of an old friend of mine... the little bastard killed Frank, his own uncle! Frank raised the brat, gave him everything, and in return, he put a bullet in him, right between the ears—in the back of the head, like a bantha at the slaughter!"
The rope couldn't withstand the abuse the old man organized for the body and snapped on the next blow, releasing another body to the ground.
"We have a new one here. I haven't seen his mug before." Approaching the last one, the old man thoughtfully scratched his chin, knitting bushy white eyebrows. "Awfully groomed, and skin as clean as a baby's bottom... I took him for a woman at first."
"We've never had beauties like that in these parts... Ow!"
The outcry was immediately followed by appropriate punishment. The sharp sound of a cuff on the back of the head rang out, and a pair of old men laughed, mocking their comrade.
"Yeah... but don't be fooled by his looks... He was quite the bastard—took out three of ours before he got fitted with a 'hempen necktie.' But old Moody snuck up behind him and gave it to him good!"
Coarse male laughter erupted in the square, cutting off instantly as soon as the old man wiped the smile from his face. Approaching the edge of the platform, leaning closer to me with an elbow on his knee, he squinted one eye, staring into my serene face.
"As you can see, whether they're new or old friends—guests aren't particularly welcomed in our neck of the woods." Jumping down to the ground, the old man again aimed the blaster carbine at me, baring rotten teeth. "So tell me, who are you? Friend or foe?"
At the latter option, my interlocutor jabbed a thumb backward, showing that the choice here wasn't exactly vast.
"I'm on my own," at my words, the old man smirked wickedly, and his finger on the trigger flicked slightly, "but I'm always ready to help and repay kindness with kindness. Tell me about these 'raiders,' and maybe I can help you..."
"Ha-ha-ha!" A nasty, croaking laugh was my answer, but not a single muscle twitched on my face, and I continued to look at the old man with a friendly smile—the old man in whose eyes, for just one brief moment, I saw a spark of hope. But it vanished just as quickly as soon as he pulled himself together. Grasping the blaster with both hands, the old man stepped even closer to me, his eyes never leaving my face. "So, you're a bounty hunter?"
His tone was serious and a bit frightening. There was so much faith in his words, so much hope for justice, that for a second I even seriously wanted to agree with his words, but common sense and conscience won out.
"No." A disappointed sigh escaped the mouths of not only the old man but all the surrounding residents of the village. "I'm more of just a traveler who is ready to help."
"A little helper," spitting on the ground, the man finally turned the barrel aside, which seemed to serve as a release valve. The people began to slowly drift away, putting away their weapons and stopping their scrutiny of my every step. Only a couple of people still stood nearby, clearly covering their leader. "Where were you before, eh? Fine... Just talking. Let's go into the house; I'll tell you how things are. If you help, I promise I'll give you the most precious thing I have..."
As if on purpose, the old man shook the carbine in his hands, hinting at what a wreck like him could possibly have of value.
"...Well, and if you kick the bucket, we have nothing left to lose anyway, right, boys?"
"Boys... they look about five hundred years old."
Fortunately, I didn't say anything aloud. For after walking a few meters, one of the local veterans grabbed his back, dropping to a knee and wheezing strainedly about a sore back.
"For fuck's sake, Lenny. Stop crawling around the fields at night! I told you—you'd catch a chill!"
***
The conversation with the combat veterans went swimmingly. They wheezed, swore, tried to mock me, and constantly threatened me, subtly hinting that they could easily handle me... Amusing old men, and perhaps I would have believed them if not for the hidden sorrow mixed with hope in their eyes that appeared every time they looked at my way.
The local ringleader and previous elder of the settlement—Ramil Castle—was an extremely interesting sentient. A cross between different representatives of the human species, he had worked in the security of a mining town before it was sacked by desert dwellers thirty years ago.
Having combat experience, excellent training, and good equipment, Ramil struck out on his own, traveling between moisture farms where he offered his services, spoiled girls, and drank like a pig.
But the years take their toll, so one day he decided to stay at Station Number Six, where he started a family and was now quietly living out his days—until the settlement was raided.
The raiders worked dirty. They blew up the gates, burst inside on riding animals, and slaughtered everyone who dared point a weapon at them, although that's not usually how things are done here, for labor and people are just another resource, and to waste it so pointlessly...
"Resource... It's hard to get used to slavery. A mad world. Cursed Tatooine... One day I'll fix this, but for now, I should keep myself in check."
The thought flickering in my head didn't stop me from finishing the story, which was ordinary for this world. They came, they killed, they took the surviving young ones with them, abandoning even their own wounded, who were currently dangling in nooses, starting to slowly stink.
Ramil lamented that his years were no longer what they used to be, and if he were ten years younger, he would have easily driven off the arrogant bastards... But it sounded doubtful. According to the story, there were almost fifty raiders, and I doubted one old man could have handled them all.
Even his support group, for whom the nursing home was crying out, looked at their leader with skepticism, causing the latter to constantly get angry and fly into a rage, slamming his fist on the table.
The raid was a couple of weeks ago, almost reaching a month, so theoretically, the raiders could have hidden anywhere during that time, escaping any potential pursuit, but...
There was no one to chase them! In the immediate vicinity, there is no one who could compete with these unruly bastards. Small settlements, moisture farms, tiny nomadic tribes—all of them tried to avoid open and such straightforward conflicts, preferring to survive behind walls and by paying off the desert dwellers passing them by.
These raiders didn't even hide, didn't cover their tracks, and simply went to the same place, not fearing consequences—though I'm sure if the neighboring settlements united, they could have repelled an enemy of such a level.
"A little democracy wouldn't hurt here. Otherwise, this communal-tribal system will lead everyone to the same grave."
I was torn between thoughts of freedom, which is available to everyone, and the idea that by uniting and electing a representative, people could more easily handle the dangers of the desert.
But let's return to the local bandits, whom I promised to deal with.
The gang was arrogant, bold, and stupid. Well-armed, which is why even the desert dwellers didn't mess with them, preferring to steer clear.
And the rare Jawa Sandcrawlers weren't even taken into account by anyone. So it turned out that the gang huddled under the leadership of Sandy Grimm...
"Seriously? Sandy Grimm?"
"Yep, that's what he calls himself."
"What a stupid name."
"You haven't seen him yet. This idiot found magnetic grenades somewhere. He took one of them apart and wears the magnetic device on his chin." Nodding amusingly, the serious old men sat at the table, drinking hallucinogenic cactus juice lightly diluted with water. "This Grimm is quite the eccentric. He wears a beard made of sand."
"I see... Wait, a beard made of sand?" In response, I received synchronous nods, and no one was bothered by such stupidity.
"And he called his gang the 'Desert Rules.' Like, they're the ones who are going to set the rules here now..."
At first, I even thought I was being pranked, but seeing the serious faces of my interlocutors, I decided not to press the issue and carefully question them about this Grimm, but unfortunately, they knew nothing more except his name.
He's dressed in closed clothing and wears a beard of sand into which various metal parts are constantly sticking, which Grimm painstakingly pulls out, sometimes forcing other members of the gang to do it.
There were also a couple of lieutenants in the gang, but Ramil and his team knew nothing about them.
"Fine. I've learned everything I need. Even too much." The old men hadn't been stingy with bloody and cruel stories, so by the end of the meeting, I was fully charged and ready to go and impose the rights of free citizens with my bare hands if necessary.
"Good luck, Sam. May Tatooine be soft to you."
"Thank you."
Rising from the table, leaning on it with my palms, I took another look at the crooked map, clearly hand-drawn. A few notable landmarks, a couple of squiggles, and a basic route of movement.
The data had been studied. The briefing conducted. Which meant it was time to bring a bit of democracy to the local raiders.