"It's time to say goodbye." Placing my backpack by my foot, I knelt on one knee opposite the shorty, who stood before me with slumped shoulders. Over the few days of our journey together, the Shaman's little apprentice had grown attached to me and often spent time nearby, trying to teach me the spoken Jawa language, which, admittedly, was quite an ordeal. "I think we'll see each other again."
Carefully patting the little alien on the shoulder, I stood up to my full height without unnecessary words or tearful goodbyes and walked away from the Sandcrawler parking area, 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 barely taken a step when a tiny hand grabbed the edge of my cloak.
Turning around, I caught a funny sight: my little friend was torn between looking at me and her elder companion, who was watching us closely.
A strange pantomime lasted for a couple of minutes before the Shaman, hunching over discontentedly, waved her hand and broke into an elderly grumble accompanied by abundant gesturing.
Unlike her mentor, the apprentice instead started jumping joyfully in place, then ducked into the Sandcrawler and a minute later stood before me with a backpack over her shoulder.
It looked hilarious…
"Isn't that bag a bit too big?" Looking doubtfully over her shoulder, I had a flashback to my time serving in the Helldivers. I remember when the first prototypes of support robots arrived—basically a gun on a small drone that helps carry the seeds of freedom across the worlds. And everything would have been fine if not for the huge charging station carried on the back… God, how we hated lugging those things around. For two whole years, we had to carry an extra twenty kilograms on our spines before the eggheads from Super Earth built a much more compact and lightweight version.
And now, it was the same. The little Jawa looked much the same. Her backpack almost exceeded her own size; it was actually surprising how she could carry it.
And she clearly hadn't packed it with fashionable outfits or other junk. I can see a piece of an antenna sticking out from here.
"»; :?"№%? *»!
"It'll do."
If I were to rephrase that whole string of sounds, shouts, and hand-waving, it could be boiled down to one single word.
"If you're sure… It might be dangerous with me. And the galaxy isn't particularly tolerant of your race…"
Waving her paw dismissively, the Jawa confidently adjusted her backpack and, with her head held high, walked on, overtaking me and heading into the town first. Waving to her companions as a goodbye, though I'm sure she told them much more than a simple "later."
Approaching the gates of the settlement—which were wide open in anticipation of trade with the Jawas—I froze for a moment, staring at the familiar features.
"Moisture Farm Station 6…" Reading the crooked sign, from which a couple of letters had fallen off, we walked inside, followed by the gazes of suspicious guards… Yeah, one local law enforcer was "tougher" than the next. Thin, haggard, and most importantly—old. A couple of men with old blaster rifles could barely stay on their feet. Wrinkled faces, missing teeth, sagging skin, gray hair… "It's kind of depressing here… A cemetery is more cheerful."
At the Jawa's questioning look, I just waved my hand, for which I received 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… this place perfectly matched those who protected it.
When I entered this Old City, I immediately felt that time here had seemingly frozen. Dust floats around me, shining in the sunbeams like a Ghost of the past. Every step makes a creak, and cracks are heard underfoot, as if the earth remembers its old times.
Removing the cloth from my face, feeling the taste of decay and smoke on my lips—smoke long gone that left 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 look around carefully, noting small details that the residents tried to fix, but still, there were too many traces.
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 things are covered in dust, like memories of days gone by.
Several marks from blaster shots decorate the ceiling and walls. Apparently, they tried to wash or paint over them, but it was of little use, so the shop was simply covered with cloth…
"An expensive luxury. Or do they have that much surplus?"
Scanning 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 bad they feel and that only the habitual stubbornness characteristic of all Tatooine residents makes them continue to live.
There are no young people here, only old men sitting on benches like forgotten statues. Their conversations are quiet, and it seems they are remembering what once was, communicating with the ghosts of their memories.
They whisper quietly among themselves, barely moving wind-chapped lips that haven't known moisture for days.
Water… just the 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 scrap they try to find becomes a symbol of the struggle for survival in this empty and forgotten place.
Hiding behind my leg, the Jawa let out a quiet, sad squeak, reminding me of a dog in that moment. The little alien surely could sense much more with her incredible sense of smell.
"Let's go. Not all is lost," gently pushing her in the back, ignoring the hostile and mocking glances of 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 of what occurred…"
Exactly at that moment, turning the corner of another building, we came out to the central square, where a large platform rose in the very center, upon which gallows were located. Four classic loops, three of which were occupied, clearly recently.
Still intact bodies, not yet rotted, dangled in the wind. One of the condemned had frozen in an awkward pose, trying at the last moment to break the hemp ring around 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 dried square, we attracted more and more attention. At some point, the locals began coming out of their houses. Elderly men and women, clutching weapons in their hands, looked aggressively in our direction, and as we approached the gallows, they also began to step out onto 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 remains of colonists' supplies.
"Pity them?"
Someone's voice rang out from behind. Without turning around, I glanced at the tense crowd, ready to snap at any moment. Spears, pickaxes, blasters, and several powder rifles and pistols. Cheap homemade stuff, but even so… they could finish off the shorty who was pressing into my leg, even trying to cover herself with her cloak.
Placing one hand on her head in an attempt to calm her, I moved the other to the side, simultaneously turning my torso so that in case of a shootout, I could easily draw my weapon.
"No, not until I find out why they were hanged."
"For cause."
A wet spit was heard, after which someone began to walk slowly toward me until an old man stood level with me—a real wreck, barely standing on his feet… But at the same time, in his hands, he held a real blaster carbine with a magazine sticking out the side. Not a converted pistol and not a single-shot rifle that the desert-dwellers love so much—no. This was a specimen of military weaponry…
Pointed in my direction.
"These are raiders… well, that's what they call themselves," poking a crooked, shaking finger toward the corpses, the old man walked around me in a circle until he stopped in front of my face, "they used to live at the twelfth station, a couple of dozen kilometers to the north."
"I take it an honest and full life wasn't for them?"
"Spot on, boy." Grunting, the old man climbed onto the platform, showing me his open "piggy bank." "Work isn't for these bastards."
The barrel of the carbine poked the first corpse, which swayed from the strong shove.
"This one used to be a water carrier. I remember him; he used to exchange tools with us for extra water," a dissatisfied grumble came 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 like his ancestors did, he chose the path of a raider and a rapist!"
A sharp swing of the hand, and the rope was cut by a long knife, looking like a cross between a dagger and a scimitar. The corpse fell into an open hatch in the floor, hitting the ground and kicking up a handful of dust.
Staring into the face of the hanged man, my face contorted in a grimace. A gruesome death. It seemed the guy's neck held, and he suffered for a long time, slowly dying of suffocation under his own weight.
"This one," moving to the second, clearly the head of the settlement hit him with the butt of the gun several times, spitting and cursing, "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 didn't withstand the abuse the old man organized for the body and snapped on the next blow, releasing another body to the ground.
"Here we have a newcomer. I haven't met his mug before," approaching the last one, the old man thoughtfully scratched his chin, frowning bushy white eyebrows, "mighty sleek, and skin clean as a baby's bottom… I actually took him for a woman at first."
"We never had beauties like that around here… Ow!"
The shout was immediately followed by appropriate punishment. The sharp sound of a slap to the back of the head rang out, and a couple of old men laughed, mocking their comrade.
"Yeah, but don't be fooled by his looks… He was a real piece of work—took down three of ours before he got himself a 'pumpkin necktie.' But old Modi crept up behind him and stuck it in him good!"
Coarse male laughter erupted in the square, instantly cutting off as soon as the old man wiped the smile from his face. Stepping to the edge of the platform, leaning closer to me, resting his elbow on his knee, he squinted one eye, staring into my serene face.
"As you can see, whether newcomers or old friends—they aren't particularly welcome guests in our parts." Jumping down to the ground, the old man again pointed the blaster carbine at me, baring rotten teeth. "So tell me, who are you? Friend or foe?"
At the latter option, my interlocutor jerked his thumb back, showing that the choice here wasn't exactly broad.
"I'm on my own," at my words, the old man grinned maliciously, 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 perhaps I can help you…"
"Ha-ha-ha!" A nasty, croaking laugh was my answer, but not a single muscle on my face twitched, and I continued to look at the old man with a benevolent smile, 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. Grabbing the blaster with both hands, the old man stepped even closer to me, not taking his eyes off my face. "So, you're a Headhunter?"
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 sanity and conscience prevailed.
"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 helper," spitting on the ground, the man finally pointed the barrel away, which seemed to serve as a trigger. The people began to slowly disperse around the area, putting away their weapons and ceasing to watch my every step. Only a couple of people still stood nearby, clearly covering their leader, "where were you before, eh? Fine… I'm just saying. Let's go into the house, I'll tell you what's what. 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 could be valuable for a wreck like him.
"…Well, and if you kick the bucket, then we have nothing left to lose anyway, right, boys?"
"Boys… they look about five hundred years old."
Thankfully, I didn't say anything aloud. For after walking a couple of meters, one of the local veterans grabbed his back, dropping to one knee and wheezing heavily about a sore back.
"For God's sake, Lanny. I told you not to crawl around the field at night! Told you—you'd catch a chill!"
***
The conversation with the combat-ready old-timers went swimmingly. They wheezed, cursed, tried to mock me, and constantly threatened, subtly hinting that they could easily handle me… Amusing old men, and perhaps I would have believed them if not for the hidden sadness mixed with hope in their eyes that appeared every time they looked at me.
The local instigator and previous elder of the settlement—Ramil Castle—was an extremely interesting sentient. A mix of different representatives of the human species, he worked in the security of a mining town before it was ravaged by desert-dwellers thirty years ago.
Having combat experience, excellent training, and good equipment, Ramil went freelance, traveling between moisture farming stations where he offered his services, spoiled girls, and got drunk as a pig.
But years take their toll, so one day he decided to stay at Station 6, where he started a family and was now peacefully 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 usually it isn't done that way here, since labor and people are just another resource, and to waste it so pointlessly…
"Resource… It's hard to get used to slavery. Mad world. Cursed Tatooine… One day I'll fix this, but for now, I should keep myself in check."
The thought that flashed through my head didn't stop me from listening to the story, which was mundane for this world. They came, they killed, they took the surviving young people with them, abandoning even their own wounded, who now dangled in the nooses, starting to smell.
Ramil lamented that his years were no longer what they were, 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 nearly fifty raiders, and I doubted that one old man could have handled them all.
Even his support group, who were practically crying out for a nursing home, looked at their leader with skepticism, which made the latter constantly angry and furious, pounding his fist on the table.
The raid was a couple of weeks ago, almost a month, so in theory, during that time the raiders could have hidden anywhere, escaping potential pursuit, but…
There was no one to pursue them! In the immediate vicinity, there was no one who could compete with these unruly bastards. Small settlements, moisture farming stations, tiny tribes of nomads—they all tried to avoid open and so straightforward conflicts, preferring to survive behind walls and by paying off the desert-dwellers passing by them.
These raiders didn't even hide, didn't cover their tracks, and simply went to the same place, not fearing consequences, although I'm sure if the nearby settlements had united, they could have repelled an enemy of that level.
"A bit of Democracy wouldn't hurt here. Otherwise, this communal-tribal system will lead everyone to the same place."
I was torn between thoughts of freedom, which is available to everyone, and the fact that by uniting and electing a representative, people would be able to handle the dangers of the desert more easily.
But let's get back to the local bandits 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 stay away.
And the rare Jawa Sandcrawlers weren't taken into account by anyone at all. So it turned out that the group gathered under the leadership of Sand Grimm…
"Seriously? Sand Grimm?"
"Yeah, that's what he called himself."
"What a stupid name?"
"That's because you haven't seen him yet. This idiot found magnetic grenades somewhere. He took one apart and wears the magnetic device on his chin." Nodding amusingly, the serious old men sat at the table, drinking hallucinogenic cactus juice slightly diluted with water. "This Grimm is quite the character. Wears a beard made of sand."
"I see… Wait, a beard made of sand?" To which I received synchronized nods, and no one was bothered by such stupidity.
"And he named his gang 'Desert Rules.' Said they're the ones who will 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 asked them about this Grimm, but unfortunately, besides his name, they knew nothing else.
Dressed in closed clothing, wears a beard of sand where various metal parts constantly stick, which Grimm painstakingly pulls out, sometimes forcing other gang members to do it.
There were also a couple of assistants 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 didn't skimp on bloody and brutal stories, so by the end of the meeting, I was fully charged and ready to go plant the rights of free citizens even with my bare hands.
"Good luck, Sam. May Tatooine be soft on you."
"Thanks."
Getting up from the table, leaning on it with my palms, I once again examined the crooked map, clearly hand-drawn. A few notable landmarks, a couple of squiggles, and a simple 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.
***
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