"Now, lift!"
Bent K'nobby and Lurk Splitwhisker grunted and heaved as they tried to lift Arty Farty into the back of the truck.
"Almost there. Almost there..." said Lurk.
"Just a little higher," gasped Bent.
"Almost... No, she's slipping!" Lurk dropped to his knees and got his shoulder under the cylindrical 'bot. "Heave!" he yelled.
Arty rolled up the last little distance, toppled over the edge of the truck's rear cargo tray, and fell with a loud crash onto the metal floor of the tray. She whistled mournfully.
Lurk clung to the back of the truck, gasping for breath. "She's heavier than she looks," he muttered. Arty whistled and beeped indignantly.
They looked across at where Seepy stood watching them, his perpetual surprised expression on his face.
"Don't worry about me, sirs," said Seepy. "I should be able to get up there by myself."
"Thank the Gods for that!" mumbled Lurk.
As the humans staggered around to clamber into the cab of the truck, Seepy Weepy climbed up into the back with Arty. There was a sudden lurch as the truck began to move forward, and he clattered to the deck beside the stubby astrobot. Seepy lay back and gazed up at the cloudless sky, mauve tinged with streaks of dusty purple. The two 'bots lay for a while in a companionable silence.
Finally, Seepy asked, "So why did you not just use your hover jets to get up here?"
Arty bleeped and whistled.
"Oh, he did, did he?" said Seepy. "Well, serves him right then!"
Arty whistled in agreement.
"I don't know how I'm going to tell Uncle Rowan and Aunt Beryl that I'm leaving," said Lurk as he guided the heavy hover truck across the dusty plain.
"Would you like me to speak to them?" asked Bent, raising his voice to be heard across the deep rumble of the truck's engines.
"Uh, that probably wouldn't be a good idea," said Lurk. "In fact, it's probably best if you wait in the truck while I talk to them alone."
"You must do what you think is right, of course," said Bent.
"At least I'll only need to take Arty," mused Lurk. "Uncle won't miss her, and he'll still have Seepy to help out where possible."
"You're not planning on bringing both 'bots?" asked Bent.
"I can't see the point," said Lurk. "So far I can't see that either of them has been anything but trouble. The only reason I'm taking the astrobot is because she's the whole point of going to Alderbark."
There was silence in the cab for a while. Actually, it was rather noisy in the cab, what with the roar of the engine and various squeaks and rattles from the old truck, but neither man spoke.
It was Bent who broke the silence. "Look, Lurk, is that smoke?" He pointed over to the right.
Lurk looked. Thin tendrils of smoke curled upwards from behind a low hill. Suddenly Lurk remembered the explosion he and Seepy had seen the day before. "There was an explosion of some kind yesterday," he told Bent. "This can't be that; it's too far North. But two fires in the same area? That doesn't sound good."
"We should investigate," said Bent.
"There's no time," said Lurk. "This old truck is slow enough as it is. Besides, by the look of that smoke it has almost burned out. Whatever happened there, we've well and truly missed it. Half the desert scavengers within a thousand miles will have been here by now."
"Okay," said Bent. He sounded worried.
"Hey, we should clear that hill in a moment. There are some binoculars in the glove compartment if you want to take a closer look."
Bent rummaged in the small compartment and pulled out the binoculars. He raised them to his eyes and peered through them. "It's a Yahoo crawler," he reported quietly.
"A Yahoo crawler?" repeated Lurk.
"Looks like it has been attacked," said Bent. "I can see several Yahoo corpses scattered around on the ground."
"But who would attack a Yahoo crawler? Who could attack a Yahoo crawler? They're too big! Was it the desert dwellers?"
Bent sighed and lowered the binoculars. "Why does everybody always blame the desert dwellers? They're actually a lovely people, if you take the time to get to know them. They are just shy, and territorial. That's all."
"Sorry," said Lurk.
"Besides, it couldn't have been them," said Bent. He raised the binoculars again, and adjusted the zoom. "Those blast patterns are too precisely placed. Only Imperial Shock Troopers are that accurate."
"Imperial Troops? Why would Imperials attack a Yahoo crawler? Sure, the Yahoos are a little larcenous from time to time, but generally that just requires a bribe, and both parties are happy. What else could they have wanted?"
A nasty thought occurred to him. "Unless..." He stamped on the brake, and the truck shuddered and skidded to a halt. He grabbed the binoculars from Bent and squinted through them, searching for any identifying markings on the huge crawler.
"Those are the Yahoos that sold us the 'bots. What if the Imperials are on the trail of the data Arty is carrying?" He stopped. An even more worrying thought came to mind. "But if they tracked the 'bots to the Yahoos, that would lead them home! Shit!"
Lurk floored the accelerator. Grumbling and shuddering, the truck slowly picked up speed.
There was more smoke directly ahead. It had been visible for some time now, and Lurk was a bundle of nerves. They crested the final rise, and the small cluster of buildings and towers that made up Uncle Rowan's moisture farm came into view. Drifts of smoke rose lazily from both domes, and one of the main moisture collector towers sagged at a precarious angle.
Lurk braked sharply. As the truck slewed to a stop, he leaped down from the open cab and ran across the purple sand to the smaller dome. "Uncle Rowan," he called. "Aunt Beryl. Uncle Rowan." His voice died into his throat as he saw their huddled bodies, burned to the bone, lying on the stairs leading down into the dwelling below. He fell to his knees in the sand, his eyes filling with tears.
"No," he moaned weakly.
After a couple of minutes a shadow fell over him. Bent placed his bony old hand on the youth's shoulder.
"There was nothing you could have done," he said softly. "If you'd been here, they would have killed you too, and the 'bots would now be in the hands of the Imperium. Any data that Arty unit might be carrying would be lost, and the Rebellion would be doomed."
Lurk looked up, his face streaked with tears, a wild hope in his eyes.
"But they're not really dead, are they?" he asked. "I mean, their bodies here are dead, but their real bodies are still somewhere out there, plugged into the Array. Or the grid. Or whatever?"
Bent shook his head sadly. "We don't know for sure, but it is believed that if you die in the Array, you die in the 'real' world too—or, at least, your mind does. Some few Jubbly have learned the secret of writing themselves into the Source so that they live on after death as a 'ghost' in the machine, but I'm afraid that the people you knew as your aunt and uncle are lost to you. To us."
Lurk turned and looked once again down the smoke-filled stairwell. The two skeletal forms looked so very lonely. "Well, there is nothing here for me now," he said. "Not even a change of clothes, by the look of all that smoke."
He stood up, wearily. He felt so old, all of a sudden. So alone.
"Next stop, Alderbark," he said, almost to himself.
Amazingly, Uncle Rowan's hover speedster had not been damaged in the attack. Bent had retrieved it from the garage while Lurk and Seepy had buried the remains of Rowan and Beryl. They had transferred Arty Farty from the truck to the speedster, and now the four of them pulled rapidly away from the ravaged farm as Lurk gunned the vehicle's quiet motor.
"Next stop, Moss Iceberg," said Lurk.
The name was a chimera; Moss Iceberg was as dry and desolate as the rest of Ratatouille. While the various settlements across the planet were not quite cohesive enough for any one city to lay claim to being its Capital, Moss Iceberg could certainly claim to be the most important city to Ratatouille's economy. It boasted three spaceports, and was the centre of trade and industry for the entire hemisphere.
"Moss Iceberg," mused Bent. "You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy! Well, except for Orb Mandrill, I suppose, the smuggler planet. And Correlation is well known for being the home base for hordes of pirates. And it's even pretty tame compared to the palaces of the Butt crime lords. But still, Moss Iceberg can be a pretty dangerous place."
"On the other hand," said Lurk, "they do make the best vanilla ice cream in the Southern hemisphere!"
"True," said Bent. "Either way, there is nowhere else that we'll find a pilot who can take us to Alderbark."
The speedster ate up the distance. They streaked past the valley where the town of Angkor Het nestled, without even slowing down. At one point, Bent reached back into his basket and pulled out a sandwich each for himself and Lurk. They ate in silence.
Before the suns had risen to directly overhead, the vast sprawl of Moss Iceberg rose into view, a pale blotch on the distant horizon.
Lurk eased back slightly on the accelerator as the speedster sped into the outskirts of the city. A crowd of pedestrians scattered as he roared through their midst, and several of them shouted angrily after the speedster.
"I suggest you slow down a bit, Lurk," said Bent. "We don't want to attract any attention to ourselves."
Lurk slowed further. "Okay," he said, "if you say so."
"Head for the spaceport district," said Bent. "We'll sell the speedster there, and hopefully find a ride off this rock."
"Just what I was thinking," agreed Lurk. They coasted slowly around a corner.
"Uh-oh, road block." Lurk pointed forward. A short distance ahead was a squad of grey-armoured Shock Troopers, blocking the road and searching each vehicle that passed through. Lurk tensed.
Bent placed a hand gently on his arm. "Slow down, Lurk, let me handle this," he said softly. "Now is not the time for revenge. It will be much easier to slip away if we do not draw Imperial scrutiny. Discretion now, okay?"
"Fine," hissed Lurk through clenched teeth. "Whatever." He eased the speedster to a halt as one of the Troopers held up his hand and waved them down.
"How long have you had these 'bots?" asked the Trooper, his voice distorted by the external speaker of his helmet.
"About three or four seasons," said Lurk.
"They're for sale, if you want them," added Bent.
"Let me see your identification," said the Trooper.
"Uh," said Lurk. He patted his pyjamas in vain, but he knew he did not have his identification papers with him. He hadn't bothered to take them on his hunt for Arty the day before, and now they were incinerated in his house, along with the rest of his belongings.
Bent made a small gesture. "You don't need to see his identification," he said in a calm, level voice.
"We don't need to see your identification," said the Trooper.
"These are not the 'bots you're looking for," said Bent in the same tone.
"These are not the 'bots we're looking for."
"Wait a minute," said the second Trooper. "What's happening here? Why don't we need to see his ID?"
"You do not need to see his identification," repeated Bent.
"We do not need to see his identification," echoed the second Trooper.
"Stop that," ordered the third Trooper. The two remaining Troopers both raised their weapons menacingly. "Whatever you're doing, stop it!"
"You do not..." started Bent, and one of the Troopers stepped forward and pressed the barrel of his laser rifle firmly under the old man's chin.
"Not another word," ordered the Trooper angrily.
The other swung his weapon to cover Lurk. "You, get out of the speedster now!"
"We don't have time for this," muttered Bent. There was a blur of motion, a flash, a hum, and Bent sat back down in his seat. Moments later, the four Troopers fell lifelessly to the ground. Helmeted heads bounced away in all directions.
"Move along," said Bent urgently to Lurk. "Move along."
Lurk gunned the engine, turned the first corner he came to, and zigzagged through back streets until he was several city blocks away from the roadblock. He pulled in at the side of the road and switched off the engine.
He turned in his seat to look at Bent K'nobby.
"Discretion?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"It has its time and place," replied Bent innocently.
"I don't understand what was happening back there," said Lurk. "Before you lopped all their heads off, that is. I understood that bit just fine!"
"The Source can have a strong influence on the weak minded," said Bent, "and you'll find that many people are weak minded. The biggest drawback," he added ruefully, "is that it's generally not possible to influence more than one person at a time. As you just saw, attempting a trick like that with a group can get out of hand."
"Apparently!" said Lurk.
"We shall have to keep our heads down," said Bent. "What happened back there is likely to draw a little unwelcome attention."
"You think?" said Lurk.
"Let's go, but slowly." Bent looked around them at the disreputable business district they were in. "There is bound to be a vehicle salesman somewhere around here who will take it off our hands, no questions asked..."
"Hey Sarge," said Fib, voice raised over the roar of the Troop Transport's engines.
"Yeah Fib, what?" said Sergeant Samson Strong.
"What's this I hear about the Isosceles pulling out and leaving us here?"
"Well, after our little show yesterday, they probably figured we were the meanest bunch of mothers in the quadrant and they got nervous having us on board!"
"Yeah right," said Fib. "We did such a good job of slaughtering a bunch of midgets and some farmers, they probably left us here to save themselves the paperwork."
"You're not developing a conscience on me, are you, Fib?" said Strong. "You don't need me to lecture you on the importance of what we achieved, of getting a solid lead on those 'bots?"
"Not me, Sarge," said Fib. "You know me, I'd be happy if you'd lecture me on the best places on this crappy planet to get laid!"
Mikki leaned in on the conversation. "I heard they had some urgent business to take care of."
"What?" said Fib. "What are we talking about now?"
"The Isosceles," Mikki reminded him.
"Yeah, that's right," said Fib. "Our Stiff Lord had to do something urgently that nobody else could do for him."
"Save it, guys," said Strong. He wasn't scared of anyone, but he knew how such talk had a nasty habit of getting back to the wrong ears. "You know these officer types; they've always gotta be somewhere urgently."
He held up his hand for silence as the pilot's voice crackled in his ear. Two minutes to landing.
"Okay people, listen up," shouted Sergeant Strong over the sound of the engines. "We have a quadruple homicide on our hands. Four Troopers down. Of course, nobody saw a thing."
There was a general murmur of anger from Teams Badger and Fennec.
"From the nature of their injuries, Imperial Intelligence tells us that we are looking for somebody armed with a light rapier, possibly even one of the few Jubbly Master traitors who managed to escape the purge. I've certainly never seen anybody else who could use one of those things without slicing their own arm off in the attempt."
"A Jubbly?" asked one of the Fennec Troopers. "They're dangerous, aren't they?"
"Anybody who can take down four Troopers single-handedly should be considered armed and extremely dangerous," said Strong, "Jubbly or not! But I think you men know who is more dangerous, don't you?"
"We are," shouted Jenkins.
"What was that?" asked Strong.
"WE ARE!" shouted all the Troopers in unison.
"Damn right we are!" said Strong. "Now, there's a good chance that this murderer is somehow connected to the missing 'bots that Lord Vapour himself wants found. We've got various other squads from the Equilateral and the Scalene covering just about every exit from the city and working their way inwards. We'll be pairing off and doing a door to door search, looking for anything suspicious. Eyes and ears open, people. And I know it's a little difficult on this hellhole of a planet, but stay frosty!"
There was general laughter at this.
The Transport touched down with a thump, and the rear hatch swung down to form a ramp.
"Okay people, let's do this," said Strong.
There was a ragged chorus of "Hoo-ahh!" and the Troopers double-timed out of the Transport and into the blazing suns-light.
"Let's try in here," said Bent.
Lurk looked up at the sign above the narrow doorway. "Mended Percussion Device," he read aloud. "What sort of name is that for a bar?"
Bent shrugged. "I have heard that this can be a dangerous place, but all the best pilots hang out here. Watch your step in here, Lurk."
"I will," said Lurk.
They entered the dimly lit tavern and stood in the entry foyer, blinking and squinting as their eyes slowly adjusted. After being out in the blaze of Ratatouille's twin suns, it was like being struck blind. Finally they could see well enough to venture down the first couple of shallow steps. Behind them, Arty Farty whistled and beeped urgently. They turned back to look. Seepy stood beside the stubby little astrobot, managing somehow to look concerned. Arty had stopped at the edge of the first step.
"Damn," muttered Lurk. "Why couldn't that silly woman have picked herself a 'bot that could manage its own damn stairs!"
Lurk and Bent returned to the top of the stairs. Gripping each side of the astrobot, they carefully manhandled her down the first step. She rolled forward a few inches and stopped again. They repeated the procedure to get her down the second step, and the third, and the fourth. Lurk became vaguely aware of somebody shouting behind him, but he couldn't take the time to look around. "Ready," he gasped. Bent nodded, and they lifted, groaned, and half-lowered, half-dropped the 'bot down the final step.
Breathing heavily, Lurk turned into the room. The guy behind the bar, swarthy and scarred, was scowling at them in a most unfriendly manner and waving his arms around excitedly.
"What was that?" yelled Lurk. "Sorry, I didn't hear you the first time."
"We don't serve their kind in here," yelled the barkeep.
"What?" Lurk yelled back.
"Them. Your 'bots. They'll have to leave." He pointed at a big fluorescent sign on the wall which read, in six different languages, NO BOTS ALLOWED.
Lurk gaped at it, then glanced across at Bent.
"But we don't want you to serve them," Bent said softly. "Can't they just stand in a corner somewhere?"
"Nope," shouted the barkeep. "House rules. They go, or you go. And they go with you anyway," he added as an afterthought.
Lurk sighed. He looked at the sign, he looked at Arty. He looked at the stairs they had just come down.
"It's okay, sir," said Seepy Weepy. "We don't mind. We'll wait for you outside. We don't want any trouble."
"Yeah, that's easy for you to say," said Lurk. "You don't have to carry her back up those stairs."
He turned back to the glowering barkeep. "I say," he called, "you wouldn't happen to have another exit, would you? One with a ramp? No? Figures..."
Ten minutes later, Lurk and Bent staggered back down the stairs into the dark tavern. They staggered across the room and slumped heavily against the bar. "Two waters, please," said Lurk. "Make mine a double!"
Bent clutched the bar tightly, his heart racing, as he struggled to recite an ancient Jubbly meditation mantra. "Mine too," he gasped.
A couple of minutes, and a couple of drinks, later, Bent had recovered enough to start looking around the room for a good pilot who might be willing to ferry a couple of passengers to Alderbark. "Wait here," he said to Lurk as he wandered off.
"I ain't goin' anywhere," gasped Lurk.
Time passed.
Lurk spent much of it gazing around the dim room, wondering at the many non-human species which populated the tavern. His foot tapped idly, keeping time with the catchy dance number being played by the alien quartet on the small stage at the far side of the room.
He saw Bent wandering back towards the bar, deep in conversation with a towering green creature wearing a thigh-length off-white tunic and a brown chest vest. Tight curls of soft woollen fur poked out through the material of the tunic at random locations.
Suddenly Lurk was jostled from behind, and an angry voice snarled something alien in his ear. He turned and saw a round-faced, bewhiskered alien glaring at him.
"Um, sorry," he said. He took a step away and turned back to the bar.
He was jostled again. The alien grunted and snarled. "He doesn't like you," said a hostile voice. Lurk turned again. The round-faced alien had been joined by a creature that may well have been human, but whose face was so scarred and misshapen it was difficult to be sure.
"I'm sorry," said Lurk.
"I don't like you either," said the quasi-human. Lurk had thought the barkeep was unattractive, but at least he worked here. This guy, however, was definitely one ugly customer.
"I'm sorry," said Lurk again. He felt tempted to add I'm not all that fond of you either, but it seemed wisest to keep that thought to himself.
"We're wanted men," snarled the ugly customer. "I have the death sentence in twelve systems, the life sentence in seven more, and I'm wanted for various minor crimes and misdemeanours in another six."
Lurk sighed. All he wanted was to be left alone. "Since when is being ugly a crime?" he asked.
"What? What did you say?" demanded the man, and his alien friend snarled angrily.
"Nothing," said Lurk. "Nothing at all. I'm sorry. I'm sorry you're ugly, I'm sorry your boyfriend is ugly, I'm sorry that my eyes may never recover. Okay?" He glared at the two ruffians. "Now just fuck off and leave me alone, okay. Before everything gets even uglier."
"Oh," said the man, backing away. "Um. Right then. Uh, we'll be going then."
Bent K'nobby chose that moment to intervene. "This young one's not worth the trouble," he said. "Why don't you let me buy you a drink?" He put his hand on the man's arm.
The man looked down at Bent's hand, and then up at the face of the old man. His eyes widened in recognition.
"I don't want a drink from you, you old poof," he snarled. "Now get your hand off me." He stepped back and reached for his laser pistol. There was a flash of blue, a familiar hum, and a roar of pain as the arm clutching the pistol fell to the floor with a wet thump. For a moment the whole tavern went silent. Then the ugly man collapsed to the floor in several steaming pieces, and his alien friend toppled over backwards, his head bouncing away across the floor and disappearing under a table.
Several people screamed, and several more began to vomit. Pandemonium swept through the room as those closest to the fracas scrambled backwards and headed for the exits.
Bent returned his rapier to his belt.
Lurk sighed. "You're really not very good at keeping a low profile, are you?"
Bent shrugged. "I've spent the last twenty years keeping a low profile," he said. "I'm afraid the excitement has got me a little fired up. Sorry."
"Excitement?" said Lurk. "I thought a Jubbly craved not such things. Or something like that."
"What can I say," said Bent. "I'm a little out of practice."
Lurk looked at the mess of body parts scattered across the floor. "Obviously," he said dryly.
"Come on," said Bent. He stooped down to pick up the picnic basket from the floor where he had dropped it when he drew his weapon, then straightened. "This," he nodded towards the tall green-furred creature, "is Shagpyle Duphus. He's an old friend of an old friend. He's also the first mate of a freighter that may be able to take us where we're going." Lurk nodded politely, and the woolly beast raised his top lip in a snarl which Lurk hoped was friendly. Shagpyle Duphus turned and led them across the room to a shadowed booth.
The two Troopers turned down the narrow alley. They held their Mk-III Vaporisers at the ready.
One of the Troopers rattled the knob of the first door he came to. The door refused to open. "Door is locked," he said, "move on to the next one."
Several blocks away, Sergeant Strong almost stumbled. He had been idly monitoring the chatter of the search teams on the master broadcast frequency, trusting 'Killer' Jenkins to alert him to anything requiring his attention. "Who just said that?" he roared. The chatter on the master frequency fell silent.
After a moment he recovered his wits enough to realise that his question had been more than a little ambiguous. "Who just said 'door is locked, move on to the next'?" he elaborated.
"Uh, I did, sir," stammered a voice nervously.
"Well, identify yourself, son," said the Sergeant in a gentler tone.
"Sir yes sir! Private Davyss, Team Daffodil, sir."
Team Daffodil? Strong closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head. He'd heard rumours that some new ideas were being tried out at the Academy these days, a new approach to public relations handling, but this was worse than he had feared.
"And how long have you been in this man's army, Private?"
"Almost three months, sir!"
Strong bit back a sigh. They were on the trail of a ruthless Jubbly murderer, and they'd sent kids?
"Everybody else get back to work," he ordered over the general channel, and then he switched over to the Team Daffodil channel. He looked at Jenkins; she shook her head ruefully and stepped a few paces away.
"Team Daffodil, count off," he ordered.
"Lance Corporal Grunt Wheedle here, sir."
"Private First Class Kumm Stolid, sir."
"Private Bent Davyss, sir," said Davyss sheepishly.
"Private Karrn McKavern, sir."
"Lance Corporal Wheedle," said Strong, "is this the sort of thing they are teaching our cadets these days?"
"Um, what sort of thing, sir?"
"One of your privates said 'the door is locked, move on to the next one'," said Strong patiently. "Is this the new policy coming out of the Academy?"
"Yes, sir, I believe it is," said Wheedle. "The feeling is that we have to win the respect and admiration of the locals through politeness and courtesy, and by presenting a non-threatening face to the people. We aim to show that the Imperium is their friend."
"Politeness and courtesy," repeated Strong. "I see." He paused, and bit his lip. If this was official policy, he wouldn't win many friends by countermanding it. On the other hand, he had no illusions about his long term career prospects; he had already made enough enemies to ensure he never rose beyond the rank of Sergeant, and quite frankly he'd turn down a promotion any day, rather than leave his squad.
"Wheedle," he said. "Stolid. Davyss. McKavern. Let me give you a little advice from an old dog who has seen too much combat. 'Public relations' is all well and good—I'll admit that it has its place—but we are fighting a war here, people. We are not playing a game."
"Sir yes sir," chorused Team Daffodil.
"Furthermore," said Strong, "we are hunting for fugitives from Imperial justice, under direct orders from Lord Barth Vapour himself. And you can believe me when I tell you that the Hard Lord is not as forgiving as I am."
"Sir yes sir."
"Now this may seem a little unfair, but latest intelligence reports indicate that Rebel fugitives are actually capable of locking the occasional door behind them. It seems like a dirty trick, I know, but we don't call them 'Rebel Scum' because they play fair!"
"Sir yes sir."
"So what do we do when we encounter a locked door while searching for a dangerous fugitive?"
There was a moment's silence on the channel. "Uh, we knock again?" ventured Stolid cautiously.
"No," roared Strong. "We are Imperial Shock Troopers. We kick the fucker down!"
"Sir yes sir!"
"Any questions, Team Daffodil?"
"Sir no sir!"
"Very good. Carry on, Lance Corporal Wheedle."
"Sir yes sir!"
Strong listened in on the channel for a few moments. He heard Wheedle say "You heard the man, guys. This is not a game we're playing here. Fire it up! Let's show him what we Daffodils are made of!" He heard Davyss begin a chant of "Fire it up! Fire it up! Fire it up!" A few moments later he heard McKavern's voice: "Door is locked. Kick the fucker down!"
He grinned. There may yet be hope for the Imperial Army.
He looked up. Jenkins was facing him, one hand on her hip. "Nice one, Sarge," she said, then her voice sobered slightly. "Command have been trying to reach you. There has been a disturbance at a tavern; sounds like our perp. It's only a minute or two from here; I've accepted the call on your behalf."
"Thanks for covering," said Strong with a grim nod. "Let's go."
Lurk settled into the dim booth across from a rugged, roguish man wearing a dark brown shirt, and braces, beneath a full-length brown coat.
"I'm Mal Single," he introduced himself, "captain of the Serendipity Sparrow. Shaggus here tells me you're looking for a ride out of here."
Lurk nodded. He looked at the odd pair, the man and the woolly giant, and he decided that they looked like an honest, trustworthy pair. Mal had the sort of face which would have fit a farmer more than a smuggler, and he wondered what had happened in the man's life to change his destiny.
"Yeah," he said. Then curiosity got the better of him. "So, uh, how long have you had your monk..."
"Stop stop stop," yelled Mal frantically, and Lurk recoiled, startled. Shagpyle Duphus grunted angrily—it sounded almost like 'ook'—and waved his long furry arms in the air above his head; Mal grabbed him and whispered something to him. Eventually the creature calmed down a little.
"Sorry about that," said Mal, "but you must never, ever, ever say the M-word. It is far too dangerous. Shaggus is a Woonky."
"Whoa," said Lurk, blinking. "Deja vu!"
"What was that?" said Bent urgently. "What did you just say?"
"I said 'deja vu'," said Lurk, wondering what he had done wrong this time. "Why?"
"What did you see?" asked Bent, ignoring the question.
"Uh, I didn't see anything. He just said I must never say the M-word," Lurk eyed Shagpyle Duphus nervously, "and you said the same thing to me this morning. Although they were different M-words."
"Oh," said Bent. He considered this for a while. "Okay," he said at last, "it's probably nothing."
"What are you talking about?" asked Lurk.
"Ask me again sometime," said Bent mysteriously.
"You know," said Lurk, "you keep saying that!"
"What the hell are you two going on about," demanded Mal. "First you upset Shaggus here by calling him a... By using the M-word. And then you start blathering on some nonsense about deja vu."
"Sorry," said Lurk.
"Sorry," said Bent.
"I should think so," said Mal. "Now, do you want passage on my boat or not?"
"Yes," said Bent. "Just myself, the boy, and two 'bots. And no questions asked."
"What is it?" asked Mal immediately, completely ignoring the 'no questions asked' condition. "Some kind of local trouble? You got some girl pregnant?" He took a closer look at the old man, sitting with his hand laid protectively across the arm of the youth in the pink pyjamas and fluffy ewok slippers. "You got him pregnant?"
Lurk looked a little confused at the direction the conversation was heading.
"Let's just say," said Bent, "that we'd like to avoid any Imperial scrutiny."
"Well," said Mal, "that's the real trick, isn't it? I mean, those guys are everywhere." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It will cost you a little extra. Ten thousand."
"What?" exclaimed Lurk. "We could almost buy our own ship for that."
Mal lifted his hands in a casual shrug. "Be my guest, kid. But who's gonna fly it? You?"
"You bet," said Lurk hotly. "I'm not such a bad pilot. Of course," he subsided slightly, "I've never been more than half a mile off the planet, but I could probably pick it up if I really had to."
Bent squeezed his arm to silence him.
"We'll give you two now," he said, "and another fifteen when we reach Alderbark."
Mal's lips moved for a moment as he added the numbers together. "Seventeen, huh? We are talking in the thousands here, I take it?" Bent nodded. "Okay, you've got yourself a deal. Meet me at Landing Bay 49 in an hour. Now, though, you'd better make yourselves scarce. Somebody seems to be taking an interest in your little display there." He nodded towards the bar.
Lurk and Bent turned. A pair of armoured Shock Troopers were standing with the barkeep, who was still busily cleaning up body parts from the floor. The barkeep nodded angrily and gestured in their direction.
"Time to go," hissed Bent.
The Shock Troopers made their way across the room to the back corner, their gloved hands holding their weapons at the ready. They peered into each of the three or four booths there. Mal nodded politely to them as they gave him and Shaggus the once-over.
As the Troopers left empty-handed, Mal leaned over to Shagpyle Duphus. "Seventeen thousand," he said. "Those guys must really be desperate. This could really save our skins. You go get the Sparrow warmed up; I've got a little business to take care of."
Shaggus roared and grunted. Just stay out of trouble.
"Hey," said Mal, "it's me. Don't worry about a thing."
Shaggus grunted some more. That's what you said last time!
"It won't be anything like the last time," Mal assured his co-pilot. "A quick taxi-run across to Alderbark. What could possibly be difficult about that?"