Star Wars - Series Fan Fiction ❯ The Wayside ❯ Chapter Three ( Chapter 3 )

The Wayside

By Gan Xingba

Chapter Three

 

My meeting with the Admiral had concluded rather abruptly, and I was directed to the ranking Republic intelligence officer for transportation and mission data. The officer provided a small shuttle, and since I lacked anything beyond the basics when it came to piloting skills, a pilot droid had also been assigned to me. Since it is taking some time to remove the Republic markings from both the droid and ship for stealth purposes, I suppose I should take this time to review the mission data before I leave the my temporary quarters and head to the hangar bay. I need to know where to start my search, after all.

 

After a quick scan of the information provided in the data-pad I had been given, I'm finding that the nature of my target is still a very uncertain thing. The data-pad contains all the known information about the being known as Mandalore that Republic Intelligence has gathered thus far, and it doesn't amount to much. What it does say is mostly useless to me, since it mostly deals with his combat capabilities and general appearance. I already know what he looks like, and if I'm in a situation where I have to fight him, then my mission is failed anyway. The information appears to be based on several short observation periods throughout the sector, and each time he has been sighted, he has been in the company of Vagus and his crew. This is nothing new, the Admiral had confirmed as much earlier. I need something to give me a hint on his location…Ah! Here we are:

 

“…was reportedly sighted disembarking from a Basilisk War Droid on Onderon in the company of the exiled Jedi Knight…”

 

I've never seen a Basilisk, but from what I've learned, they're relatively short ranged in terms of space travel and are usually dropped from a larger vessel. The report indicates that this took place even as a space battle raged above Onderon. If the Basilisk was dropped from a larger ship, someone must have noticed it, and if it wasn't, than it must have come from a nearby planet or moon. This may not be a very solid lead, but it is the only one available. I shall head to Onderon.

 

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Onderonian space is far more peaceful than I had expected. The civil war had begun just over a month ago, yet it appears that the Loyalists have already gained complete control of the skies.

 

“Incoming transmition from an Onderonian cruiser,” croaks the pilot droid as we near the war-torn planet. “Should I patch it through, master?”

 

I nod an affirmative and the holo-projector on the control console lights up, the now projecting an image of an officer of the Royal Onderonian Army.

 

“Spry Mynock, this is the Righteous Blade,” announces the officer. “We have orders to inspect all civilian craft before they land on Onderon to ensure that they are not aiding the traitorous insurgents. Please shut down your engines and prepare for boarding. We apologize for the inconvenience.”

 

Before I even got a chance to respond, the holo-projector shuts down. This is indeed an inconvenience, but I'm going to have to live with it. I could bypass the inspection by declaring my status Republic military personel, but I must keep that unknown for the sake of my mission.

 

“Do as he said,” I order the pilot droid, who wordlessly complies.

 

I have spent far too much time waiting of late. Ah well, more time to plan. Now then, when I land the first thing I'm going to want to do is try and get some information about Mandalore's activities in Iziz. I should probably ask about Vagus instead, though, so as not to alert Mandalore if he has ears in that place. I should also try and learn about the fate of that Basilisk. If it is still in Iziz and it has some flight data on it, I may be able to find a way to find out where it came from…

 

I cut off my musings as I notice a medium sized shuttle approach my shuttle and move into docking position. The Righteous Blade must only board important craft personally, and my little shuttle wasn't nearly important enough to merit that kind of attention. I suppose this means my cover is working. A hissing sound indicates that the docking process is complete, and I move to the airlock so as to great my visitors.

 

The airlock opens and three soldiers step through, blaster rifles in hand. They are followed by a serious looking officer, who immediately begins barking orders.

 

“Rento, start scanning for explosives. Zartha, search any bags you see for illegal material. Tanner, you guard the airlock,” he says with great self importance. “I'll question the sentient.”

 

Have to resist the urge to smile at the officer's behavior. All it takes is a flash of my Republic Intelligence ID card and men like him are usually red with embarrassment. I can't blow my cover for the sake of amusement, however, so I'm going to have to let him have his fun.

 

“Do you have any weapons with you?” demands the officer as he leans in towards my face in an attempt to intimidate me.

 

“Just a blaster pistol,” I reply, and hold open my jacket so he can see the sidearm holstered at my waist. “I need to protect myself if that war is still going on down there.”

 

“I didn't ask you to explain why, space-jockey,” snaps the officer, still trying to intimidate me. “Now then, what's your business on Onderon?”

As he was speaking, however, I noticed that a security card was beginning to fall out of the front left pocket of his pants. That could prove useful.

 

“Just on a business trip,” I reply politely. “Onderon seems to be lacking properly trained civilian doctors, so I came to see if my company could set up a clinic here.”

 

“We'll see about that,” growled the officer. “Show me your ID.”

 

I reach into my jacket pocket with my right hand and pull out my fake ID and hand it to the officer. As my arm begins to lower back down to my side, however, I grasp the visible part of the officers ID card between to fingers and slide it out of his pocket in one smooth motion. I then shove both hands into my pockets and store the newly acquired card there as the officer finishes scanning my ID.

 

“Sir, scanning complete,” reports the soldier that had been referred to as Rento. “Nothing found. The same goes for Zartha.”

 

“Good work, soldier. Well, it looks like you check out Mr. Recubo,” the officer says as he hands me back my ID. “You are free to go.”

 

Turning sharply, he motions for his men to follow and they exit through the airlock. As the hissing sound indicates their departure, I examine the ID card that I stole. It appears that I won't have to do much planning after all.

 

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The peaceful state of space seems like some intentional deception now. The sector of Iziz that I was now roaming was peaceful enough, but you can't go more than five meters without finding another structure of some kind in a state of partial ruin. It is amazing ho-whoa!

 

Distracting too, apparently, seeing as I almost fell into a large crater in the middle of the square. A very large crater. This could only be caused by some kind of siege weapon or bombing of some kind…but this is a civilian sector, only a fool would use that kind of firepower here. Of course! The Basilisk. No remains whatsoever…the Royal Army must have it, or maybe scavengers. Regardless, I shall find out soon enough. As soon as I find a security terminal, anyway.

 

I wander through the square for another couple minutes before spotting one near a gate of some kind. It's guarded by six regular guards and one officer. Not the most ideal location, to be sure. I'll need quite the distraction to get enough time to find out about that Basilisk. No…this won't do at all. Even if I could arrange for a distraction, it wouldn't last nearly long enough. I'll need to find another terminal.

 

Just as I'm pondering this, a commotion can be heard from behind me. I turn and quickly spot the source. A man in handcuffs is being dragged along by two soldiers yelling without stop. He appears to be inebriated.

 

“Lemee go yoos guys! C'mon! `Aint this a free galaxy? Can't a man take a piss and not get `rested fer it?” complains the drunk while the soldiers continue to push him towards their destination.

 

“Yeah, but not in someone's speeder you drunken idiot,” rebukes one of the soldiers.

 

This line of conversation continues until the trio arrives at the base of a tower where a guard opens the door for them. The drunk's yelling finally stops once the door has been shut, and those that have been watching the display finally continue about their business.

 

Even if that's a civilian prison, it is bound to have a security terminal in there. There will be security cameras, but it would still be far easier to go unnoticed inside there than out here in the open. Besides, if the war is still going on, they likely have officers with little experience guarding the civilian prisons. I should prove more than capable of handling the situation.

 

As I start to approach the officer guarding the entrance, I notice that his uniform bears no markings other than that of the standard guard. There are no badges for a completed tour of duty, meaning this officer has no experience whatsoever. When I raise my hand in greeting when I draw near, and he quickly turns in the anxious fashion of a raw recruit.

 

“Sorry, but visiting hours don't start for another three hours,” he says quickly. “Sorry, citizen.”

 

“Truly? That is a shame,” I say, shaking my head in false disappointment. “You see, a friend of mine was just brought in here. He has very little money, and I had hoped to pay the fine for him so that he go home to his wife. It would break her heart to hear of his predicament, and if I don't resolve the issue now, she will surely learn of it.”

 

“Oh…well, that's really too bad…” replies the officer, clearly having a conflict between his conscience and his good sense. “Maybe I can make an exception…what was his name?”

 

“Don't bother checking. He won't be in the database yet, he just arrived a moment ago,” I reply before the officer can even reach the nearby console. “He was quite drunk, shouting all sorts of nonsense.”

 

“Oh, that guy,” says the officer, shaking his head. “Geez, they'll thank me for letting you take him off our hands. Go on in.”

 

“You're generosity is greatly appreciated,” I say gratefully as he opens the door with the security console.

 

I walk right in and look around the area. There is a desk up front, that has a terminal, but it is occupied by someone. The holding cells won't have one, either. My best bet is the records room. If the holding cells are down a level, then I should head up.

 

I silently but swiftly pass the man sitting at the front desk as he drools over some unscrupulous magazine and make for the stairwell. The trick to moving stealthily yet in an unsuspicious manner is in the posture, and I have become very adept at it. As I walk up the stairs I look nonchalant, but I don't emit a single sound. Unless the person watching the cameras is being very cautious, and civilian prison guards rarely are, then I should be just fine. I exit onto the second floor and quickly spot the door labeled “Records”. It has a ID scanner lock, but the card I swiped from the inspection officer has the clearance to get me in. If the man watching the cameras was unconvinced before, the fact that I was granted access should ease any of his doubts.

 

The records room is slightly larger than I expected. It appears that they keep hardcopies of most files as backup, and there are quite a few rows of cabinets occupying the room. I spot the computer console in the far corner of the room, and quickly head over to begin my research. The man I swiped the ID card from was apparently a captain, and as such I have more than enough clearance to start searching through the reports on the recent battles. Finally, I find what I am looking for, “Analysis of the Basilisk War Droid Used by the Jedi Vagus Machaera.” After some assessment of the damage, it moves on to an analysis of the droid's databank:

 

“…appears to have all its data intact. It's coded, the larger problem is that it is in Mandalorian, so it is of no use to us. We have copied the data to this record.”

 

There was an attachment to a file that contained the data in the data from the Basilisk, and as said in the report, it was both coded and in Mandalorian. Despite this, it is still a good idea to download it into a spare data-pad. Mandalorians aren't known for being great with codes and the like, but there are very few non-Mandalorians who know their language. I'll have my work cut out for me.

 

I log out of the console, exit the records room and head for the stairwell. The guard at the desk is still focused on his perverted magazine, so I again avoid his notice as I pass. When I exit the front door, however, the guard outside addresses me.

 

“Hey, where's your friend?” he asks, raising an eyebrow

 

“They, ah…wouldn't let him go,” I reply trying to hide my slight panic. “They said that he had to stay out the night as…mandatory punishment.”

 

“Too bad,” responds the gullible guard. “Well, I s'pose that's how it goes.”

 

“Yes, I suppose,” I say, almost sighing with relief. “Take care, and thank you again for the assistance.”

 

“No problem,” assures the officer, and with a wave, I depart.

 

I should head back to my ship and have its computer crack the code for me. The data may be useless until I find someone to translate it for me, but it is at least a start.

 

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Like alcohol, I find cantinas mildly amusing on occasion, and that is about the extent of it. As such, I am now quite irritated, having spent the last three hours in one cantina or the other. I had asked just about every possible informant in each place whether they new of someone who spoke Mandalorian. I had asked the bartenders, the pazaak players, and even the easily spotted information brokers, and after six cantinas, I had nothing to show for my efforts.

 

My shuttle had an automated data-slicer onboard, and had broken the code easily enough. If I can't find a translator, though, the data may be useless. Unfortunately, my orders had been very explicit about not making contact until I had completed my mission, and even then I was to report directly to Admiral Onasi. That ruled out contacting Republic Intelligence for a translation, so I was forced into this course of action.

 

Having just questioned the bartender and coming up empty yet again, I was about to head to the pazaak tables when a large, grizzled man approached me.

 

“I hear you're lookin' for someone who speaks Mandalorian,” states the man, apparently thinking himself too tough for formalities.

 

“That is correct,” I confirm to him. “Do you meet that requirement?”

 

“Depends,” says the man, and then motions to an empty booth in the corner of the cantina. “Find out over a drink?”

 

I nod and we head over to the empty booth. This fellow is of the shady sort, I'll need to be wary of him.

 

“Now then, why would you be needin' someone that speaks Mandalorian?” queries the man.

 

“I need some data translated,” I reply as I begin to fiddle with a shaker for some sort of spice. “And then forgotten.”

 

“Sounds like important stuff…” begins the man stroking the stubble on his chin.

 

“Don't worry, I'll pay you quite well for your trouble,” I interject, not wanting to waste time on some price naming game. “I just need it done quickly.”

 

“All right,” agrees the man. “Let me see it.”

 

I take the data-pad with the Basilisk data out of my pocket and slide it across the table. The man starts reading it over while I continue to fiddle with the spice shaker impatiently. After a few moments though, the man's brow furrows and he sets the data-pad down.

 

“What does it say?” I ask eagerly.

 

“It says…” he begins, slowly moving his left hand to his hip. “You're too nosy.”

 

The man pulls out a blaster from his hip holster, but before he gets it trained on me, I whip the spice shaker at it at knock his aim off to the left and before he can readjust, I already have pulled my own blaster on him.

 

“Set it down.” I tell my assailant, and he complies slowly. “Exactly who are you working for?”

 

“Fatso the Hutt,” answers the man sarcastically. “She's pissed that you just used her for sex.”

 

“How droll. I don't know why I bothered asking. It is fairly obvious that you are a Mandalorian, and that data-pad leads me to Mandalore,” I state as I retrieve his blaster from the floor and stow it in a jacket pocket.

 

“Let's pretend that you're not talking like some spice addict and all that stuff is true,” responds the man, though the slight twitch in his eye makes it clear that I was correct. “Even then, I `aint tellin' you what it says.”

 

By now, people are starting to stare at us. If someone hasn't called the authorities, they will soon. If I'm not getting any information out of this man quickly, then it's time to leave.

 

“Fine, have it your way,” I say and grab the data-pad from the table, keeping my blaster on the Mandalorian. “I'm going to holster my blaster now, but if you even reach for your own, I assure you that you will regret it.”

 

Slowly, I lower my blaster and holster it. As I move my hand away from my sidearm, however, the Mandalorian pulls a knife out of his sleeve and lunges towards me. I duck his attack easily and deliver a left uppercut to his jaw. Before he can regain his balance, I follow up with right hook that knocks him off his feet and causes his head to collide with the edge of a nearby table. I have no time to see if he is unconscious, the local law enforcement will be here any minute. So, I make a hasty retreat into the cantina's kitchen, and find the rear exit.

 

Once out of the cantina, I walk at a brisk pace through several alleys. The Mandalorian is tougher than I thought, I can hear his cursing only a short ways off. Wait…if he's here working for Mandalore…then he could alert him of my presence. I have to go back and find a way to keep him quiet. Turning abruptly around, I begin to sprint back towards where I heard the Mandalorian. After backtracking a little, I find a cloaked figure kneeling over the unconscious form of the Mandalorian, touching its hand to his forehead.

 

I feel a strange…ripple coming from the figure as it does this, and I immediately recognize it as the remaining bit of force “sense” I have left. Whoever that figure is, they can use the force, and for some reason they don't want that Mandalorian running around, either.

 

“Don't worry, he wont remember a thing about your encounter,” says the figure with a female voice, not even turning to face me. “I am here to help you, but we cannot talk here. Meet me at your ship. I will be waiting.”

 

With that the figure disappears into a nearby alley, leaving me standing alone with a head full of questions. Sometimes, I wish I really was just a historian.