Character
Somewhere In Wild Space
The hum of the servo unit began to lessen, the juddering of the broken capacitor slowing rapidly as it blew out its last vapours.
Sharill sighed loudly, her third mug of caff beginning to lose its bitterness as it cooled. There was a grace period where it wasn’t too hot, it wasn’t too mild. She’d missed the window, distracted by the final throes of mechanical death undergone by the ventilator, sat stoically in the corner of the open-plan living space she called home.
Well; it did its job, she thought, placing the now redundant drink on the counter nearest to her, gloved hands wringing with frustration. She approached it, her goggles fogging as the steam from the side-vent escaped the unit, its monolithic form smooth yet dull, tarnished by near-constant use by its former owner, as well as Sharill. She stood looking at it, her hands resting on her side. She stood only four feet tall, her hairless head round, two large saucer-eyes filling most of her face. Her lips, thin and almost unnoticed were pursed, her mind racing.
She let out an exasperated bark, her hand waving at the unit in dismissal, plodding gently away with a determination to deal with the matter at hand. She called out in the relative quiet, only the ship’s hum filling the room now, where before the ventilator had dominated.
“DX-8! Set a course for Smarteel. That crummy unit has finally packed in!”
She threw her gloves down onto the workbench as she entered the relative low-light of the expanded hangar bay, a small shuttle filling the main bulk of it, large amounts of constituent parts and various work-stations littering the perimeter of the space. Stood to the side of the shuttle was a slender humanoid figure, a droid armed currently with a welding spark, blue sparks showering his own frame as he worked on the exterior of the smaller shuttle. His eyes, dull with illumination, were set on the spot it was working on, zeroed in like a hunter finding its prey.
Sharill watched the droid working and tried to call out over the din of the appliance, keeping her distance to avoid her slightly damp skin being singed by any wayward sparks that might come her way.
“DX! We need to make for Smarteel. Or Hamra. Either one is fine by me.”
Still the droid continued his singularly absorbing task, almost gleeful in his application to the work. She often wondered if there was a glimpse of mania in those small sockets, some psychotic piece of coding that would cause him to kill her in the vacuum of space. She smirked at the notion.
I must check his programming, she reminded herself. Just in case.
Tired of being ignored by the droid, she picked up a small wrench, looking around to find her target. She spied a metal bucket and with a gentle push let fly the wrench, a startlingly loud clattering filling the dock. The droid stopped, taking his master in with those eyes.
“Apologies. Your presence escaped my attention, as my priorities were correctly allocated to the task at hand. The operation is now complete. The hull integrity has been restored, and this shuttle is once more usable—unless, of course, you wish to experience decompression and subsequent death, as most oxygen-dependent organics find this eventuality highly inconvenient.”
She noticed the slightest quiver of sarcasm in DX-8’s voice, the speaker that stood in place where his mouth would have been letting out a hi-fi sound. She wasn’t sure if sarcasm had been intended, of course, but she chose to hear it as such. It kept her happy.
“Set a course for Hamra, boltsack.”
She left the hangar, wandering through the warren of corridors that made up the B7-light freighter Sharill called The Talon. It had come by her honestly, though the various adjustments, improvements and alterations made to her over the decades had ensured she was up-to-scratch when fulfilling her primary duties; moving quickly and evading capture. The two-decked freighter could house a much larger crew but she was content with just DX-8 for company. It kept things easy. Kept them simple.
Kept it clean.
She was too old to worry about anybody, something she had decided decades before.
After what felt like an ever-increasing distance, she reached the pilot’s chair, a raised seat that allowed her to see the navigation console that sprawled out and filled the central cockpit, its various consoles and computers built into the sides of the walls for easy access. She had made several adjustments over the years, ensuring that she and DX-8 could pilot the bulky freighter with ease, necessitating manoeuvres that a smaller vessel might baulk at in the hands of lesser pilots. She was not a lesser pilot.
She adjusted their heading, making a check of their destination, the arid planet of Hamra. Mining settlement and home to various nefarious gangs since the fall of the Enclave locally. Bordering Hutt space, it was a perfect place for somebody to run their operations from under the watchful eyes of the local enforcers, the mining Guilds that run the show.
She knew the real marionette mistress was the ice-cold Hester Shedo, the number one reason for Hamra’s prosperity and the rise in crime-lord-affiliation. She also had a contact she needed to make some headway with.
DX-8 made his way into the cockpit, taking up the navigator’s spot next to her. He shifted his head, almost looking at her.
“I believe it is my allocated turn,” he said, his voice still dry and without melody.
Sharill rolled her giant eyes, quite an exaggerated move for such a creature as she to make.
“You’re quite right, again, DX. I said it last time.”
He straightened his head, leaning forward a little towards the large view port in front of them and pointed one of his mechanical fingers forward with a little gesture.
“Punch it.”
Sharill let out a chuckle, leaning her body weight into the large lever that propelled the freighter into hyperspace and onwards to Hamra.
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Hamra was hot, there was no denying that. The local records would have much more to say on the place but on Sharill’s mind was this key factor. She did not fair well in arid climates, her native Takodana boasting a temperate and humid climate. A place such as Hamra, with its mining valleys and deep-core blast zones, was as near to hostile an environment as she could imagine; even the cold offered a little chance of moisture.
The walk from heaving spaceport was under cover, a chance for her to walk under shaded canopy to shaded canopy, the shadows offering a little respite from the direct sun. She wished she had timed it better, later in the day to avoid the full heat of the sun. Nevermind she thought, skulking out of the way of a large Gamorrian who had little intention of seeing her nor respecting her personal space, his well-developed gut leading him down the heavily populated street that ran through the multi-tiered settlement.
She knew where they were headed, one of the Atirak City’s many hovels, dens that were well-frequented by the bounty hunters, bosses and smugglers that came through. This one was especially active at this time of a day, the sounds of raised voices, music and laughter ringing out into the streets surrounding it. She looked up at the sign, DX-8 stopping beside her, his six foot figure making her feel small whilst also making her feel unstoppable. He was a good friend and one heck-of-a fighter.
“This is it. The Dusty Arrow.” Sharill muttered, her wringing hands betraying her anxiousness.
DX-8 spoke loudly, standing firm as a drunk patron near clotheslined themselves as they ran into the droid in a stupor.
“I had understood we were to purchase a replacement ventilating unit. This does not appear to be such an establishment.”
She tapped him on the leg in an attempt to reassure herself.
“I know, chief. We’ve got to see somebody first about a job. Don’t say anything smart and please don’t kill anybody.”
DX-8 let out what she knew to be his best imitation ‘chuckle’. There was something deeply unsettling about it. They walked into the bar.
The heavy that approached her spoke in a strong accent, possibly from Tatooine. Sharill smiled a little.
“We’re here to see The Foreman. He’s been expecting us.”
The guard looked down at her, cocking his head and thumbing at the droid whose head was at the same height as his own.
“The Foreman is expecting you, not the screwdriver here. He’ll only see you.”
DX-8 spoke in the increased staccato voice that he put on when attempting, poorly, to evoke his intended aggressions.
“I will be accompanying my employer today. I will not allow her to be unaccompanied at any point during our excursion to Atirak City.”
Sharill defused the situation in her normal way, heightening her wizened features and trying to appear as old as possible. She didn’t have to make too much of an attempt of it, her natural age coming in as somewhere close to the five hundreds.
“Nonsense, DX-8. I will be fine. Look, there are others here to see the Foreman too. I won’t be alone. Your concern is, as always, flattering but I will be under the protection of the Guild here today…won’t I?” she said, extra emphasis added to make clear she understood the way things worked here.
The Foreman wouldn’t allow his men to hurt her whilst she claimed the protection of the Guild, the worker caste that populated the majority of the planet’s mines and industrial centres, scattered in the desert regions across the entire planet. Atirak may play home to the intergalactic cadre of criminals that populated it, but it was the hundreds of settlements, nomadic in nature, that were the lifeforce of Hamra and its vast output of exportable goods.
The guard snarled a little. He knew he was going to have to keep his eye on this one.
“You...wait here.”
He pointed to a waiting area where several others sat, eagerly awaiting the summons to enter the presentation room of the Foreman.
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