“So we call the owner the Butcher, but his real name is Bakkar,” Salju told her. “If you want to avoid small talk and eat in peace, just don’t mention podracing. He’s crazy for it.”
Vi perked up. “Is there podracing here?” The dangerous sport had been declared illegal, but Batuu didn’t seem like the kind of place that lived under the New Republic’s laws.
“Just a little, in the Galma vicinity, when they can cobble together some racers. But…you’ll see what I mean once we’re inside.” Salju’s smile was impish as she led Vi to the big bay door bedecked with fluttering pennants.
Yes, that was definitely the smell Vi had been following as it danced through the market: fresh meat, roasted with exactly the right spices by a culinary genius. But the setup was indeed unusual. Instead of the typical oven or pit, the meat was being roasted under the engine of a podracer. The conical mass of metal hung down from the high ceiling like an overly large lamp, flames bursting out at intervals to sear a variety of cuts that seemed to run the gamut from the promised ronto to more exotic selections. A smelting droid watched the meat and turned the spit, muttering cheerfully to himself about his prospects for a more glamorous life.
Vi followed Salju to the counter, and they both ordered the ronto wrap. They found seats at a table that looked out on the courtyard, and although Salju had plenty to say, Vi couldn’t help staring past her, watching pilots in leather jackets swagger past old women rolling out flatbreads and small children chasing chickens or selling eggs from their tunics. It seemed a peaceful place, but Vi was happy to note it was busy and prosperous. She hadn’t seen anyone begging in the streets, nor had she heard any blasterfire. Ships landed and took off from the port with regularity, and although she’d kept an eye out, she hadn’t seen any First Order officers, nor anyone who looked like a bounty hunter. Not that that meant much—as Vi knew from personal experience, you never saw the best bounty hunters until you were in their binders, being marched to their ships at gunpoint.
After eating every bite of her meal and almost licking the wrapper, Vi remembered to order a to-go box for Archex, who was probably hungry enough to gnaw on his belt by now. She hadn’t asked him if he knew anything about foraging, and she could only hope he wasn’t the kind of fool to wander out on a new planet and start tasting things that looked edible. That was one thing they needed, quickly: comlinks, so they could communicate. Oh, and all of their other belongings. And a medkit, or at least painkillers. She glanced at each stall or cart they passed by, hoping to see something cheap, but anything high tech or manufactured was priced high here. After all, they were far from the Core Worlds, and such things had to be imported. Or stolen.
It was odd, though. Despite the frustration, despite the ache in her neck and back, she was actually…having fun.
Yes, everything about the mission had gone wrong. Yes, they were in trouble. Yes, they were missing their cargo and had suffered painful injuries. And, yes, for a spy accustomed to high-profile work, being sent to a place like Batuu felt like a demotion, like she didn’t have what it took to succeed against all odds these days.
But she liked this place, blast it all.
“Are you ready?” Salju asked.
Vi looked up. She’d forgotten what was next on the docket. “For what exactly?”
This time, Salju’s smile faltered. “To go to Oga’s cantina.”
VI CONSIDERED IT. “DO YOU THINK that’s the right way to approach it? I might have a concussion. I probably shouldn’t be cornering the local boss in her den.”
Salju shook her head. “Oh, you won’t. You can’t. Oga is rarely seen. She has a hidden office somewhere below the cantina. Or behind it. No one is quite sure. And Rusko—her second in command—won’t help. We’ll have to start with someone lower down. We can act like you’re looking to buy whatever was stolen—but maybe don’t mention it was stolen from you. Maybe you’ll get a better deal on the lot, before they break it up too much.”
Concussion or no, Vi didn’t like the idea.
“Is Oga a good person or a bad person?”
Salju shrugged. “Oga supports Oga. And Black Spire Outpost, in that order. All coin is welcome here, and all trouble is escorted out. Sometimes violently.”
“But what about doing what’s right?”
Salju thought about it a moment before answering, “According to Oga, what’s right is whatever maintains order and balance. Legal or illegal, native or traveler, we all need each other to keep this place running. When you’re this far from the Core Worlds, from someone else’s idea of justice, you don’t worry so much about how some far-off government defines right and wrong. Oga is the only government we have, and things run well enough for most of us.”
Vi found this argument frustrating, and it was why the Resistance had such a hard time gaining a foothold: Everyone thought the First Order was someone else’s problem. “But the galaxy’s problems will eventually come here. You know that, right? If the First Order wins, there will be no one to protect you, not even Oga.”
Salju shrugged again. “When that happens, maybe things will change. But they won’t change today. And if you force Oga into that conversation, I guarantee you’ll never get your cargo back, not at any price.”
Vi let it go. She was too tired to argue, and as much as she didn’t like it, being right wasn’t worth losing Salju’s goodwill.
As they walked through the market, Vi could feel the day winding down. It wasn’t properly evening yet, but afternoon seemed like it would last a long time on Batuu, thanks to the three suns. The market proper gave way to an area that was more…well, it wasn’t quite seedy, but it was headed there. Instead of grandmothers sitting on stoops, wrapped in patterned scarves, she saw colorful characters leaning against walls, their eyes watchful and their hands on their blasters. She took care to draw her shawl around her and keep her posture upright and not limp, even though her neck still felt a little iffy and she couldn’t even turn her head subtly to see if they were being trailed. Salju’s posture and demeanor didn’t change at all in response to the shifting surroundings, but why would they? This was her home.
“There’s the cantina.”
Not that Vi needed any help identifying it. She’d seen hundreds of cantinas on dozens of planets, and they all shared that same heady mix of excitement and grunge. Oga’s cantina, as Salju had called it, was in a big, round, squat building with a heavy metal dome roof. The arched doorway was open, surrounded by banners that flapped in the evening breeze and the inviting glow of lanterns. It seemed to be part of the older architecture, with fading paint on the cream-colored walls and decorative touches here and there, including a stylized painting of a drink and patterns that looked like something from an ancient language chased into the roof. Vi braced herself for live music, but instead she heard a recording of an old Gatalentan song her mom had once loved.
Salju stopped just inside the cantina and pointed to a sign.
“You don’t want to break Oga’s rules,” she warned. “Or she’ll destroy your goods just to teach you a lesson.”
Vi read the Cantina Code of Conduct, which included both sensible guidelines, like the one about no Kowakian monkey-lizards, as well as more obscure ones that spoke to past imbroglios, like the one that forbade ripping off limbs. She took careful note of the rule stating that all deals over ten thousand credits needed Oga’s approval.
“That’s…a lot of rules for one cantina,” she said cautiously.
“There’s a local joke about how all these things happened in one night, and Oga grew very angry and wrote out the rules to make sure it never happened again.”
Vi raised an eyebrow. “In one night?”
“I wasn’t here, but that’s how the story goes.” Salju did her little bow again, and Vi walked deeper within the cool shade of the cantina.
It was much like every cantina, but this dive bar al
so had a feeling of control—that had to be Oga’s influence. Anyone who entered here knew that even if it was an outpost on the edge of the galaxy, they had to watch their behavior. It was still a while before quitting time, so the room was mostly empty, which may have also explained the lack of trouble.
The cantina was dominated by a stone bar that drew the eye—and kept it. Exotic creatures swam and fluttered in tanks along the bar back, including a bulbous, bug-eyed worrt, a slimy gray swamp slug, and a pickled mynock forever silently screeching behind the safety of thick glass. Vi’s attention was drawn to droid heads placed around the bar like a strange cross between a threat and art; Mubo probably hated it. And the drink taps—she’d never seen so many, each one a unique shape suggesting the beverage within. She was especially intrigued by the one shaped like a lightsaber hilt—and the four made of rancor teeth. One even had a trio of that same round bird she’d noted among the carvings outside. The tables and bar were all lit from within and gave the red-tinged room an intriguing glow.
They weren’t at the cantina to drink, though—they were here for information. Still, Vi knew that she’d be spending a lot of her time here, listening to the local talk, approaching visiting pilots, and generally keeping up with the news of the greater galaxy beyond, especially when it came to keeping tabs on the First Order. She hoped all those drinks in their fascinating taps were tasty—and good at loosening tongues. If she could play it right, this would be her main recruiting ground for the Resistance.
Vi took a seat in one of the booths while Salju went to the bar and spoke with the bartender, an older human woman in faded robes of blue and mustard yellow who looked like she’d forgotten how to smile. Salju returned shortly and slid a foamy drink across the worn table.
“It’s called a Spice Runner,” she said, taking a sip of the same. “A local cider.” She grinned. “My favorite.”
Vi took her first sip and immediately liked it, sighing gratefully as the warmth unspooled through her middle and her shoulders finally relaxed down from around her ears. In between the crash, the thievery, and this afternoon’s work, it had been a tense afternoon.
“None of Oga’s lieutenants are around,” Salju said, leaning in. “I’m guessing they’re off, as you said, filing away the serial numbers on your cargo. So I think your best bet is to enjoy your drink, pick up some blankets, and head home for today. Unless you want to talk to Savi while you’re in town?”
“You’ve mentioned that name before. Who’s Savi?”
Salju took another sip and wiped the foam from her lip. “He runs Savi and Sons, the main scavenging company. Brings in rusted ships and loads of unwanted junk from all over the galaxy, sorts through it, and sells what he can. Not only could he be on the lookout for your things, but he’s your best chance at a job here, unless you have any particular skills. I forgot to ask!”
Vi thought of her best skills: spying, thievery, interrogation, infiltration, evasive flying. Definitely not knitting. Nothing with fashion. Nor did she relish making flatbreads or shelling peas. Merchant Row was not her place. She couldn’t work in this bar, she knew that much—more than a couple of hours of dealing with rude customers would land her in whatever passed for jail here, explaining that the guy broke his own nose by accident.
“I can scavenge,” she said. It was actually a good direction, considering their setbacks. She would learn the lay of the land, make connections with the locals, and probably get deals on any junk parts this Savi guy didn’t know how to move. Even sheet metal and old cargo containers would help build up the recruitment post the Resistance so desperately needed. “What kind of man is this Savi?”
“Kind. Wise. Old. Maybe a little gruff, until he gets to know you. He’s fair, which is not what you generally hear about scrappers. And the folk who work for him are almost like a family. He takes care of them, and they take care of each other. If I had to work for someone besides myself, I would consider him.” She dimpled and ducked her head. “But I’d ask Arta first because I could use the employee discounts.”
Vi chewed the inside of her cheek before asking the big question, the one she’d been holding off on with each introduction on the planet. But if she was going to consider working for someone, day in and day out, she needed to know.
“Do you know how he feels about the conflict between the First Order and the Resistance?”
Salju rubbed the condensation off her glass and considered it. “People who weren’t born here but who choose to stay and build a life in BSO are usually running away from something. Lots of times, it’s the law; other times, it’s that general busyness of the galaxy. Batuu is a small place, its own place, a closed sphere. The First Order and the Resistance are just stories brought to us by offworlders who leave the next day. So until they become our problems or our saviors, either way, we don’t much think about them at all. But I think Savi is against oppression of any sort. He had ties to the Jedi long ago, I heard.”
“Let’s stop by, then,” Vi said. “After we get my droid fixed tomorrow, I’d like to have something to do besides sit around that clearing, feeling sorry for myself and hearing Pook complain.”
“And although the main office is here in the Land Port, the junkyard is out near your clearing, too, so that’s a shorter walk.”
Vi grimaced. “Do I look like I’m in that bad a shape?”
Salju gave an apologetic shrug. “I’m sure you’ll clean up fine after a bath and some sleep.”
They finished their drinks, took their glasses back to the bar, and headed out the door. As soon as they were outside, Vi sensed danger. Everyone in the market was staring at something across the street from the cantina.
“Where the hell have you been?” came a raspy, gurgling voice that somehow managed to chill Vi to the bone. The language was Huttese, which of course Vi understood.
A figure stepped out from the shadows—a Blutopian, Vi knew, thanks to her extensive training on alien species.
“That’s Oga Garra,” Salju whispered, surprised. “It’s a rare thing, seeing her out and about.”
Oga, like all Blutopians, was a curious sort of person to human eyes. The local crime boss had wrinkled, leathery skin that faded from gray to a fleshy salmon, and her mouth was a mess of pinkish tentacles that constantly moved in a peevish sort of way and reminded Vi of a can of angry worms. Her back was hunched, but her flipperlike arms had thick hands that looked capable of crushing skulls. She wore a belted tunic and vest that Vi was certain had come from Arta’s shop, along with cargo pants and brown boots. Her eyes were small black dots, but she somehow managed to look crafty—and dangerous.
“Nnngharooogrrrr!”
Up on a balcony, a Wookiee had emerged from the arched door of an apartment and seemed to be the focus of Oga’s wrath. The Wookiee’s hair was mussed, he was in the middle of buckling on a bandolier, and despite his general lack of expressive facial features and her tenuous grasp of Shyriiwook, Vi could tell he was embarrassed…and frightened.
“Taking an afternoon nap? In the room assigned to that new Rodian waitress, Meeba? The same one I saw you giggling with in the back booth last week, when you assured me you were merely discussing the going rate for Corellian champagne?”
“Mmrawwr!”
“Well, what was it, then? Were you fixing the bathroom for her or…oh, I don’t know. Navigating some other sort of personal plumbing issue?”
Whispers had started up, and the Blutopian spun around, blaster ready.
“This is between me and Dhoran,” she warned them. “I can’t make you leave, but I can accidentally shoot you.”
The locals didn’t seem to understand Huttese, but the sentiment was clear in any language. Their whispers went silent, and several of the more timid folk blended back into the shadows or scuttled behind half-closed doors to continue watching.
“Rrhhhhhogah?” the Wookiee crooned, putting hi
s hands on a low metal railing and leaning down as if to give his lady love a flower and beg for her favor.
Oga turned away, waving a hand as if to disperse him. “Don’t you Oga me, you walking catastrophe. Get off my planet and don’t ever come back or I’ll mount your head on the bar with the droids.”
Dhoran stood back up and smoothed the hair around his face. “Huhn. Greh.” Vi didn’t know much Shyriiwook, but that sound of scorn and dismissal was about the same in all languages.
Without another word, Oga spun around and shot the Wookiee in the chest.
Dhoran’s hands—or paws, Vi didn’t know what was under all that hair—clutched at the smoking wound. The Wookiee’s eyes went wide with surprise and he gently toppled over the rail, breaking the aged metal as he tumbled into space and fell with a heavy thump at Oga’s feet.
The Blutopian knelt, pinched him somewhere, and muttered, “Good riddance.” Then, almost to herself, “Why do I always fall for the big, hairy bad boys?”
A new figure appeared in the open apartment door. The tall female Rodian was wrapped in only a small pink towel, but she screamed bloody murder as she stared down at the dead Wookiee. Oga glanced up briefly, aimed her blaster, and shot a bolt within centimeters of the Rodian’s antennae.
“You’re fired. Get out of here. I’m keeping this week’s wages as your formal apology.”
The Rodian disappeared, and Oga silently looted her former lover’s body. She slung his bandolier over her shoulder and stood.
“Anybody who doesn’t want to eat lasers should probably stay out of my way today,” she said.
Everyone found something else to look at or somewhere else to go, and the Blutopian disappeared into the shadows around the edge of the cantina, her shoulders hunched. Vi noted the direction, reasoning that if she ever needed to face the gangster herself, she would find an entrance in that area. The busy market went back to normal, but the sort of normal that involved completely ignoring a smoking Wookiee corpse.
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