Traveling via hyperspace was the only time Gatz felt safe these days.
With Kragan's bounty on his head, there didn't seem to be a single safe place in the galaxy for him. It didn't matter if he was in the thick crowds of Nar Shaddaa, on the temperate green plains of Naboo, or rubbing elbows with the upper crust of Coruscant's elites. Someone always found him within a few hours. Always. Even when he’d learned to expect it, they still showed up when he least expected it.
He was being hounded so harshly that Gatz had taken to spending most of his time in space. It was cold, empty, and he was starting to go stir crazy, but at least he stood a better chance of fighting and escaping when he was at the helm of his ship. Not that he ever stopped to fight these days. That only gave other bounty hunters more time to catch up, distracted as he was by a dogfight.
With a groan, Gatz sagged back into his seat, and felt his stomach rumble. Another problem he had no means of addressing: his hunger. He hauled freight for a living; cargo was how he made his credits. But it was hard to make deliveries when he was constantly being hunted down. Gatz couldn’t even be on world long enough to load his ship, before he’d inevitably get flagged down again.
So, work was out the window. Which meant his funds were abysmally low.
He’d tried to compensate for that by finding a buyer for Mom and Dad’s house. Gatz hadn’t wanted to sell it, but… well, tough times called for tough measures. Besides, it wasn’t like he ever stayed in the place. Not since Mom died. When he visited Naboo these days he just stayed on his ship, or sometimes at Klein’s place.
But that didn’t mean he liked selling his childhood home. He hadn’t. Sure, the place was cramped and had been a metaphor for how poverty stricken his family had been, but he still had a lot of good memories attached to the place. Gatz wouldn’t have sold the little shed of a house if he hadn’t been desperate. But he had been. Still was.
And, of course, that was when the opportunity to attend Jekerro’s party had appeared. A chance to find Kragan, how could he pass that up? But he wasn’t famous enough for an invite, and Valery certainly wasn’t the kind of person the Jekerro would put on his VIP list. Gatz had to grease some palms to get her such an exclusive invitation, one with a plus one for him, and it had cost a lot of credits to get the right people to sneak it under the Hutt’s nose.
Like, almost as many credits as he sold the house for.
Which meant he was right back to where he’d started: out of credits, and spending what little he did have on fuel, just so he could be constantly in hyperspace. As it was, he was living off of nutrient paste and hunger suppressants. And the nutrient paste tasted terrible. And he was almost out of it.
“Two more weeks of this,” Gatz groaned, “how am I supposed to make it that long?”
<You could always ask someone for help.>
At that moment, a green little trash can of a droid rolled in. It was an aged thing, paint faded, and covered in more scuff marks than Gatz cared to count. R4-Z3, an old astromech droid from the time of the Galactic Republic. He’d been something of a gift from Uncle Klein, one Gatz hadn’t particularly wanted, but the old man felt better about his nephew’s situation with someone watching his back.
Even if that someone was a quirky old droid in desperate need of a memory wipe.
“And who would I ask? I’ve burned every bridge I ever had.”
R4’s photoreceptor was dark for a moment, before lighting up and projecting a holographic display of one Sword of the Jedi.
“No. No chance. Valery’s done enough for me… and where the hell did you even get that image of her anyways?”
<Holonet. She’s basically a celebrity.>
“Fair enough. My answer is still “no,” though.”
Gatz spun his chair around and stood up. He walked by R4 as the droid protested, exiting the cockpit, and walking down the hallway past the cabins. He stepped around the ladder that led down to the cargo bay, and entered the lounge at the back of his ship. Gatz opened the cooling unit to address his growling stomach, and was greeted with a tube and a half of nutrient paste, and less than a quart of blue milk.
He’d have to make a stop on Coruscant, before meeting up with Valery for… whatever she needed him for.
<This is exactly my point,> R4 rolled in behind him, <you are starving.>
“It’s only for a few more weeks.”
<You don’t have a few more weeks. You have days, if that.>
“I’ll be fine, conehead.”
Gatz stuck the end of the tube in his mouth, and squeezed it. He tried not to gag at the revolting taste of the green paste that filled his mouth. Instead, he shook his head, and swallowed his meager dinner.
<I bet your Jedi friend would be mad if she found out.>
“She’d be furious. That’s why I’m not telling her.”
<But wouldn’t she help you?>
“She’s helped me enough,” Gatz slapped the robot’s metal dome, “I’ll figure something out, Arfour, I always do. Focus on keeping my ship in shape. I’ll focus on keeping myself in shape.”
With that, Gatz stalked off, back towards the cockpit, seemingly assuming the matter was dealt with.
But within the old metal shell that encased R4’s processing brain, a plan brewed. One that was likely to piss off his new owner… but Mister Klein had insisted that he take care of Gatz, above all else. Even if it meant disrespecting his wishes.
