A Spacer and a Scoundrel

[Tarjik Darkin]

Sitting in the back of a seedy cantina, Tarjik was beginning to get impatient. "Where is this guy?" Tarjik thought, "he is five minutes late and counting." Taking another sip of his expensive Corellian wine, he hoped that he had not been scammed. Zassoz Irsahilib, a smaller Hutt crime lord and one of Tarjik's underworld contacts, had reached out to the slaver and smuggler with a fairly generous job offer to carry some goods from one of his storehouses on Nar Shaddaa to his associates on the heavily populated ecumenopolis of Denon. While the offer was very generous, five thousand credits upfront with fifteen thousand upon successful delivery, that meant that the mission was dangerous and most likely illegal. Of course, there was to be no governmental inspection of the cargo and Zassoz's rivals would be looking to stop this shipment. Always one to be prepared, Tarjik had already stashed the crates into his ship's smuggling compartments and used a part of the down payment to purchase fake transponder codes and bulk cases of fully legal goods in case an inspection party wished to board the ship. All that was left was the hired muscle. Tarjik could speak well and run logistics, but he wasn't a fighter and not knowledgeable about the technical parts of his ship. As such he became used to working with hired mercenaries for more messier missions. For this particular job, Tarjik settled on Alaric MarÃll. He seemed reputable, fit the requirement's Tarjik needed, and seemed like he could keep a secret. Over communicators, he agreed on a 15% cut, a total of three thousand credits, on the condition that he got to bring a "mynock" along with them. He was supposed to be at this cantina before they headed out but was running late, and with the time for Tarjik to leave the docking platform expiring, he was getting ready to leave with or without him.

 

[Alaric Marãll]

“Kark! Have you lost your karking mind, Mynock?” The unshaven older man shouted, annoyed. The faint scratching sounds of the archaic, mechanical lock on his door being picked had stirred him from a deep slumber. As the door opened, he had only barely managed to dodge across the bed, the rife he always slept with in his hand as he did so, rolled onto the floor and taken up a defensive, kneeling position, using the bed for whatever cover it could offer. The rifle was trained on the door and, if hadn’t still been hungover, would have pulled the trigger and sent an immense payload of spray, killing the intruder. But he was still hungover and therefore sluggish. He saw the feint auburn of his companion’s hair as she had moved into the room, herself dropping to a knee and training a potent blaster warily into the room. If he hadn’t recognized that first strand of hair, if she hadn’t been so quick to assume a tactical position, he would have killed her. Instead, he had torn the weapon up, spraying seven slugs into the top of the door, the wall, and the roof, each one powerful enough to shred most men’s body armor and even penetrate some lightly armored vehicles. His sudden jerk as he fired meant the rifle was terribly positioned to counter the recoil and it popped him something terrible on the left side of his face, stunning him for a moment and eliciting the shouted curse to his companion.

“Chit!” The girl responded, at a mere fourteen years of age, she responded to the volley better than most grown men would have, dropping to her back and staring up at the largely obliterated wall, into the late afternoon sky, with a mix of horror and outrage. “What did you do that for?!” She said, holstering her weapon and brushing off dust and debris that had fallen from the structural damage.

“Now, girl, you should know better than to just barge in like that,” he complained, rising from his crouched position, realizing now that his head was throbbing. “What if I had been. . . .” he paused awkwardly before finishing, “entertaining?”


“I thought you might be,” she spat back, entering the room, walking by the older man, and looking out the window. No lawmen, yet. But, it would only be a matter of time before someone responded to the sounds of a firefight coming from the run down inn and they’d either be law, which was bad, or criminals which could go either way. Best to avoid them. “I thought maybe some whore had tied you up and took you for everything you own is what I thought.” She said turning back and seeing that Alaric had crawled back into bed. “What are you doing?”

“What?” He huffed, covering his eyes, “leave the curtains alone. I’m going back to sleep.”

“We’re already late Old Man.”

"For what?”

“Come on,” she sighed, kicking the bed and causing him to mutter. “The job, you know, like, the whole reason we came to this planet in the first place? We’re supposed to have met him there like, ten minutes ago.”

“That? Right. Hell,” he muttered, pulling himself out of bed, “alright, alright.” He snorted and stretched. “You sure know how to wake a man up in the morning, Mynock.” He said, gesturing for her to grab his shirt and coat.

“It’s afternoon.” She said, throwing him the clothing.

“Parasite,” he muttered under his breath, standing up and stumbling into the bathroom. He stood, trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes while he relieved himself. On the sink, a bottle of whisky sat, still opened from when he and his lady friend had half-stumbled-half-fell into the shower last night. He reached over and took a swig.

“Ain’t you already hung over?” She said, leaning in the door way and crossing her arms impatiently.

“Yeah, Mynock. That’s the point. It helps clear it up faster.” He responded, taking another swig before zipping his pants and flushing. He walked past her, out of the bathroom—drink in hand.

“No, it doesn’t.” She sighed.

“Then it makes me feel better.” He said, checking to ensure he had plenty of ammunition and throwing his pack over his shoulder.

“You’re just kicking the hang over further down the road.”

“Mynock,” he addressed her without turning to face her, already walking towards the door. “What have I told you about mornings? Mornings are best spent in silent meditation. So please, pipe down.”

“It’s afternoon.”

“Silent. Meditation.” He retorted angrily, taking another swig as he left the rented room and made towards the city streets. The girl shook her head and stopped, hesitating only for a moment to stare at the yawning hole in the ceiling he had shot five minutes before.

“Silent meditation,” she sighed, following him.

***​

​

The pair made their way into the cantina well after the scheduled meeting time. While the girl had wanted to go straight to the spacer, Alaric had insisted on ordering another bottle of whisky so that he could keep sipping at it, attempting to nurse away his hangover. Eventually, they made it over to their employer and Alaric took a seat heavily. He offered the man a friendly, toothy grin and extended his hand.

“Name’s Alaric,” he gestured with his thumb to the girl, “and that there’s. . . .”


“Old Man—don’t,” she said, in a quiet, serious whisper to him, her cheeks flushing a little.

“Oh,” he said apologetically and then wrapped an arm around her shoulder, “and this here is Mynock,” he said with a laugh. She elbowed him in the ribs and squirmed away from his arm.

“Don’t call me that, alright?” She said to the man across the table, obviously embarrassed. “My name is Aliénor.”

“Anyways, I’m going to need you to give me the details on this assignment,” he hadn’t been sure if Mynock was aware of the specifics or not, she tended to set these things up these days through the holonet which he barely knew how to use. “But first,” he leaned forward seriously, “what’s the alcohol stockpile on your ship look like? ‘Cause I can buy some if you don’t keep much on you.”

 

[Tarjik Darkin]

[member="Alaric Marãll"]

"Forty minutes." Tarjik thought to himself. He had grown irritated by the long wait he spent sitting in the cantina when he could have been making final preparations for the ship, a job he entrusted to his second mate, a loyal slave boy named Algar. Tarjik finished up his Corellian wine, certain that the guy was either scamming him, forgot, or was dead, in that order. However, as he stood up from his seat ready to leave, he saw an older, bearded man, who matched the description of the hiring ad, and a young girl both enter the cantina and head right to the bar, wanting to give them another minute to make sure they were, in fact, his hired guns, Tarjik sat back down and soon enough they came over and introduced themselves. ...

Going off of first impressions, Tarjik still held the suspicion that this was a scam. The old man seemed too much of a drunkard and too fragile to actually be the acclaimed fighter that was promised, and the girl seemed too young to be an adequate shot with a blaster. Despite this, they were the best he had under these current circumstances and could still be useful fodder should it come to that. Not betraying his inner thoughts to them, Tarjik put on a charming, if forced smile. "It is a pleasure to meet you Alaric and Aliénor," he said, shaking the outstretched hand of the older man with a firm and professional handshake before offering the same to Aliénor, "I was starting to wonder if you were going to appear. I would be pleased to answer your questions, however, my ship is requested for departure in twenty minutes and this doesn't seem to be the best place to talk about our professional matters. If you don't mind walking while talking, it is best that we should head out promptly. As for alcohol, I do have a few cases of Ne'tra gal on board that you can help yourself to. If that is not your preferred style, you are welcome to select a bottle or two of something else, my treat." ... As the group headed out, Tarjik paid for their orders and tossed the bartender an extra ten credits, not noticing one of the Klatoonian patrons leaving out behind them speaking on a communicator.

Walking alongside the two well-armed mercenaries, Tarjik began filling them in on basic details of his plans. "The main plan when we leave Nar Shaddaa is to head south through Bothawui before jumping onto the Corellian Run at Drukenwell and heading north to Denon. This way we can keep a low profile as humble merchants, and avoid the unwanted attention found near the Core and Colonial rims. This is a more lengthy route as well, with a chance of danger. Everything else in on a need to know basis." The rest of the walk was spent talking until suddenly they came to the platform "Three minutes to spare." thought Tarjik as he checked the time. Entering onto the platform, the location was vacant except for a large YT-2000 freighter, inconspicuous from a standard one aside for the artwork of a female Kuati slave dancer on one side, it wasn't to Tarjik's tastes but it made it unique and he didn't have much to complain about regarding it. As they approached the quiet platform, a large hiss of hydraulics could be heard as the main hatch opened and a young boy about fifteen years of age came out. Tarjik walked away from his two associates groups to go speak with him.

"Master, I'm glad to see that you are back. I was beginning to fear the worst." the boy said.
"I am fine Algar." Tarjik responded, "I assume everything is in order."
"Yes, the cargo has been stored in their compartments and Aola and Pampy have placed the decoy containers over top of them."
"Good work. Prepare everything for launch."
"Yes Master." the slave boy said before turning to hurry back into the ship.
"Oh, one more thing," Tarjik said stopping his Second Mate. "Leave the Ne'tra gal alone, but remove the Andoan wine from the cabinet and put it in the private storage," he whispered so that only the boy could hear him.
Algar paused to take a glance at the mercenaries, nodded once to his master, and then reboarded the ship, where Tarjik could hear him shout something in Twi'leki to his two other slaves.

Turning back around, Tarjik reapproached his two hired guns, "Sorry about that. I had to make a few final checks and decisions. We are on a tight schedule so forgive us for the rush. Welcome to the Dancing Kuati. Please, after you." with the formalities out of the way, he gestured towards the boarding ramp as he invited the two new crew members on board.

 

[Alaric Marãll]

“Howdy,” Alaric responded, accepting the man’s hand with a firm grip. A smirk crossed his face, “partner, you can’t demand perfect punctuality in this line of work. Mynock here,” he gestured to the girl, pointed ignoring her request to be called anything else, “got us into a gun fight on the way over. Hell, half the inn we were staying at ain’t standing no more.” He shrugged, “but that’s part of the life. Always a good way to get the blood pumping, a bona fide shoot out.”

“I can assure you,” the girl added, “we have the credentials. We’ve worked with Batwell Security and Arms on a commission basis for several years. We’re well armed and highly qualified. Our service record includes infiltrating and liberating a highly secured compound for political prisoners maintained by the Galactic Empire. We’ve also provided security and reprisals for the Nova family in the Core. And most impressively,” she threw a look at the older man beside her, “he’s managed to survive this long with that personality.”

“Mynock here is a little insecure,” Alaric said in a feigned whisper. “You’re a competent man, if you’re worth your salt—or my time—you would have already pulled my file from the glory days of the One Sith Wars. Were you even alive back then? Anyways, that would tell you all you need to know.” Though that had been a long time ago, Alaric still recalled with fondness the dangerous days and wild nights, living off rations stolen from ambushed Sith convoys, smuggling enough components and random pieces of technology to assemble makeshift explosives, and killing as many of those Sith bastards as he could. He’d made a lot of enemies back during those years. And he’d lost a lot of friends. But he’d do it all again in a heartbeat. Alaric thanked the man for the offer and approached the bar, ordering a few bottles on the gentleman and then a fair few more on himself, before turning to follow the man. “Mynock,” he said quiet, muted. She gave a slight nod, they’d spotted the alien exiting behind them, communicator on hand. But it wasn’t enough to bother their patron over, still, in a smooth motion expertly hidden as a stretch and yawn—because it was also a stretch and yawn—Alaric unclipped his holster, offering rapid access to his weapon.

The two of them listened, the girl especially intently, as the man spoke. Alaric kept his attention reasonably focused on Tarjik, but also scanned the streets for anything, or anyone, of interest. He was a very difficult man to surprise despite his seeming obliviousness.

“Bothawui?” Alaric grunted, “whole planet smells terrible. Like fur that’s soaked up swamp water. That’s where that Empire compound was.” The plan seemed sensible enough, besides, it had been a long day since he was a smuggler. Always more of a buccaneer, in truth. But then the man said something that actually surprised him. “Oh, you got yourself a ‘need to know basis’ have ya?” His smile was warmer than his tone. “Look partner,” he said, his tone refreshingly straight forward, “you’re paying me—and Mynock there—good money to make sure that you and your product, whatever it might be, I don’t care, get to where it is you’re going. And preferably, we’d like to get you there in one piece. But I don’t work under no kinda restraints. Especially not of the information variety. I’ll tell ya what, I’ll keep the questions to a minimum, and you keep the answers flowing.” He nodded, “that sound like a deal? ‘Cause if not, it’s not too late for you to hire a pair of lizards to protect ya. They’re cheaper than us. More likely to eat ya when you ain’t looking, but you get what you pay for.”

He permitted the man to go visit with his associates and make the final preparations to leave. When the man was firmly out of ear shot, he looked to the girl and shrugged, as if to say, ‘well?’

“It’s a good route. I don’t know that you’re going to pass for a merchant in any sector, but we can just stick to the story that we’re hired guns. Even merchants need security.” Alaric nodded, unconcerned with point. After all, if anyone actually proved troublesome, he had brought enough weapons to rectify the situation on short notice.

“You see that damned Hutt-slave back at the cantina?” He asked, lighting up a cigarette and inhaling. The girl nodded. “What would you put our over-under on that thing giving us trouble down the road?”

“They’re not all Hutt agents.”

“Yeah,” he said, puffing, “not all.” He sighed. “I reckon that boy might have himself a serving of trouble, Mynock.”

“Well let’s hope so, otherwise you’ll get bored.”

“Indeed I would, Mynock. Indeed I would.”


[member="Tarjik Darkin"]

 

[Tarjik Darkin]

[member="Alaric Marãll"]

As the trio boarded the ship, they were once again greeted by the young slave boy. "Welcome aboard the Dancing Kuati," he said giving his head a quick bow, "I am sorry to bother you again master, but we are receiving a message from Tarda."
"What does he want now?" Tarjik asked exasperated.
"We don't know sir, he only wants to speak with you."
"Blast it." Tarjik said before pausing to think, "Fine, I will be at the Holonet Terminal. Algar, please give our guests the informational tour of the ship, equipment storage, their quarters... and the Ne'tra gal." With a confirming nod from his second mate, he hurried off to receive the call.

Sitting down at the chirping terminal, Tarjik sighed before resuming the call where he was greeted by an angry Devaronian. "Your departure time is coming up, I hope that you have all your preparations ready. Zassoz requires punctuality on his landing platforms."
"My departure will commence as soon as this call is over and I know that you aren't here to talk about docking schedules, so you better get your point across quickly."
"I hope that you are aware of the importance of this shipment."
"I am."
"Important enough to warrant enough to attract the attention of the Golden Fang Syndicate."
"I have taken precautions."
"If we want to get into the Denon market you should be taking this more seriously."
"I am taking this seriously, you are the one who is wasting my time," Tarjik said, getting irritated.
"For your sake, I hope you are."
"When have I ever failed Zassoz, Tarda?" a hint of smugness in his tone.
The Devaronian paused for a second in apparent anger before saying under his breath, "You will one of these days." before cutting the connection.

Tarjik exhaled a frustrated sigh. He didn't like the sniveling bootlicker of a Devaronian and didn't understand why Zassoz kept him around. Something about the Hutt's ego he guesses. Turning around he was met by one of his other slaves, Pampy, a blue Twi'lek dancer, standing quietly behind him. "Are you alright master?" she asked, "I am sorry for not alerting you to my presence earlier."
"I am fine Pampy, thank you."
"I have put the wine away in the private compartment as you requested, is there anything else that you require?"
"No, not right now. ... Actually, you can go find Aola and introduce yourselves to our guests. Also, please apologize to them for my rapid departure, I needed to take this important call. We are taking off now."
The Twi'lek nodded as she left and Tarjik entered into the cockpit. Pulling out the ship owner's manual, he began flipping switches and pushing buttons, commencing the start-up sequence and a few moments later, the light freighter flew away from the planet's surface and entered hyperspace, on course to Bothawui.

 

[Alaric Marãll]

“Would you look at this, Mynock?” Alaric asked, holding up the Ne’tra gal, “this here is some high powered Mando-chit.” He opened the drink with his teeth, and took a hearty swig. “That’s good, might be from Mandalore itself.” He gave a satisfied nod, “this stuff is gonna skyrocket in value once those karking Sith steamroll over the Mandos.” The comment soured his mood a little, if only he had been a little closer to the martial world when word of the invasion broke, he’d have been there in a heartbeat. By the time he had learned of the coming conflict, he knew the spaceports would be secured and the space constantly patrolled, making it impossible for him to reach Mandalore without being detained and arrested. Still, he could take comfort in the knowledge that if anyone could beat out the Sith, it was the Mandos fighting to protect Mandalore. He handed the girl the drink, “here, try some for yourself.”

The girl accepted the bottle skeptically, eyeing its contents as she swirled them gently. “It’s black.” She said, making a face which caused Alaric to laugh.

“Course it’s black, Mynock. It’s black ale.”

“I thought he said it was net. . . net-ra gale?”

“Ne’tra gal,” Alaric corrected, “it has lots of names, Mynock.” He reached out and snatched it away from her. “And you’re obviously not ready for a drink as fine as this.” He took another drink. Just enough to keep him perpetually buzzed. Just the way he liked it. After a moment of satisfaction, he spoke again. “You didn’t tell me he was a slaver.”

“You didn’t ask.” He grunted. “What? Is that a problem?”

“Slavers, they’re not my favorite folks in the galaxy is all. They often run with Imperials. And Sith. Not always, but the association is enough to leave a bad taste in my mouth. If a slaver can keep their nose clean, then that’s one thing, but if they can’t. If they provide labor for some Sith superweapon, or factory workers for Imperial Star Destroyers, then well, you know. . . .” He made a slicing motion across his throat. “Gotta kill ‘em.”

“I don’t get the impression this guy works for the CIC. Or the Empire.”

“No, that’s true.” He shrugged. “And his accommodations are nice. Still, just, in the future, let’s no go out of our way to work with slavers.” He pondered for a moment, taking another drink, “unless the pay is good. I’m fine with it for good money. I mean, someone has to give those slave kids a job.”

“What about that Nova sister?” The girl asked, “she’s a slaver. And she’s loaded and you never charge her anything.” She huffed, “and it’s not like she has light requests. Last time, we blew up a hotel.”

“That’s different.”

“Yeah it’s different, we don’t get paid.” She retorted.

“I like Dehlia.” He sighed, “you’re giving me a headache, Mynock.” He waved her away, “you should really be nicer. After all, you started this morning by shooting at me.” He started moving towards the bed.

“What?” She said, throwing her hands up in the air, “first, you shot at me. And second,” she stepped closer only to raise her voice, “it was afternoon!”

“Yeah well, wake me up tomorrow afternoon. Unless someone starts shooting at us first.”

“Let’s hope your sober enough to return fire,” she needled him.

“If I’m not, you won’t have to worry about it long. Let me know,” he yawned, “if our employer has anything else to say.” He stretched, “I’m just going to rest my eyes a spell.” He took another drink and leaned back into the cot, bringing his arm over his eyes.