Private Gas Barons

[Alden Karr]

Bespin, Lower Levels

The cantina didn't have a name. Out front there was just a flickering sign above a grotty looking door that said 'DRINKS' in three different langauges. From within, the sound of chatter and a smell that could peel chromium off a yacht emerged. It clung to the underside of a forgotten platform near Bespin's processing fringe, where the air was thick with coolant exhaust, and the locals mostly doing their best to pass unnoticed.

For Alden, it was as good to a 'local' as he had ever found. He slipped in through the door and headed to a booth near the back, one arm drapped lazily across the cracked leather seat and the other nudging a greasy ashtray out of the way. The place was dimly lit, all shadows and smoke, but that suited him just fine. A pair of Ugnaughts argued over a datapad near the bar. A Rodian in a flight suit nursed something blue and angry-looking. No one paid Alden any mind.

Which was just how he liked it.

Zee clambered onto the table with a shrill cack-cack, sniffed at a half-eaten bowl of fried something, and promptly knocked it to the floor.

"Charming," Alden muttered, brushing crumbs off the table with a frown. He gave the monkey-lizard a look, one eyebrow raised. "You're lucky you're cute, or maybe I'd eat you."

Truth was, he didn’t like Bespin. But he was stuck here. It was all too high up, too many uniforms, and a long drop to a short end if you upset the wrong gas magnate. But when you owed money to the Hutts, and a tip-off promised a buyer looking for a man with loose morals and lighter fingers, you learned to tolerate thin air and thick accents.

He reached into his jacket, fingers reaching for a blaster that wasn't there. Instead he found a pack of deathsticks, and put them on the worn table top. He didn’t light one. Not yet. Eyes flicked to the door instead.

His contact was late. Or maybe had cold feet. Or maybe this was a set-up and he'd be meeting the business end of a shock baton before the hour was out.

Alden leaned back, let out a slow breath, and smiled to himself. That was the thing about gambling with your life, it only paid off if you didn’t fold too early.

"Alright, Bespin," he murmured under his breath, voice low and dry, "show me what you’ve got."

 

[Davik Lorso]

Sleep had been sneaking up on him for a few days, but as usual Davik had found a way to keep it at bay for just a little longer. A combination of stress, anxiety and uppers. A cocktail you'd almost think his body would be becoming immune to and yet the taste Davik craved to have touch his lips was that of highly processed Balo mushrooms. Otherwise known as ixetal cilona, death sticks, which were more downers than anything. His body seemed unwilling to accept that he was he was only half awake Davik stumbled through the door a cantina.

Bespin had been a layover for a couple weeks now as he waited for contacts to offload his cargo and found a new job amidst the poverty of pazaak dens and impoverished scum living in the shadows of the casinos and fathier racing tracks. He had found, by some miracle, a contact that said he found a middle man who found a guy looking to do a job he needed someone reliable for. That was exactly the trait Davik wasn't known for, but this guy didn't really seem to have his pick of the litter so it was worth a shot.

He found him in the back booth as he squeezed his eyes nearly shut to guard against the drifting clouds of cigarette smoke. Davik looked exactly what he was supposed to be: desperate enough to take about any job as long as it afforded him enough credits to feed his addictions. The bags under his eyes were darkened to the point you'd almost think he had been beaten, so easily were they mistaken to be bruises. His beard was unkempt with greying hairs sticking out randomly all across his chin while Calamari Gumbo he had for lunch two days ago was still something he carried with him as a stain on his yellow-ish shirt.

"Ahem-" Davik cleared his throat as he let himself fall down into the booth. "-you the guy?"

 

[Alden Karr]

Alden looked up slowly, eyes narrowing through the haze of smoke and suspicion. The man who slid into the booth across from him looked like he’d crawled out of a cargo hold, chewed on some wiring, and lost the fight with gravity on the way down. Greying beard, haunted eyes, shirt that looked like it was once near a meal and never quite recovered.

Zee hissed low and ducked behind a cracked menu, the monkey-lizard’s yellow eyes peering over the edge like a gambler reading a tell.

"That depends," Alden said, voice low and casual, but sharp enough to cut through the cantina hum. "You the guy with a death wish and nothing better to do?"

He leaned back in his seat, thumb idly tapping the edge of the table.

"Because if you are, congratulations, looks like you’ve found me."

He didn’t offer a name. Not yet. Names meant attachments. And Alden had a strict policy: don’t get attached to anything you can’t blast your way out of.

Still, there was something about the other man’s haggard look that rang true. Desperation wasn’t easy to fake...not the kind that clung to your eyes like shadows and made your hands tremble just enough to spill your drink.

"You hear about a job, that means you're either unlucky, under informed, or you don’t care who’s watching." Alden gave a wry smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "None of those are comforting."

He gestured toward the bartender without looking. Two drinks. Whatever passed for strong and cheap in this dive.

"So. Tell me what you’ve heard—and why I shouldn’t get up and leave before the next poor soul walks through that door."

Zee gave a soft chirrup and reached for Davik’s pocket with curious fingers.

Alden didn’t stop him.

Not yet.

 

[Davik Lorso]

Davik's eyed widened suddenly as his heart skipped a few beats upon discovering the Monkey-Lizard that he had completely missed on his approach. He wasn't a big pet-person. Just another mouth to feed when he couldn't even feed himself. He recovered when the man opposite him started to say the words that were obligatory starters in the galactic underworld where truths were rare and vague deniable statements was the favored way to communicate.

"I do have time to kill," Davik smiled faintly as he planted his elbows on the table and leaned forward with his eyes on the pack of death sticks gathering dust hardly an arm's length away. "and the thrill I need isn't found on the local Sabacc tables. So figure kriff comfort and play the shtick like its a death stick." which was to say; inhale big until its all burned out and you toss it -Bespin- aside looking for the next job on the next planet in this kriffing galaxy.

Davik didn't object to the free drink and took the Corellian whiskey that arrived like a shot and signalled the bartender the man across from him would pay for two more. He was in time to see the Monkey-Lizard scoot over and reach for his pockets but he was too late to stop it. Luckily he didn't carry anything of note on his person. Not even a blaster.

"My contact's contact's middleman said that you needed someone to help you do what your monkey-lizard is trying to do," Davik grinned as he led his right elbow slid off the table and lowered his arm to pet the Monkey-Lizard's head between the ears. "I hear you might not get it done unseen and you and your loot need an escape plan."

Davik stopped petting the Monkey Lizard and took a death stick from the pack on the table, "My ship is that escape plan." Only then did he realize he didn't bring a lighter and there wasn't one on the table either, so he was forced to depend on the man in front of him to light it for him.

"Ship's called Catscratch. It's captain is me. Davik Lorso."

 

[Alden Karr]

Alden didn't flinch when the man's elbow knocked the table or when he helped himself to the deathsticks. That was the kind of move that said either I don't care if you shoot me, or I'm hoping you don't notice I'm too broke to buy my own. Either way, Alden respected the nerve.

He watched Zee skitter back across the table with a crumpled sweet wrapper like it was a priceless relic, making a pleased chitter as he retreated into the shadows of the booth.

"So you're the getaway driver," Alden said, drawing out the words like he was still chewing on them. He reached into his jacket, retrieved a battered lighter, and thumbed it to life—holding the flame steady across the table. "Fair warning. This job won't have a smooth exit. If you're looking for a clean score and a soft landing, Catscratch might be better off chasing rats through the gasworks."

He let the lighter flicker a second longer than needed, eyes on Davik's face, watching for the twitch behind the bravado.

"Loot's real. Real enough to get us both shot if we're seen. Timing's tight. Guards, sensors, the works. The kind of place that'll scramble a patrol speeder faster than you can say wrong door." Alden paused, letting the words hang like smoke between them.


"But you..." He gave a faint nod. "You look like the kind of guy who's either desperate enough, or stupid enough, to make it interesting."

He raised his own glass and knocked it back in one. The whiskey tasted like turpentine with regrets.

"Alright, Davik Lorso," he said, setting the glass down with a clink. "Tell me your ship's fast. Because if I get what I came for, we won't have long before someone bigger, better armed, and far angrier wants it back."

Zee poked his head out and gave a low, expectant squawk.

Alden smirked faintly. "And if you've got a lighter that works better than this one, you might just be my new best friend."

 

[Davik Lorso]

Instead of a twitch, Davik's eyes, for the first time, showed a flicker of excitement upon hearing the warning coming from the lips of the man opposite him. He was a spicehead, sure, but he was also really good at what he did and sometimes he found he was too good. The trade gets boring if you get away clean all the time and.. well-

"She ain't called the Catscratch for nothing," he answered before taking a long drag from the death stick, letting his lungs do the work as the stick got shorter and shorter until most of it broke off and fell to the table. "Sometimes you need a downer, other times an upper. The Cat scratches all the right places at all the right times." He didn't answer whether or not his ship was fast, for in Davik's experience that didn't really matter. Davik, despite the spice-induced haze he normally lived his planetsides days through, usually knew what he was talking about.

Besides, it couldn't be worse than the Hutt Conflict Drives he did almost a decade ago. It was a Hutt turf war so fierce that only one out of a dozen pilots made it through on the glitter runs. Davik ran two-hundred and thirty seven in a crazed haze of uppers. The Catscratch saw him through it back then and it would do through whatever this guy would be throwing at him... come to think of it..

"I'm not friends with someone whose name I don't know," the fifty-something smuggler sighed as he removed the death stick from his mouth and dropped it on the table. "Unless you want to go through life from now on as simply cargo"

 

[Alden Karr]

Alden let out a dry chuckle as the death stick ash drifted toward his side of the table like it had business there. Zee immediately pounced on the burnt stub with glee, snatching it up like treasure and scrambling back under the table.

“Well,” Alden said, brushing the ash away with a casual swipe, “there goes my retirement plan. Was going to trade that for a ship of my own.”

He leaned forward, resting both forearms on the table now, the easy smirk never quite leaving his face. “You’re lucky, Davik. Most people try to impress me with tales of speed and firepower. You gave me a metaphor about a cat with boundary issues. That, I respect.”

The smuggler's comment about names earned a slow, deliberate nod.

“Fair enough,” Alden replied. “I’ve been called worse than cargo, but I do prefer something with a bit more flair.”

He extended a hand across the table, palm open, the gesture relaxed but firm.

“Alden Karr,” he said, tone light. “Professional thief, occasional sabacc cheat, full-time idiot. And that—” he gestured vaguely beneath the table where Zee was now making a nest out of old receipts, “—is Zee. He bites. Mostly people I like.”

He pulled his hand back and sat up straighter.

“Now that we’re on a first-name basis, how do you feel about cloud patrol routes, restricted access codes, and the fine art of not getting shot in the face?”

A grin tugged at one corner of his mouth.

“Because I’ve got a map, a plan, and absolutely no guarantee any of it will work.”

 

[Davik Lorso]

Alden Karr and Zee. New best friends or the last name on his lips after being shot in the back or tortured on some prison ship? Davik wasn't sure but he still shook the man's hand. Then he paused for a while, deliberately, because what Alden said next sounded very convenient and the whole thing reminded him of a job he tried to do a few years ago on Agamar. Someone had sold him on the idea of a heist by showing detailed maps and identification codes -Davik had admittedly just walked out of a Catharese Bender and was as high as a kite, which could explain his poor judgment- and the whole thing turned out to be fake. Old identification codes, maps that were part legacy and part pure fantasy. Worst thing is someone he liked now spend exactly 347.4 years on a prison ship somewhere in the vast blackness of the galaxy.

"We'll need to vet the maps-" was the first thing he uttered, "-see if they're patched to the latest."

By saying it he knew that he had now accepted the job. Still not sure whether it was going to be his end, or the beginning of a new very fruitful partnership.

"My ship's at communal hanger twelve at the South Side Low Flyer port, meet me there in a couple of hours with your maps."

 

[Alden Karr]

Alden's handshake was firm, but it was the kind of grip that knew when to let go.

"Vetting the maps," he said, nodding slowly. "Now there's a phrase I don't hear nearly enough in this line of work."

Zee let out a snort from beneath the table, a stray noodle wrapper now draped over his head like a victory crown.

"Don't worry," Alden continued, raising both hands with mock sincerity. "These ones aren't copied off a tourist brochure or scrawled on the back of a takeaway napkin. I've had eyes on the site, tapped into a few old feeds, and cross-checked with a slicer I may or may not owe money to. They're good. Or at least, bad in the right ways."

He downed what was left of his drink, the burn dulling just slightly with each sip.

"Communal hangar twelve, South Side Low Flyer. Got it."

Alden rose from the booth, brushing a few crumbs off his coat. Zee climbed up onto his shoulder, clutching his prize like a war trophy and letting out a satisfied squeak.

"I'll bring the maps. You bring the ship. And if you're the cautious type, maybe run a diagnostic or two—just in case we've got company before we hit the clouds."

He gave Davik a grin.

"Two hours," he said, turning toward the cantina's door, "and we'll see if this is the start of something profitable—or the sort of mess we'll both pretend never happened."

With that, Alden slipped out into the Bespin gloom, Zee cackling softly as they vanished into the corridor fog.

 

[Davik Lorso]

A few hours later Davik splashed some cold water on his face and inspected his blood-shot eyes in the mirror of his wet cell. He knew he looked like shit and he felt like it, too, as he was coming down from the uppers he had taken earlier. He wanted to spice up again to dull the hangover but then he wouldn't be focused enough to judge Alden's maps on merit and authenticity.

His ship wasn't the same mess he was. It was actually quite austere save from some bead-necklaces from Agamar hanging over the cushioned prefab couch in the rest area. There were hidden compartments here and there, but for some reason Davik had always kept to the somewhat sober-looking interior of the Eriadu Trading Corporation, where he had earned his piloting license. Function over style, so to say.

It didn't help that his interior decorator was his own addiction and most of the remaining furniture had come with the ship and was either bolted down or too heavy to lift by yourself. His expensive nicknacks had been sold for an assortment of spice -mainly Glitterryll- during a very unfortunate forthnight on Nar Shaddaa.

The navigation table annex entertainment module at the center of his rest area was bolted down and thus survived the addict's purge. As it was the main tool for astronavigational planning in holo-form and the only source that could broadcast the cheap Tatooine 'Preef Callo' westerns he had once bought at a sale, the module had actually received a fairly recent update.

Alden would find the door open and as he entered the rest area Davik would be lounged on the couch watching one of the westerns. Specifically 'Preef Callo and Sand Witch' where, for some reason, a rodian gunslinger on Tatooine was facing off against a Sith Lord in defense of a small spice mining town. The sounds of wind gushing over the Tatooine deserts, the occassional gutteral Tatooine dialect of Huttese and mainly just the sounds of blaster bolts being deflected by lightsaber swings could be heard throughout the entire ship.

"Welcome to the Catscratch", Davik smiled, pressing a button and pausing the holo-flick.

 

[Alden Karr]

The Catscratch loomed like a forgotten relic in communal hangar twelve, sleek in places, scruffed in others, with that look ships sometimes got when they were one busted stabiliser away from telling you their life story. Alden liked it immediately.

He was halfway across the hangar, maps slotted into a cheap plastileather folder under one arm and Zee perched like a smug gremlin on his shoulder, when the first voice rang out from behind a stack of loading crates.

"Oi! Karr!"

Alden paused, sighed, and turned slowly. Three of them. Local muscle. Not uniformed. Just the type who wore jackets two sizes too small and looked like they'd failed out of the goon academy for being too obvious.

"Gentlemen," Alden drawled, already calculating exit vectors, "I'm afraid Zee doesn't sign autographs."

"We ain't here for your lizard," said the tallest, whose nose had clearly lost more fights than it had started. "Word is, you owe a certain Arven Foss a cut from that sabacc job last month."

Alden gave a long-suffering look to Zee, who bared his teeth in what could generously be called a grin.

"Tell Arven I'll happily pay him, once he gives back the credits he stole from my fake ID vendor. Fair's fair."

The goons didn't laugh.

Alden did.

Unfortunately, so did Zee, right as he flung a clump of mystery gunk into the tall one's face.


It bought Alden just enough time to duck the first swing, pivot round the second, and jam a stun baton (borrowed from someone who really should've kept a firmer grip) into the third's ribs. Two seconds later and all three were on the floor, twitching, groaning, or reconsidering their career choices.

Alden dusted himself off and strolled up the Catscratch's boarding ramp like it was just another Tuesday.

---

He stepped into the rest area, the distant whine of wind and the unmistakable clash of blasterfire and sabre hums washing over him like warm nostalgia. Zee chirped happily and scurried inside, immediately eyeing the bead-necklaces with criminal intent.

Alden took in the space: barebones, but lived-in. Functional. Honest, in the way only ships and spice-burned couches ever really could be.

"Welcome to the Catscratch," Davik said, pausing the flick.

Alden grinned.

"Thanks. Had a bit of a welcome party outside, turns out someone's still sore about that sabacc game on Nar Shaddaa. Left them in a bit of a… twitchy mood."

He tossed the plastileather folder onto the nav table with a casual flick.

"Fresh maps. Security rotations, access routes, backdoor codes. All sliced up nice and neat."

He sank into the opposite end of the couch and glanced at the paused screen.

"Is this the one where the Rodian wins, or the one where he loses but walks off with the girl and a bantha?"

Zee, meanwhile, had managed to clamber onto a shelf and was now gently gnawing one of the beads.

"You might want to hide your valuables," Alden added helpfully. "Zee's got expensive taste. Just no concept of money."

He gave Davik a nod.

"Ready to plan this mess?"

 

[Davik Lorso]

With the sound of small teeth grinding on the bead-necklaces behind him, Davik sat up straight and, purely for security reasons, pressed a button on the console beside the couch. "Goons from Nar Shaddaa?" the button's light turned from yellow to red, "Better lock the ship down then." He wasn't in the mood for wrestling some Huttese gangster's goons over control of his only valuable possession: the Catscratch.

Grabbing the plastileather folder, he nodded in the direction of the kitchenette; "Help yourself. There's Corellian Ale in the fridge and Agamar Brandy in the cupboard above it."

To Davik's horror there didn't seem to be a datastick inside the folder, but simply genuine maps and codes printed out on sheets of paper. Copying the information he needed for the job into his navcomputer could take a while. Much longer than simply inserting a datastick into the socket would be. Davik was a professional though. More importantly, he was a professional with an old ship and an old navconsole that could still project through paper and show the map's content in 3D, so he took the first map, fired up the console and waited for Alden to explain what it was that they were looking at.

"Oh and the former. Preef shoots the bad guys, but the girl doesn't like the popping sound his fingers make and leaves him for Cathar dancer."

Story of a spacer's life, really. Loved ones never wait for you to finish your galactic haul and become furries entrenched in Catharese love-knots and birthing litters of half-breed kittens. Yes, thinking of you Mon'ikale.

 

[Alden Karr]

Alden let out a low whistle as the ship sealed with a satisfying clunk and a subtle shift in cabin pressure. "Lockdown. Now that's what I call hospitality."

He ambled over to the kitchenette, popped the fridge, and pulled out a bottle of Corellian Ale. "Don't mind if I do," he said, twisting off the cap with the kind of ease that suggested he was far more experienced with bottles than blueprints. "Here's to angry exes, twitchy goons, and brandy you're pretending not to notice I'm eyeing for later."

Zee was now hanging upside down from the shelf, bead-necklace around his head like some kind of primitive war crown, quietly humming a tune that sounded suspiciously like the cantina theme slowed down and poorly remembered.

Alden wandered back over, drink in hand, just in time to see Davik flick on the old navconsole and project the first map in glorious low-res 3D. A mess of criss-crossing corridors, vent shafts, and patrolling security droids flickered into view, with a few handwritten notes in Aurebesh scrawled into the margins.

"No datastick," Alden said with a shrug. "Figured you were old school. Besides, datasticks get cloned, intercepted, fried in bad ports. This? This you can fold up, stick in your boot, or use to wipe up a spill if everything goes sideways."

He jabbed a finger toward a narrow service corridor marked MAINT-3B.

"This is our way in. Ventilation shaft just outside the main vault access corridor. Too small for a protocol droid, perfect for a pair of desperate idiots and a monkey-lizard with boundary issues."

He sipped the ale, tapped another spot near the centre of the map.

"Main take's in here. Mid-tier security vault. Not top-clearance, but guarded well enough to suggest it holds something juicy—credits, blackmail chips, maybe even a spice ledger if we're lucky. I've got the entry codes for the first two doors. After that, we improvise."

He grinned, clearly far too comfortable with the idea of 'improvisation' mid-heist.

"Oh—and the roof's crawling with patrols, so extraction's got to be fast. You'll need to bring the Catscratch in low, maybe thirty metres off the pad, and hold steady while we jump."

He leaned back, swirling his ale with the air of someone who either had a death wish or had made peace with his chances a long time ago.

"Simple, right? What could possibly go wrong?"

Zee chose that moment to fall off the shelf, land in the fruit bowl with a splat, and emerge chewing something Alden sincerely hoped wasn't organic.

"Besides him, obviously."