Before another job, Shorty and I were once again passing our time in the cantina, resting from our workdays. More accurately, I was the one mostly resting, while my little companion and friend dug through various junk, assembling some devices and constantly tinkering with something.
So, when a client sat down at our table, I was quite surprised at first, because usually, work was tossed our way through the owner of the establishment, but apparently, the system had failed this time.
Glancing at the bartender, who shrugged apologetically, I realized that my guest hadn't been satisfied with the answer and had come to negotiate personally.
And it was obvious, given his burning eyes, pursed lips, and aggressive attitude. The old man's cheek twitched every now and then, and he kept spitting on the cantina floor, never once hitting the spittoon placed at every table.
"So, it's you, The Destroyer?"
"No."
"What do you mean, no?!" Without letting me finish my answer, the old man leaned forward, causing his tattered hat to fall off, revealing a bald crown and age spots on his skin. "They told me it was you."
"They're probably lying. I'm not The Destroyer..."
"Then it's definitely you. A friend told me you'd answer like that." Smirking at my surprised face, the old man briskly tossed a massive backpack onto the table, ignoring the indignant shout from the cantina owner. "Want a sandwich? Hubba-gourd and rat meat..."
"Thanks, I'm full." Because of my bewilderment, even Shorty looked up from her business and carefully examined the old man, then reached out her hand, into which he placed a simple sandwich. "So, to what do we owe the honor?"
Blowing his nose onto the floor, the old man pulled a map out of the backpack and spread it before us. A classic drawing of the desert with small notes and landmarks; I'd seen hundreds of these, if not for one "but."
"I have my own caravan, and I'm going to retire soon—age isn't what it used to be. So I want to go on one last long trek." Poking his finger at the far corner, the old man smiled greedily. "Here, beyond the sands, stands an old mining town that's often short on food..."
"You want to go through the Red Dunes? That's desert dweller territory. There are cliffs everywhere, little open space, and a ton of places for an ambush..."
"I know that without you, brat." Slapping his palm on the table, the old man loudly sucked snot through his nose, announcing his performance to the entire cantina. "I walked there in my youth, when my hands could still hold a rifle and my prick was too small to manage a caravan. Just like yours."
Pointing a finger at me, he thrust his hand into his thin beard, combing it for show.
"But that's exactly where we hit a magnificent jackpot that allowed me to buy my first wagons, a herd of rontos, and even an old buggy." Poking the map again with a yellowed nail, the old man leaned closer, breathing sour pumpkin moonshine on us. "And now, I want to go on this one last trek. Gather more before retirement so I can live comfortably..."
"I don't see the point in taking such a risk. Those lands are dangerous, and the tribes are restless right now..."
"Bah! I know that without you, brat. So come on, get your balls in a fist and tell me something new!"
"That city might not even exist anymore. Desert dwellers are everywhere there, and most likely krayt dragons. It's pointless and deathly dangerous. You'll all perish, even if I go with you."
Our argument lasted several minutes, and at some point, the old man finally lost his temper, waving his arms and ranting to the whole cantina.
"Pah, and here I thought someone truly serious had appeared in the sands, but you're just another liar puffing up your own reputation."
"It's too dangerous, and the jackpot won't be worth it... None of the assassins will go with you. Why risk dying in the sands far from home when you can earn money here?"
"Pff, I see how it is with you." Rising from his chair, the old man jerked his head sharply, causing a small medallion to slip out from under his shirt and hang on his chest. "I'll find those who are braver; we'll manage without you, coward."
Watching the old man leave with a puzzled look, I decided not to let the matter slide and to talk to the cantina owner, so he could speak with the old man and the assassins who might get involved. The last thing I needed was for good people to perish in the sands because of a greedy old man.
As for me, a new task was already waiting, one I had staked out long before the arrival of this nervous "Eldorado" seeker in the Red Dunes.
****
Do you know what a Hubba-gourd tastes like?
Someone who has never tried this fruit might... and quite logically, give the example of an ordinary Earth pumpkin. Sweetish, with a nutmeg aftertaste, and most importantly, with an indescribable aroma that doesn't sting the nose. They make children's juices, purees, and pies out of it, add it to side dishes, and sometimes bake it whole.
Lovely little pumpkins...
Well, a Hubba-gourd is a wild desert taste of despair. You won't die of hunger, of course, but you'll remember the taste of hubba for the rest of your life.
Jawas and desert dwellers call them seeds of life, which is basically what the word hubba means.
The locals call them saving fruits.
Miners call them the last resort.
And visitors call them a piece of shit.
Not that I was a dedicated culinary expert, certainly not after the exquisite cuisine from Super Earth. But even to me, at a glance, an alien from a dystopian universe, the taste of Hubba-gourds seems disgusting.
Yet the population of Tatooine manages to shove it into every dish.
Bake it with beast meat. Roast it over a fire. Stew it in a goulash. Whip up a puree. Add it to a salad. Bake crackers from the seeds. And of course, they distill moonshine from hubba.
In essence, it's the primary plant on Tatooine, which has always been in demand here. And many years later, I even learned that some perverted aristocrats order Hubba-gourd delivery to their tables, considering them a delicacy...
Strange people.
But back to the topic. Hubba-gourds grew in many places, but most of all, this unpretentious plant loved the cliffs and the shadows they cast. Preferring not to roast under the scorching sun, Tatooine pumpkins delighted all the planet's inhabitants, including the animals that loved to gorge on the honest laborers' harvest.
Why did I even start this story?
Simply because I've been on guard duty for an hour now, protecting a huge "field" of pumpkins, and opposite me hangs an old poster, clearly stolen from miners. On it, in large letters, are written all the benefits of such an exquisite, healthy, and most importantly, abundantly growing delicacy.
"Hey, Shorty... Your little cunning people seem to like pumpkins."
Nodding toward the poster, I lean back in my chair, starting to rock on the two back legs. With my feet up on the table, I'd been lying in a similar pose for over thirteen hours, so don't blame me if a normal topic for dialogue couldn't be found.
"Seed of life. Idiot. Choice not great. !№";!№%"
"Cold as always, despite the scorching sun," yawning, I shift my gaze to the clock, which shows the time until the end of our shift... And there are still eleven hours left. Horrible. "Your Galactic Basic has gotten much better..."
"You won't learn. Talentless. I have to."
"Yeah, a talent for languages isn't something I'm good at..."
"You are good. ;%:!;№%"
"Eh, it's sad that even you say that." Dropping my feet from the table, I stand up to my full height, putting a hand to my temple. The heat was hellish, but we were in a small tent tucked among the cliffs, and sunbeams rarely broke through here. However, from our position, there was a great view of the wasteland stretching beyond the cliffs... And that view was depressing. The heat was such that the ground and horizon blurred, turning into a murky mess. Today, both suns of Tatooine were working at full power, as if trying to roast us on the spot. "I liked it better when you couldn't speak... Hey! Don't throw things; that's actually our lunch."
Managing to catch a ripe hubba fruit, I toss it from one hand to the other, weighing it by eye and examining it more closely. The pumpkin looked like a charred, yellowed potato fruit that had grown long.
"It looks, well, not appetizing at all," returning the pumpkin to the table, I go back to idle do-nothingness, but at that exact moment, the Dewbacks began to grumble. These parodies of lizards, though in size not much inferior to a Speeder, were used by local farmers as guard dogs. At night, they were actually useless since the cold made them slow and sluggish, but during the day... During the day, these brutes could quite nimbly hunt down a small pack of womp rats. "Well, what is it again? If it's that neighbor again, I swear to God, I'll shove this pumpkin up his... What kind of wonder is this?"
Climbing out of the tent, I moved higher up the cliffs, trying to stay in the shade as I slowly approached my target. Bypassing large stones, constantly maintaining eye contact, I came close.
On the sand, right in front of me, lay a small boy. Frail, thin, and charred in some places. It looked, just fucking suspicious.
He was barefoot. There were many places without a tan but with reddened skin, meaning he hadn't been lying under the sun for very long.
And most importantly—the kid didn't stink. All desert dwellers smell a bit, no matter how hard they try to keep themselves clean. But a scent comes from everyone who travels between settlements or at least works, and here...
Without thinking long, I switched my Blaster to stun mode and shot the boy, causing the latter to jerk, bulging his eyes, and freeze lying on his back. His eyes spun wildly for a few seconds before he locked onto my silhouette.
The kid clearly didn't expect it to end exactly like this, as did his accomplices who were trying to steal pumpkins while the boy distracted me.
"Jimmy!"
"Pumpkin on the ground, hands on your ass, face in the sand. Otherwise, the kid gets a Blaster bolt between the eyes..."
"Hey, I know you, you're The Destroyer! And the Blaster is on stun."
"What?!"
"Exactly, exactly, you're that destroyer of bandits in the wastelands. A Headhunter, a cruel killer and maniac who does terrible things to his enemies!"
"Is it true that you buried a man alive in Bantha waste?"
"Well, it wasn't exactly like that... And the client survived," to be honest, I was stunned. The kids dropped the pumpkins on the sand and started asking me about all the exploits of me and Shorty. Speaking of the little Jawa. Peeking out of the tent, she saw that I was fine and just gave me a thumbs up before disappearing back inside... Little traitor. The Helldivers don't leave their own behind... We killed them more often, but that's for another situation. "Alright, youth, quiet down..."
Only then did I notice that one of my "fans" wasn't nearby, and when my eyes darted across the field in search of him, the other two also successfully tried to flee.
"Fine... Fine... Think you're smarter than me?" Standing in a stance, I extend my arm, straightening it parallel to the ground, and pull the trigger three times. "But I haven't seen anyone smarter than a Blaster yet."
"Blowing" the smoke from the barrel, I walked up to the bodies slumped in a heap. Tangled in their own limbs, the kids were moaning and grunting, unable to utter a word.
"Don't worry so much. I'm not going to turn you over to the farmer," at this point, the moans took on joyful notes; one of them even tried to smile, though the happiness didn't last long, "but the punishment for everyone will be equal."
The Tatooine desert is a place where fun and fierce conditions coexist peacefully, like old friends who haven't seen each other for too long.
Imagine: high in the azure sky, a Scavenger flies, flapping its huge wings as if performing acrobatic stunts in the air. Its cry sounds like a message from the hot sands, guarding this vast land from boredom.
It casts a huge shadow, which the two suns of Tatooine stretch for many hundreds of meters, scaring small animals and travelers unfamiliar with such things.
On the parched earth, where even stone seems to have surrendered under pressure, a tumbleweed hops with surprising agility. It twists and turns like an invisible dancer, rushing along a wild path known only to it. These funny bushes are a bit cute, even if you don't want to get too close to them—who knows what they're in league with?
Nevertheless, human life blooms even here—local farmers diligently gather desert gifts—the Hubba-gourd, which, rumor has it, can turn into excellent dishes if it's not forgotten in the sun.
Wiping sweat from their brows, these laborers, who provide food for thousands of sentients, like true champions in the struggle with nature, listen with interest to the "voice of democracy."
Oh, no, no. It's not something serious and grand, but just a trio of boys distinguished by restless energy and a frisky spirit. Their friendly shouts ring out across the area:
"We only took a little!"—while their plans crumble under the blows of switches, which are by no means part of a summer game.
Tatooine plays with its unusual colors.
***
When work starts bringing pleasure—it's wonderful. And I know what I'm talking about. You do what you like, and time flies by, even if you can't make a good living at it; at least a good deed always pays off a hundredfold.
At least, that's what I thought.
But the longer I spent on my worldly affairs, the fewer mundane problems affected the local settlements. Unlike many others, Shorty and I did our work conscientiously, leaving entire generations of local hired workers without a piece of bread... Figuratively speaking.
But I didn't despair, and whenever Gor, Ramil, or other important sentients in the villages offered me work, I often refused the kind that could once again bring back that feeling of delight from war.
But every action has consequences, and I heard more than once that my decisions led to sad outcomes.
And today, we stumbled upon one of those consequences.
Under the scorching sun of Tatooine, I stood among the wreckage of a caravan that was once full of life and had now become merely a reminder of the harsh reality of this planet. Sand covers the dead bodies, and my thoughts, as if spellbound, return to the decision I tried to avoid with all my might, but this cursed world time and again pushes me into the embrace of war and death.
I wasn't a fool and knew that here, on these merciless lands, there were plenty of dangers. I decided to help people, and often this help consisted of destroying a threat in the bud.
But in recent months, I had been looking for an occupation that could distract me from killing. I learned to work with my hands and hoped this would save me from the abyss in which I lived for many years in my past life.
Before, it always seemed to me that war for me was a job, but the more often the world brings down new obstacles upon me, the more I realize that it is my calling.
And today I stand here, surrounded by the dead—their voices sound in my mind like an echo calling me to account.
Walking in a wide arc, peering at familiar features and clothing colors, I recall their faces in my head, seen briefly a few times.
On the sand are traces of struggle: torn fabrics, abandoned things, unfinished dreams.
The air is filled with the scents of gunpowder, tibanna, blood... and fear. Shards of ancient plastic crunch under my feet, probably brought here with the first wave of colonization, and this causes unease in my heart.
I understood that guarding a caravan is a risky business. That people wouldn't just look for extra guns for no reason while traveling through the sands of Tatooine for years.
And although I was plagued by doubts, I still decided not to go. I hoped the desert dwellers wouldn't attack a large caravan, especially considering it wasn't carrying anything valuable for them.
But I was wrong.
And now, when I have renounced my former life, I stand here, amidst this chaos, and a sense of guilt fills my chest like a snake ready to bite at any moment.
"Maybe it's true, this mystical Force of yours is pushing me to action?"
Why, when I decided to change my life, did the whole weight of the world fall on me? I chose to leave my old life, but instead of pride, I now feel only the weight of loss. Anger at my own stupidity and overconfidence.
"Enough. Let's go. Must not look."
Grabbing my palm, Shorty tried to lead me away, but I continued to stand in place and watch.
"We should have gone with them. The stubborn old man went almost alone, with only a couple of other psychos like himself."
"Done is done. Cannot return. Must not look. Come."
"If we take such assignments... Will you return to the Clan?"
I decided not to mumble and asked directly. My alien friend was categorically against conflicts, but even an empathetic oaf like me could feel her bad mood from being here.
Releasing my palm, the little Jawa looked around, then pulled her hood deeper. Her entire tiny figure hunched, and she didn't utter a sound for agonizingly long minutes.
"No."
A single word landed as another weight on the scales.
Approaching the head of the caravan, I crouched beside his body. The old man's eyes looked into the blue sky; there was no more life in them, and he no longer seemed irritating and angry to me, but rather the opposite—sad and tired of life.
Running my fingers over the dead man's eyelids, I carefully remove the medallion from his neck. A small sand amulet made of Japoor wood. Most likely for luck.
Fingering the amulet, I peered into every crack and symbol carved by unskilled hands, but it was immediately clear that it was made from the heart.
"Children... No, more likely grandchildren."
An old crumpled cord woven from ronto hide was soaked in blood and hardened in the sun. Soiled around the back of the neck, it nevertheless remained strong enough and had apparently been worn by the old man for more than one year.
"I'll give this to them, I promise." Standing up to my full height, I press a fist to my chest, feeling the weight in my heart become a few grams lighter. "Stubborn fool... Apparently, Tatooine mocks more than just me."
***
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