All He Ever Wanted

2002 short story by Jonathan Hicks

Two years before Episode IV – A New Hope

Skeet Jonas tried to keep his eyes on the stop chrono but he couldn’t help but continually glance at the progress of the Ikas-Ando Lowrider that was flying down the empty road towards him. The speeder, it’s twin engines glowing with the speed, the sloping nose vibrating with the friction, the repulsor units squealing with effort, shot past him as a blur and he hit the stop button, marking the speeder’s time and shaking his bald head with a laugh.

All about him, beings from a myriad of different worlds cheered and applauded. They all lounged over, sat in, admired or showed off their own speeders, a variety of different models with different modifications. Colours clashed, great stabilising fins covered with graphics and holo-graffiti stuck out at varying angles. Oversized repulsor units hummed and shook with barely contained power, thrusters sat idle, waiting for the command to burst into flame and throw the speeders forward with brute force.

Skeet loved these meetings. Muscle Speeder Freaks gravitated to this place, every night, and swapped ideas, showed off their machines and timed their speed.

Chosen as the timing master, Skeet was in the midst of the crowd. He sucked in a huge breath with his mouth closed, tasting heavy-duty oil at the back of his throat and exhaust fumes in his nose. The smell of fresh paint assailed him from one side, the closeness of dumped gasses from the other, and he revelled in the moment.

The driver of the Ikas-Ando Lowrider jumped from his bright green machine and raced over to Skeet. His eyes were wide and his head tails flapped excitedly.

   “Well? Well?” he cried, virtually jumping up and down in front of the huge bald human.

   “You’ve got a six-K machine, man,” Skeet said in his low, rough voice. The driver gritted his teeth, placed his palms against his cheeks and howled in dramatic displeasure. “But I tweeked the injectors!” he cried.

   “Did you enlarge the pressure manifold?”

The driver frowned in confusion.

   “No, I didn’t.”

   “Extra thrust and no way to bleed the excess?” Skeet shook his head and whistled through his teeth. “I’m surprised your engine casing didn’t fly off.”

With a downcast face and drooping shoulders the driver walked away. Other beings started to gather around Skeet, waving flimsies and datapads, shouting for his attention and trying to be the next on the five-kilometre straight. He held up his hands to calm everyone down but saw, out of the corner of his eye, a small low speeder approaching.

The vehicle was plain, three engines and two-seater cockpit, with what appeared to be a bolt-on cargo box just behind the central engine. It coasted through the crowds and took up a spare spot, the Duros driver waving in Skeet’s direction and climbing from the cockpit.

Skeet waved back, and began to push his way through the crowd. He handed the stopchrono to another and made his way to the Duros.

   “Driss, you made it!” Skeet said as he approached, leaving the unfortunate individual with the stopchrono to get swamped by the crowds.

The Duros shrugged. “You said there was talent here,” Driss replied.

Skeet looked over the speeder and frowned. “I thought you’d come in something a little more flash, Driss, what happened to the Brotar Model Six you picked up on that water world?”

   “I traded it in for this Mobquet,” Driss smiled a secret smile and patted the apparent cargo box on the back of the speeder. Skeet knew better than to probe for technical details from his racer friend and nodded with understanding.

   “So,” Driss took in a deep breath and appeared to savour the vapours Skeet had breathed in. “What have we got here in the Setnin Sector?”

The two beings began to walk back into the throng and Skeet pointed out different models of speeders and different species of racers.

   “Two Rodian air runners with Ikas-Ando’s, they’re pretty good, A Brotar Four over there, with modified emitters so it gets forward push, but the paint job is blergh! Just about everyone on this planet runs on an Incom valve, for some reason or another. Still, the racers themselves are really, really good.”

   “What about bikes?” Driss asked as they stood looking at the black and red paintwork on the hood of a wide, low speeder.

   “Just speeders,” Skeet shrugged.

   “That’s a shame,” Driss frowned. “Recently, it’s been nothing but open topped speeders. If we’re going to set up our own race team, we need a variety of skills.”

Skeet wasn’t listening. He was staring at the Mobquet Driss had arrived in and looked back at his friend with a smirk.

   “That’s not your speeder,” he said flatly. “There’s no way you’d trade in your Brotar for that thing.”

Driss allowed a smile of defeat and held out his hands in submission.

   “You’re right, it’s not mine. I bought it here for an old friend.”

With curiosity peaked, Skeet ignored the whoops of delight and the screaming engines of two more speeders flying past in a blur.

   “Who?”

As the question was asked, a small repulsor unit came into view with a large, balding man sat in its only chair. At first Skeet didn’t recognise him, but the garish colours of the clothes and the firm set of the man’s jaw bought memories flooding back.

   “I know you!” Skeet pointed at the man and approached him as he drifted forward. “My first race on Junduk IV. You were nearly taken out by a Weequay!”

The man seemed a little hurt by the memory of the crash but smiled nonetheless. “You must be Skeet Jonas. Driss has told me a lot about you. I hear you’re a Tatooine Ten Thousand veteran?”

Skeet hid his face in mock embarrassment.

   “You make me feel old. That was four years ago!”

   “So, what have you been doing with yourself?”

   “Oh, Driss is trying to set up his racing team with his winnings from the Ten Thousand, but we’re having trouble finding talent.”

The man frowned.

   “Why aren’t you racing?”

Skeet appeared uncomfortable with the question but answered,   

   “I’m keeping out of the limelight for a while. Had my fun. Anyway, Driss? You want to introduce us?”

   “Sorry,” the Duros slapped his forehead as an apology for his forgetfulness. “Skeet Jonas, meet Veen Bern.”

As Skeet shook the man’s hand his expression slipped from honest pleasure at meeting a fellow racer to one of realisation.

   “Veen Bern? Of the Chancai Crass and Burn Race Circuit? But your one of the best racers in this sector!”

Bern’s face suddenly became downcast and his eyes shifted down to his repulsorchair, then to his legs, and then back to Skeet.

   “Used to be,” he said.

Skeet frowned a question.

   “Big race across the sand flats on Luronsa,” Bern explained. “Had a lot of money riding on it, kind of a make or break race to keep the Crass and Bern Circuit going. Clipped a dune, bounced off a grazing armour beast and slammed head-on into a beach wall.”

Skeet winced

   “Lost everything. My speeder, my company, my livelihood. Didn’t even have enough creds to pay for work to my legs. But I’m going to get back into it. I have to.” He patted the hood of the black Mobquet that Driss had arrived in. “She’s modded and ready to run. Fancy giving some of these young snappers a run in these new-fangled computer-controlled monstrosities.”

The mood lightened and Skeet smiled broadly.

   “True racer talk, Veen. They can burn, blind and blast you, but you can’t keep a speeder out of a speeder.” The three beings laughed, remembering a classic racer’s slogan. Both Skeet and Bern balled their hands and punched each other’s fists. “You want to race soon?” Skeet asked.

   “As soon as,” Bern replied. “I’ve got a plasma injector mounted and I want to show it off.”

The Mobquet had been specially modified so that Bern could control throttle, height and braking from controls mounted on the steering bar, with several other modifications to the seat so that climbing in and out of the cockpit would be made easier. The speeder was non-descript otherwise, except for the box by the middle engine that, Skeet guessed, must have been the plasma injector.

Skeet was a little concerned at the apparent lack of skill the injector had been mounted with. Bolts stuck a centimetre or more out of the mounting points at irregular angles, the sealant was peeling and there were no support braces criss-crossing the unit.

   “Are you sure that’s safe? It looks a little…”

Bern sniffed as he grabbed hold of the side of the speeder and began to haul himself inside it. “It’s fine.”

   “But the box…”

   “It’s fine.”

Skeet stepped forward as Bern apparently was having difficulty getting into the cockpit but Driss grabbed his arm, caught his eyes and shook his head. Bern obviously didn’t want help getting into his own vehicle, and Skeet watched uncomfortably as he dragged himself in, his useless legs sliding past him and into the bare footwell.

There was a winding noise as Bern pressed the start stud down and held it. It sputtered, whined and then started up. Regardless of the apparent state of the speeder, the engine purred with a low growl that Skeet nodded at with a professional ear.

A large smile spread over Bern’s face and he turned his head slowly to face Skeet. “She’s got it where it counts, but she’s not much to look at, Skeet.”

   “There’s a lot of muscle speeders here, Bern. Good luck.”

There was a glint of mischievousness in Bern’s eyes as he said, “Thanks, young Jonas. Good luck to you, too.”

Then Bern turned to Driss.

   “Thank you, old friend. For everything.” He held out his hand to the Duros.

Driss took the proffered hand and gripped it tightly, giving it one firm pump and then placing his other hand over. “Good racing, Bern.”

Veen Bern winked and pressed the accelerator stud, turning the wheel and pointing the vehicle towards the far end of the five-kilometre strip he and another speeder were to race down.

   “Damn straight!” he shouted as he gunned the engine and headed to the start line.

As the taillights of the speeder disappeared into the near-darkness, Skeet’s smile dropped and he turned to face his Duros friend with grim seriousness.

   “What’s going on, Driss?”

The Duros regarded him steadily.

   “He just wants to get back in the seat…”

   “In a clapped out speeder with a hastily fitted plasma injector? He’ll get himself killed!”

Driss sighed heavily and turned, watching the road for the now out-of-sight speeders. In the far distance, engine howls could be heard and the audience murmured in anticipation. Skeet ignored both the race and the crowd, and stared at Driss with intent.

After a long pause, someone further down the line with macro binoculars shouted, “They’re off!”

There was another short pause. The sounds of the engines in the distance began to howl.

   “There’s a lot of gambling that goes on in the Setnin Sector,” Driss said. His face downcast and his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Usually on the Hardball games or hands of Sabacc and Calin Cards. But since the Crass and Bern racing began, the sector had a whole new thing to bet on.”

The engines in the distance had risen to a screaming crescendo as the two speeders roared down the track.

   “Betting turned syndicated. Large companies and groups got involved. And the beings behind these groups were less than scrupulous. Ganglords, bosses of underworld organisations, all smiling and happy behind their legitimate business faces, ready to make a fast credit through the sport.

   “Few credits turned to a few thousand, then tens of thousands, then hundreds of thousands. The higher the price, the less risk the gangleaders wanted to take…”

   “They fixed the races,” Skeet interrupted.

The engines screamed their power as they approached the cheering crowd.

  “They fixed the races. Threats, bribes, promise, everything they could think of they did to the racers. Bern was one of the more honest ones, but the more he refused the tougher it was made for him. Sabotage, low odds, that kind of thing. Thing is, the more problems they caused, the more into debt he got into running the Crass and Bern circuit. Guess where he ended up borrowing money from?”

Skeet shook his head in disbelief.

   “You got it. The gangleaders slapped so much interest on the money he borrowed to keep his dream going it crippled him. Literally. He missed two payments and they tinkered with his speeder on the sand flats of Luronsa. Nearly killed him.

   “So, not enough money to repair himself, not enough money to pay off the gangleaders, not enough money to support his family. He’s been left with little choice.”

The speeders were close now. The engines were at such a high pitch Skeet winced. The racers were pushing their vehicles hard.

   “So here we are,” Skeet said at a volume only Driss could hear, “witnessing a suicide.”

Driss smiled a strange smile that seemed to have very little humour.

   “His choice,” he replied. “The Setnin Sector sucks you in, chews you up, spits you out. ‘Sector of Free Enterprise’ they call it. Anyone who believes that is kidding themselves.”

Skeet didn’t know what to say. He watched in stunned silence as Driss leaned over and tapped a random racer on the shoulder. The bovine-featured Chortese turned and looked Driss up and down, questioning him with his eyes.

   “That’s Veen Bern in the black speeder,” Driss said as the vehicles came into view.

   “You’re kidding,” the Chortese rumbled.

   “Nope. That’s him.”

The Chortese suddenly forgot Driss’ presence and turned to the closest group of racers.

   “The one in the black speeder is Veen Bern!” he shouted.

Quickly the word spread; ‘Veen Bern is racing!’ And dozens of voices rose to cheer their hero on as the speeders screamed past, Bern tailing behind.

There was a crack and a hiss as Bern’s speeder bucked forward, the plasma injector activated, and pink gas spewed from the thrusters. The black speeder roared past the brightly painted leader to complete the sprint. Dust clouded and swamped the audience, and they cheered their appreciation.

But the black speeder didn’t stop. It flashed past the finishing beam and continued on. Driss and Skeet watched in silence, but dozens of voices rose in a chorus of desperation.

   “Switch off the injectors!”

   “Hit the coolers!”

   “Hit the brakes!”

   “Stop! Stop!”

The speeder slammed into a cliff wall.

The crowd went silent.

The plasma injector erupted, the power having nowhere to throw the speeder. The superheated gas turned the speeder into a pink and yellow fireball, the panels of the old vehicle flying off into different directions. After a brief moment of silence, the engine exploded, too.

The crowd was bathed in orange and pink light, their expressions a mixture of horror and shock and disbelief and surprise. The losing speeder slid sideways to a stop, the racer leaping out and ripping off her goggles, staring at the fireball, her long shadow dancing across the ground.

Driss nodded his head.

   “Race winner Veen Bern,” he whispered.

The atmosphere was strained, to say the least, as Skeet and Driss drove back to the landing pits where their ships, The Happy Contriver and Raceway were docked. Driss stared thoughtfully across the grassy plains as Skeet over-concentrated on his piloting.

Several times he turned his head to say something and several times he resisted. Driss appeared sad, but he also seemed to be contemplating something.

Finally, Skeet let out his thoughts.

   “I’m sorry, Driss, I’m not sure about Duros customs, but…”

   “We don’t help friends to die, if that’s what you’re wondering, Skeet. It’s not a racial trait.”

   “Then how could you?” Skeet burst out. He had held back his thoughts, but now he spoke of them they seemed to burst out like a cracked dam of emotion.

   “Do you think I said ‘yes’ straight away? Do you think he called me up and said, ‘Driss, get me a fast speeder and a faulty plasma injector, will you, I’d like to kill myself’ and I just went, ‘yeah, sure, call me tomorrow and we’ll chat about it over lunch’? Is that what you think?”

   “What am I supposed to think?” Skeet shouted. “You helped a racing hero to die!”

   “He had no options!”

   “It’s a coward’s way out!”

   “Shut up!”

   “He’s dead, Driss! Why didn’t you just shoot him?”

   “Shut up! Just drive!”

There was silence. The two beings sat in their seats and stared across the suddenly bleak landscape. Driss had his head turned away from Skeet, and Skeet kept his eyes on the path.

The landing pits appeared to be in the middle of nowhere, but just over the hill was a small settlement that they were using as a stop-off whilst they searched for racing talent in the Setnin Sector. The two vessels sat next to each other, huge landing legs sinking into the soft earth of the planet’s surface.

Skeet pulled up sharply and jumped from the cockpit. He saw a figure stood at the bottom of the ramp of the Happy Contriver and he walked purposefully up to him.

   “Emag, we’re getting the hell out of this scummy sector…” he began to say, but he never completed his sentence.

Veen Bern stared at him, a huge smile across his face.

Skeet missed a step and came to a full halt, looking at Veen as he stood, smiling at him.

   “Hello, young Jonas. You look a little pale.”

With a heavy breath before he spoke, Skeet took a step back, looked back at Driss who approached slowly, apparently non-plussed, and said, “You’re alive. You’re alive and you’re standing up! On your legs!”

Veen appeared a little put out. “Of course. That’s what legs do.”

   “But… oh, I get it…”

Driss walked up and placed a hand on Skeet’s shoulder. “Debts, threats and loss of limbs. How desperate does that make a man?”

Realisation was sinking in and Skeet threw up his hands in submission.

   “You faked your death.”

   “Not that simple,” Veen said with a shake of his finger. “I had to make sure everyone thought I was desperate enough to do it. Hence the useless legs thing. A famous racer without legs? What would that do to a man? Can’t race, in debt up to my eyeballs. That would make me pretty desperate, don’t you think?

   “But that’s not the beautiful thing. The thing is, as a professional racer, a hero of the sector; I was insured for a substantial amount. Enough to pay off the money I owe and set up my family for life.”

Skeet interjected, “But there’s no body…”

   “An exploding plasma injector sends out enough superheated gas to vaporise organic material completely. I just left a few samples in the empty racing clothes from skin grafts and stuff and that’ll be enough for the crash investigators to identify me. The woman who I raced against helped me with that, for a price. That’s it. Free of debt, free of everything.”

Skeet chuckled. Then laughed. Then he roared at the ludicrousness of it all.

   “You only ever wanted to race!” he chortled.

Veen laughed but his eyes were narrowed and his mirth seemed forced. “Yeah…”

   “What’s up?” Skeet let his laughter fall but he kept up his smile.

   “Well, I’m not going to be doing that anymore, am I? If my face appears anywhere, they’ll know. And Setnin gangleaders won’t let me get away with showing them up. I’m off to the Minos Cluster, keep my head down, raise my kids, live a normal life.”

   “But no racing,” Skeet said in a small voice. As a racer himself, he craved for the speed, for the adrenaline rush, for the sheer ecstasy of flying at multiple G’s. He hadn’t sat in the seat himself for a long time, but he always had the option to get back in if he so desired.

But to be denied the one thing he truly loved? Although Veen had saved himself and the gangleaders no longer had a claim on him, he could never race again. He had had to sacrifice his very being to save himself and his family.

Skeet looked from Veen to Driss and briefly contemplated never being able to race again.

   “Well, let’s get you back to the Ki-Ki Sector,” Driss was saying. “Lay low and wait for the investigation and payout, then I’ll come back and get your family.”

Veen grabbed Driss’ hand and shook it vigorously, saying, “Thank you. I owe you everything,” and then walking back into the ship.

Driss turned back to Skeet.

   “Well, when this is over we’ll resume our search for some talent…”

   “We’ve got talent. I’m getting back in the circuit.”

   “What?”

Skeet stood up. “I’ve been out of it too long, Driss. Veen got me thinking again. Never to race again? The hell with that.

   “Sign me up, Driss. You want a racer? You got one.”

All He Ever Wanted

2002 short story by Jonathan Hicks

Two years before Episode IV – A New Hope

Histories – A sequel of sorts to the popular Shadows of the Past, this Jonathan Hicks tale sees the return of Skeet Jonas and Driss Cotta, four years later and both different men.  Giving us a fresh look into the world of swoop racing, this is a classic example of how devious these men can be, but also how close the racing fraternity is.

Cast of Characters

Skeet Jonas

Driss Cotta

Veen Bern