Chapter Seven

Skeet just stood and stared at the empty garage.

Brey stared also, with pursed lips and a shake of his head.

Skeet slapped a hand to his face and slowly drew it down.

Brey placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Oh, dear,” he said.

His speeder bike had gone.

With a groan through gritted teeth, followed by a small despairing whimper, Skeet stepped into the garage. The cradle his speeder had been on was open and powered down. The tool racks were empty, his belongings had been ransacked. There was no sign of Kirrich or his equipment. The bleak white light of the overhead illumination cast everything into stark brightness.

“My two-ninety,” Skeet said with a whisper as he placed a hand on the cradle.

“Maybe he just took it out for a test run,” Brey put in hopefully, knowing his words were useless when he saw the lock on the cradle had been prised open.

“But I’ve got the ignition card,” Skeet still spoke in a small voice. “He would have had to hot-wire the bike to get it moving. He stole it, the thieving little...” He balled one hand into a fist and made to thump something put just let it hover in mid-air.

“This isn’t happening,” he said in a louder voice. “I’m just drunk, yeah? I’ve fallen asleep and this is a stupid dream.”

He knew he must have sounded ridiculous, maybe even hysterical, but he didn’t care. He had been beset by bad luck for days, he really thought that coming to Raca City would change that. His speeder, his pride and joy, his life. Gone. Just like that.

“I’d call the constables,” Brey offered, “but they...”

“They what?”

“They get a lot of these kind of things. The chances of your bike turning up are slim.”

Skeet just stared at the empty cradle, unable to take his eyes off it.

“Yeah, call them, Bay.”

It took half an hour for any kind of officer to arrive, and even then it was a disinterested female constable with a cocky swagger and a face that said it had seen one too many speeder thefts.

“We get a lot of this kind of thing,” the female officer said after a brief inspection of the scene, “I’m afraid the chances of your bike turning up are slim.”

Skeet looked over at Brey with a look of astonishment, and Brey just shrugged at him as if to say ‘I told you so’. With a huge sigh, more to keep his temper under control than to express his consternation, Skeet turned back to the constable.

“Look, officer...”

“Eilen.” The woman crossed her arms and looked at Skeet with her head at an angle. It gave her a quiet commanding look that made Skeet swallow nervously. Her thick white hair spilled out from under her cap where she had hurriedly pushed it under. Her dishevelled appearance made her look like she had seen one too many night duties. She waited for Skeet’s words expectantly, as if she had heard whatever he was about to say a hundred times before.

“Look, officer Eilen, that speeder is the only thing that means anything to me. I can’t afford another one and if I don’t get it back I’m going to end up in the gutter. Do you want that?” Brey stepped forward as Skeet’s voice rose. The increase in volume didn’t seem to phase the constable one bit.

“I understand your concern, Mister Jonas. The truth is, we get nearly ten of these thefts every day, and each time we find the culprits the next ones find new and interesting ways to get away with it.”

“I’m not really interested in criminal histories. Why can’t you just put out the details of this Tuffutian I told you about? Kirrich?”

“Once you’ve seen one Tuffutian, you’ve seen them all, Mister Jonas.”

“Great!” Skeet threw his arms in the air and turned from Eilen. “I’ve lost my speeder and my income, and the wonderful constabulary of Raca City are virtually telling me I can kiss my bike goodbye.”

“I’ll inform the rest of my unit to keep an eye out for the bike,” Eilen said, “we’ve got visual references from yesterday’s holos of the races. We’ll do what we can.”

“Here,” Brey handed the constable a small plastic infochip. “My com number’s on there. Call me if you get anything.”

Eilen nodded, muttered something about having a nice day and turned to leave.

“You’d better get cleaned up if your going to meet the governor,” Brey said to Skeet.

Eilen stopped in the doorway and turned to say, “What was that?”

“He’s been invited up to see Retsam. The kid’s a racing prodigy, I think the governor was impressed.”

“Really?” Eilen’s expression changed from bored disinterest to genuine suprise. “Already made an impression on the governor, Mister Jonas? That is impressive.”

Skeet suddenly saw a way to use this piece of information to his advantage and pressed the fact that he had been approached by Emag Retsam.

“Yeah, he wanted to see the bike, too. See why I’m so good on the track.” He looked at the constable imploringly. “I really need my bike or my careers over,” he said in a small voice. He desperately wished she would put more effort into the search, looked at her with every ounce of desperation he could muster.

With a sudden change of attitude, Eilen nodded at the two men.

“Well, far be it from me to deny the governor an audience with an up-and-coming. I’ll handle this one personally, pull out some stops. I’ll be in touch.” She saluted smartly and turned on her heel to exit the garage. “Good day to you both.”

“Is it me or is Officer Eilen really hot?” Brey watched the receding figure disappear into the morning crowds. His grin faded as he looked over at Skeet, whose face was twisted into a sly smirk. “What’s up with you? You look like the dewback who got the womp rat.”

“I haven’t even met the governor yet and already my influence is spreading, Bay.”

“Don’t get cocky with it, Skeet. Don’t start throwing his name around. That invites trouble.”

Skeet nodded and sighed again.

“Sorry, Bay. I guess I just got a little excited. Yeah, I’ll clean up and we’ll get a robohack up to the estate. I guess I’m just tired.”

“Yeah, and a little intoxicated.” Brey turned and headed for his own garages further up. He stopped to shout at Skeet, “And it’s Brey, you freckin’ idiot!”

He sat up with a jolt, not knowing how long he had been asleep. With a twist of his head he looked at the wall chronometer and then down at his clothes.

He was still in his shower robe, in the small cramped personal quarters at the back of the garage. His hair was still slightly damp and a sense of humidity drifted around the garage.

Skeet saw the time and balked. He had been asleep for over two hours! What would the govenor think of him, not turning up to the estate over three hours after he had been invited? He quickly jumped from the low bed and moved to his clothes locker.

He got half way across the cramped room before he suddenly realised that his head was aching fit to burst and his eyesight had gone strangely blurred. It had been a while since his last hangover, sipping jet-juice with his devaronian friend back on Tatooine. The high-alcohol ragers he had been drinking one after the other the night before were starting to claim their price for over-indulgence. He back-peddled and landed hard on the bed.

With a low groan he placed his hands over his eyes and pressed hard, as if trying to force the pain out of his head through his ears. The ache stung and pulsed in time with his heart beat, and the sense of nausea started to rise from his stomach.

He drifted in and out of sleep, teetering on the edge of consciousness before another sharp stab of pain bought him back.

He heard the garage door bang and heavy footsteps approach his room.

There were a few bleeps as someone pressed the locking code into the door’s keypad, and the portal opened with a hiss to admit Brey, fully dressed, washed, and seemingly recovered.

“Good morning!” he shouted, letting bright light flood into the room and over Skeet.

“Get out!” Skeet shouted back, rolling over away from the light. “Leave me here, to die in peace...”

“Get up!” Brey booted Skeet’s rump softly and activated the room’s interior light source. “Constable Eilen has called.”

Skeet suddenly found a second wind and rolled over, hands over eyes to allow in as little light as possible. “What did she say? Did she find my bike?”

“Well, yes and no. They think they’ve tracked some stolen bikes to a transport company at the landing bays, but they can’t do anything unless they get a positive ID on one of the stolen bikes. The place is owned by a Hutt and the other stolen bike victims are a little uneasy about pointing out the fact that their bikes might be in his clutches. She wants us down there to do a little scoping. Watch the vehicles as they’re loaded. If you see you’re bike, then blam! They go in and make a few arrests.”

“Sounds fair enough,” Skeet said softly, ignoring the apparent threat of the business that was about to be blamed for speeder theft, overshadowed as it was by his desperate need to get his livelihood back. Slowly allowing himself to open his eyes more. “Let’s go.” He got to his feet and reached for his boots.

“Skeet.”

“Yeah?”

“Get dressed.”

Halfway up the side of the middle mountain of Raca City were the heavy bays, an area of the starship docking section reserved for the larger vessels. It was quiet at this time of day, when the routes from orbit to the surface were quietened to allow many racer teams the chance to land uneventfully with the precious cargoes of landspeeders and speederbikes. It was also a time when crowds gathered at the entrances to the many upper landing bays, watching intently as the vehicles were unloaded and trying to ascertain which ones were the safe bets.

The upper bays were where Skeet wished he were, at this very moment. The cold air of the valley was especially brisk and he had to continually breath into his cupped hands to make sure they didn’t lose any more sensitivity.

Next to him was Brey, and next to him was officer Eilen who had changed from her official patrol uniform to something a little more practical. Her small headset bleeped for attention.

“The teams are ready and in place. Its down to your speeder friends.”

“Got it.” Eilen clicked off the communicator and turned to the two racers. “Right. Across there is a warehouse, containing a bulk freighter we suspect is ferrying stolen items. All we do here is watch it, and if you see...”

“Yeah, yeah,” Skeet waved his hand, his headache still prominent. “I’ll sing out.”

“And you’ll stay here while we move in,” Eilen pointed at him with a stern look.

The rocks they were hiding behind were low but effective, with the long drop to the racetrack behind them and a long landing field in front. At the end of this field was the warehouse, cut into the rock and only identifiable by its huge doors, which, at this very moment, were rumbling, open.

As the warehouse opened, three overland bulk transports appeared from a side tunnel. They were unmarked and hovered at a low height, obviously weighed down by heavy cargo. As Skeet watched they headed to the side of the doors and stopped.

The huge ugly bulk freighter started to roll from the warehouse backwards, it’s rear ramp lowering and the interior lights flickering on. As the three watched, figures started walking down the ramp and also exiting the vehicles. They were an assortment of beings, from humans to Rodian to Nikto, and they started opening the backs of the heavy speeders. A small furry Tuffutian also climbed from one of the speeders and Skeet had to stop himself from shouting.

“That’s Kirrich!”

Eilen looked at him doubtfully.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure! Look, that’s my tool wrap!” Skeet started to rise for a better view but Brey grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him down.

“Skeet! For goodness sake...”

From the backs of the heavy vehicles came speederbikes and swoops, of various designs and modifications, and the beings started to guide them to the bulk freighter. A joke was shared by the workcrew as the first bike started up the ramp and laughter could be heard over the wind.

“Well?” Eilen looked over at Skeet as the last few bikes were unloaded.

Skeet looked despairing.

“I don’t think... wait!”

One of the final bikes to be unloaded was a Delvon two-ninety, the hastily repaired scars on its bodywork from its last explosive race visible even from this distance.

“That’s it!” Skeet shouted, standing up and pointing. The moment of idiocy was lost to him as he was overwhelmed by the possibility that he had recovered his bike. His life.

Before Eilen could warn him there was an exclamation from the beings loading the merchandise, and before Skeet knew what was happening blaster weapons were swinging in his direction.

He hit the ground as the concentric blue rings of stun bolts shot overhead and Eilen shouted down her comlink,

“Bust ‘em!”

A dozen constables, dressed in the same grey and white fatigues as Eilen, emerged from hidden locations around the landing area and started to call for the beings to drop their weapons. When the blue energy was turned in their direction they started to return fire with their own stun weapons. Soon, the area was ablaze with shouts and blue light, the soft sound of the energy bolts a strange backdrop to the apparent violence.

Eilen stood and started firing, advancing over the lip of the rocks and shouting for the beings to surrender. Brey crouched down further behind the cover and tried to stay out of it.

“Skeet, you fool!” he shouted. “Just point it out, that’s all she said!”

Skeet looked hurt.

“I did,” he said pathetically. He spared a quick glance over the lip and saw that there were several beings of both sides either fully unconscious on the ground or staggering around, disorientated by a glancing strike. He also watched, horrified, as his bike was virtually thrown up into the freighter and the ramp began to close. “They’re getting away with my bike!” he shouted, half in shock and half in anger, and made to move over the rocks.

Brey bellowed and leaped forward, but only managed to grab Skeet’s ankle as he disappeared. The grip was weak and the boot slipped from his grasp. Skeet skirted down the other side as Brey hissed at him to get back, his voice low but loud as he tried to avoid being noticed.

Skeet got to the edge of the field unnoticed and crouched down behind the unconscious form of a speeder thief, a Rodian, who was draped over an old power transmitter. He could see up into the freighter, right through the open bulkhead doors and into the cockpit where he saw one pilot trying to bring the ship’s systems on-line. The freighter had been stripped of most things inside, including separating walls, to allow more space.

There was a pistol lying by the Rodian and, not fully knowing what he was going to do, Skeet scooped it up. It was still set to stun.

Skeet looked at the pistol and then up at the pilot, whose head he could see over the low command chair. He levelled the weapon and aimed for his head. He wasn’t an accomplished marksman. In fact, his friends back on Tatooine had called him skew-eyed Skeet because of his unfamiliarity with weaponry.

This shot had to count. The pilot was the one about to make off with his speeder and he couldn’t let that happen. He pleaded to any higher force listening to guide the shot, to at least distract the pilot so that the constables could get on board. They weren’t going to get to the raising ramp in time, held back as they were by the thieves.

Please! Just this once!

Skeet fired, the blue circles shooting through the space left by the closing ramp, through the ship, through the open cockpit door and into the pilot’s head. He slumped forward and the vessel seemed to share his movement and sag as the engines, now devoid of power the pilot was applying by using heavy foot pedals, settled back onto its landing legs and started to whine down.

The apparent surrender of the freighter signalled the end of the conflict. The thieves threw their weapons to the ground and raised their arms and other applicable appendages as they saw their escape route was thwarted. The constables closed in and, one by one, the surrendering beings dropped to their knees and placed their hands behind their heads.

Skeet stood, his smile so wide it threatened to engulf the freighter as he approached it. It was soon wiped away as Eilen stormed towards him.

“Just point it out! That’s all!” she shouted, batting the gun out of Skeet’s suddenly limp hand and glaring at him. “All you had to do was point and say `that one’! What if their weapons were set to kill? Didn’t you think of that? You jeopardised this whole operation!”

She turned from Skeet’s startled expression and watched as her fellow officers rounded up the last of the resistance. She narrowed her eyes at the thin gap of the almost fully-raised ramp and the unconscious form of the pilot within.

“Mind you, though,” she said, her voice calmer and softer, “that was a damn good shot.”