A Jawa, a Besalisk, and a Crate Walk Into a Shuttle...

Posted on Thu Feb 13th, 2025 @ 1:56am by Trooper Bul Kettstir

2,178 words; about a 11 minute read

Mission: Some Like It Hoth
Location: Republic Shuttle, Inbound to Frostpoint
Timeline: TBD

Bul blinked once, looked around and then yawned. He smacked his lips together a couple of times, trying to get some moisture in his mouth, and laid his head back against the shuttle’s bulkhead. As he did, he felt a sharp and persistent poking sensation in his right arms. He opened his eyes and looked down. On the bench seat next to him, his constant companion and fellow “acquirer of fabulous goods," Okleckt poked his arms. Okleckt was a Jawa that Bul had…well…adopted since his little run-in. The little creature jabbered something to Bul and poked him again. Bul’s eyes focused on Okleckt, slowly.

“What’s that, my friend,” Bul’s deep voice rasped.

Okleckt gave him the Jawa equivalent of a disappointed sigh and then repeated himself. Bul had always had a flair for languages and Jawa was no different. He understood what the little scavenger was telling him with no difficulty. He sat up a little straighter in his seat, a look of apprehension forming on his face.

“I don’t like the sound of that…” Bul offered. Okleckt started replying, peppering his speech with Huttese where Jawa didn’t work.

“Easy, Okleckt, easy…people might think you’ve got no class,” the Besalisk chided through a chuckle.

Bul reached up and wiped two of his massive hands down his face, getting rid of the last of the sleep and then went forward to the bulkhead that separated the passengers from the pilots. The copilot Droid swiveled it’s octagonal head to look at Bul without taking its manipulator claws off the shuttle’s controls.

“I am HM-18; how can I help you, sir,” the Droid asked in it’s monotone voice.

“I was wondering about…” Bul began. His question trailed off into nothing as he noticed a flurry of movement from the pilot, a gray-skinned Duros. The pilot punched several buttons, rather harshly, and then flipped several switches all while watching a readout screen and muttering to himself.

“Mate…I’m a little kriffing busy right now,” the pilot began, testily.

“I’m trying to dodge this sleemo and his little band of drydaks that’re running up our backside. So, if you could, have a seat and leave us be,” the pilot explained, jabbing a long, bulbous finger at the shuttle’s tactical display. Bul glanced at the display and saw what the pilot was talking about. One pip on the display was weaving back and forth across the shuttle’s aft while three others flew in a loose formation about a klick behind.

“Yeah, yeah…I see what you mean,” Bul said apologetically. Without anything further, Bul turned and waddled back to his seat. Plopping back down, he pulled on the safety harness and looked at Okleckt.

“Trust me, boyo, you’re gonna want yours, too,” Bul explained.

Okleckt fired off a staccato burst of Jawa and possibly Huttese obscenities and began strapping himself in as well.

Without warning, several lurid green lances of light streaked past the viewport opposite Bul’s seat.

Bul looked to the rear section of the craft, at the various crates and containers and wondered what was so valuable that pirates would try to take the ship. Most of the crates were marked with the Republic’s crest and a few were simply marked with their civilian manufacturer’s markings. Bul strained against the harness as the ship banked, hard to port and the back to starboard, green streaks going by on both sides now.

“Huh…wonder what’s got their lekku in a twist,” Bul wondered aloud as the shuttle jinked and slewed its path. Then, his eyes latched onto one crate in particular. It was nondescript…but in a “this is supposed to be nondescript” kind of way, his instincts told him. The labeling was just a little too haphazard, the dings and dents too…well…logical.

Bul was about to mention this to Okleckt when the shuttle’s back end shimmied port to starboard and then the port side wing dipped, hard, toward the horizon.

Okleckt wailed something in Jawa that Bul didn’t catch and the stars wheeled across the viewports. Some logical, detached part of his mind told him that the shuttle had lost its engine…or engines…on that side. But Bul’s gaze didn’t move from the crate that had caught his attention.

Despite the jerky motions of the vessel, Bul was able to concentrate and read the Aurebesh on the label out loud.

“Office of Industrial Management records,” he read. Bul snorted and grinned; he knew bantha poodoo when he smelled it. No pirate would risk his ships or his life on record disks. Bul took a chance and played a hunch.

“Hey, Droid,” he bellowed. The copilot swiveled it’s head to look at Bul, again not taking its claws off the controls.

“How much swag are we carrying,” Bul asked, bluntly, jerking his massive head toward the crates.

“You are not authorized to ask that question, sir. Please refrain from distracting the flight crew during this emergency,” the Droid answered.

“Uh huh,” Bul answered as the shuttle dropped again. This time the vessel free fell for a ten-count and began a slow roll to the starboard side. At the bottom of the ship’s arc, the pilot jammed on thrusters, hard, and the shuttle shook and rattled in protest. Bul was certain the Duros was doing everything it could to dodge the pirates.

Okleckt jabbered something to Bul.

“Nah, buddy. We don’t want any weapons on this…it’s a bus, not a fighter. Weapons attract attention,” Bul reasoned gently.

He was about to bring up the crate to Okleckt when the ship stood on its port wing and the pilot dumped the thrusters into full burn. At first, Bul and Okleckt could feel the g’s as slight tingling sensation. But as the burn went on and the ship’s turn tightened, the g forces began to push the duo back into their seats. Bul noticed that his harness straps tightened automatically to hold him in place but for a split second, his mind raced and an intrusive thought shot across the front of his mind.

“I…hope…these…things…loosen…up,” he grunted aloud, with some effort. His vision started to darken around the edges but he could make out a whiteish-blue haze beginning to wash over the ship’s viewports. A large hammer blow to the hull told him that the pirates had scored a hit, but luckily nothing critical was damaged.

Bul looked over to see Okleckt, dangling limp from his harness having succumbed to the g forces. Bul’s vision began to show stars and his field of vision darkened even more. Thinking quickly, Bul, straining against the invisible force pushing on him and the ever-tightening harness straps, began croaking out a Besalisk drinking song.

The song, one he’d learned as a youngling, echoed through the shuttle’s hold and to anyone who didn’t speak Besalisk, sounded like grunts, belches and wheezing. The sounds, as guttural and basso as they were, were the result of inflating and deflating the Besalisk’s enormous throat pouch.

This had the effect of forcing the blood to stay in Bul’s head and not pool into his lower extremities. Just as Bul was about to get to the second verse, the ship righted itself and the g forces began to subside. Much to his pleasure, the straps on the harness began to relax from crushing to a slight squeeze.

Suddenly, the ship dove and the viewports were completely obscured with white, pillowy light that flooded the hold. The pirates scored several more hits on the hull, causing the pilot to swing the craft about, while maintaining the dive.

Okleckt snapped too and groggily muttered a curse in Huttese. Bul chuckled at his friend’s reaction and then remembered the crate. He gently nudged Okleckt to get his attention and then jerked his massive, bearded chin in the direction of the crate.

Okleckt looked and then turned back to Bul. He rattled off a question to Bul.

“I don’t know what’s in that crate, pally, but if those are records…then I’m a Lasat princess,” Bul chuckled.

Bul was about to offer a theory when movement caught his eye. Out the opposite viewport, he could make out a vast, sweeping plain with harsh, jagged mountains breaking up the pristine vista. The shuttle had broken through a cloud layer and was descending. But, as Bul pointed out to Okleckt, they were still jinking and slewing to dodge the incoming fire from the pirates.

Without warning, an ugly, battered snub fighter zipped by the viewport. It turned sharply and rocketed back up toward the cloud layer, followed by a pair of sleek, angular starfighters. Another pair of the fighters pulled up alongside the shuttle and Bul overheard the pilot, relief evident in his voice, chatting with the pilots of the fighters.

The shuttle’s erratic flight path calmed substantially as the ship continued descending. Three minutes later, Bul felt a thump under his ample backside, telling him the ship had touched down. The pilot, Bul spied, sagged in his harness and dragged a shaking, fumbling hand across his brow. The Droid co-pilot swiveled its head and informed Bul and Okleckt that the shuttle had landed and that they could now remove their safety harnesses. The pair did just that and Bul stood, ducking his head to the side to keep from banging his crest on the shuttle’s ceiling. He prodded Okleckt again and reminded him of the crate too. They agreed, with a series of nods and a slew of quick sign language gestures, to go check out the crate. Okleckt peered around Bul’s bulky frame, checking that the coast was clear, and turned to the crate. He rubbed his hands together and knelt down to inspect the container. The Jawa’s dexterous digits probed the exterior of the crate and soon, located the release mechanism. Okleckt was about to trigger the mechanism when the shuttle’s side hatch cycled and began opening. Okleckt sprang away from the crate to land next to Bul, who had turned to face the hatch.

A haggard-looking Rodian Republic trooper stuck his head into the shuttle, looked around and spotted Bul and Okleckt, trying their best to appear innocuous. Bul couldn’t help but notice the piercing blast of fresh but freezing air that proceeded the trooper’s head.

“I’m Crix Vaasten. I’m supposed to show you around and then take you to the Base Commander,” the Rodian explained.

Okleckt jabbered something and Bul looked down at the Jawa.

“Yeah, you said it, boyo,” Bul hooted with laughter.

The Rodian looked from Okleckt to Bul, then back to Okleckt and then shrugged. He ducked his head back out of the hatch, grumbling something in Rodese under his breath.

Bul snickered aloud, winked at Okleckt conspiratorially, then retrieved a small soft-sided bag from the storage bin overhead. He handed it to his companion and then retrieved another, larger bag as well. He threw the strap over his large, crested head, adjusted the bag so that it was settled across his equally large rump and began waddling forward to the hatch.

Bul inhaled so deeply that his throat pouch began to inflate, causing his braided beard to slide of either side of the pouch. The metal bands he’d woven into the braids clinked musically as they bumped into one another. After a second’s pause, Bul exhaled. Okleckt’s glowing orange eyes widened at the impressive cloud of steam that came from Bul’s mouth and nose.

“Reminds me of home,” Bul mused aloud, looking around at the Arctic scene. Okleckt jabbered something decidedly negative and then began dancing back and forth, from foot to foot, as his robes swayed with the movement.

Bul swung his gaze to his companion and was about to comment when the Rodian interrupted.

“Look…I don’t give two kriffs about you or your kriffing home world. Get your fraggin’ gear and move your asses,” the trooper said impatiently.

Bul, suitably humbled, simply nodded and held out a hand to say ‘lead on.’ The Rodian nodded once and then took off a determined pace toward a hangar door.

This is going to be very interesting, he told himself. He glanced around the landing pad, taking note of a squad of armed troopers moving toward the shuttle. As the Rodian led them closer to the hangar door, Bul saw the armed troopers extract the “inconspicuous” crate and start to move it out of the shuttle’s cargo hold. Any view of where the crate was going was cut off as the trio stepped into the hangar.

Bul turned his attention to the hangar and the labyrinthine warren of tunnels that branched off from the main bay.

Interesting, indeed, he agreed and began humming a tune.

 

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