The Deserter : Log 2

 Tatooine - 10 ABY 

    The suns of Tatooine began to set beyond the horizon, far past the Jundland Wastes, as Arden traversed the rock face toward higher ground. He had escaped with his life and the generator, but his bike lay scattered in pieces, leaving him to cross the Wastes on foot. You didn’t want to be caught in the lower valleys. He’d seen it before—ambushed travelers who never knew what hit them, or those who fought back only to be overtaken by Tusken Raiders. They moved silently through the desert, single file, their massifs just as quiet before they struck. Arden knew that if he had any chance at all, he’d need the high ground. High ground was something Arden only worried about here on Tatooine, something he took for granted when he was standing at his post on an Imperial cruiser. The safety of the mechanized fortresses careening through space and defying anyone to attack, ensuring “peace” and “stability” for those loyal, while taking from and leaving in ruin dozens of planets across the galaxy. Here in the Jundland Wastes, he took only what was needed, what he could use to sustain himself. As the suns began to fade, the desert planet began to look more gray than tan. Arden settled himself against a large boulder at the peak of the rock face and began to busy himself with preparations for the night. He was relatively safe, he felt, but he knew better than to drop his guard. He leaned the projectile rifle up next to him and pulled a small blaster from the inside of his tunic and laid it next to him. Out of his satchel, he pulled out some dried dewback meat and began to eat. As he finished eating, he closed his eyes and began to silently doze, his hand gripping the blaster at his side.

    Pieces of wreckage hung from the interior of the docking bay as sparking wires and dripping hoses dangled around the ships. Stormtroopers, TIE pilots, and officers scrambled down the hallways that led into the large hangar, explosions echoing from deep inside the battle station. Arden, his uniform smudged with oil and grease from an exposed pipe he’d brushed against, ran through the chaos. The evacuation alarm sounded in jarring tones, vibrating his body like a deep pulse. A small cargo ship sat alone, and he knew this was his chance. As he ran, he saw something—a figure in black, kneeling beside a large helmeted body he’d only seen once before. The sight struck fear into him. The kneeling man began to pull the helmet free, and Arden’s eyes fell upon a pale, scarred man struggling to breathe.

    Arden woke as the breathing built to a loud crescendo and sprang to his feet, blaster raised, staring straight into the masked face of a Tusken Raider standing before him. His heart pounded but the trigger remained un-pulled as his mind raced and his eyes scanned his adversary. The Tusken only stood, motionless. Arden looked down and noticed pooling blood beneath his cloak just as the creature began to fall forward. He caught the raider and slowly eased him to the ground. As he did, his hand felt the warmth of wet of blood that oozed from a gaping wound to his shoulder running down the length of his long woven robes. The creature let out a weak grown. How he had managed to make the climb up the rocks Arden didn't know. He pulled a container of water from his bag and gave the wounded Tusken a drink. It coughed and sputtered and lay against the boulder. Arden inspected the wound. It wasn't good, but he thought he could doctor it. He pulled out the medical kit he kept in his satchel and began to process of dressing it. He'd need more water, and water wasn't easily had in these parts. The Tusken looked at him and then raised a hand. Arden knew a little bit of their sign language and waited to see if he could decipher it. 

"I was hunting." he signed. 

 Arden replied, "How did this happen?" 

 The expressionless mask answered "I got to close. It was a young Krayt Dragon. I was becoming a warrior." 

       Arden had heard of this. He was a young Tusken then, probably only fifteen or sixteen seasons. Young ones take their Bantha they raise from an early age and go out to kill a juvenile Krayt Dragon and upon return a great ceremony is held where they transition from youth into manhood.  No outsiders had ever witnessed this, but it was told in stories about the nomads of the desert moon. He signed back. 

 "You're hurt badly. You need my help." 

    The raider turned his head as if in more pain. Tuskens were proud people. This wasn't going to be easy, but the young would be warrior had lost so much blood, he hadn't the strength to sustain his anger and frustration. He looked back and made another sign, "Only until I can walk." Arden gave a reluctant smile. "Very well." 

The Deserter : Log 1

    Tatooine - 10 ABY 

    

     The Sandcrawler moved slowly over the dunes of Tatooine like a large metal slug, leaving behind a track that would soon be blown back smooth leaving no evidence of activity. The twin suns were at their highest point and as their light shown down on the bleak surface of the planet, a flash of light reflected off a set of binocs, their owner perched on a craggy rock face above the valley. A downed speeder lay abandoned out beyond the Sandcrawler. The Jawas had a nose for discarded parts and they always seemed to be one step ahead of everyone else. A gloved hand moved the binocs down and a goggled face shook in frustration. Arden stood up and ran back towards his 74-Z. It was faster than any Sandcrawler but he wouldn’t have much time to pull parts with the Jawas only five hundred meters away. He’d dealt with them before and in times past he’d have probably let them have it, but he needed a break. Scavenging had been scarce lately and he was running low on supplies. This wasn't the security he had been used to all those years before, before the battle of Endor. Back in those days he was an officer, there was a certain level of control and needs were easily met. But out here, in the outer rim, on the windswept dunes of Tatooine, nothing was easily acquired or kept. 

    The bike engaged with a high pitched hum as Arden pressed down on the foot pedal and sped off to towards the speeder. He’d only have a 15 minutes or so to get the parts that would be most valuable, namely the power generator. He’d leave the rest for the Jawas. His skills had improved quit a bit since he came to Tatooine and he had made a name for himself as a reliable scavenger among other things. He kept his skills in combat to himself. That kind of work was behind him. Occasionally he’d have to fight off some Tusken Raiders if they got too near his home. He was once in an altercation at Tosche Station, but it didn't amount to much. He was able to avoid pulling his blaster that time but largely violence had stopped being a daily part of his life.  

    He pulled up quickly and jumped off the bike, his long natural colored tunic revealing the wind that was beginning to pick up. He really hoped a sandstorm wasn’t eminent. Just another thing to deal with as the Sandcrawler inched its way closer. He unstrapped his projectile rifle from his back and leaned it against the speeder. He’d have to remove the access panel quickly, then cut the control leads and disconnect the power couplings. The brackets wouldn’t be easy. They were rusted and probably seized up. He began the process, his slicing tool, a small metal tube omitting an energy beam, cutting through the hoses. The couplings would be more difficult. It would require a wrench to free it them up from the power generator. This speeder had been sitting here a while. He was amazed that it hadn’t been spotted already, but him or anyone else. The Sandcrawler was gaining. He took an oil bottle from the satchel that hung at his side and applied it while he turned the wrench. Finally, the coupling turned and he disconnected it. A few more to go. He had salvaged more parts than he cared to remember from any number of broken down wrecks, lost droids, and those who the Jundland Wastes managed to claim from the sheer harsh features of it’s being. A bag with a pair of binoculars, a blaster in a holster, a Tusken rifle. These things brought in a little, but wrecked droids and speeders paid more. It was hard for Arden to imagine his life before all this, when everything was more or less a given. Life aboard Imperial Cruisers was mundane, monotonous and varied little in the day to day. Here in the outer rim, every day was a new frontier of possibility, mostly of life or death. It was harsh, and people tended to group together in the small settlements that dotted the region. Those who dared go it alone, moisture farmers and scavengers like himself were often left to fend for themselves with little protection from local authorities, if they existed at all. 

    BOOM! The blast from the Sandcrawler made Arden fall backwards as it nearly missed the speeder, likely on purpose. Jawas weren’t particularly violent. All they ever hoped to do was scare off potential competitors and they possessed just enough fire power to be dangerous, but not enough to mount a large scale attack, despite the enormity of the armored Sandcrawler. Arden had just managed to get the power generator free and ran back for it as another blast landed nearby. He dove behind the speeder, checked his rifle, and returned a shot that clanged against the metal plates of the slug like craft coming towards him. Another blast fell, and this time his bike was obliterated into hundreds of pieces. To his right, the valley wound around a steep wall of rock. He was pretty certain if he ran, they’d give up and go about their business of collecting what he hadn’t taken from the speeder. He strapped the small generator to his back, and made a break for it. The Sandcrawler slowed to a stop and two hooded figures peaked out of main cockpit and watched as a lone figure scurried along the edge of the rock face and disappeared around its corner.