Star Wars: On the Job

Chapter 14: Trade

Kanan shuffled forward automatically as the queue shifted. The ship was a dull gray hunk against a dull gray sky. Light, spindly snowflakes stubbornly spiraled down every few feet. They settled onto shoulders and slipped between the metal grating underfoot where it wasn't packed with dirty, trampled snow. He took in a slow breath. The air smelled of cold and engine grease. Despite his heavy sweater and overcoat, Husera's damp, frigid air continued to gnaw at his skin.

The ship Kanan had picked was a YV-929, a tramp vessel identical to many he'd hitched a ride on over the years. No customs agents, no bio-scan and, according to the captain, no song mites– or free meals for that matter. Its next stop was a system just this side of the mid rim. It seemed that every time he moved on, Kanan found himself a little farther from the galactic center and that suited him just fine. He figured it was only a matter of time before he fell off the edge of the galaxy altogether.

Stiff, Kanan hefted the bag slung over his shoulder: all of his possessions on his back, moving into another unknown. He wasn't nervous. He was never nervous. He had a way of finding his way, and enough skills that he'd land a job somewhere eventually. Then again, maybe he'd take a break for a while. He'd put together a fair bit of savings on the Ghost, enough to see him through at least a few weeks of drunken revelry. But somehow the glamor of getting sloshed and fighting off mouthy drunks didn't hold the same appeal as it once had.

The line moved again and Kanan scooted forward. He rubbed a finger across his chin and scratched at his beard. A part of him was worried that he'd done the wrong thing by telling Hera about his past. Actually, he was more worried that he wasn't worried. It had been an impulse decision, but it wasn't like he'd been letting the Force guide him or some other fool-idiotic idea. He'd acted on his own instincts and they'd told him to tell her. He wasn't sure why, even now that it was over. Maybe that was another mystery for him to work out on sleepless nights.

The queue was only a few people deep now. The first-mate of the ship, a rough-looking Weequay in a fur-lined parka, exchanged a few words with an older couple bundled up to their eyes. They exchanged a few words and he checked their names against a datapad with a long crack in the back. A few more words and they handed over their fares. The Weequay stuffed the credits into the inner pocket of his coat next to a big blaster. Kanan didn't let his eyes linger on the weapon for long, but he made a mental note. It was always smart to know who had the weapons on these kinds of trips.

Another step forward and the gangway came into view. Kanan peered up. The belly of the ship loomed dark and dim. If there was any warmth to be had on it he couldn't feel it. He'd hoped that his chosen transport would at least look more welcoming than a mynock's nest, but it didn't matter. This trip, like every other before it, would eventually have its end.

The passenger in front of him finished her transaction and Kanan stepped to the front of the line.

"Name?" the Weequay asked barely looking up.

"Jarrus," he answered hefting his bag again. The cold made holding the strap hard on his fingers, but he wasn't about to put all of his worldly possessions down in the slush. He shifted the load to the other shoulder.

"Destination?"

"Wor Tandell," he said and the first-mate raised a spiny eyebrow at him. "It's not my final stop," he defended unnecessarily.

The first-mate didn't respond but asked, "Cargo?"

"Just this," Kanan nodded to his bag.

The Weequay gave a grunt and tapped something on the datapad. He named the same price that Kanan had heard earlier. Opening his coat to the belt, he reached into the inside pocket. Unlike the first-mate, Kanan knew to keep his money opposite his blaster, out of sight and out of the way.