A Certain Point of View

Chapter 2: Spare Parts

The dusty crate was heavier than expected. Biggs groaned with effort as it lurched sideways coming off the speeder, and Merl Tosche had to catch the back side to keep it from tumbling straight into the sand.

"Careful, now, careful!" he spat.

Biggs braced himself against the station wall and hoisted the crate up onto his knee.

"I got it, I got it." He said. "What've you got in here, black holes?"

"Power converters," said Merl.

"Not like any power converters I've ever seen," said Biggs.

"You can say that again," said Merl. "These things came off a Naboo yacht."

That was enough to get the flyboy's attention. The box seemed suddenly lighter, or the young man stronger, as he rushed it into the station to get the lid off. He was a year or two older than most of the hot rodders he ran with, but his smile gleamed like a child's as he staggered with his load.

"Windy's uncle looks after a star yacht," he grunted. "I helped him do the converters on that. They were half this weight. You mean to tell me the jawas carried this?"

"They can carry anything if it's worth this kind of money," said Merl. "Jirak swears up and down they came off a Theed Palace star skiff. You know anything about those?"

Biggs let out a low whistle. "You're kidding. A Theed Palace yacht? Where the hell did they find one? They're priceless. Custom-built for Naboo royalty. Fastest Republic ships ever made. If there's a dozen left in the galaxy, the Emperor owns ten of them." He tore the top off the box eagerly. Sure enough, the canisters were seamless, gleaming silver, branded with the Theed Palace stamp.

"They're fine work," said Merl. "You think they're the real thing? You're the one with his head buried in the spacer holos. I figured you'd know."

"They sell knock-offs in Mos Espa," said Biggs. "They're nothing like this. You put these on a starfighter, the manoeuvring you could get would be out of this world. On the original J-Type, though? You put six of these in series between the Sossens and the hyperdrive—you could hit point five in a jump burst."

"That's crazy," said Merl. "They haven't made a ship faster than point seven since the Clone Wars."

"Believe it, boss," said Biggs. "I know my starships. These things are worth more than everything else in the shop put together."

"They're only worth what somebody in Anchorhead will pay," said Merl. "Not a credit more. Don't forget that."

Biggs hoisted one of the converters into the light, marvelled at the way it caught the rays of the twin suns. It took both hands to lift even one. Polished to a mirror edge on all sides, it made everything else in Merl Tosche's station look dirty and lived-in.

"Why would anyone part these out?" he asked. "They're a matched set. Custom pieces for a hand-built star skiff. The Imperials have nothing in their whole fleet this fast. Do you know what the Rebel Alliance would pay for an intact J-Type?"

"I don't want to hear any of that Rebellion crap," said Merl.

"A lot of money," said Biggs, pivoting the conversation. "A lot. Who would part this out?"

Merl shrugged. "Someone who doesn't want to be seen selling some Naboo prince's yacht, I guess."

"You don't think they're stolen, do you?"

"I don't think I stole them," said Merl. "I bought them cheap, but fair and square, from Jirak. He bought them even cheaper from some desert scavenger, some old canyon rat who basically sold them for water."

"Bad luck," said Biggs. "Makes sense. I thought the Drought wiped them all out."

"All but one, apparently," said Merl. "He must've saved them for a rainy day."

"Rainy day," Biggs laughed. "That's funny." He put the converters back in their foam housing and lifted the dusty crate onto the top shelf with almost religious reverence.

"Can you imagine putting even one of these on a Skyhopper?" he asked.

Merl shrugged. "You'd break your damn neck."

"You'd be surprised," said Biggs. "Some of the kids coming up are good. Real good."

"High praise coming from you, hotshot," said Merl.

"Yeah, well...if you paid me more around here, I might just buy one myself."

Merl clapped the dust off his hands. "You run with the racers and modders," he said. "I don't want to take these to Anchorhead if I can help it. If you can sell the rest to your lunatic friends by harvest season, I'll give you the last one."

The young man's eyes went wide. "I'll start coming in early," he said.

"And keep the place clean."

"Yes, sir."

"And shave off that stupid moustache."

"The fighter pilots all wear 'em."

"And once you get yours installed—listen to me, kid—don't take your hopper within a hundred miles of Mos Eisley or the Mesra Plateau."

Biggs nodded, suddenly serious.

"You do think they're stolen."

Merl shrugged. "I just don't want any trouble. And I think they came from someone who's trying real hard to keep their head down."