Chapter Text
"Planetary security, this is the Uwanna Buyer, seeking to land," Quelev Tapper says, leaning into the comm as Myrkr slowly turns beneath them.
Talon Karrde nudges the ship closer to the green-white planet, reducing the distance in the off-chance planetary security's comms budget is smaller than their usual patrol.
Tapper presses the comm switch again. "Planetary security, this is the Uwanna Buyer, seeking to land."
They wait, listing through the yawning void of space. Karrde lifts a finger from the yoke, pointing toward a sliver of another freighter leaving the atmosphere. They watch for a moment, the ship never slowing or hailing them.
"Who tipped you off to this place, again?"
For every ounce of suspicion in Tapper's expression, Karrde matches it with unmasked enthusiasm. "Fen."
The name slides past him without a hint of visible recognition. This isn't the first time his partner has followed a lead into the wild unknown and it won't be the last. Talon Karrde has a soft-spot for entrepreneuring young minds: especially the ones selling him exactly what he's in the market to buy.
"Jett's girl," Karrde adds.
Fen – Fenig Nabon. Jett Nabon's adopted daughter. The little con-artist that works out of the Black Dust Tavern. The pretty one that Karrde is suddenly on a abbreviated-name basis with – offered Karrde the name of a man looking to sell prime real-estate on a Force-obscured planet.
The venture is as suspicious as the nagging lack of long-range landing beacons on the navicomp.
If 'Hello, sir. I hear you're in the market for a magical castle that repels invisible wizards and I have a deal for you' is anything other than a trap, Tapper owes Karrde and his Mistryl-adjacent informant an apology.
Probably several.
Tapper engages the comm switch once more and levels a dark-green stare across the console. "This is the Uwanna Buyer seeking assurance my partner did not award actual credits for the location of a planet so inconsequential as to exist without planetary security."
Silence consumes the space between them.
It's worse than he thought: their planetside destination is impossible to find from orbit. Even with exact coordinates and the Uwanna Buyer's black-market enhancements, the interference prevents them from being able to calibrate with the planet's polar grid.
It's only through sheer determination and visual scanning that they spot a city large enough for port traffic and manage to avoid concession.
Tapper's imagination cannot fathom anything more remote than Hyllyard – and he has traversed the path between Anchorhead and Jabba's Palace with the sort of frequency that the natives dread.
The dense forest that surrounds the city of Hyllyard threatens to engulf it. Port management confirms the lack of planetary security and long-range comms are not an accident. Even more condemning, it's entirely organic; a high metal concentration in the earth and flora, in the planet itself, renders most comms entirely useless. The casual acceptance the locals demonstrate regarding their fate cements Tapper's unease.
Nevertheless, they find their contact. Chin – a local that functions on first-name basis because the city's social sphere is so small that surnames are unspoken – is barely more than a farmhand in rustic overalls. The dark-haired man offers them a simple smile and a relaxed handshake before leading them into the forest with the same casual familiarity one might extend with directions to a local cantina.
If Chin were any more (or less) friendly, Tapper would indulge the urge to grab Karrde by the back of his collar and drag him back to the ship, blaster firing.
He's prepared to do it anyway: long fingers curling and uncurling against his palm, itching to rest on the pommel of his blaster. The slick prickle of suspicion creeps down his spine like brain-spiders but he manages to refrain from starting a firefight.
The air is thick with the smell of pine tar and churned earth, as they traverse deeper into the dreadful green. The heat and humidity aren’t as bad as other treks, Tapper admits to himself, stomping through vines after the carefree-local, careful to avoid the suspicious piles of mud and loam that dot their path.
"Watch the olibo trees," their guide chimes.
The ensuing question is drawn forth slowly, metered with the concern their guide has only now realized they've been surrounded by foliage for an hour. "Do they … dance for tips?"
The man stares at Tapper for a moment, as if waiting for an accurate translation of the question from some unseen source. "The ysalamiri nest in the trees."
"Do they dance for tips?" Tapper repeats, distracted by the absurdity of it all and now adamant that something on Myrkr must carry a modicum of entertainment value.
"What are ysalamiri?" Karrde says, derailing Tapper's inquisition.
"Small reptiles." Chin spans his palms to clarify 'small' encompasses the width of his shoulders. He's shorter and thinner than Karrde but the estimate remains questionable. "Mostly harmless. Known to drop cones and dung on passersby."
"Wonderful." Tapper pauses, tossing a weary glance around the canopy before serving Karrde an expression as honed and specifically purposed as their guide's vibroblade. "Sunny with a chance of shit."
"Best keep your mouth shut when looking up," the local adds, blissfully unaware of the wordless exchange.
"Thank you, Chin," Karrde responds quickly.
Tapper's lips press together in a stern line and Karrde keeps the trio moving; unlike Chin, he knows Tapper's most dangerous when he's silent.
"I don't want to alarm you," Tapper hisses, loosening his collar and peeling his shirt from his sweat-drenched skin, "but we're about three hours into our one-hour trek and it hasn't been an obvious route."
Karrde habitually checks their surroundings and waves off the concern. "The one-hour estimate was by speeder."
Tapper seethes. "What was the pedestrian estimate, Karrde?"
"Twelve hours."
"Twelve hours?" Tapper gapes. The controlling stakeholders of the underworld's fastest growing smuggling organization just stepped out of communication for an impromptu walk in the park and didn't even leave a note. "Why didn't you bring the ship?"
Karrde gestures toward the sky and twirls a finger. "Not enough air traffic to mask exploration. We'd stick out like tourists."
"Touri–" Tapper's mouth snaps shut with a click. He counts to five and cracks his knuckles before resuming the thought. The man must be kissed by Lady Luck herself to have surmounted the underworld with the demonstrated self-preservation skills of an overripe meiloorun. "If you trip and break your ankle on a magic lizard, I'm going to throttle you and blame the murder on Ken."
"Chin," Karrde corrects helpfully.
Tapper's jaw flexes under the anxious flutter of his eyelashes. "Chin."
"Excuse me," Chin says. "The ysalamiri are mostly sedentary and entirely arboreal. Captain Karrde is far more likely to trip on a root or vine."
Karrde beams, gesturing toward their guide. "Problem solved."
As it gets dark, Chin instructs them on how to set up tents, how to clear the rocks and shrubbery with make-shift tools, and how to organize the piled debris as a barrier from predators.
Using a big stick to push around smaller sticks feels like the kind of busywork assigned to prevent prisoners from rioting. After an eight-hour hike, in two-thousand credit shoes, Tapper isn’t fit to argue. He rolls up his sleeves and plays along obediently, dragging a cumbersome branch across a patch of earth far too hard and cold to be considered a passable sleeping situation. He suffers through the exercise in the desperate attempt to save himself from being brutalized, in restless slumber, by the planet itself.
Thankfully, the view makes an excellent distraction. Karrde removes his jacket, his dense shoulders flexing as well-muscled arms are freed from the sleeves. He shakes the coat, the leather snapping sharply, and drapes it over a branch. Tapper startles and his branch-rake snags in a clump of vines.
"Smart." Chin's complement instantly launches him back to the top of the threat-list. "That'll allow the sweat to dry before the night chill sets in."
Karrde flashes him a knowing look and Tapper curses, smashing his boot against the green mass to lever the tool free. It wrenches loose with a pungent waft of floral-panic and a wet slap across his exposed arm. He flicks his wrist to rid himself of the offending sludge and heaps the seeping mess atop the growing barricade.
"Do not touch the vines," Chin says. The words carry the same weight of a parental warning. The order places an invisible boundary on the task at hand; any originating concern too little, too late.
“Or what?” Tapper snaps.
“The sap is an irritant.”
“Unlike everything else on this planet?”
“Urushiol causes contact rash, blistering, swelling –”
“Great.” Tapper throws his branch into the pile and rolls his sleeves down to cover his quickly reddening skin. “Karrde, start a fire so we can burn it all down.”
Karrde’s lips flatten into a line. “Quelev.”
“The radurtica is beneficial,” Chin defends. “The smell is very effective at warding away predators –”
“Predators?” Tapper’s laugh is humorless. "Predators – large enough to pose a threat to three grown men – are stopped by a collection of sticks and sap?"
"The trees protect the ysalamiri. The ysalamiri protect us –"
“The ysalamiri? Which is it, Chin? The acid-sap vines or shit-flinging tree-lizards?"
Chin’s restrained movement punctuates his silence. His hips shift, weight shuffling from foot to foot while a frown carves maturity into his round face. “The ysalamiri, the radurtica, and the olibo sustain each other and, in turn, form a protection from predators."
"Predators that don't climb trees."
Chin shakes his head. "Predators in the Force."
"Oh, there it is." The statement drips with the kind of exhausted skepticism that eddies around religious zealots preaching in starports. Tapper’s hands rise and fall in forfeiture, then tuck tightly across his chest in a concealed effort to prevent scratching his burning forearm.
Karrde gestures for a ceasefire, curiosity tinting his stern features. “I apologize on behalf of my companion. Kindly expand on that last statement?”
Their flustered guide tears his attention from Tapper to consider Karrde. The tension melts from his shoulders as he registers genuine interest. He combs his fingers through his short brown hair. "The entire ecosystem has developed a symbiosis with the Force, whether or not you choose to believe it.” A wordless pause stretches the moment as he wrestles with the best way to condense centuries of planetary culture and history. “The Neti came to Myrkr after the Sith destruction of their homeworld. They used their connection with the Force to shield Myrkr and became the forest. The forest watches over us and we watch over the forest.”
"What a charming form of planetary security," Karrde says.
Tapper sucks his teeth with his tongue. "Right."
And maybe that's enough for Karrde, but Tapper sleeps with his blaster cradled in his arms – to help reduce the swelling, if nothing else.
The abandoned outpost is everything Karrde expected and more, judging from the lift in his step and the way his broad chest puffs out like a strutting keedee.
Their new real estate sits in a large, natural clearing, south of Hyllyard. It may have been an agricultural facility, in a past life, with a large crew quarters between them and the main house. The southern half of the clearing is predominantly occupied by a processing and loading yard the size of an Action VI, as well as an array of landing pads in various states of decay.
The primary attraction is the main house: a circular multi-level dwelling with its packed-clay walls painted smooth and white to stave off heat and mold. The almost palisade structure is three wide towers huddled around a massive domed common-room.
Not that Tapper sees any of it the first day. Exhaustion deposits him on the first vertical surface that isn't covered in questionably sticky debris: an old lattice-work bench atop the duracreet retaining wall that barricades a tree from consuming the entire room – the massive centerpiece is rooted dead-center in the enclosed space, its trunk as wide around as a turbolift car and branches stretching upward with aspirations of reaching the sun beyond the transparisteel roof.
Light pours in through the mottled transparisteel, filtering through the dark green leaves and smooth limbs of the tree, casting an eerie web of shadows on the dusty stone floor. He watches the shadows creep into two stairways – presumably leading into guest quarters and utility rooms – while Karrde recounts details of the full tour.
"Don't tell me," Tapper says, surrendering to his role as the captive audience, "the base is haunted by Sith lords."
"No Sith lords," Karrde says. "No running water. No power. The southern quadrant has been completely compromised by weather and age. And, reportedly, the vine that gave you trouble is even more virile in the spring." Karrde's smile is almost as infuriating as the blisters left by the aforementioned vine. "It's perfect."
Tapper toes off his boots and reaches to pull them possessively close but halts with a disgusted groan. They're filthy: the fitted leather caked in questionable mud and sap. He retreats along with his will to argue. "I've changed my mind, the Force can have me."
"Excellent." The relief is audible in Karrde's sigh. His enthusiasm for being stationary on an underdeveloped planet, isolated from his crew and the galaxy at large, deflates with minimal prodding. "We'll head back to Hyllyard at first light. I'll contact Aves and we'll be back on Coruscant before the end of the week."
Tapper grimaces. "I don't want to go back to Coruscant."
The rest of the admission -- that he doesn't want to return to Coruscant, where ghosts of Sith Lords loom in every shadow, where an imperial intelligence specialist tortures her own loyalists, where the New Republic military leaders send idealists to die -- remains unspoken.
But not unheard.
The tension reflects in Karrde's shoulders. The older man is not as oblivious to the implications of newfound Jedi laying the foundation for the New Republic as he feigns. Although he hasn't shared details surrounding the fate of his mentor, the indomitable Jorj Car'das, Karrde's paranoia surrounding his disappearance almost matches Tapper's.
They're not going back to Coruscant; not before they have an adequately fortified base of operations to return to. Neither of them are ignorant enough to venture into business with mind-flaying mystics without a suitable backup plan. If any of the rumors are true, the insignificant dirt-clod spinning beneath their feet, permeating their clothes and clinging to their sweat, may be the best defense they have.
"The crew deserves some down-time and so do you," Karrde deflects, as if the last four years he's spent scooping up fragments of fallen empires and tamping the cracks with stability and respect like bloody plaster hasn't earned him a moment of respite. "Consider this a simulator run."
There's a lie there; hidden behind the soft crease of his lips. He wants to offer him the world: an escape plan, an alternate ending, the kind of disappearing act only dreamed about by their predecessors and colleagues.
Neither of them are going anywhere; there's too much to do.
They're stuck in this mess like the shit on his sole.
Tapper's dark-green gaze breaks from Karrde's subtle offer of vulnerability to roam across the open floor space. The encroaching forest buzzes with insect chatter and the harrowing cries of unseen beasts. He sighs and sags against the tree. "I'm sure they'll love this place. Especially after I'm devoured whole by whatever makes that incessant racket."
"Vornskrs."
"What?"
Karrde smothers a grin and takes a seat beside the pouting man. Their hips bump twice in the movement. Neither make any attempt to diffuse the conspiratorial proximity.
"The large predators native to this area are called vornskrs," Karrde says, his low voice dragging the lore past Tapper's ear and directly down his spine. "Chin claims he's seen them pull beings into the forest whole, their screams silenced by snapping bones."
Tapper doesn't have to look. He doesn't have to see the expression as Karrde exaggerates the words. He can feel it: hear the playful antagonism squeaking through the teeth of his parsec-wide smile.
"What else do they say?"
"They hunt using the Force."
That earns a flicker of attention, a side-eye beneath a cynical eyebrow, a pinch of lower-lip dragging subconsciously beneath upper-teeth. Tapper's focus drifts from the ache in his thighs, up the tension of his spine, past the beard-prickle at his shoulder, falling toward the gravitational sway of Talon Karrde's mouth.
No wonder they sound ravenous.
The approaching scuff of boots echoes across the chamber, shattering the moment and the remnants of Tapper's calm like a mynock against a viewport. He can feel his heart stop and restart, his existence thoroughly dislodged from orbit and jettisoned to wildspace.
This is how he dies. These are the decisions that spell his fate: following a charming smile into the quiet corners of the galaxy, trading the security of a well-crewed ship for con-woman's vibroblade-wielding contact, and forgetting Talon kriffing Karrde is enough of a literary idealist to misinterpret a suicide-run into a cursed forest as a romantic gesture.
Tapper's hand settles on his blaster and he leaps to his feet to refrain from drawing it.
Somehow, the man entering the room miraculously avoids the vacuum-chill flooding the instantaneous space between the two smugglers.
Chin smiles politely and crosses his arms. "Finished resting? There's a bit to do before nightfall."
"The master suite has an excellent view," Karrde states with infuriating casualness. "It should function as a base-camp."
"Good instinct. Easily defensible," the vibroblade-wielding contact compliments. His eyes linger on Tapper's disarray for a moment. "Am I interrupting?"
Tapper can feel his last nerve disintegrate as he commits the sin of returning his swollen feet into his ruined boots. "I was just leaving."
"It's best if we stay together."
"I'll take my chances."