The Ruins of Dantooine (4 page)

At his pronouncement, the crowd went wild. The Rodian, clearly a master of timing, bowed deeply and dashed out of the arena. Dusque shifted in her seat and sighed disappointedly. The external lights that surrounded the makeshift arena dimmed dramatically, and the crowd grew silent. The only sounds were those that drifted over from the nearby swamps. When the lights came on again, they pulsed in a flashing pattern. From the eastern point of the arena, Dusque saw the first of the contestants enter the ring.

Leading the parade of creatures was a rare sight. A female, pale-blue-skinned Twi’lek sat atop a cu-pa and actually rode the bright pink-and-blue-furred beast into the arena. Cu-pas were native to Tatooine, Dusque knew; resembling tauntauns, they were very passive but not nearly as intelligent. The simple fact that the woman was able to mount and direct the creature was a fascinating spectacle. Dusque noted that the Twi’lek had her two head tentacles wrapped tightly around the cu-pa’s neck, and she wondered if that aided her in directing the animal. She recorded her observations, reserving her conclusions for later, when she would, she hoped, have more information.

A Wookiee led in a small herd of floppy-eared squall, and quite a few snickers could be heard among the spectators. Even Dusque was hard pressed
not to laugh at the sight. However, all laughter stopped as soon as the Wookiee threw back his head and roared his displeasure. The ferocious sound made even Dusque sit a little straighter in her seat.

After the Wookiee, a bevy of handlers and creatures made a single pass around the arena. Mon Calamari carried anglers in on their shoulders, their spearlike legs dangling, Trandoshans rode in on tusk-cats, humans followed behind flewt queens that strained against their tethers, and even stranger sights marched by. Dusque recorded it all, down to the minutest detail.

“I haven’t seen this many creatures since we were at the Coruscant Livestock Exchange and Exhibition,” Tendau whispered to her from his two mouths.

“You’re right,” she grudgingly agreed. “Now that you’ve reminded me, I wouldn’t be surprised if we see some of those traders here, as well. There certainly is a large enough gathering.”

The Ithorian nodded in agreement. “I suspect we will.”

Most of the attendees looked like well-dressed tourists, no more and no less. Dusque saw that most were making frequent trips to the betting tables, and it was clear that the odds against the matches were in constant flux. As she craned her neck around, she was momentarily startled to see a pair of nearly black eyes regarding her steadily. She cocked her head sideways as she saw that the eyes matched the ebony hair of the human male who was watching
her. She turned back abruptly toward the scene in front of her. As a trained bystander, Dusque was suddenly uncomfortable when she realized she was the one being studied.

Very flustered, she busied herself with her observations. A zucca boar was pitted against a womp rat. Both animals were native to Tatooine, and Dusque realized that for the opening rounds, only animals from the same planets were forced to fight one another.

“While the boar has weight on his side,” she whispered to her colleague, “he doesn’t stand a chance against those incisors.”

“Care to place a bet on that?” came a snide remark from behind her. “My credits are on the zucca.”

Dusque didn’t even turn her head to acknowledge the speaker. “Then you’re about to become very poor.” She shook her head as he snorted in derision. He’d see soon enough.

As their handlers turned them loose, the two competitors charged each other. And as Dusque had suspected, although the boar had more muscle behind his attack, he didn’t have the agility of the hopping womp rat. When the boar was nearly close enough to gore his opponent, the smaller native of Tatooine hopped to the side. The zucca wasn’t able to stop his rush in time to escape the wicked teeth of the womp rat. The boar’s hide was tough, but not tough enough to withstand the repeated attacks of the competition. Every time the boar attempted to
regroup and charge, the womp rat sidestepped him with a nimble hop. It was only a matter of time before the boar expired. The womp rat’s handler emerged from the sidelines and called his creature to follow him. With only one backward glance, the womp rat fell in behind his handler and hopped out of the arena. A judge rushed out to check on the condition of the boar and, as the boar’s handler struggled with the carcass, the womp rat was declared the winner and advanced to the next round. Dusque noted everything.

From behind her, she could hear the disgruntled gambler swear. He threw his handful of tickets to the ground and stomped off. Tendau leaned toward her once again.

“I’m impressed,” he told her.

“It was obvious,” Dusque replied, waving off the compliment. “That match was no contest.”

“No,” he corrected her, “I meant I was impressed because you didn’t tell him
I told you so.
” She saw that he was smiling with the mouth that faced her. She smiled back.

The next few rounds went much the same, and there was very little that Dusque learned about behavior that she hadn’t seen demonstrated on some other world before. Although she kept her facial expressions to a minimum, she was growing more nauseated as the evening wore on. She watched as one magnificent specimen after another was torn to shreds simply for the multitude’s amusement and a handful of credits. The only conclusion she was
drawing was that there was no end to what the Empire allowed to propagate.

Unable to stomach the slaughter, she found her eyes once again wandering from the staged events back toward the crowd. The more vicious the fights, the more frenzied the throng became. She saw that most were on their feet, tickets and chips clutched tightly in their hands. Many were shouting threats or words of encouragement to their favored choice, alternating indiscriminately between them. And, almost discreetly, a small garrison of Imperial stormtroopers patrolled the periphery of the arena, ostensibly to keep at bay anything that might be drawn from the swamps by the growing stench of blood. As always, the Empire was ever present. While Dusque continued to observe the mob, she discovered that same pair of obsidian eyes staring back at her again.

As he lifted a hand, Dusque unconsciously raised her hand to her throat. For a moment, she thought he was going to somehow signal to her, and she wondered what she would do. But he simply brushed some of his unruly black hair from his eyes and continued to regard her steadily. She turned away again, feeling suddenly foolish and at a loss.

“It’s almost over,” the Ithorian told her. “Only a few are still standing.”

Dusque focused on her datapad, trying to busy herself with her notations. The last creatures left were a malkloc from Dathomir and a flit harasser from Lok. The malkloc had literally mowed over
her competition. Larger than a tauntaun, malklocs had a heavy body and long neck. Dusque recalled from her studies that they were near the top of the food chain on Dathomir due to their sheer mass. Only an adult rancor bull had any hope of bringing down one of the giants. Luckily for the rest of the creature population, malklocs were herbivores, content to spend their waking hours chewing thousands of leaves every day, blissfully oblivious to their surroundings. This malkloc, however, had been trained to respond to her handler’s commands, as had all the other specimens that performed in the arena. She had crushed every one of her opponents under her tremendous feet. But her feet would not help her against her final opponent.

On the other side of the arena, a Trandoshan female was bringing out her prized creature. It was one of the largest flit harassers Dusque had ever seen. Indigenous to Lok, the creatures had a tough, leathery hide, an incredibly sharp beak, and a wingspan that was usually greater than the height of a large Wookiee. Very few living things could face down one of these reptavians.

“The only chance the malkloc has,” Tendau whispered to Dusque, “is the fact that the flit has a damaged wing from its tussle with the dire cat in the previous round.” He pointed out the injury with his long silvery arm.

“And the fact that they normally hunt in swarms,” Dusque added. She saw the Ithorian nod in agreement but look away as the signal was given for the
animals to attack. She knew he was just as sickened as she was by the bloody scenario in front of her. Travesties such as this were not the reason either of them had become biologists.

The match ended fairly quickly. The malkloc made her charge and miscalculated. The moment she unsuccessfully thundered past the flit, the reptavian swooped awkwardly around the massive beast and landed on the malkloc’s back. It dug its claws into the tough hide of the herbivore and raised its beak high above. When it was certain it had a solid grip, the flit dropped its head and buried its beak deep into the malkloc’s neck. And then it began to feed.

Dusque turned away, having no desire to watch the bloodsucker at work. Almost unconsciously, she looked back in the direction of the human male who had been watching her—and found that he was still watching her, just as he had been earlier. She met his gaze and held it for a few moments until he did something unexpected. He winked at her.

Dusque was at a loss. She knew she should have been offended, or should ignore him at the very least, but she didn’t know how to respond. Almost against her will she could feel the color rise in her face. But before she could say or do anything, a sudden thud shook the stands and she whirled back around to face the arena.

The malkloc had finally fallen to the ground. The flit’s handler trotted out from the sidelines and tried to pull the bloody victor from its prize even as he
accepted his credits as the evening’s grand-prize winner.

When Dusque collected her thoughts, she turned back toward her admirer, but he was gone. She scanned the crowd quickly: he was nowhere to be seen. The Ithorian noticed she was distressed and placed a hand on her shoulder. Her flushed appearance couldn’t be missed, either. He asked, “Are you all right?”

Dusque took a moment before she replied, “I’m not sure.”

The moment the official winner was announced, a cry went up from the masses. Almost as one, the spectators turned and made for the casino entrance as quickly as they could, and Dusque was certain it was with the gleam of free credits dancing before their eyes. A few of the slower members of the throng squawked in surprise and pain as they were shoved aside and stepped on by the more assertive guests. But she saw that even the slow recovered and tried to push their way through.

Dusque collected her materials and picked up her small pack. She grabbed the railing and easily swung her legs over the side. She looked back over her shoulder and told the Ithorian, “I’m just going to collect a few samples. Won’t be but a few moments.” She knew Tendau would probably become ill if he had to walk through the blood-spattered arena. She wasn’t thrilled by the prospect either, but she knew she wouldn’t become physically sick from the contact like her colleague would.

Dusque walked off to the far side of the temporary stadium where she had seen most of the carcasses hastily dumped between rounds. There was only one handler who had remained behind, along with a few attendants who were already beginning the tedious task of breaking down the show grounds. She noticed the handler was still stroking the side of his fallen wrix. He paid no attention to her, but one of the attendants approached her.

“Dusque Mistflier,” she identified herself and showed him her credentials. As always, the sight of her authorization left no room for questions, granting her immediate access to anything she required.

“Imperial bioengineer, hmm? Little out of the way for you here, isn’t it?” he pointed out.

Dusque ignored his snickers and his implied insult and moved past him. Breathing through her mouth to avoid the smell, she pushed her hair back and removed her tools from her bag. She then began methodically drawing blood and tissue samples from the fallen creatures. When she had collected and stored all of the DNA, she cleaned her hands on a sterile wipe and started to walk back over to the Ithorian. But the wrix trainer called out to her and trotted after her. Dusque stopped and waited for him.

By his tattoos and vestigial horns, Dusque realized he was a Zabrak. And he was obviously distraught by the death of his creature.

“What can I do for you?” Dusque asked him politely.

“I saw you take samples of my wrix. I want to know how many credits you want to clone him,” he demanded.

“I’m sorry,” she replied, somewhat surprised by his request. “I don’t have the proper equipment for that kind of procedure. And I don’t believe in cloning,” she added. “When things die, they should stay dead.”

But the Zabrak didn’t seem to appreciate her answer. “I know what you and your kind do,” he spat, his anger obviously making him reckless. “You run around the galaxy, collecting your little bits and pieces of everything you find and scurrying back to your labs.

“You mix and match things at your whim, or the Emperor’s, without batting an eye. Well”—he grabbed Dusque by her upper arm—“you’ll clone him for me and you’ll do it now.”

Dusque twisted around sharply and freed her arm from his hard grip. But before anything else transpired, the two attendants rushed up to restrain him.

“Now, now,” the attendant who had spoken to Dusque soothed. “You don’t want to mess with her kind. You saw her rank. Touch her and we’ll have to find a way to clone you,” he joked nervously and Dusque saw him eyeing the patrolling troopers. The situation became more apparent to the Zabrak, and he angrily shoved off the attendants.

“You’re right,” he growled, “she’s not worth it. None of her kind is. They’re worse than the
abominations that they cook up in their labs.” And with that, he trudged back over to his fallen creature.

Dusque turned and walked the rest of the way back to Tendau without further incident. She could see the Ithorian looked worried, so she pasted a smile on her face and shook her head in mock disgust. But the Zabrak’s words stuck with her. She knew many of her superiors back at their labs did exactly what the trainer had accused her of. They experimented and tampered and went against the natural order of things, all in the name of the Emperor. Dusque tried to convince herself she was just a xenobiologist, taking samples for study and documenting behaviors. Still, she had an inkling what some of her samples were used for; she simply chose not to recognize the truth.