As my tonton puffed foul, oily breaths into the frozen air – and as I vainly attempted to avoid inhaling whiffs of them – I couldn't shake the feeling I'd forgotten to bring something. Was it extra containers? No, reaching back with one of my triply-mitted hands, I could make out the angular outlines of the heavy-duty produce-totes I'd snapped onto my saddle; to top it off, my other hand was wrapped with an extra set of reins leading the other tonton I'd taken for my supply run. Did I have credits? Yes, most likely, they hung as they usually did in a pouch suspended around my neck, but even if I didn't have them, my Wompa suppliers weren't fussed about being paid later. Maybe my pass to get back in the base? Getting locked out in the cold with nothing but two stinking tontons to snuggle up to was not my idea of a good time, and was a recurring fear of mine; but, no, paranoia aside, it was essentially impossible for me to lose my pass, as it was safely lodged subdermally in my palm.
The two tonton moaned irritably as the trek across the snow fields seemed to have no end. None of us were thrilled about being out in the frigid cold for this long. From the sorta-familiar looking rock croppings up ahead (they pretty much looked all the same if you stared at them too long), I guessed we were getting closer, so I gave my mount a reassuring pat on the neck and pulled on the reins a touch to slow us down.
This part was kind of tricky. On an isolated planet like Hawth, there weren't exactly flashing street signs kicking around – particularly as most of its inhabitants were keeping a low profile to avoid the Empire's scrutiny. You had to find your way around somehow though, and the local Wompas had a fairly clever system of rock inukshuks placed strategically around the main by-ways to lead you to hidden pockets of settlements and trade centers.
Now, where was that thing hiding again? I knew it was here somewhere. The Wompas' eyesight were adapted to the blinding, reflected light from the snow and ice, so they had little trouble spotting an inukshuk, but, puny human that I am, I had to adjust the shading in my visors a few more notches to get a close look at the ground.
Ah. There it was. Just as I had hoped: a few feet away, lay a squat pile of rocks stacked into a rough profile of a biped with its arms out. Looking carefully, I noted the direction its arms were pointing in and the orientation of its head, and figured I had about a fifteen minute ride left. With a couple of gentle prods of my heels, I coaxed my grumpy tontons to get going again, and hoped I'd read the signs correctly. With everything covered in blurry shades of snow-white and ice-blue, it was hard to get an accurate sense of depth and distance. So, it was with some surprise and much relief that a glacier-cavern suddenly and welcomingly appeared in front of us. Finally.
Bringing us to a halt in front of the opening, I stiffly eased off the saddle, and led the two tired animals into the cavern. It was dark and the ground was uneven, but the tontons immediately calmed as the unmistakable musky odors of the Wompas became omnipresent. I, however, hated this part; even with my visor set to the brightest setting, I could barely see two feet ahead of me, and had to shuffle along, one hand held out in front of me. Despite having done this dozens of times, every time came through I was convinced I'd impale myself on an ice stalactite or fall down a hole.
I was spared an icy death, when a looming gargantuan presence all but materialized beside me, practically causing me to release my bowels (I probably would have if my sphincter hadn't been so fucking frozen) but calmed down a smidge, as a heavy, friendly paw patted me pleasantly on the shoulder and another gently took my tonton' reins out of my hand.
“Hello, Tim. Good to see you. I guess you're here for your supply run,” a raspy voice wheezed; Wompa vocal cords were designed for their language's deep growls and subsonic undertones, resulting in a Galactic that always sounded as if they were gasping for breath.
“H-hey, Syl-sylvie. Y-yep, I've come for the u-usual... as much s-salad as you can sp-spare,” I stuttered through my chattering jaw, gradually feeling more at ease with Sylvie guiding me through the darkness of the ice-cavern system.
Naturally, “Sylvie” wasn't even remotely close to her actual Wompa name, but, considering I couldn't hear the bulk of sounds that consisted her name, she didn't seem offended when I offered to call her Sylvie. Indeed, much belying her and her species' enormous, shaggily beastial size with terrifying claws that could tear through thick double-plated steel as an afterthought, Wompas were generally rather easy-going and cheerful. Probably a sensible adaptation to living on a miserably cold planet.
“More salad?” Sylvie hrruffed, followed by her laugh that sounded more like a phlegmy coughing fit. “Didn't you leave with a sixty pounds last week?”
“Yeaaaaaah... Don't remind me,” I sighed, resigning myself to the gonad-freezing fact that I'd be doing this trip much more often from now on. “Maybe you can give me some ideas on how to stretch our supply longer.”
“Okay. But, I'm not sure how much more we can do for you. Let's go inside and look at the crops. Charlie can take care of your tontons and meet us later,” Sylvie said, continuing with some amiable grunting to her mate who had been in the background.
It shouldn't have surprised me Sylvie's partner had also been there, though utterly invisible in the darkness – which was probably a good thing, as having two hulking beast appear beside would have certainly had me screaming in terror. In contrast, the tontons were completely unperturbed by the Wompas, and even seemed pleased, probably because they knew they would be getting some pampering and extra feed once Charlie brought them to his stables.
The walls gradually shifted from ice to rock as Sylvie and I trekked deeper into the cavern, while the air also grew warmer and revived my limbs that had become lumpy, rigid masses. Eventually, a winkling of light glimmered from what seemed a distance, but, turning around a corner, brightness flared all at once, as we walked into a roomy, high-ceilinged cavern that, surprisingly, considering how freaking freezing it was moments ago, was even on the pleasantly humid side.
I had to stop and stare idiotically for a bit as I did some mental adjusting; it always took me a few moments to register Sylvie and Charlie's wide expanse of lush veggies hidden away in their underground cultivation operation. Loosening my jacket and sweat-soaked scarf, I walked down the paths, peering at the wonderfully vibrant leafy vegetables, arranged in rows upon rows of neatly shaped beds. I only recognized a small portion of what was growing, but I strongly suspected, based on what I bought, most of it was destined to become salad of some kind.
It wasn't for nothing that Wompas were known to be excellent growers. With a well-honed combination of grow-lights and geothermal heat from the deep underground, they cultivated enough crops to sustain themselves and their communities. In many ways, as the Wompas were fond of pointing out, it was insane to be doing scrabbling a livelihood farming in such adverse conditions, when, on any other planet, they might find some place where you didn't have to dig underground to grow food. But, as they were also fond of pointing out, they didn't have any pests to speak of, and, being underground, it was peaceful, quiet and private – which the Wompas valued above all.
“Well, it looks like there's lots of salad here!” I said cheerfully, waving my hands over the expanse of greens.
“Hrrrmph,” Sylvie grumbled non-commitally, shaking her grey-maned head and rolling her dark, glossy eyes. “Most of these aren't mature. They'd die after one harvest. I like you, Tim, but I don't like you enough to kill my crop.”
“Oh, right,” I said with some embarrassment. Glancing around, my eyes settled on some purplish, red plants that appeared to be thriving. “What about those guys then? Those look pretty big.”
“The ruby streaks?” Sylvie arched a furry eyebrow. “Yeah, those are ready, but they're not like the stuff you usually get: they're pretty spicy. We usually keep that mix for the locals.”
“Spicy? What do you mean? How can a leaf be spicy?”
“Just try a piece.”
“I don't get it. What's the deal? It looks the same... It's got a nice feel...
WHOA! That's hot!”
“Huffhuffhuffhuff,” Sylvie chuckled, as I struggled with the leaf's surprising pungent heat. “I told you they were spicy.”
“You know?” I said thoughtfully, as the mustardy burn settled in the back of my throat, which was was actually kind of nice – assuming you knew to expect it, that is. “I like it. Can you give me a batch of salad like this?”
“Really?” Sylvie said skeptically. “They're definitely not like the butterheads and crispheads, you know. Your people may not like it.”
“Honestly. I'll take some. It's probably good for you and all that. If I can pitch the health side of the, people will eat it up,” I replied more certain of myself, as I reached down to grab another leaf to munch on. “Wooo! This stuff is spiiiicy! That's a good one! Any more like this?”
“Well, there's some green wave. They're going strong, and could use a cut. There's also the golden frills, suelihung, and the red garnet,” Sylvie said pensively. “And, if you're ok with those, there's always some green mizuna and red rain we can throw in. They're not spicy like the others, so it could balance the flavor out.”
“Perfect! That sounds perfect,” I exclaimed happily – happy, specifically because I might be able to resolve the salad-demand; with a salad like this, odds were people would take less, and it would thus last longer. The plus side too was that, if they complained – as they most certainly would – I could easily claim it was a gourmet mix that was healthy to boot, so they better damned like it. The problem, as always, was quantity: “Do you think we can do a hundred pounds this time?”
“A hundred? Are you crazy? Do you people eat anything else except salad?”
“You'd never believe me if I told you, Sylvie. I'll take whatever my tontons can bring back.”
“We might be able to squeeze seventy, maybe seventy-five. But that will be pushing it.”
“No more? What about next week though? We'll still need... Oooooofff!”
My haggling was interrupted by a hairy cannonball hurtling into my waist, nearly knocking me over. The furball – more properly known as Carla, Sylvie's daughter – was now tightly clutching my jacket with one hand, as the other riffled through my pockets, yelping excitedly in a high-pitched bark, “Timtimtimtimtim! You're back! What did you bring for me? Did you bring some more bangles? Did you?”
Aw, crap. That's what I'd forgotten. I'd promised to bring her some “bangles” – actually spent sub-artillery cartridges whose shiny metal casings and plasma-discharge patterns made for fun hair attachments – a small collection of which were already woven into Carla's hair. Not your average children's toy, granted, but the cartridges would have accumulated in large piles as a result of our weekly weapons training. I'd even left them in a bag next to my bed, but I must have just stepped over them in my morning daze.
Struggling to disengage from Carla's grasp (even the Wompa's young were easily three times stronger than the average human), I plunged my hands into my pockets trying to find a replacement for her “bangles”... Ah. My hand settled on something cool and rounded in my pocket. It would have to do. Hiding it in my clasped hand, I said to Carla, “Sorry, kiddo. The bangles will have to come next time. I did you bring you these though.”
“Ooooooo... What is it?” Carla said, politely hiding her disappointment, as she picked up the string of shiny beads from my hand and sniffed at it. “It's pretty, I guess.”
“It's a kind of bracelet that people wear back at the base. Why don't you have it?” I replied, taking her arm and did my best to fasten the string of beads around her wrist; considering how fast she grew, the thing would have to come off soon. Thankfully, I'd put in my Powaah-rosary in my pocket this morning. I'd bought the thing some time ago, wanting to support the crafty people at the base, but I never had much use for it. “I promise I'll bring the bangles next time, ok?”
“Ooookay,” Carla mumbled, distracted by her new bracelet. I made a mental note to put the bangles somewhere I wouldn't forget it next time.
“Hrmmmfff,” Sylvie grunted ambivalently, patting her daughter's head. Looking over to me, she said casually, “Check-in with me next time about stuff like this, ok Tim?”
“Oh, right, of course. Uh. Sorry.” A brief chill clenched my stomach, realizing I must have just avoided an unpleasant faux-pas. Like most other Wompas, she wasn't crazy about us Powaah Witnesses and the Rebels in general, as we brought potentially bad attention to their otherwise quiet planet, but she tolerated us so long as we kept to ourselves and did good business.
“It's alright. I know you're harmless,” Sylvie sighed. “Just clueless like the rest of you so-called Rebels. Have you eaten yet? Let's finish this over lunch.”
And so, with a razor-clawed sentient beastling hanging on my arm, we went inside to partake in some food. It was a simple but satisfying meal of biscuits and a hot, thick, filling soup – which I secretly looked forward to every time I visited the Wompas. I suppose, if I were to be really honest, I was most looking forward to their hard-boiled, o-so-delicious icescrabbler eggs. Ah, animal protein! There was only so much I could take of the powdered “guiltless” veggie protein; though I often wondered how guiltless it was, seeing as it took to incredible amounts of industrial power to squeeze it out of who-knows-what with high-speed chemical-presser machines. At least, I knew the eggs plunked out reliably out of an icescrabbler's ass.
Early on in the meal, we'd settled on a good eighty pounds of salad, and more for next week once Sylvie and Charlie talked to their neighbors about getting some of their crop. Business happily aside, we let the rest of lunch and a good few hours of the afternoon coast by with many laughs and lighthearted chatter, as I bounced a small Wompa on my knee with some difficulty (though my ineptitude as a human weakling seemed to be a part of Carla's amusement). There was an uncomplicated, yet calm straightforwardness to being around them that I envied, which, granted, I was more than likely projecting onto them, but which I took a great deal of pleasure in, as they were precious moments without my familiar insecurities and fears.
All too soon though, I realized I had to leave, lest I get back after the base's nightly lockdown. Walking out of the cavern with Sylvie, Charlie and Carla, I packed my salad into my bins and saddled up my rested and refreshed tontons. With one last muffled hug to Carla, I rode out into the cold to return to the base to make it in time for the dinner rush.