05-08-2018, 06:07 PM
Early the next morning, Dexter found Baxla in the cantina, a whimsical name for the cafeteria where gray, nondescript piles of greasy food were served three times a day at predetermined hours by one of the two silent custodians. Exhaustion hovered around Dexter, who had tossed and turned fitfully for the remainder of the pre-dawn hours, like a cloud, but on this morning the young Prime couldn’t afford to lose his edge. Anticipation sharpened his senses as a whetstone did a dull blade.
As Dexter expected, Baxla seemed to suffer from the same impediment. The pilot regarded Dexter wearily from his stool, dark circles ringing his eyes and his straw-colored hair sticking out at odd angles. He nursed a steaming cup of coffee, hunched over the bar with fatigue. They were alone, the cantina empty at this early hour, silent save for the clang of pots and pans from the kitchen, doubtlessly one of the custodians preparing breakfast.
Dexter eased himself into the chair beside Baxla with an uneasy smile. “Morning.”
Without responding, Baxla fished a metal flask from the pocket of his jumpsuit and untwisted the cap. He tipped a generous amount of amber liquid into his coffee, then took a sip and sighed audibly.
Dexter tipped an inquisitive eyebrow.
“If the coffee’s gonna taste like shit it might as well have booze in it,” the pilot said, almost apologetically. He flashed a look at Dexter as if seeking the Prime’s approval.
“To each his own,” Dexter allowed.
“Want some?” Baxla extended the flask.
Dexter shook his head. He had never had so much as a sip of alcohol. The consequences of addiction had hung like a pall over most of the Prime’s childhood, scaring him off of the stuff at a young age.
Tense sIlence descended over the pair. Dexter struggled to think of something innocuous to say--something to keep from giving away his secret knowledge of what was coming. Small talk had never been Dexter’s strong suit.
Fortunately, Baxla spoke first. The pilot shifted uneasily on his stool to face Dexter. “Eh, listen, Dexter. There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”
“What is it?” Dexter tried his best to look innocent.
“Well, it’s been a couple weeks now,” Baxla said, frowning, “and, don’t get me wrong, we’re more than happy to have you. But, uh, the thing is… is, things are really heating up right now with the Empire, and we’re hoping you’re ready to start contributing.” He drank deeply from the mug clutched in his white-knuckled hands and sighed, relieved as much by the liquor as by the weight that must certainly have been lifted from his shoulders after he got the words out. Indeed, the pilot seemed instantly to uncoil, the tension dissipating.
For all his preparation, Dexter wasn’t sure how to respond. Would a quick yes seem too eager, almost as if he knew the question was coming? Would it tip Baxla off to the Prime’s blossoming psionic abilities? Baxla’s tactic seemed to be guilting him into agreeing, drawing on the two weeks of free accommodations Dexter had enjoyed. Dexter had absorbed a great deal of abstract information from the stack of dusty, historical tomes, but they had done little to aid the social intuition the Prime had always lacked. In some ways, Dexter mused, he had more in common with the HARPY than he did its pilot.
“I might not be of much use,” Dexter said, praying the long pause preceding his answer had given nothing away. “Two weeks isn’t long where the strength of a Prime is concerned.”
Baxla nodded solemnly. “True enough, but Gizmo is pretty insistent. Don’t worry though, we don’t need you to fight or anything like that. Just a little reconnaissance, is all. Matter of fact, your lack of strength and the fact no one knows who you are might be your best qualities for this mission.”
“Reconnaissance,” Dexter echoed, feigning ignorance. “You mean like a stake out or something?”
“Pretty much.” Baxla brightened. “All we need you to do is--” The pilot stopped talking abruptly at the sound of approaching footsteps. Two of the HARPY pilots, both younger than Baxla, slouched into the cantina and headed straight for the coffee pot, giving no indication they had even seen the pair sitting at the bar.
Nevertheless, Baxla stood, draining his mug, and said, “Why don’t you come with me?”
Perplexed, Dexter followed him out of the cantina. Their footsteps echoed loudly in the early morning stillness as they made for the hangar, where row after row of the deadly HARPYs hung from ceiling hooks, awaiting repairs or commissioning for one mission or another. The pilots, who to a man were misfits, exiles, and criminals from all walks of Coruscant life, used the winged robots for all their business above ground, avoiding the dangerous presence of Judge Dredd and the rest of the Empire’s ‘security forces.’ As far as Dexter knew, none of them even knew the way out of Gizmo Labs. Maybe they were unwitting prisoners just like him.
They entered the hangar and Baxla shut the door behind them with a gentle click. At this hour, the pilot stations, which reminded Dexter of old arcade games where you sat behind a drawn curtain and drove a racecar or gunned down generic bad guys, were all empty.
As soon as he confirmed they were alone, Baxla wheeled around and fixed Dexter with a panicked stare. “We don’t have much time. I’m lying to you,” he said plainly. “It’s bullshit, all of it.”
“What do you mean?” Dexter asked, genuinely confused.
“Gizmo’s ‘resistance,’ my happening to run into you at the fountain in the Nexus, the reconnaissance mission. It’s bullshit. All of it.” Baxla’s breath came in sharp gasps. His breath, Dexter now noticed, reeked of alcohol. Clearly the drink he gulped down in the cantina hadn’t been his first.
To Dexter, of course, most of Baxla’s confession wasn’t new information to Dexter. Thankfully the Prime still managed to look astonished, if not by the revelation itself than by Baxla’s haggard appearance and slurred admission of guilt. Something the pilot said piqued his curiosity, though.
“The resistance?” Dexter asked.
“Bullshit,” Baxla slurred again. “All he did was round up a bunch of criminals, turn them into HARPY pilots, and put them to work serving his own ends. He says he sees some bigger picture, that he’s trying to bring down the Empire, but that bald little fuck has bigger plans. Big enough to throw you to the wolves I guess, but I won’t let him. Your life isn’t worth the damn schematics.”
“My life?” Dexter echoed, latching onto the last sentence of Baxla’s semi-coherent rant. “You know Primes can’t die, right?”
Baxla surprised him with harsh laughter, baring his teeth in a humorless grin. “Trust me, Dexter. When the Empire gets their hands on you, there are fates far worse than death.”
“What are the schematics for?” Dexter asked, his composure faltering as fear flooded through him. “How can you be sure Gizmo isn’t trying to use them to hurt the Empire?” Of course, Dexter already knew Gizmo to be a lying psychopath. The Prime was just fishing for information, curious what else he could learn from Baxla in the pilot’s inebriated state.
“Well,” Baxla said, “they do belong to the Empire. There’s just no one good skilled enough to use them. The difference is, the Empire keeps them locked up in the Archives, whereas Gizmo… well, you’ve seen what that weasely little genius can do.” The pilot swept a hand out wide, indicating the rows of vicious HARPY robots.
“So what do we do?” Dexter asked.
“You get the fuck out of here. That’s what you do,” Baxla said. He spun on his heel and crossed the room, stopping in front of a tall shelf overflowing with tools and spare HARPY parts. The room’s dull fluorescent light cast his warped, distorted shadow across the room as he began to drag it out from the wall, huffing and groaning with the exertion. It took several long moments for the shelf to budge. It scraped and squealed across the linoleum floor, revealing what appeared to be a crawl space.
“Get in here,” Baxla wheezed. “In about fifty yards you’ll hit the sewer. You’ll have to find your way to the surface from there.”
Dexter didn’t budge. “No.”
“No?” Baxla repeated, his expression caught somewhere between fear and anger. “What do you mean, no? I just told you: it’s a set up. Gizmo is the villain in this story, Dexter. It won’t end well for you.”
“But we have the advantage,” Dexter said, a sly smile creeping onto his angular face. “He doesn’t know we know.”
Baxla paused, gulping air.
“Look, you say Gizmo is evil, right? A villain? Well, it sounds like we can kill two birds with one stone here. Keep the schematics out of Gizmo’s hands, but still take them away from the Empire. I say, instead of sending me away, you should go to Gizmo and tell him I’m on board. And when the time is right we’ll take the schematics for ourselves.”
“You don’t get it,” Baxla protested. “Gizmo doesn’t even want you to steal the schematics. You’re just a distraction while he sneaks in the back and gets them himself. And when he does, he’ll vanish. This whole operation was just a pretense for him to get his hands on them.”
“I think you underestimate the element of surprise,” Dexter said plainly.
“Whatever happened to two weeks isn’t long where the strength of a Prime is concerned?”
Dexter couldn’t dispute Baxla’s logic, but he could see the HARPY pilot’s resolve softening through a combination of his approaching sobriety and Dexter’s interminable logic. How tired Baxla seemed to Dexter in that moment, torn for weeks between wanting to protect Dexter, to do what was right, and obeying Gizmo, his pint-sized master. Not for the first time, Dexter wondered at the relationship between Gizmo and Baxla, two contrasting personalities he once thought thrust together by necessity, by survival, by Palpatine’s heinous empire. The pilot’s comments gave him pause, though, and suggested something sinister might be at play. While Dexter couldn’t properly read minds yet, his psionic powers were growing, and the fledgling Prime expected he would soon have his answer one way or another.
“All right,” Baxla sighed. “Fuck it. Let’s do it.”
Dexter offered a thin smile. “Go back to Gizmo,” he said softly, “and tell him I accept his little… reconnaissance mission. Then get some sleep. We’ll figure out the rest tonight.
Baxla nodded, but his eyes betrayed his fear.
By the time the two pilots from the cantina burst noisily into the hangar, revitalized after their morning coffee and embedded in some passionate political argument, the newly forged allies were long gone.
As Dexter expected, Baxla seemed to suffer from the same impediment. The pilot regarded Dexter wearily from his stool, dark circles ringing his eyes and his straw-colored hair sticking out at odd angles. He nursed a steaming cup of coffee, hunched over the bar with fatigue. They were alone, the cantina empty at this early hour, silent save for the clang of pots and pans from the kitchen, doubtlessly one of the custodians preparing breakfast.
Dexter eased himself into the chair beside Baxla with an uneasy smile. “Morning.”
Without responding, Baxla fished a metal flask from the pocket of his jumpsuit and untwisted the cap. He tipped a generous amount of amber liquid into his coffee, then took a sip and sighed audibly.
Dexter tipped an inquisitive eyebrow.
“If the coffee’s gonna taste like shit it might as well have booze in it,” the pilot said, almost apologetically. He flashed a look at Dexter as if seeking the Prime’s approval.
“To each his own,” Dexter allowed.
“Want some?” Baxla extended the flask.
Dexter shook his head. He had never had so much as a sip of alcohol. The consequences of addiction had hung like a pall over most of the Prime’s childhood, scaring him off of the stuff at a young age.
Tense sIlence descended over the pair. Dexter struggled to think of something innocuous to say--something to keep from giving away his secret knowledge of what was coming. Small talk had never been Dexter’s strong suit.
Fortunately, Baxla spoke first. The pilot shifted uneasily on his stool to face Dexter. “Eh, listen, Dexter. There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”
“What is it?” Dexter tried his best to look innocent.
“Well, it’s been a couple weeks now,” Baxla said, frowning, “and, don’t get me wrong, we’re more than happy to have you. But, uh, the thing is… is, things are really heating up right now with the Empire, and we’re hoping you’re ready to start contributing.” He drank deeply from the mug clutched in his white-knuckled hands and sighed, relieved as much by the liquor as by the weight that must certainly have been lifted from his shoulders after he got the words out. Indeed, the pilot seemed instantly to uncoil, the tension dissipating.
For all his preparation, Dexter wasn’t sure how to respond. Would a quick yes seem too eager, almost as if he knew the question was coming? Would it tip Baxla off to the Prime’s blossoming psionic abilities? Baxla’s tactic seemed to be guilting him into agreeing, drawing on the two weeks of free accommodations Dexter had enjoyed. Dexter had absorbed a great deal of abstract information from the stack of dusty, historical tomes, but they had done little to aid the social intuition the Prime had always lacked. In some ways, Dexter mused, he had more in common with the HARPY than he did its pilot.
“I might not be of much use,” Dexter said, praying the long pause preceding his answer had given nothing away. “Two weeks isn’t long where the strength of a Prime is concerned.”
Baxla nodded solemnly. “True enough, but Gizmo is pretty insistent. Don’t worry though, we don’t need you to fight or anything like that. Just a little reconnaissance, is all. Matter of fact, your lack of strength and the fact no one knows who you are might be your best qualities for this mission.”
“Reconnaissance,” Dexter echoed, feigning ignorance. “You mean like a stake out or something?”
“Pretty much.” Baxla brightened. “All we need you to do is--” The pilot stopped talking abruptly at the sound of approaching footsteps. Two of the HARPY pilots, both younger than Baxla, slouched into the cantina and headed straight for the coffee pot, giving no indication they had even seen the pair sitting at the bar.
Nevertheless, Baxla stood, draining his mug, and said, “Why don’t you come with me?”
Perplexed, Dexter followed him out of the cantina. Their footsteps echoed loudly in the early morning stillness as they made for the hangar, where row after row of the deadly HARPYs hung from ceiling hooks, awaiting repairs or commissioning for one mission or another. The pilots, who to a man were misfits, exiles, and criminals from all walks of Coruscant life, used the winged robots for all their business above ground, avoiding the dangerous presence of Judge Dredd and the rest of the Empire’s ‘security forces.’ As far as Dexter knew, none of them even knew the way out of Gizmo Labs. Maybe they were unwitting prisoners just like him.
They entered the hangar and Baxla shut the door behind them with a gentle click. At this hour, the pilot stations, which reminded Dexter of old arcade games where you sat behind a drawn curtain and drove a racecar or gunned down generic bad guys, were all empty.
As soon as he confirmed they were alone, Baxla wheeled around and fixed Dexter with a panicked stare. “We don’t have much time. I’m lying to you,” he said plainly. “It’s bullshit, all of it.”
“What do you mean?” Dexter asked, genuinely confused.
“Gizmo’s ‘resistance,’ my happening to run into you at the fountain in the Nexus, the reconnaissance mission. It’s bullshit. All of it.” Baxla’s breath came in sharp gasps. His breath, Dexter now noticed, reeked of alcohol. Clearly the drink he gulped down in the cantina hadn’t been his first.
To Dexter, of course, most of Baxla’s confession wasn’t new information to Dexter. Thankfully the Prime still managed to look astonished, if not by the revelation itself than by Baxla’s haggard appearance and slurred admission of guilt. Something the pilot said piqued his curiosity, though.
“The resistance?” Dexter asked.
“Bullshit,” Baxla slurred again. “All he did was round up a bunch of criminals, turn them into HARPY pilots, and put them to work serving his own ends. He says he sees some bigger picture, that he’s trying to bring down the Empire, but that bald little fuck has bigger plans. Big enough to throw you to the wolves I guess, but I won’t let him. Your life isn’t worth the damn schematics.”
“My life?” Dexter echoed, latching onto the last sentence of Baxla’s semi-coherent rant. “You know Primes can’t die, right?”
Baxla surprised him with harsh laughter, baring his teeth in a humorless grin. “Trust me, Dexter. When the Empire gets their hands on you, there are fates far worse than death.”
“What are the schematics for?” Dexter asked, his composure faltering as fear flooded through him. “How can you be sure Gizmo isn’t trying to use them to hurt the Empire?” Of course, Dexter already knew Gizmo to be a lying psychopath. The Prime was just fishing for information, curious what else he could learn from Baxla in the pilot’s inebriated state.
“Well,” Baxla said, “they do belong to the Empire. There’s just no one good skilled enough to use them. The difference is, the Empire keeps them locked up in the Archives, whereas Gizmo… well, you’ve seen what that weasely little genius can do.” The pilot swept a hand out wide, indicating the rows of vicious HARPY robots.
“So what do we do?” Dexter asked.
“You get the fuck out of here. That’s what you do,” Baxla said. He spun on his heel and crossed the room, stopping in front of a tall shelf overflowing with tools and spare HARPY parts. The room’s dull fluorescent light cast his warped, distorted shadow across the room as he began to drag it out from the wall, huffing and groaning with the exertion. It took several long moments for the shelf to budge. It scraped and squealed across the linoleum floor, revealing what appeared to be a crawl space.
“Get in here,” Baxla wheezed. “In about fifty yards you’ll hit the sewer. You’ll have to find your way to the surface from there.”
Dexter didn’t budge. “No.”
“No?” Baxla repeated, his expression caught somewhere between fear and anger. “What do you mean, no? I just told you: it’s a set up. Gizmo is the villain in this story, Dexter. It won’t end well for you.”
“But we have the advantage,” Dexter said, a sly smile creeping onto his angular face. “He doesn’t know we know.”
Baxla paused, gulping air.
“Look, you say Gizmo is evil, right? A villain? Well, it sounds like we can kill two birds with one stone here. Keep the schematics out of Gizmo’s hands, but still take them away from the Empire. I say, instead of sending me away, you should go to Gizmo and tell him I’m on board. And when the time is right we’ll take the schematics for ourselves.”
“You don’t get it,” Baxla protested. “Gizmo doesn’t even want you to steal the schematics. You’re just a distraction while he sneaks in the back and gets them himself. And when he does, he’ll vanish. This whole operation was just a pretense for him to get his hands on them.”
“I think you underestimate the element of surprise,” Dexter said plainly.
“Whatever happened to two weeks isn’t long where the strength of a Prime is concerned?”
Dexter couldn’t dispute Baxla’s logic, but he could see the HARPY pilot’s resolve softening through a combination of his approaching sobriety and Dexter’s interminable logic. How tired Baxla seemed to Dexter in that moment, torn for weeks between wanting to protect Dexter, to do what was right, and obeying Gizmo, his pint-sized master. Not for the first time, Dexter wondered at the relationship between Gizmo and Baxla, two contrasting personalities he once thought thrust together by necessity, by survival, by Palpatine’s heinous empire. The pilot’s comments gave him pause, though, and suggested something sinister might be at play. While Dexter couldn’t properly read minds yet, his psionic powers were growing, and the fledgling Prime expected he would soon have his answer one way or another.
“All right,” Baxla sighed. “Fuck it. Let’s do it.”
Dexter offered a thin smile. “Go back to Gizmo,” he said softly, “and tell him I accept his little… reconnaissance mission. Then get some sleep. We’ll figure out the rest tonight.
Baxla nodded, but his eyes betrayed his fear.
By the time the two pilots from the cantina burst noisily into the hangar, revitalized after their morning coffee and embedded in some passionate political argument, the newly forged allies were long gone.