It wasn't hard to see why civilization had never touched Dagobah.
Any planet occupying its point along the Rimma Trade Route should have been a vital hub of commerce, either as a stopping point for travellers or a major trade station. A world ideal in every way, were it not for its repellent nature. Those who visited it found a planet which actively choked out any effort to tame it, and overran any metal alien to its surface.
Life did not simply develop here, it grew without restraint. Creeping tendril vines and wooded roots choked the ground, all but openly fighting for space amid waist deep pools of misted water. Things grunted, screeched, and flapped close by, in a near constant squalling chorus of activity. The trees pressed in, so tight that they could have been the bars of a cage, parting only in the few small lakes where other, much hungrier, things lurked. To John Blackwood, it was difficult not to think of the unending swamplands as a gigantic parasite which had rooted itself upon Dagobah and grown fat.
Tugging his sodden coat free of a spindle branch and moving before the sucking mud about his ankles could take hold again, Blackwood gave a disgruntled sigh. He ran a scaled hand over his brow, removing the worst of the moisture which had been building up on the armoured plating of his head. How this place maintained its cloying heat when the skies were near absent of sunlight was beyond him. Not for the first time he questioned if being sent there was an ill humoured joke at his expense.
No word had been given as to why he was supposed to be there. A single garbled message, detailing a lost ship on Dagobah with possible survivors. Thanks to the abysmal Holonet transceiver on the gunship he had borrowed, all he had gained was the location, objective, and a sense of urgency from his contact in the Brotherhood.
"Fifty metres," a voice with an undercurrent of buzzing activity spoke up from behind him. Blackwood half turned as Orion moved carefully in his wake, matching the Barabel step for step now he had found solid ground again.
"I hope that's until we find the crash site," Blackwood rumbled, not pausing in his stride.
"The primary hull section at least," Orion answered in his oddly high-pitched voice. "Close to known dragonsnake hunting grounds. I suggest we move swiftly."
Blackwood gave a grunt of mild amusement. As if the droid had anything to worry about. In the eternal twilight of the swamp, the KX-series looked like an elongated black skeleton; his position marked only by a pair of cyan photoreceptors. Even if the ridge-backed predators they had glimpsed dwelling in the deeper rivers had a liking for metal, they might well flee in terror like every other thing they had encountered so far. It was for that exact reason why Blackwood had taken the lead. After a day in orbit trying to find a landing site, and then two days of trekking from the sole opening among the endless trees large enough to land their own vessel, the last thing he wanted was a firefight with any survivors. Better that they see an eight foot tall red reptile in a three-piece suit striding out of the treeline than a symbol of Imperial tyranny.
Something screamed overhead, the shriek accompanied by the beat of vast leathery wings as the pair closed in on the crash site. The shallow crater the ship’s uncontrolled descent had punched into the world was already pooling with water, and a thick knee-high mist was settling about the area. All around it were the flattened and broken remnants of trees, torn up by the crash and torched by the intense heat of the crash landing. Resting in the middle of it all, still fire-blackened from breaching the atmosphere, was the remains of the Lambda-class shuttle. The ship’s guts were spilled out across the area, intact and fragmented cargo pods alike littering the ground. Dotted among them was the discoloured and melted remains of engine components and one wing. Blackwood nudged one crate with his foot as they passed by a particularly heat-warped cargo container, curious about its contents. Almost immediately he involuntarily stepped back, grimacing as a chitinous and multi-limbed thing the size of a paving slab scuttled out from beneath it and slipped into the water.
“Emperor’s black bones! Is there nothing on this planet which won’t–”
“That explains the urgency in your ally’s message,” Orion cut off Blackwood’s frustrated expletive ridden rant before it could start.
Blackwood rounded on the droid, only to realise Orion had not even noticed him. He followed the droid’s gaze and his eyes widened. The ship’s dorsal wing was still largely intact, rising up from the mist like some neolithic monument. It had been charred like the rest of the vessel, but as he squinted he made out the ghost of a symbol there. An upturned stylised V surrounded by a circle.
“Aurora Collegium,” Orion said, the servos in his neck buzzing as he tilted his head. “Wayfinder Society, likely an archaeological expedition. Did your message mention them at all?”
“Nothing I could make out,” Blackwood admitted, trudging toward the ship and indicating for his companion to follow. “Let’s just hope there’s someone alive and willing to answer a few questions.”
The ground dipped abruptly as Blackwood stepped toward the stricken vessel. That short drop was what saved his life. The crimson scar of a blaster bolt seared through the air where his head had been a split-second before, followed by a trail of successive shots tracking his movements. Blackwood dived and then rolled, quickly finding cover behind the charred stump of a tree at the water’s edge.
Blackwood tore his bola free of its shadowsheath, flinching as a chunk of dead wood inches from his hand exploded into burning splinters. Orion rushed to join him, returning fire with several controlled blasts of his rifle. Blackwood watched as one returning bolt clipped the KX droid’s shoulder and sent him skittering across the loose soil. Without time to even express surprise, Orion toppled onto his back, sliding down and crashing into the brackish water with a titanic splash. The light of his photoreceptors were visible for a brief second before he sunk out of sight.
“Damn it all, if you’re from the ship, we’re here to help!” Blackwood bellowed over the scream of blasterfire, bolts still raining down him.
Several shots hit the ancient wood of his shelter, but most were pelting in a pattern which spoke more of enthusiasm than accuracy. He risked a look, peeking out above his cover, and managed to make out a hulking shape in the shadow of the ruined shuttle. One of the figure’s arms was raised, and a constant spray of blaster bolts were stemming from a wrist mounted cannon.
Not bothering with a further warning, Blackwood began spinning his arm, rotating the bola faster as he gauged the distance. Then, like a coiled spring, he rose up during a brief lapse in the gunfire and hurled the weapon. It raced across the short distance, the electrified cord hissing as it cut through the moisture thick air, before striking the target and wrapping around its body. There was the sound of electrical discharge and a mechanical shudder of misfiring servos. His target toppled forward and hit the ground with a thud of armoured metalwork. The tension went out of Blackwood’s body as he got a better look at the thing of twitching durasteel and circuits now tangled up. A battle droid, perhaps a sentry left by survivors or gone haywire following the crash.
“Anyone else?” Blackwood called out after silence fell over the area once more, carefully watching for nearby movement.
“You really should not have done that,” a voice answered him, thick with the confident swagger all too familiar to the Barabel.
“Probably, but it’s hard to have a conversation under constant gunfire,” Blackwood answered, his hand falling to the sidearm at his hip. “I’m hoping you’ll be a bit more talkative. The name’s Blackwood.”
“Maelemi,” the voice answered, and it took Blackwood a moment to realise it was a name. “Well, here’s your conversation – Go back the way you came, forget you saw us, and leave us be.” The voice was coming from further away, behind from where the armored opponent was felled not a moment ago.
“Afraid I can’t do that. I’ve got a request to find this ship and bring back anyone and anything which survived the craah. ” Blackwood said, opting to blur a few details for the benefit of this standoff. “Right now I’d settle just for anyone–”
“There isn’t anyone. The dragonsnakes made sure of that. I’m being very polite in giving you one more chance. Turn around and leave, before I forget my good nature.”
There was a crunch of wood snapping underfoot, and Blackwood made out an approaching figure now. Maelemi was shorter and leaner than he was, clad in armor consisting of patchwork fabrics and mismatched scavenged plating. Nothing else moved about the wrecked ship, and Blackwood was starting to suspect that this was a two-man operation. The fact Maelami hadn’t also opened fire alongside his comrade was suspicious, and Blackwood was starting to wonder if the man’s offer to walk away was a bluff to avoid further fighting. He couldn't see anything bigger than a pistol on Maelami, but he was keenly aware that patchwork armour could be hiding anything. Blackwood sighed. In for a decicred, in for a credit.
“Don’t think I will,” the Barabel said, standing tall to emphasise his heavier build. Keeping one hand near his gun, he used the other to flash the BPKC certificate on the inside of his coat. “I’m the one with the authority to be here. What do you plan to do if I refuse to back off?”
There was a long silence. Then, with barely a motion, Maelemi made a slight gesture with one hand. Blackwood’s pulse hammered in his veins as there was a familiar snap-hiss of a lightsaber, its extending blade somehow emitting an abyssal howl. Without another word Maelemi broke into a dead sprint right at him.
“Oh, kark.”
Blackwood ripped free his boltgun from its holster and opened fire.
