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Still on Tattooine. The repair guy had said his ship would take four days to fix… Two weeks ago. From what he could get out of the old Ithorian, the blaster impacts had sent a back-charge through the electrical system and fried the power converters. It would take longer to fix than he’d thought...

A brown-furred Selonian with a green blast vest and a grey jacket sat at the bar of a dingy old cantina, draining another pint of pale local beer that carried with it the odd aftertaste that synthesized booze often had. It did the trick well enough. How many had it been now? Four? That sounded...