Ask The Valiant Rescue of Ohto Monesonso Barshe from the Monotony of Taris

[Zord Leeche Daskim]

It was a quiet day in orbit around Taris. In the void of space a few hundred ships passed hither and thither, but stellar traffic wasn't anything like that of Coruscant or another jewel of the universe. This relative tranquility was briefly ended by the arrival of a ship of ancient provenance and great age, one which could very well have seen service in the Imperial Navy of the First Galactic Empire. This was the Falconer, the ship of Zord Leeche Daskim.

Zord stood near a window on the bridge, looking out to his homeworld. Taris never seemed to have recovered; the lieutenant remembered the halcyon days when he and his fellow aristocrats would throw rocks at beggars and the poor from high walkways. That recollection brought a smile to his face, those days of naive youth! Who could have thought that things would turn so bleak? Back then, it seemed like the Daskims would retake their glory, and the family rested its hopes on Zord to be their restorer.

A man with a large mustache spoke up, bringing Zord out of his reminiscence, "All systems are fully operational, captain. The hangar crew is standing by for your orders," that was Semt Luuk, one of Zord's adjutants. Though protocol dictated that he be called lieutenant, Zord's closest officers called him captain all the same. He had the utter respect of his men; Zord thought this was because they saw in him the ultimate admiral, but it was more because he, unlike many other officers, bothered to remember their names, birthdays, and the like. He treated them better than was normal and he believed in them greatly, mainly because as he believed himself to be the best captain in the universe, so too should his crew be the best.

"Excellent," Zord said, "I will inform the crew of my immediate departure." Zord walked to the commander's chair and picked up a wired microphone from its attending console, "Attention all crewmen, this is the Lieutenant speaking: clear the hangar and prepare shuttle two for immediate departure. Foreman SumMook, report to the hangar. I repeat: Foreman SumMook, report to the hangar."

Zord hanged up the microphone and collected some transfer papers he had left on his chair. "Semt Luuk," Zord said, turning toward his adjutant, "you are acting lieutenant until I return to the ship. Keep it in top shape." Semt Luuk gave him a salute, "Aye, sir," he said. He was a good man; honorable, reliable, the best second in command Zord had in a long while. He thought the man would go far in the Empire because of what he learned under Zord's leadership.

The Lieutenant turned toward the vague direction of the Imperial capital and saluted, "For the Empire," he declared, and his words were repeated by all of the men on the bridge. That was his motto and purpose in life; to live and die for the Empire, and to be recognized by it as the greatest officer that has ever graced galactic history.

Zord thereafter set off for the hangar deck. He strove to take a rather byzantine path toward the hangar to avoid a certain SumMook; he despised the alien and was not overmuch an appreciator of it. Who knew what dark secrets lurked in that monstrous creature's ineffable mind? What dooms lurked behind its putrid, gelatinous form, unmeant for any man to see, hidden behind a mask like some sort of alien fungus from the darkest depths of a lost planet?

 

[SumMook]

The blast doors slowed open, revealing the hangar. It was long and thin. Tightly-packed imperial starfighters lined the walls opposite of each other, making just enough space in the middle for a tunnel of departure. Zord’s unconventional path to get here had afforded the deck crew a generous amount of time to prepare—it was quiet, orderly; shuttle two had already been pre-positioned for departure, and just short of its boarding ramp, stood Foreman SumMook.

He was amongst two others, though uniquely distinct in his stout frame and characteristic wear of an environment suit. All three of them were corporate contractors, distinguished by their wear of a bright yellow-orange uniform—contrasting heavily against the hangar’s unremitting sea of black and gray, casting long reflections into the deck’s obsidian flooring. SumMook must have noticed Zord’s arrival, because he shoved a datapad into one of his entourage’s hands, and promptly dismissed the pair with a sharp gesticulation of his hand.

Ever concerned with decorum and appearance, the foreman intertwined his hands and rested them just above his waistline—taking a semi-formal stance—as the lieutenant approached. A grainy speaker clicked on as he drew near: “Lieutenant Daskim,” it crackled in greeting. SumMook had forgone trying to speak basic, and so utilized a vocoder for speech. Unfortunately, the foreman was apparently remiss as to the quality of its speaker—sounding more akin to a broken droid than anything else.

 

[Zord Leeche Daskim]

Zord marched into the hangar like a model Imperial officer, hands held behind his back as he inspected the general premesis. His hangar crew was the best in the galaxy, and nothing could convince him otherwise; lesser crews, in his view, would have been unable to prepare the hangar in such a majestic fashion.

Alas, there was something that sullied this great sight. That was Foreman SumMook, an alien of some forgotten race called the 'Garbaegians', if Zord's memory for alien species was correct. As far as he was aware, they ate refuse like cans and paper, and worshiped a dark star with bloody sacrificial rites. He recalled that the wizards known as Jedi waged a war against them long ago, something regarding a religious dispute between which of the two faces of their god, the Force, should be worshiped.

"Foreman SumMook," he began, "I am pleased to see that you and your company practice such punctuality." Zord Leeche Daskim was not pleased at all, though he was able to hide it. Punctuality was something he took pride in, but when it came to aliens like this creature he much preferred them to be tardy, as it meant he had more time to not interact with them.

"We shall depart for the planet immediately." Zord was swift to head into the awaiting shuttle regardless of SumMook's garbled speech; if he were honest, he could scarcely understand what the alien was saying. No doubt, however, it would continue trying to speak to him regarding this thing and that.

 

[SumMook]

SumMook filed in behind Zord; if he had said anything, it was an inconsequential concurrence to depart. The ugor foreman settled down in one of the passenger seats, content to minimize his own interaction with the lieutenant—of their in-group, the two got along the least; while they had mutual contacts, as far as interests were concerned, both shared too large of a distaste for other species to be anything more than acquaintances. Regardless, SumMook did respect Zord’s capabilities, and appreciated the extended cordiality—even if reserved—to offer his own similar courtesy.

The shuttle’s engines roared as it lifted from the ground, landing gear folding inward. Out it flew from the hangar, passing through the void and slipping into the smog-ridden skies of Taris. Light turbulence rocked the passenger cabin, sloshing SumMook’s blob-like form within his environmental suit—subtly audible, if only because of the tense silence.

Downwards the shuttle descended, flying well above Taris’ overgrown swamp-wastes and poverty-stricken city quadrants. It winded through sparse skyscrapers, where the planet’s elite resided, and slowed to a hover as it neared its final destination: the spaceport. The pilot brought the shuttle down for a quick and gentle landing within their designated pad.

 

[Zord Leeche Daskim]

Zord spent the shuttle ride reading his antiquated datapad. He tried to ignore the sloshing of SumMook - no doubt a form of communication used by his insidious species - but it was to little avail. Times like these made Zord wish that the shuttle engines were louder so that he wouldn't have to hear these unwholesome alien noises.

The shuttle's landing was a goodly welcome to Zord. It meant that he'd soon be in contact with one of his top pupils, Ohto Monesonso Barshe, the best landspeeder pilot he'd ever known. Although he possessed many accolades in his private life, like Zord he was underappreciated by the Empire. He hoped that misfortune would soon change.

"We have arrived," Zord said. He tried to say it with an even and neutral tone of voice, but his annoyance bled through. The lieutenant was the first to leave the shuttle, heading through the spaceport toward a little known place called the Clique with SumMook undoubtedly in tow. Waiting at the entrance to the spaceport was a driver called Ermot Rek, a man Zord knew from his days as a wealthy man. Ermot was the family driver, he was called out of retirement to perform one last job for Zord.

To get to the Clique - and Ohto Monesonso Barshe as a consequence - quickly, they needed an expert in personal transport, and Ermot Rek was just the man. Reliable, loyal, and above all, he never questioned orders. He was the sort of man every officer wanted under his command. Once his entourage embarked, Zord had Ermot Rek drive to the Clique post-haste. If Palpatine was good, they'd reach the bar just in time to catch Ohto Monesonso Barshe.

 

[Ohto Monesonso Barshe]

Ohto hit a button on his datapad and checked the time. Two minutes to go. He took a glance at the remaining few drops left of his drink, some import from Halmad, before finishing the small glass and setting it aside, next to a rather large bowl that had contained soup, though Ohto had already eaten it around half an hour before and it now was bone dry. The table he was seated at was capable of fitting many more than just himself, but he was alone there nonetheless. It was only natural, however. Any regulars at the Clique knew that table was not available to just anyone. Ohto was, to his knowledge, the only one of his circle remaining on the planet, but he made a voyage to the bar in the late evening once per week anyway. A meal, a single drink, and one hour of detailing a weekly report on his squadron before heading off to to the hangar for an inventory check to complete it.

One minute to go. Ohto shrugged. He supposed there wouldn't be any harm to arriving at the hangar slightly earlier, though his planned departure time was already intended to account for distractions and other minor delays and see him arrive punctually regardless. Standing up, Ohto spared a nod to the man running the establishment to signify his leaving and made for the door. On leaving, however, he was greeted by a surprising sight indeed. Stepping out of a nearby speeder was his former instructor, the eminent Zord Leeche Daskim, carrying with him the sort dignified composure that defined his personage. Making a much less graceful exit on the opposite side of the vehicle was the hulking suit that contained Foreman SumMook.

Normally, the arrival of his friends would have pleased Ohto, but his immediate reaction was instead one of irritation. Surely they must have known he would be here to intercept him like this, but then why hadn't they have planned an earlier arrival so as not to interrupt his schedule? Barely managing to restrain the vast rage that was simmering inside him, Ohto waved to Zord and SumMook. "Lieutenant! Foreman!" he called as he walked over. "I was just leaving, but our table should still be open. Is there something important?" If there wasn't, Ohto thought, he would shoot them both promptly in the head.

 

[Zord Leeche Daskim]

Ohto Monesonso Barshe was a great man. Zord knew that beneath his flabby skin lurked thews of iron, and the man moved with a panther-like grace hitherto unseen in a TIE pilot. His unassuming visage was greatly to Ohto's advantage; lesser men dismissed him at their peril. Zord Leeche Daskim was well-aware that his former pupil was more dangerous than he looked; he gained that scar for a reason, after all, and he was no slouch with a pistol either. Zord supposed that Ohto could kill a man from over a hundred paces with a well-placed laser shot, and in sword combat he was virtually unrivaled, with the only historical precedents being Lord Vader and the like.

Zord held up a letter of transfer, signed and packaged by one Slemer Krassb. "I have obtained from the esteemed officer Slemer Krassb a letter of transfer," Zord said, "you will now serve me on the Falconer as the head of my fighter squadron. I am certain that whatever appointment you presently have can be dismissed. After all, what man here would countermand the orders of Slemer Krassb?"

Slemer Krassb, like all bureaucrats, was essentially faceless to Zord, and one of many personifications of pure evil. He only knew that he was higher ranked than he was, that he could authorize transfers, and that he was sufficiently guarded by such a backlog of bureaucracy that no man or woman alive could reach him in less than a year, unless they had the proper connections to him. This transfer request was conducted by a middle man for Zord, one 'Tremendous' Typ Hical, an old acquaintance from Zord's days as a student in the academy., as people like Slemer were too high in the command chain to take notice of Zord.

 

[SumMook]

“Old Barshe, finally free of this rock!” SumMook’s vocoder chimed out—so desperately wanting to sound cheery, but falling short because of the droning artificial voice. Out flung the foreman’s arms in a welcoming gesture, as he burst into something akin to a short belly laugh. It was a deep, resounding series of gurgles, which his vocoder audibly struggled to conceive. “LAUGHING,” it finally crackled out as his chortle subsided—just in case anyone couldn’t tell. Perhaps that had helped clarify things for Lieutenant Daskim.

“Good to see you,” SumMook finished. The sight of Ohto Barshe's grisly scarred face was a welcome sight, especially after having to endure an extended stay with the ever-rigid and condescending Lieutenant Daskim. Both were difficult personalities, but unlike Daskim, Barche's particular flavor of abrasiveness was endearing; these two had traded friendly jeers and jests that would've ended the friendship of any weaker, delicate minds.

Barshe held genuine respect in the foreman's eyes; he was a good and loyal friend with a great many talents—the most important of which, to the gluttonous SumMook, was his ability to cook. Both shared that interest in the culinary arts, and Lieutenant Barche was one of the only people in the galaxy that could say they'd earned the right to try SumMook's signature dish: free-floating bahkata-marinaded arguez sausage wrapped in tailring bacon with houjix cheese fondu—served alongside Tanaab-sourced ale and bread. The two had to rent an entire shuttle just to eat it in space, and that's not even mentioning how much it cost to get the ingredients. Good times.

 

[Ohto Monesonso Barshe]

"Hah! We'll need a drink then! Inventory be damned!"

Even Ohto himself was surprised at the lunacy that had clearly overtaken him. Hardly anything in the Galaxy could have taken him out of his foul mood, but the letter in Lieutenant Daskim's hand was one of those things. "How did you manage to get it done? I have heard of Slemer Krassb, but only to the effect that contacting him to try and make my way off this dump would be a lost cause. Ah, but then I'm a fool to doubt you, of course, Lieutenant. It would be my honor to serve under your command, and I shall make the necessary adjustments post-haste." Rarely impressed with anyone, Ohto was still frequently surprised by what the senior officer was able to accomplish when it came down to it. "Between the two of us, we'll make the Falconer the most effective corvette in the fleet... As if it isn't already, of course."

Ohto then adjusted to face the other arrival. "As to you," Ohto shot pointedly, raising a finger towards the hulking alien, "I don't know what you mean by calling me old, you overgrown tub of lard, but if you keep up the disrespect to your betters, I'll have you boiled down to a thick paste!" After that, Ohto kept a harsh glare trained on what was ostensibly the helmet of SumMook's suit for several seconds, before bursting suddenly into laughter. "I do hope you haven't given Zord too much trouble," he said, walking closer to his friend. Once closer in, and a bit away from Zord, he spoke more quietly. "He's gotten more crotchety in his old age I think, if such a thing is possible. I'm afraid dealing with too many aliens will have his heart give out." Like Zord, Ohto tended to think of Humans first in the galaxy, but he was certain beyond doubt that in the Empire's glorious future, there was a place of honor for such luminaries as his friend, SumMook.

 

[Zord Leeche Daskim]

The alien's unnerving gurgling briefly recalled in Zord some sense of primeval dread; was this alien invoking his fell god in a prelude to some blasphemous, unwholesome rite? That its suit declared 'laughter' was no less concerning, and that Ohto was friends with this beast was, likewise, something that concerned him; it was bad enough that Murith was drawn in by the slime-beast's promises, but now Ohto is this friendly with it? It seemed like yesterday that he and Ohto used to hunt fugitive aliens in exotic locales, and now he is befriending them?

Zord supposed it couldn't be helped. After all, if aliens do indeed rule the Empire, they must be put at ease before they are forced back into their proper places. That is what Emperor Palpatine did; he brought the disparate peoples of humanity together, like the Coruscanti and the Umbarans, to ensure human domination over the universe. And to do that, he had to play along with the social mores of his dark age before ushering in the golden age of the Empire.

Ohto speaking of 'getting it done' brought Zord out of his thoughts and into present reality. The lieutenant briefly smiled, "Soon we'll all be reunited again. With you as my top pilot, I'll need never again rely on some unproven transfer sent to me by the admiralty. We can talk more about my dealings with Typ Hical over some drinks," Zord was, of course, convinced that Ohto was not only proven, but was indeed the best fighter pilot since Lord Vader.

Despite the conspiratorial nature of Ohto's private conversation with SumMook, Zord was, all in all, in a good mood. With Ohto's acquisition, all Zord had to do was wait until Murith and Rax finished their assignment, something he was confident would not take long at all. Soon the old gang would be back under the Roof of Zord, and then they could achieve his destiny.