Year 6, Day 289Mos Eisley, Tatooine / Tatoo / Orus Sector

Sunlight. This blasted sunlight is cutting me to ribbons. And you'd think one sun would be enough, but no, this dustball planet just has to have two. I'm almost certain I'm getting the sunburn of my life. That'll look great, on top of the cuts on my face. It aches so much, I can't even put on my makeup, like a decent man.

Nine days so far, five since my pater's men moved on. It was here or Naboo, and the old man insisted Tatooine saw more interesting employment opportunities. If I'd known I was also in for a cantina full of spiced-up Gungans, I would have been on that old Action III, headed for some cozy palace in Theed. At least the Gungans stay in their swamps on the homeworld. The wretched amphibians shouldn't even be able to survive on this planet, let alone have the strength to start swinging broken bottles at people.

I swat at a sandfly that's been hovering all morning, and accidentally brush my right cheek with my fingertips. Pain explodes from the bruised bone, the laceration on top of it, and the sunburn on top of that. I should have just let the thing bite me.

Oh, Salliche. How I miss my wet, boring, hospitable world. All in all, Tatooine has very little to recommend it. Unpleasant climate, unpleasant animals, and a swarming host of unpleasant people. It's a marvel to me that anyone tries to eke out a living here, where the farmers have to harvest water itself. On Salliche water is abundant, we grow crops, and when you're this hot, you're not this bored.

There isn't even much to buy here, aside from sandblasted scrap and black market stuff I don't dare touch. Not that stockpiling would do me any good; my cargo hold is exactly as big as the spare pocket in my robe. I have to keep telling myself that will change soon, once the ship from the Corporate Alliance arrives.

After a tip from a trader whose company was dissolving, I submitted an application to the big, intragalactic company, not expecting a response. Three days ago they remotely hired me on as a junior associate. As soon as one of their ships passed through this hyperspace lane, someone would pick me up. It will be several more days, at least. I try not to think about it. Maybe it will be long enough that my face will heal, and I can make a presentable first impression.

"The future," I think, "in the very near future, I'll be a transport pilot. Maybe even a trader, with my own ship! That'll show the old man, when I pass by that rickety bucket he's flying and land a deal days ahead of him. 'Interesting employment opportunities,' indeed. Pha! I just know Mos Eisley was a practical joke..."

A pair of Toydarians eyeball me muttering to myself. They probably think I'm heat-mad, an easy mark. Time to find some kind of shade... and if anybody looks spicy, I'm swinging the bottle first this time!