Star Wars - Kenobi

Lars, you say?”
    “Cliegg Lars. Everyone heard about it.” Orrin pointed to the east. “Moisture farmer over on the other side of Jawa Heights. If you’re new, you wouldn’t know. The Tuskens—same band that got Dannar, I’ve always thought—kidnapped Cliegg’s wife.”
    Ben started to say something, but stopped.
    Orrin continued. “Anyway, folks over there mounted a rescue mission—a bunch of farmers that didn’t know one end of a rifle from another. They didn’t have experience chasing Tuskens. They didn’t have the equipment. They didn’t have vehicles conditioned for more than a trip to check the vaporators.”
    “It … went badly?”
    “Son, that’s the understatement of the year. Thirty went out. Four came back.” Orrin remembered that horrible day, and the days that had followed. Several victims had been longtime acquaintances. A lot of moisture-farming wisdom had died at once. “Twenty-six, gone,” he said.
    Orrin went silent to let the man take it in. Ben was troubled by the story, he could tell. It helped to paint a picture for people, sometimes—and the Lars experience was as close to a worst-case scenario as it got. Orrin had never met Cliegg—he’d heard the poor soul was dead now. But his tale of torment almost always had an impact.
    Ben looked up from the ground. “And what happened next?”
    “Funerals, mostly.” Orrin didn’t add that he’d picked up a few tracts of land from the estates; someone had to work them. He leaned on the hood of the floating landspeeder. “Funerals and recriminations. You see, those people didn’t have what we’ve got in the oasis. The Call.”
    Orrin quickly explained the Settlers’ Call system. Ben listened intently, noting that he’d heard the alarm echoing over the desert once before. Orrin grinned, pausing to take credit for the krayt dragon idea. “Nothing sends a chill through their bandages like a krayt yowl.”
    He continued the sales pitch, well practiced by now. “If the Lars raid had happened here, things would have gone a lot differently. A posse is a business. It’s people coming together for a goal. You’ve got to invest, and prepare. And when the Call comes,” he said, pointing to one of the vaporator towers, “you know you’ve got a chance.”
    Ben noticed the siren mounted atop the machine. He seemed impressed. “So it’s a militia, then?”
    “Nothin’ like that. Oh, sure, there’s a militia out of Mos Eisley—three or four full-timers, all afraid of their shadows. They never range this far out. Anyone with a mind for that kind of fighting would’ve headed offworld and made better money at it. This thing, it’s just the people. They’re not in it for the money. They just want to help.”
    Ben nodded.
    Orrin coasted into his wrap-up. “We respond. We rescue. And if we can’t make a defense in time, it’s our policy that every attack on a household rates a counterstrike. It’s what the Tuskens understand, and it works.”
    Ben looked to the east. “How far out do you cover?”
    “As far as our subscribers live,” Orrin said. He walked to the side of the vehicle. “I’ve got a map here.”
    Ben walked toward the vehicle. “As far as where—what did you call them, the Lars family lived?”
    “No, but anything’s possible if we get enough people on board,” Orrin replied as they both climbed into the speeder. “But I thought you and your eopie were headed southwest.”
    Ben shook his head and studied the map. “Just curious.”
    The eopie was sleeping beneath the canvas when Orrin returned with Ben. Orrin was sure he’d gotten Ben’s interest in the Settlers’ Call, but he hadn’t coaxed much information out of him.
    Ben had a place against the northern outcrops of the western Jundland Wastes, and he’d come from somewhere else, probably the Republic. The Republic had never really paid much attention to Tatooine, and locals here usually responded in kind. Orrin had heard something about a big change that had recently taken place in the Republic, but Ben seemed to know less about it than he did. Ben had asked him for news, in fact.
    But while Orrin still didn’t know what Ben did for money, he was confident that he had some. Otherwise, Annileen wouldn’t have sold him all the goods the eopie was carrying. Her gratitude seldom went that far.
    “So,” Orrin said, watching the man repack the beast. “You want to sign up with the Fund? You don’t have to fight with the posses—your