She had sensed the swamp farmers long before she heard them slosh through the bog. Sensed and assessed. They were no threat to merc or beast. No threat to anyone. Most Safrifans were scrawny little creatures with skin the color of stagnant water and hair that hung like pondweed in front of large oval eyes. They were industrious, though. Ingenious, too. Ty had trudged through one of their floating beds—a long, narrow plot of thick soil raised from the marshwater by mud and decaying vegetation to stop the roots of their kru-kru crops becoming waterlogged. The farm had stretched on for kilometers, each plot framed by willow trestles and surrounded by a network of narrow canals. At first glance, you would be forgiven for thinking that nothing could be grown here, but the Safrifans had proved otherwise. Resourceful and resilient. Ty liked that. Admired it even. And now they were here, waiting patiently to speak with her. It could only mean one thing.

“Nice ship,” the warbling voice commented in broken Basic. “What it name?”

“Doesn’t have one,” Ty replied in their native tongue, not turning around from her work. The damn stabilizer was hanging on by a thread.

“You speak our language?” the farmer asked, surprised.

“Enough to get by.” She was lucky like that. It had always been the same. Ty picked up most languages quickly, a useful talent in her profession. Sometimes she let people know, at other times she kept quiet and listened. She had nothing to fear from these two, even as they dithered behind her, not knowing what to say now that their small talk had failed. She hadn’t been lying, though. Her ship, a battered YT-750 freighter, didn’t have a name, only a registry number logged in the Republic records. Several numbers actually, depending on the job or employer. She didn’t see the point of giving anything a name—ship, weapon, or even the two droids that assisted her on missions, a sarcastic admin unit and an admittedly useful astromech. Like the ship, they were tools, nothing more. Why form attachments to something that could never be attached to you? Maybe it was a throwback to her training. Maybe not. Ty just thought it was common sense.

“What do you want?” She needed this conversation over. She had places to go, parts to buy.

“We have novian. Not much. But enough.”

“Enough for what?”

Instead of answering, the farmers offered a simple statement: “It is killing our children.”

Ty stopped working, the all-kit tool dropping down from the exposed stabilizer core.

“What is?” she asked, an air of resignation in her voice.

“A monster. A bad one.”

Was there any other kind?

“How long has it been happening?”

“Three weeks. We have laid traps but it smashed them. It wrecks our plots, ruins the crops.”

“How many?”

“Crops?”

“How many children?”

“Does it matter?”

Correct answer.