Jerec spoke as the badly mangled body hit the deck. "Not very pretty. But death rarely is. What of the mercy that men such as yourself prattle about? I fail to see how your methods differ from mine. Give me the coordinates."
Rahn turned to Duno Dree. The young man stood, tears streaming down his cheeks, his body shaking with fear. Rahn knew the boy, knew who he could have been, and found his eyes. "Tell them, Duno - tell them for both of us."
Dree's eyes seemed to grow larger as he turned toward Jerec. The
Dark Jedi couldn't see the boy's face, but he felt the young man's determination and heard his reply. "No."
Boc the Crude accepted the role of executioner this time. Dree closed his eyes. He could hear the shuffling feet and smell the Jedi's breath. Hands blurred, the young man's neck snapped, and he collapsed.
Rahn stumbled forward as he was released. Maw was waiting. The blows came hard and fast, more than he could count, and more than he wanted to know. His knees thumped against steel, and blood splattered onto the highly polished deck. Boots appeared, turned in his direction, and paused. He stared into his own reflection and readied himself for the kick. It never arrived.
Jerec went to one knee and whispered into the other Jedi's ear. The words smelled of mint. "Give me what I ask - or I will take it."
Rahn felt the other man's power and feared that what he said was true. Perhaps Jerec could take whatever he wanted, regardless of Rahn's wishes. He preferred death and tried to provoke it. "Why wait? Strike me down!"
Jerec touched Rahn's shoulder as if to comfort him. "In time, old man when I'm done with you."
Rahn felt something soft wrap itself around his neck. He started to choke and willed himself to die. His eyes sought Yun's, and the other Jedi looked away. Rahn welcomed death's embrace and was more than halfway there when oxygen flooded his lungs.
Jerec stood. A rare smile touched his lips. "Thanks, old man. It might please you to know that Morgan Katarn journeyed here before you, suffered as you have, and took the secret to his grave. However, thanks to the fact that you instructed him to leave a record, we know what to look for."
So saying, Jerec turned away. Rahn tapped the energy that flowed around him and sent it forth.
Yun felt his lightsaber fly out of his belt and saw it flash across the intervening space. Warnings were shouted, bodies moved, but the damage was done. Rahn caught the weapon, rose to his feet, and turned it on. The air sizzled as a bar of bright-blue energy appeared over Rahn's shoulder.
Boc came at him, awkward at first, then unexpectedly graceful. He executed a series of diversionary spins, stopped, and slashed at a head that was no longer there.
Rahn ducked, made a sweep at his opponent's legs, and saw blood fly. Boc tried to advance, wondered what was wrong, and fell. Yun pulled him clear. It was later, in the sick bay, that Boc learned a tendon had been severed.
Captain Sysco frowned, drew his sidearm, and was about to fire when Jerec touched his arm. "Thank you, Captain, but no. The practice will do them good."
Sysco wondered if Boc would agree, nodded obediently, and holstered his weapon. "Practice. Yes, sir."
Sariss came next, offered a flurry of classical moves, and was blocked at every turn.
Maw bellowed a warning, charged into the fray, and vanished in a welter of blood. Medics had arrived by this time and dragged his torso clear. His legs, one lying across the other, stayed behind.
Gorc chose that moment to attack from the side. Rahn sensed his presence, turned, and knocked the lightsaber from the other Jedi's hands. Pic hissed and was about to leap the gap when Jerec intervened. A blast of energy threw Rahn backward. He fell, skidded, and attempted to rise.
Energy crackled as a lightsaber came to life. There was something birdlike about Jerec's approach. He raised the weapon and brought it down. Rahn saw an explosion of light, an old friend's face, and relished his freedom.
Jerec looked around as if actually able to see - and killed the power to his lightsaber. The air stank of ozone and blood. "Clean up the mess, set a course for Sulon, and arrange something special for dinner. The Valley is ours." Jerec's heels made a clacking sound as he left the bridge. The rest of the Jedi, those still able to walk, followed him out.
Sysco said "Yes, sir," stepped over Maw's legs, and headed for his cabin. There was a bottle of Bonadan booze stashed in the bottom drawer of his desk. This seemed like a good time to break it open. The bridge crew, their expressions neutral, watched him go. It was a scene they'd never forget.
CHAPTER THREE
The Rimmer's Rest was more than a bar - it was an institution, a place where members of every known race could find their favorite intoxicants among the establishment's collection of 1,241 bottles, decanters, tubes, vials, jars, inhalers, and bulbs. And then, with the appropriate stimulant or depressant in hand, claw, or tentacle, members could retire to one of more than a hundred booths, some of which had been engineered to accommodate specific species.
Once ensconced, the average customer would be able to find at least a few samples of his, her, or its native cuisine. That - combined with the establishment's rather lenient policies toward weapons and their use - made the Rest an ideal place to conduct business. Any kind of business, ranging from the mundane to the out-and-out illegal, all of which explained why the droid known as 8t88 paused, eyed the alien hieroglyphic over the door, and entered.
Servos whined as the droid paused to get his bearings. He attracted some attention because of both his somewhat antiquated appearance and the fact that he had arrived alone. Where was his owner?
The question was to be expected. But it assumed that all machines were necessarily subordinate to beings having "natural intelligence." An absurd but commonly held notion that 88 resented with every circuit in his body. Originally designed for bookkeeping and other administrative tasks, the first 88 eventually became outmoded and was junked.
Somehow, and the present-day 88 wasn't quite sure what had taken place, his original head and processor had disappeared and had
been replaced by a unit that appeared too small for his two-meter frame. Or was it the other way around? There was no way to be sure.
8t88 had only vague memories of his previous existence. Nonetheless, he hated the cavalier manner in which his parts had been reconfigured. With that in processor, 88 was accumulating wealth, a large of amount of wealth, which would be used to find and punish the person or persons responsible for his disfigurement. It was not the sort of thing the average droid worried about, but 88 was anything but average.
No one took issue with the droid's presence, which was hardly surprising in an establishment where the saying "mind your own business" was not a platitude but a strategy for staying alive.
8t88 turned and walked down an aisle. Tiny white lights blinked along the margins. The bar was kept dark to hide the many layers of grime and to protect customers' privacy. Red, blue, and green rings rippled the length of the evenly spaced support columns and were reflected in the ceiling tiles.
8t88 switched to infrared and watched while bodies, weapons, and plates of recently delivered food were transformed into bright green blobs. The man he was looking for, a bounty hunter known as Boba Fett, would be somewhere toward the back, watching those around him, playing out one more day in the never-ending game of eat or be eaten.
8t88 waited for a brightly attired Rybet to pass, and walked down an aisle. The droid's hip made a squeaking sound and drew attention. A multiplicity of eyes checked him against mental lists, scanned him for weapons, and calculated his current market value. Once satisfied, they returned to their own affairs.
Most of the beings around 88 were biologicals or, if possessed of machine parts, mostly biological. 8t88 pitied them. The process of dying had begun the day they'd been born, hatched, or decanted. Yes, science might delay their demise, but entropy would have its inevitable way. Except with machines, which could have themselves rebuilt and thereby live forever. The thought pleased 88 and resulte
d in what others perceived as a grimace.
The bounty hunter sat in a corner booth, his back to the wall, his jetpack on the seat beside him. A human might have resented the Tshaped visor and the fact that it obscured the bounty hunter's face, but 88 felt no such discomfort. He'd heard humans refer to eyes as "windows to the spirit" but had no idea what they were talking about. His voice was flat and synthesized. "Boba Fett?"
The human nodded. "And you are?"
"A potential client. They call me 8t88."
Fett gestured toward the opposite side of the booth. "Take a load off. Are you representing yourself or someone else?"
"Does it matter?"
The bounty hunter shrugged. "Nope. Just curious. Never worked for a machine before."
With no flesh to soften it, 88's grin took on a threatening quality. "Then get used to it - machines are the future."
"Maybe," Fett replied calmly, "and maybe not."
"A man named Kyle Katarn will enter this bar in an hour or so. He has information that I want."
Boba Fett leaned backward. Light rolled across the surface of his visor. "So? Ask him."
"He may not wish to tell me."
"And that's where I come in?"
"Exactly."
The bounty hunter remained silent for a full thirty seconds. "I don't think so."
"Why not?"
"Because I've heard of Katarn. Some say he's aligned with the Empire, while others claim he works for the Alliance."
"So? You've done work for the Empire."
"True, but the Alliance has been on a roll of late. Who knows? They might come out on top. Either way, I'll sit this one out."
"That's your final word?"
"That's it."
8t88 stood and stepped into the aisle. He was about to leave when Fett cleared his throat. "One more thing . . . "
The droid turned. A ball joint squeaked in protest. "Yes?"
"Get a lube job."
Kyle Katarn tossed his drink back, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and triggered the cube. The holo played for what? The fifth time? The man with the beard was his father - and the boy was him. A younger, more innocent him before he left for the Imperial Military Academy on Carida, before the Imperials murdered his father, before the raid on Danuta's research facility. Five years had passed since then - though it seemed like fifty - and the search went on. Who had murdered his father? He, she, or it would pay dearly for the mistake. Maybe this was the night the truth would be known.
The holo flickered. Morgan seemed transparent, but his words
were warm and strong: "I want you to remember, son, when you're at the Academy, how very proud I am of you."
Something squeaked as a droid slid into the far side of the booth. The synthesizer sounded flat and unemotional. "How touching."
The holo disappeared. Shadows hid Kyle's eyes. He removed the tiny tracker droid from his pocket, pressed the button on its back, and allowed the device to scuttle away. It sought 88's leg, activated an internal magnet, and went to work. If the larger droid felt anything, he gave no sign of it.
"Don't waste my time, 88. You called this meeting. Who killed my father?"
8t88 switched to infrared, checked to see if the bounty hunters had taken their places and saw they hadn't. Blast the idiots anyway! Boba Fett would have arrived on time. He cursed the human's intransigence. All he could do was stall. "When someone desires information, they come to me."
Kyle brought the pistol up from the darkness. Light rippled along the top surface of the barrel. "And?"
The droid spoke quickly. "Patience. He's a Dark Jedi."
The hand weapon remained as before, only centimeters from 88's scanner plate.
"Jedi?"
"Dark Jedi. He is known as Jerec. He has great plans for the rebirth of the Empire."
8t88 saw two green blobs appear in the booth beyond. Help, such, as it was, had arrived.
Kyle felt his heart beat a little bit faster. Jerec! The same Jerec who had attended the graduation ceremony at Cliffside! The same Jerec who had sought him out, pinned the medal to his chest, and spoken as if to an old acquaintance?
"Greetings, Kyle Katarn. You have accomplished a great deal for one so young. Recognition is sweet, is it not? However, remember that recognition is a gift given by those who have power to those who don't. This is but the first step .... Climb the ladder swiftly, join those who possess power, and claim what is yours. I will be waiting."
Kyle hadn't been aware of it at the time, but his father had been killed weeks before. Was Jerec aware of that? Not only aware of it but of the reason for it? Had Jerec murdered his father?
The Rebel had no more than framed the question when someone rammed a blaster into the base of his skull. Something or someone laughed, and 88 made a clicking noise. "Ouch! That looks uncomfortable. I'll take the blaster so nobody gets hurt."
Kyle released his grip on the weapon and watched the droid place it on the far side of the table. "Now, where were we? Oh yes, our friend Jerec. He has many plans, Jerec does. Unfortunately, you don't factor into any of them. But I'm not without a heart. Ooops! My mistake . . . I am without a heart! Still, I might allow you to live, if you answer my questions."
8t88 held up a disk. It was approximately six centimeters in diameter and gleamed in the light. "Look familiar? Well, it should. I found dozens of them in your father's home."
Kyle made a grab for the disk, but hands held him back. The droid didn't seem to notice. "I'm pretty good with codes, but this one eludes me. Perhaps you'd be so kind as to provide some advice. Or shall I allow my friends to indulge the darker aspects of their personalities?"
Kyle eyed the disk and wondered what was on it. "The dark side? I've been there. Do your worst."
8t88 shook his head. "Too bad. What's the saying - `Like father, like son'? Not a very pleasant thought, given the way your father ended his days. Have a nice evening."
The droid slid sideways, got to his feet, and made for the door. Someone chuckled as another body took the recently vacated seat. It was a Gran, and all three of his stalk-mounted eyes were bloodshot. His voice sounded like a gravel crusher stuck in low gear. "Remember me? It took three months for that blaster burn to heal."
"Can't say that I do," Kyle replied honestly, "but the streets are filled with trash - and it's hard to tell one piece from another."
The Gran was just starting to respond when Kyle reached over his shoulder, grabbed the second bounty hunter, a foul-smelling Rodian, and yanked. The diminutive alien arced through the air and slammed onto the table. The blaster took on a life of its own. It slid across the wellworn surface and into Kyle's hand. The Gran blinked in quick succession. "You'll never leave here alive. Nar Shaddaa will be your grave!"
Kyle grinned. "I'm not interested in leaving. Not till I conclude some business with 8t88 . . . . "
The bounty hunters watched the Rebel slide out of the booth, get to his feet, and back away. "Thanks for everything. Let's have lunch sometime."
Nobody laughed.
Jan Ors guided the Moldy Crow down through the upper reaches of the city. There were all sorts of navigational hazards - spires, gantries, platforms, and sky bridges - all of which had been constructed for the
convenience of those who owned them, without regard for the public good. It seemed as though an entire constellation of red warning lights floated around her. Not to mention the sometimes deceptive signs that might guide pilots to their destination - or into an isolated cargo bay where they would be murdered and their cargos stolen.
Not that the Crow was likely to attract much attention, especially in light of her lowly status and battered appearance. Originally commissioned as a freighter, she had filled many roles since then and had suffered in the process. She was Corellian-built, though - faster than she looked, and armed to the teeth - just right for the sort of jobs the Alliance assigned to its network of agents.
Jan frowned, bit her lower lip, and killed forward motion. The
globeshaped drone-ship rose like a bubble from the bottom of the sea. Repulsors strobed the darkness below as lights circled its vast midsection. Static crackled over the cockpit speakers as the other vessel climbed and cleared the nearby towers. Lightning stabbed a distant tower, causing the view screen to darken.
Jan checked her sensors, peered into the night, and eased the ship forward. The Rebel agent hadn't gone more than a hundred meters before a formation of three ships hurtled past. Turbulence threw the Crow sideways, and Jan fought for control. A voice blasted her ears. "This ain't no parking lot. Fly it or park it."
The ships, two TIE fighters and a TIE bomber, were gone before Jan could reply. The imperials - and there was no shortage - were as arrogant as ever. The Empire might be on the ropes somewhere, but there was no evidence of it in the vertical city. Fighting them, and what they represented, had consumed most of her life, a life that would have come to a premature end on Rebel-occupied asteroid AX-456 had anyone but Cadet Leader Kyle Katarn led the raid to recapture it.
Kyle's act of mercy and their subsequent friendship had formed the basis of a successful partnership, one in which he always found new ways to get into trouble - and she to bail him out. When she was allowed to, that is ....
The trip to Nar Shaddaa served as an excellent example. Jan had opposed the idea and believed she had talked Kyle out of it only to discover that he had gone without her. What would she find? Some crusty remains? A full-fledged firefight? Or the little boy "why worry about me?" act? There was no way to know. Kyle was good at any number of things, but teamwork wasn't one of them.
A remote-controlled landing drone appeared, ordered Jan to follow, and drew her toward the public landing platforms. Lights strobed, and she followed it in.
Kyle pulled a small comm set from his hip pocket, put the plug in his ear, and heard a clicking sound. It grew weaker when he turned right and stronger when he angled to the left. 88 and the tracker that had attached itself to his leg were on the move. There was a steady flow of foot traffic, and the Rebel shouldered his way through.
Dark Forces: Rebel Agent Page 4