by James Luceno
“We need to make one stop first,” Qui-Gon interrupted. “At Karfeddion.”
Tiin stared at him, awaiting an explanation.
“Cohl is executing another plan.” Qui-Gon indicated Cindar. “This one is going to help us pick up Cohl’s trail.”
Tiin and Yaddle traded brief glances. “Cohl is no longer working for the Front,” Tiin said. “We all heard as much.”
“The plan has been a closely guarded secret. Someone named Havac is behind it. We must go to Karfeddion.”
“Impossible, Qui-Gon,” Yaddle said, shaking her head back and forth. “Leave the Senex, we must.”
Qui-Gon squared his shoulders. “Then my Padawan and I will go.”
Obi-Wan’s jaw dropped slightly.
“Not in any of our ships, Qui-Gon,” Tiin said in challenge.
Qui-Gon glanced around. “Then we’ll use the Hawk-Bat.”
“Making this personal, you are,” Yaddle said. “Defying a direct order from the High Council, you’ll be.”
Qui-Gon didn’t argue the point. “My duty is to the Force, Master.”
Yaddle studied him for a long moment. “To what end, Qui-Gon? To what end?”
The holobanner glowing through the t’bac smoke in the cantina read: THE TIPSY MYNOCK WELCOMES THE KAR-FEDDION SKULL CRACKERS. A smashball team, the Skull Crackers were known throughout the Senex for their blatant disregard for the rules of play and for the lives of their opponents. A boisterous dozen of the local heroes were gathered in a corner of the Tipsy Mynock, raising flagons of fermented drink to one another and whomever happened by, growing more inebriated by the minute, and fairly itching to cause trouble of a major sort.
A few booths away, Cohl and Boiny sat with a hulking human who might have been a member of the Skull Crackers—had he been a few centimeters shorter and a lot less dangerous looking.
A pleasant-looking humanoid female bred on one of the Karfeddion slave farms placed a tall shot of bright-yellow liquid in front of Cohl’s guest, who downed the notoriously strong drink in one swallow.
“Thanks, Captain,” the human said genuinely, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s not often I get a taste of the real article.”
Cohl appraised Lope, as the man called himself, from across the table that separated them. The fact that Lope could handle himself in a brawl was beyond dispute. But the Eriadu operation would not turn on brute strength, but on a combination of skill and intelligence. Of course, situations could arise in the most carefully designed scenarios when it came down to muscle. But Cohl still wasn’t convinced that Lope was suited to handle even that eventuality.
“What’s your specialty?” he asked after a moment.
Lope planted his elbows on the table. “Vibroblade, stun baton, nerve pick. But I can also handle a blaster—BlasTechs, Merr-Sonns, Czerkas …”
“But you prefer in-close work.”
Lope shrugged. “When it comes right down to it, yeah, I guess I do. Why, what’s the job, Captain?”
Cohl shook his head. “I can’t tell you that unless I decide to bring you aboard.”
Lope nodded. “I understand. But I’d sure like to hire on with you, Captain. They don’t come any better than you.”
Cohl ignored the flattery. “Where have you worked?”
“Up and down the Corellian Trade Spine, mostly. I did a stint in the Stark Conflict. I’d still be in the Core, if I didn’t have a price on my head for a bit of wet work I did on Sacorria.”
“Are you wanted anywhere else?”
“Only there, Captain.”
Cohl was mildly encouraged. Lope was typical of the outlaws that fled to the outlying systems, but he wasn’t a professional.
“You have any problem working with aliens, Lope?”
Lope glanced briefly at Boiny. “Not Rodians. Why, you’ve got others on your crew?”
“A Gotal.”
Lope stroked his stubbled jaw. “Gotal, huh? I can work with those.”
A sudden commotion erupted at the entrance to the cantina, and four large and mean-looking humans shouldered their way to the bar. Cohl thought they might be members of the Skull Crackers or some rival team, until the largest among them climbed up onto the bar and fired a blaster bolt into the ceiling.
“Lope, I know you’re in here somewhere,” he shouted while plaster dust drifted down around him and he scanned the tables and booths. “Where are you, you double-dealing slime?”
Cohl glanced from the man at the bar to Lope. “Friend of yours?”
“Not for long,” Lope said, getting to his feet and waving his arm. “Right here, Pezzle.”
Pezzle squinted in Lope’s direction, then jumped down from the bar and began to shove and barrel his way through the crowd, his cohorts following in his wake.
“You’re a no-good cheat,” he said as soon as he reached the booth. “You figured you could walk out without paying us, is that it?”
Cohl watched Lope take in everything at a glance: Pezzle’s raised weapon, the position of the other three men, how far their hands were from their blasters.
“You weren’t worth paying,” Lope said flatly. “You only took care of one of them, and you left me to clean up after you.”
Cohl and Boiny started to slide out of the booth, but Lope put his hand on Cohl’s shoulder. “Don’t leave, Captain. This won’t take a minute. Maybe you could consider it an audition.”
“All right,” Cohl told him, settling back down.
Customers in the adjacent booths weren’t as confident as Cohl. Climbing over seats and whatever else stood in their way, they began to scramble out of the line of fire.
Sweating profusely, Pezzle gulped and found his voice. “You’ll pay now,” he said, flinging spittle from his thick lips.
Cohl never saw Lope’s blaster leave its holster.
He saw the blur of Lope’s right hand, he heard several weapons discharge, and the next thing he knew, Pezzle and his trio were piled in a heap on the floor.
His smoking blaster still in hand, Lope regarded Cohl expectantly.
“You’ll do,” Cohl said, nodding his head.
Karfeddion Spaceport was a sprawl of docking bays, repair shops, and cantinas even seedier than the Tipsy Mynock. Nodding to the several members of Docking Bay 331’s maintenance crew, Cohl, Boiny, and Lope closed on the battered freighter the Nebula Front had provided.
“What happened to the Hawk-Bat, Captain?” Lope asked as he gazed uncertainly at the ship.
“Too well known for where we’re headed,” Cohl said.
Cohl introduced Lope to the pair of humans who were standing at the foot of the freighter’s boarding ramp.
“Captain,” one of them said in a scratchy voice, “some dame is waiting for you in the forward compartment.”
“Who?” Cohl said.
“She wouldn’t say.”
Cohl and Boiny traded looks. “Maybe it’s that bounty hunter you were searching for,” the Rodian suggested.
“I’ve got another idea,” Cohl said, without elaborating.
“You don’t think—”
“Who else could it be? The only thing I can’t figure is how she found me.”
“Maybe she attached a tracker to some part of you before she left,” Boiny suggested.
They left Lope and the others to get acquainted and climbed the ramp.
“Did I tell you she would miss me?” Cohl asked over his shoulder as soon as he had stepped into the forward hold.
Rella was sitting in Cohl’s chair, with her long legs crossed.
“You’re right, Cohl,” she said. “I couldn’t stay away—but not for the reasons you think.” Her outfit of tunic, trousers, capelet, and cowl was made of a silvery metallic fiber that shimmered as she moved.
“By the look of you, I’d say you’ve been dipping too deeply into your retirement fund, and you need the credits.”
She scowled at him. “Is it safe to talk in here?”
Cohl nodded to Boiny, wh
o enabled the cabin’s security system.
“I’ve been hearing rumors that you’re putting together a new crew,” Rella said when Cohl sat down.
He shrugged. “What else could I do after you walked out on me?”
She didn’t even crack a smile. “The way I hear it, you’re in the market for lookouts and second-rate exterminators—like that brute you just brought in.”
“Tough jobs call for tough personnel.”
Rella looked him in the eye. “What have you gotten yourself into, Cohl? Be straight with me—for old times’ sake.”
Cohl considered it, then said, “It’s an execution.”
She nodded knowingly. “Who’s the target?”
“Valorum—on Eriadu.”
Rella seemed to shrink in the chair, as if her worst fears had been realized. “You can’t do this, Cohl.”
He laughed shortly. “You’re welcome to watch.”
“Listen to me,” she started to say.
“What, you bought yourself some scruples to go along with the new outfit—the new you?”
“Scruples? Don’t insult me, Cohl.”
“Then what is it about Valorum?”
She shook her head. “It’s not about Valorum. It’s about you—your reputation. Without even trying, I found out that you’d been to Belsavis, Malastare, Clak’dor, and Yetoom. How hard do you think it’s going to be for anyone else to track you? And I don’t mean thugs looking to hire on with you. I’m talking about judicials or Jedi.”
“I appreciate the warning, Rella, but it won’t matter now. I’ve got everyone I need. Unless, of course, you want to sign aboard.”
She held his gaze. “I do.”
He blinked.
“No, I’m not kidding you, Cohl,” she said.
All at once Cohl grew serious and reached for her hands. “Listen, kid, I appreciate your finding me, but this operation isn’t something you want to get involved in.”
She appraised him. “I don’t get it. A minute ago you were acting like you had the galaxy by the tail.”
“Bluster, Rella, pure and simple.”
“Are you saying you wish you hadn’t taken the job on?”
“Maybe I’m just feeling my age, but, yeah, I should have stepped out of the life when I could. I mean, moisture farming can’t be all that difficult to learn, right? And there’ll still be exciting times …”
Rella smiled broadly. “Of course there’ll be exciting times, Cohl. Just drop this thing. You can walk away right now.”
He shook his head. “I gave my word. I have to at least see this through.”
Rella studied him for a moment, then forced an exhale. “All the more reason for me to tag along. If you can’t look out for yourself, then I’ll have to do it for you.”
A world of rugged landmasses and slender seas, slate-gray Eriadu had long sought to be the Coruscant of the Outer Rim. That goal had been furthered by dint of Eriadu’s choice location in the heart of the Seswenna sector, at the intersection of the Rimma Trade Route and the Hydian Way. But where Coruscant had confined most of its factories and foundries to specific areas, industry held sway over all Eriadu, fouling air, land, and sea with unrelenting outpourings of toxic by-products. Worse, while the planet was prosperous compared to its neighbors, Eriadu’s legislators remained more interested in unbridled growth than in investing in the atmosphere scrubbers, aquifer purifiers, and waste disposal systems that made Coruscant livable.
The planet’s principal city was in the southern hemisphere. A thriving seaport that had grown up around the mouth of a major river, it spread almost one hundred kilometers inland, sprawling along the shores of a finger-shaped bay to the west, and creeping up and over the once thickly forested hills that rose at its back.
From the rear of the energy-shielded, repulsorlift limousine that had swept him past crowds of demonstrators at Eriadu Spaceport, Valorum surmised that the city must have been a scenic wonder, once upon a time.
Now it was a gloomy warren of tiled domes, narrow alleyways, lofty arches and towers, and open-air marketplaces, thronged with turbaned merchants, veiled women, bearded men drawing on the spouts of bubbling water-pipes, and six-legged beasts of burden, heaped with trade goods, vying for space with rusting landspeeders and aged repulsorsleds.
Valorum couldn’t help thinking of Eriadu as a dusty and forlorn flip side of Theed, the capital city of Naboo.
The din of voices and vehicles was nearly enough to overwhelm the tinted, sound-cancellation windows of his limousine, though many of the city’s streets had been cleared for his passing. Traffic had been diverted, and security personnel and droids were stationed at nearly every intersection. Citizens were allowed to watch from the narrow sidewalks, but anyone caught peering from an upper-story window or overhead walkway risked being shot by judicial snipers stationed on the rooftops and riding in speeders above the Coruscant delegation hovercade.
Earlier, Valorum had learned that several decoy convoys had been dispatched from the spaceport, and that the route his hovercade was following through the city had been altered at the last moment, to thwart premeditated attacks.
To the protective force of judicials, Senate Guards, and security droids, he was known in code as “The Goods.” After the decision to send half the supplemental force of Jedi Knights to Asmeru, to deal with the crisis there, the security detail chiefs had demanded that Valorum submit to wearing a temporary locator implant, so that they would know where he was at all times.
It was ironic that he should find himself in the spotlight, when the whole idea behind the trade summit had been to focus attention on the Outer Rim worlds. Still, he was glad that he had had sense enough to listen to Senator Palpatine about going through with the summit as planned, despite what was occurring in the Senex sector.
An added irony was that the Valorum family had played a part in fouling Eriadu’s atmosphere, as well as in cooking it, courtesy of the enormous balls of flame that spewed periodically from the factory stacks that dominated the outskirts of the city.
The family’s contribution was a space vessel construction and shipping concern, based in orbit and in several downside facilities. In terms of output, the company wasn’t in the same league as TaggeCo and the other giant corporations, and in terms of transport it was no match for Duro Shipping, let alone the Trade Federation. But thanks in part to the Valorum name, the company had never failed to show a profit.
Valorum’s onworld relatives had offered their stately homes and mansions for use during his visit, but once again he had followed a suggestion by Senator Palpatine, that he stay at the home of the sector’s lieutenant governor, who was an acquaintance of Palpatine’s.
The lieutenant governor’s name was Wilhuff Tarkin, and his compound was said to overlook the artificially blue waters of the bay.
Tarkin was rumored to be an ambitious man, with grandiose ideas, and, in that, his manse by the sea did not disappoint.
Equal in size to those of Valorum’s wealthy cousins on Eriadu, the house was an ostentatious blend of Core Classic and Mid Rim Ornate, which declared itself with huge, domed enclosures, gilded columns, and stone floors polished to a liquid sheen. There was, however, something impersonal about the great, high-ceilinged rooms and stately colonnades. It was as if the costly furnishings and framed artwork were there merely for show, when what the owner actually preferred was the antiseptic gleam of a space-worthy freighter.
Valorum was ushered into the manse by a surround of Senate Guards. Also under escort, walked Sei Taria and a dozen members of the Coruscant delegation to the summit. Trailing them came Adi Gallia and three other Jedi, who had assented to Valorum’s request that they be as unobtrusive as possible.
Once inside, the guards allowed Valorum a bit of breathing room, but that was only because every guest and every droid servant had been scanned, well in advance of his arrival. The house itself had been gone over top to bottom by the security detail, who had turned part of the estate into their tac
tical command and control headquarters. Snipers roosted in the trees and on the parapets, and gunships patrolled the offshore waters.
Testament to the priorities of Eriadu’s leaders, Seswenna Hall, where the summit was to take place, was an even more elaborate structure. A dome of enormous dimensions, it crowned a high mount at the center of the city and rose in mosaic splendor to a height of some two hundred meters.
Valorum had expected to be feted, but he had not been prepared for so sizable a gathering. With Sei Taria at his side, he was announced to a ballroom filled with dignitaries representing worlds throughout the Mid and Outer Rims. From Sullust, Malastare, Ryloth, and Bespin they had come; few of them enamored with Valorum, but all of them eager to be heard on the matter of taxation of the free trade zones.
“Supreme Chancellor Valorum,” the man who had made it all happen said, “Eriadu is honored to receive you.”
Lieutenant Governor Tarkin was a wiry man, with intense blue eyes, sunken cheeks, and an expressionless mouth. His brow was high and bony, and his taut face seemed to reveal the size and shape of every bone beneath. Already receding at the temples, his black hair was combed straight back and meticulously cut. He stood tall and straight as a military officer and projected an air of aristocratic officiousness.
Valorum recalled hearing that Tarkin, in fact, had served in the military when Eriadu was part of what had then been known as the Outland Regions.
“Did Senator Palpatine arrive with you?” Tarkin asked.
“He had some lingering business to attend to on Coruscant,” Valorum replied. “But I’m certain that the Naboo delegation will arrive in time for the summit’s opening remarks.”
Tarkin appraised Valorum openly as they stepped down into the ballroom, the crowd parting before them.
“It’s a rare occasion when anyone involved in Republic politics leaves Coruscant,” Tarkin continued. “Something of a prison, isn’t it? Should duty ever call for me to be confined to one place, I will at least demand that I have ample space around me.” He waved his thin arms through a broad circle.
Valorum forced a smile. “The trip was short and pleasant.”
“Yes, but for you to leave the Core, and to come here … It’s nothing less than extraordinary.”