The Old Republic Series

by Sean Williams

  There was no way to know which was the right call; not without more information. Unfortunately, contacting SIS wasn’t an option. Like all the casinos in the Red Light District, Morbo’s club was equipped with top-of-the-line security equipment. Any incoming or outgoing transmissions in a three-block radius would be intercepted and analyzed—a standard precaution to prevent cheaters from communicating with a partner outside the casino who could be using a computer to calculate the odds on the games.

  Theron surveyed the crowd, searching again for some sign that SIS had another agent in place posing as a buyer. But nobody stood out from the crowd … of course. If they did, the mission would be blown.

  Gotta make the call. Sit tight, or get on your feet and get moving.

  For Theron, it wasn’t hard to reach a decision. Rers and the other patrons had shifted their focus from him to other new arrivals, making it easy for him to get up and slip outside without attracting attention.

  In front of the club, he cast a quick glance to make sure nobody was watching, then casually wandered into the side alley and made for the warehouse built onto the back. He didn’t need to see inside to picture the scene: armed guards watching over unfortunate prisoners about to be auctioned off.

  There was a single durasteel door at the back, a pair of blacked-out windows one story up. He dismissed the door; taking the obvious entrance would give the guards time to react. It was unlikely the windows were alarmed or protected by a security field—the difficulty in getting to them was defense enough. He considered scaling the wall to get to the windows, but he’d be exposed if any of the guards wandered out into the back alley. Better to come at them from above, where he was less likely to get noticed.

  Theron wandered back out to the front of the club and merged with the flow of pedestrians wandering the square. He walked halfway down the block, passed three buildings on the same side of the street, then paused at the entrance of a narrow back lane next to a three-story building; judging from the signage it was a combination pawnshop and dance hall. He checked to see if anyone was watching.

  The three hoodlums on swoop bikes he’d seen earlier streaked overhead again, coming in so low that pedestrians had to duck to avoid getting clipped. They whooped and yelled before climbing safely out of reach and accelerating into the distance. Theron took advantage of the distraction and ducked into the alley, sauntering to the back of the building. He pulled his climbing gloves from where they had been tucked in at the rear of his belt, tugged them over his hands, flexed his fingers. He tested the grip on the side of the building; a million needle-like nanofibers woven into the fabric of the gloves caught on the invisible imperfections of the seemingly smooth surface, giving him purchase.

  Moving with the simian dexterity of a Kashyyyk tach, he scampered up the side of the pawnshop’s exterior wall and onto the roof. He didn’t pause to catch his breath, taking three quick steps and leaping across the narrow alley separating the pawnshop from the two-story building beside it. He landed softly, tucking into a roll to absorb the impact. The alley before the next building over was slightly wider, and he once again ran across the roof and jumped across without any hesitation. On the rooftop of the building adjacent to Morbo’s club, he paused and contemplated the nearly ten-meter gap between them.

  You’ve made longer jumps before. And if you fall, you’ve survived worse.

  Gathering himself, he sprinted toward the edge. Half a step before he jumped the three joyriding teens whizzed down the alley in front of him on their swoops, unaware Theron was leaping across the rooftops just above them.

  Distracted, Theron stumbled, his boot slipping on the uneven surface of the roof as he planted his foot for his final leap. His body’s muscle memory reacted instinctively to the sudden loss of balance and momentum by throwing itself forward to offset its shifting center of gravity; Theron was still able to push off the ledge. Halfway across the gap, he realized he wasn’t going to make it. He threw his left arm out in a desperate attempt to snag the ledge. The fingertips of his climbing glove grazed against the surface, the nanofibers latching onto the permacrete half a meter below the roof.

  His plunge came to an abrupt and jarring halt, nearly wrenching his left shoulder from its socket, and his body twisted so hard he slammed into the building. He grunted in pain as the wind got knocked from his lungs. Supported by his single, aching limb, he dangled in the breeze and struggled to catch his breath.

  After several seconds Theron had recovered enough to reach up and slap his right palm against the building, allowing his other arm to bear some of his weight. Ignoring the protest of his left shoulder socket, he hauled himself up and over the ledge and lay on his stomach atop the roof of Morbo’s club. Rising to his feet, he tested his shoulder with a quick range of motions. The pain made him grit his teeth, but nothing seemed seriously damaged.

  At the same time, Theron listened for any sound indicating that his inelegant arrival had attracted the attention of someone inside the club. Hearing nothing but the noise of the swoop-riding teens fading away into the distance, he dropped into a crouch and scuttled along the rooftop to the edge of the rear wall. From his belt he pulled out a length of thin, flexible wire tipped with a small precision laser cutter and a miniature cam.

  Theron flicked the cam on, and the image that fed into its lens was transmitted to a heads-up display embedded in the cybernetic implant in his left eye. Using the cam’s relayed image to guide his hand, he carefully lowered the wire over the edge until it was even with the top left corner of one of the blacked-out windows. With a series of whispered commands, Theron cycled the cam through the visible, infrared, and ultraviolet spectrums, searching the various wavelengths for the faint, shimmering glow that would indicate the presence of some type of security field protecting the windows.

  He wasn’t surprised to find the windows were clean; even Morbo couldn’t afford to invest in expensive electronic security fields on every possible point of access.

  Theron twisted the base of the wire and the laser activated, melting a tiny hole in the corner of the glass and allowing him to work the cam through for a look inside the warehouse. Scattered crates and shipping containers. In the back corner four Cathar were huddled together on the floor, three males and one female. The prisoners had their hands clasped behind their backs, their heads held high even though their feline features were set in grim resignation. A pair of armed guards, both human, stood watch over them, their slouched stances and disinterested expressions revealing their boredom as they waited for Morbo to start the auction.

  Moving the laser in slow circles, Theron melted the circumference of the hole in the window until it was large enough for him to reach his hand through, but hopefully still small enough to escape attention. He retracted the wire, stored it safely in his belt, then carefully lowered himself over the edge until his feet rested on the windowsill.

  Using the climbing glove of his left hand to help maintain his balance, he peered through the hole, pinpointing the location of each guard with the automated targeting implant in his left eye. He shifted so he could slip his right hand through the hole in the glass. Though firing blind, his cybernetic augmentations kept him locked onto his targets as he whispered, “Toxicity six,” and launched the last two darts from his bracer.

  When he peeked back through the hole in the window, he saw that both guards were down and out. The captives on the ground looked around with a confused mixture of fear and hope. Knowing it was unlikely anyone in the casino at the front of the club would hear, Theron turned his head to the side and punched away the rest of the glass with the ball of his fist.

  Moving quickly, he squeezed through the window frame and dropped to the ground below, tucking-and-rolling to absorb the impact. He sprang to his feet and raised a finger to his lips. The female Cathar, the senior-ranking member of the group based on her sergeant’s stripes, nodded curtly in understanding.

  Theron rifled through the pockets of the unconscious guards, finding
a small key on the second. Moments later the Cathar were free of their restraints and on their feet. Theron moved to the exit on the far side of the warehouse floor. He made sure the door to the alley wasn’t locked, and that opening it wouldn’t trigger any alarms, as the Cathar rubbed their wrists to restore circulation.

  “Who are you?” the female Cathar asked.

  “Republic SIS,” Theron said. “We look after our own.

  “That door leads to the back alley,” he added, pointing to the exit. “Can you make it from here?”

  The Cathar nodded as she bent down and retrieved the blaster rifle from the guard at her feet. One of her companions snatched another blaster from the second guard.

  “Thank you,” she said, before she and the others sped off toward freedom.

  Once the Cathar were safely away, he searched the rest of the warehouse until he located the door that led to the private offices between the warehouse in the back of the building and the casino club out front. Theron opened the door carefully, peering through the doorway to discover that the corridor was empty. He guessed Morbo’s thugs were probably out front keeping an eye on the prospective buyers waiting for the auction.

  The corridor led off in two directions. Standing still, Theron heard the unmistakable murmur of a crowded bar coming from off to his right, so he turned and headed the opposite way. He didn’t have to go far before he found what he was looking for: a thick beaded curtain hung across an archway at the end of the hall.

  Theron stepped through and came face-to-face with the club’s owner. Morbo’s private office was a testament to the gluttony, vanity, and avarice of his species. The crime lord’s bulk was draped over a luxurious custom-made couch, and the rest of the room was cluttered with opulent gold statues, gaudy paintings, and other garish objets d’art fashioned in the crime lord’s own image. Several female Twi’lek servants scurried about the room with downcast eyes as they whisked away the remains of what appeared to be a lavish and exotic feast for a dozen people, but which Theron realized was merely the Hutt’s pre-auction meal.

  Morbo stared at him with unmistakable disdain. He clearly didn’t see Theron as a threat, though his servants had all retreated and were cowering in the far corners of the room.

  “I told Rers no visitors before the auction,” he growled in Huttese, his voice so deep Theron could feel it trembling through the floor and up into his feet. “Next auction I should put that useless Neimoidian up for sale.”

  Like all SIS agents, Theron was fluent in Huttese. But the language put a strain on human vocal cords, so he stuck with Basic for his reply.

  “I’m not here for the auction.”

  “No? Then come back later.” Morbo’s long, thick tongue darted out to lick away a spot of grease rolling down the jowls of his chin. “I have to show my merchandise in ten minutes.”

  Theron didn’t think it was prudent to mention that, because of him, the auction had been postponed indefinitely. “I’ll be quick, great and mighty Morbo. What I have to say could be very profitable for you.”

  The combination of stroking the Hutt’s ego and dropping the magic p-word grabbed Morbo’s full attention.

  “Speak. It better be worth my time.”

  “I know about the hit on the members of the Old Tion Brotherhood,” Theron said, jumping straight to the point.

  Morbo laughed, slapping his meaty hands against the rolls of fat covering his chest.

  “You’re too late. I hired someone else for that job.”

  “I’m not bidding for the contract. I want you to call it off.”

  “Impossible. The Brotherhood smuggled spice through my territory without paying my commission. You should know better.”

  “I’m not with the Brotherhood,” Theron assured him. “I represent other interests.”

  “Then why do you care?”

  “This isn’t a smart business move,” Theron continued, evading the question as his mind raced to come up with a convincing argument that wouldn’t reveal who he was or whom he worked for. “Going to war with the Brotherhood could be expensive. But call off the hit and I’ll find the credits to cover your commission.”

  “This isn’t about credits,” Morbo said, his sluglike body quaking with rage. “Since Zedania took over, the Old Tion Brotherhood has been expanding. Looking for new territory. I need to send her a message—nobody messes with Morbo!”

  “Zedania didn’t authorize this mission,” Theron explained. “The smugglers are working freelance.”

  “Then she won’t care if I eliminate them.”

  “One of them works for me,” Theron lied. “If you hurt her, I’ll care.”

  “Her,” Morbo said with a cunning smile. “You mean the Twi’lek.”

  Theron didn’t see much point in trying to deny it. He nodded.

  “You say she works for you,” Morbo continued, his tail twitching slightly. “But who are you, exactly?”

  “Someone who wants to see Zedania fail,” Theron lied. “I’ve worked hard to get my contact close to her. If you don’t call off this hit, I have to start over.”

  Morbo chuckled, the rolls of fat quivering with delight. Clearly he relished the idea of a mole inside someone else’s criminal organization. His eyes narrowed as he tried to assemble the random bits of truth and fiction from Theron’s story together into a single theory.

  “You represent a rival looking to take Zedania’s place? Another gang looking to bring the Brotherhood down? Law enforcement from the Tion Hegemony?”

  “I really can’t say.”

  “It doesn’t matter anyway,” Morbo said with a regretful sigh. “Your friends are ready to leave. They’re loading the spice onto their ship. My people are already headed to the spaceport. You’re too late.”

  Theron swore in Old High Gamorrese as he spun on his heel and darted back into the hall. As he ran toward the door leading back to the warehouse he heard angry shouts of surprise coming from the other side; someone had found the downed guards.

  He continued past the warehouse door, his legs chewing up the ground in long, quick strides as he continued down the hall and burst through the door leading into the club. The Gamorrean bouncers on either side were too surprised to try to stop him; their job was to keep people from going into the back, not stop someone coming out.

  Theron didn’t look back as he raced out the door and into the street, heading for the spaceport.

  CHAPTER 3

  AS HE BOBBED AND WEAVED his way through the crowd, Theron realized he’d never get to the spaceport in time on foot. Fortunately, the unmistakable whine of incoming swoop engines gave him an idea.

  Dashing into the middle of the square where he’d be most visible, he shook his fist and shouted up at the young gang members who had circled back around to buzz the crowd yet again.

  “Take your flying toys and get on home, you little punks!”

  As he’d expected, the three riders banked their swoops and came straight at him, drawn by his challenge.

  Theron ducked and covered his head as the first swoop buzzed past a couple of meters overhead. The second came even closer. Theron turned and ran toward the cover of the nearest building, throwing quick glances back over his shoulder as he pretended to flee in terror. The third rider took the bait and gave chase, accelerating to cut Theron off before he could get to safety. He came in much lower than the other two, trying to force Theron to prostrate himself on the ground to avoid getting struck by his swoop.

  Theron played his part by crouching low as if cowering in fear; then at the last moment he sprang up and grabbed the rider’s arm as the swoop narrowly missed him.

  Caught by surprise, the young thug was yanked from his seat. Theron held his grip for just an instant, twisting so that the rider fell hard on his backside and not on his unprotected head. The rider rolled across the square as the swoop veered and spun crazily out of control until the internal stabilizers righted it; the swoop’s built-in safety protocols detected the rider’s absence and
brought the vehicle down for a safe landing on the other side of the square.

  The crowd processed what had just happened in a stunned silence, broken by the sound of the other two swoops racing away, their riders unaware of their friend’s fate. Then everyone erupted in a spontaneous round of applause and cheers.

  Theron ignored them and ran over to check on the fallen rider. The young man had rolled over onto his back, where he lay dazed and groaning. Several patches of skin on his bare arms and hands had been scraped raw from his fall, but otherwise he appeared okay.

  “Hey, kid—next time, wear a helmet,” Theron said, giving him a pat on the cheek.

  The teen only groaned in reply, though he did manage to flash an obscene gesture. Theron took that as a sign he was all right.

  The sound of the retreating swoop engines changed pitch: the other two thugs were circling back. Theron turned and ran for the fallen rider’s swoop, leapt on, and fired up the engine.

  As he took off, he hoped the other two would stop to look after their friend instead of giving chase. Glancing back over his shoulder, however, he wasn’t surprised to see them close on his tail. Theron punched the accelerator, pushing his ride to full speed as he climbed in altitude, the buildings and streets a blur of colors as he flew past.

  In the days before joining the SIS, Theron had carved out a reputation on the minor-league swoop circuits of Manaan; he doubted the riders in pursuit were a match for his skills. But he was on an unfamiliar machine, racing through streets they knew like the back of their hands. Losing them wasn’t going to be easy.

  He didn’t worry about them taking him down with blasters; swoop bikes were notoriously unstable, and at high speeds even the most experienced riders needed both hands to maintain control. But if they were reckless enough, they could try ramming him with their own swoops to force him into a crash.

  “Navigation overlay for current location,” he whispered, and the HUD in his left eye implant responded by superimposing a map of the surrounding area over his vision. The blue dot signifying his location was moving too quickly across the map for Theron to look for shortcuts, so he plotted a course through the main thoroughfares. He doubted his pursuers would do the same.