“Just so.”
Gunray noted the veiled contempt in Haako’s tone. He adjusted his own collar and took his time replying. His initial excitement at a potential solution to the problem had calmed slightly, and now he decided to show Rune Haako that one did not lightly play games of position with a commanding viceroy of the Federation. “And you … know this personage?” he inquired, his tone and expression conveying just the right amount of disdain that anyone of Haako’s station would admit to having had actual social intercourse with such a low individual.
Haako’s look of smugness wavered. His fingers plucked nervously at a bit of filigree. “As I said, in the course of my duties as attorney and diplomatic attaché for the Federation …”
“Of course.” Gunray infused the two words with equal parts pity and haughtiness. “And the Trade Federation is most grateful to you for your willingness to fraternize with such … colorful … characters, in hopes that their abilities may one day somehow be of use.” He watched Haako’s lips purse together as though the barrister had bitten into a rotten truffle, and continued. “To be sure, desperate times call for desperate measures. Though I regret having to ask this of a person of your stature, I hope you can find it within yourself to once again contact this Mahwi Lihnn, in order that we may satisfactorily resolve the Monchar situation.”
Rune Haako muttered an acquiescence and left. After the door closed, Nute Gunray nodded in satisfaction. Not bad, not bad at all. He had managed to implement a possible solution to the question of Monchar’s disappearance, and at the same time had taken that insufferable prig Haako down a peg. He listened in pleasure to a faint rumbling in his gut sac that signified the return of his appetite. Perhaps he would give his dinner another try.
“Had th’ Hutt primed for this,” Lorn said. “Was ready t’part with a great deal o’ cash for a real Jedi Holocron. Would’ve paid twice as much for one from th’ Sith.” He gazed dejectedly into the depths of his glass, swirling the remaining blue-green Johrian whiskey that had recently filled it. “Fifty thousand credits, th’ cube was worth. Now’ve lost it and the fifteen thousand. All I had.”
“It does put us in somewhat desperate straits financially,” I-Five said.
The two were sitting at the bar near the back of the Green Glowstone Tavern not far from one end of the infamous Crimson Corridor section of the city. They were regular patrons, and the droid’s presence there no longer caused much controversy, despite the sign at the entrance that proclaimed NO DROIDS ALLOWED in Basic and several other languages.
“ ’S all my fault,” Lorn muttered, more to the drink-stained counter than to I-Five. “Hadn’t lost m’temper …” He fixed the droid with a somewhat bleary gaze. “Dunno why y’ stay partners with me.”
“Ah, now we come to the maudlin stage. Will this take long? I may want to put myself in cyberostasis until it’s over.”
Lorn grunted and signaled for another refill. “Y’can be a real bastard, y’know that?” he told I-Five.
“Let’s see … according to my data banks, the primary definition of bastard is ‘a child born of unwed parents.’ However, a secondary usage is ‘something of irregular or unusual origins.’ In that respect, I suppose I qualify.” When the bartender came over to fill Lorn’s glass again, I-Five put his hand over it. “My friend has had enough neurons destroyed by various hydroxyl compounds for today. It’s not like he has an overabundant supply in the first place.”
The bartender, a Bothan, glanced at Lorn, then shrugged and moved on down the bar. A Duros wearing spacer’s togs and sitting nearby looked at them, seeming to register the droid’s presence for the first time. “You let your droid decide how much you can drink?” he asked Lorn.
“ ’S not my droid,” Lorn said. “We’re partners. Business associates.” He pronounced the words carefully.
The Duros flickered nictitating membranes over his eyes in a sign of surprise and disbelief. “You’re telling me that droid has citizenship status?”
“He’s not telling you anything,” I-Five said as he turned to face the Duros, “largely because he’s so drunk he can barely stand. I’m telling you to mind your own business. My status in galactic society is not your concern.”
The Duros glanced around, saw that the rest of the tavern’s patrons were rather pointedly ignoring the exchange, shrugged, and went back to his drink. I-Five pulled Lorn off the bar stool and aimed him in the direction of the door. Lorn walked, weaving, across the room, then turned and faced the tavern.
“I was somebody, once,” he told the group, most of whom didn’t bother to look up. “Worked uplevels. Penthouse suite. Could see th’ mountains. Damn Jedi—they did this to me.” Then he turned and walked out, I-Five following.
Outside, the air was chill, and Lorn could feel a small amount of sobriety returning. The sun had set, and the long twilight of the equatorial regions had begun.
“Guess I told ’em, didn’t I?”
“Absolutely. They were riveted. I’m sure they can’t wait for the next thrilling installment. In the meantime, why don’t we go home before one of the colorful locals decides to see how fast alcohol-soaked human tissue burns?”
“Good idea,” Lorn agreed as I-Five took his arm and started walking.
They passed sidewalk vendors offering bootleg holos, glitterstim, and other illegal items for sale. Beggars of various species, wrapped in tattered cloaks, pawed at them for alms. They entered the nearest kiosk entrance to the underground, descending a long-broken escalator that ended in a winding corridor. It had been warm on the surface; down here it was like a sauna. The mingled body odor of various unwashed beings moving through the passageway, combined with the fungal reek permeating the walls, verged on hallucinogenic. Why can’t they all smell like Toydarians? Lorn wondered.
They turned down a narrow side passage, its walls and ceiling a complex pattern of pipes, conduits, and cables. Flickering luminescent strips at irregular intervals provided dim illumination. Granite slugs oozed along the floor, requiring Lorn to pay attention to where he stepped—no small task in his condition. Eventually they reached the third in a series of recessed metal doors, which he opened after several tries with his keycard.
The windowless cubicle, a cell carved from the city’s massive ferrocrete foundation, was designed for single occupancy, but since Lorn’s roommate was a droid, they were not particularly cramped for space. There were a couple of chairs, an extensible wall cot, a tiny refresher, and a kitchenette barely big enough for a nanowave and food preserver. The compartment was spotlessly clean—another advantage of having a droid around.
Lorn sat on the edge of the cot and stared at the floor. “Here’s all you need to know about the Jedi,” he announced.
“Oh, please—not again.”
“They’re a bunch of self-serving, sanctimonious elitists.”
“I have this entire rant recorded, you know. I could play a holo at fast speed; it would save time.”
“ ‘Guardians of the galaxy’—don’t make me laugh. All they’re interested in guarding is their way of life.”
“If I were you—a hypothetical situation the mere mention of which threatens to overload my logic circuits—I’d stop obsessing over the Jedi and start thinking about where my next meal is coming from. I don’t require nourishment, but you do. You need something hot to peddle—fast.”
Lorn glared at the droid. “I never should have disconnected your creativity damper.” He brooded for a while longer, then said, “But you’re right—no point dwelling in the past. Got to look ahead. What we need is a plan—right now.” And with those words he fell backwards onto the cot and began to snore loudly.
I-Five stared at his recumbent companion. “Random evolution should never have been entrusted with intelligence,” the droid muttered.
Darth Sidious was also thinking about the Jedi.
Their fire was dying in the galaxy; of that there was no doubt. For more than a thousand generations they had been the self-appo
inted paladins of the commonweal, but that was now coming to an end. And the pathetic fools, blinded by their own hypocrisy, could not see the truth of this.
It was right and fitting that this be so, just as it was right and fitting that the instrument of their downfall be the Sith.
The few pedants and scholars who even knew the name thought that the Sith were the “dark side” of the Jedi Knights. This was, of course, far too simplistic an evaluation. It was true that they had embraced the teachings of a group of rogue Jedi thousands of years ago, but they had taken that knowledge and philosophy far beyond the insular didacticism they had been given to start with. It was easy and convenient, as well, to demarcate the concept of the Force into light and dark; indeed, even Sidious had used such notions of duality in the training of his disciple. But the reality was that there was only the Force. It was above such petty concepts as positive and negative, black and white, good and evil. The only difference worthy of note was this: The Jedi saw the Force as an end in itself; the Sith knew that it was a means to an end.
And that end was Power.
For all their humble posturing and protestations of abdication, the Jedi craved power as much as anyone. Sidious knew this to be true. They claimed to be the servants of the people, but over the centuries they had increasingly removed themselves from contact with the very citizens they ostensibly served. Now they prowled the cloistered hallways and chambers of their Temple, mouthing their empty ideologies while practicing hubristic machinations designed to bring them more secular power.
As one half of the entire existing order of the Sith, Darth Sidious craved power, as well. It was true that he was operating covertly toward that end, but he was doing so out of necessity, not sophistry. After the Great Sith War, the order had been decimated. The lone remaining Sith had revived the order according to a new doctrine: one master and one apprentice. Thus it had been, and thus it would be, until that glorious day that saw the fall of the Jedi and the ascendancy of their ancient enemies, the Sith.
And that day was fast approaching. After centuries of planning and collusion, it was now almost here. Sidious was confident that he would see its culmination in his lifetime. There would come a day in the not too distant future when he would stand, triumphant, over the last Jedi’s body, when he would see their Temple razed, when he would take his rightful place as ruler of the galaxy.
Which was why no loose ends, no matter how inconsequential, could be permitted. Perhaps Hath Monchar’s absence had nothing to do with the Trade Federation’s looming blockade of the planet Naboo. That was conceivable. But as long as the slightest chance existed that it did, the Neimoidian had to be found and dealt with.
Darth Sidious looked at a wall chrono. It was now slightly over fourteen standard hours since he had given Maul the assignment. He anticipated hearing from his apprentice shortly. The stakes were high, very high, but he had every confidence that Maul would perform the task with his customary ruthless efficiency. All would continue as planned, and the Sith would rise again.
Soon.
Very soon.
The Crimson Corridor was in the Third Quadrant of the Zi-Kree sector. It was one of the oldest areas of the vast planetary metropolis, overbuilt with skyscrapers and towers constructed long ago. The buildings towered so tall and so thick that some areas of the Corridor received only a few minutes of sunlight a day. Darsha remembered hearing legends of inbred subhuman tribes living in the near-total darkness of its depths for so long that they had gone genetically blind.
But darkness was the least of the dangers in the Corridor. Far worse were the things, both human and nonhuman, that lived in the darkness and preyed on the unwary.
Darsha piloted her skyhopper down through the miasmal fog that lay like a filthy blanket over the lowest levels. Why, she wondered, would anyone pick a neighborhood like this for a place in which to conceal informants? The answer was, of course, that it was the last place anyone would look.
The safe house—a barricaded block of ferrocrete and plasteel—was in a street that was not wide enough for her to set the skyhopper down. She landed in the closest intersection, got out, and instructed the autopilot to take the craft up twenty meters and remain in hover mode there. That way it was more likely to be there when she got back.
There were a few glow sticks in protective wired cages set here and there on the buildings, but after centuries of use they were so weak that they did little to relieve the gloom. As soon as Darsha disembarked from her vehicle she was set upon by beggars supplicating for food and money. At first she tried the ancient Jedi technique of clouding their minds, but there were too many of them, and most of them had brains too addled by privation and various illegal chemicals to respond to the suggestion. She gritted her teeth and pushed her way though the forest of filthy waving arms, tentacles, and various other appendages.
The mingled revulsion and sympathy she felt was almost overwhelming. For nearly as long as she could remember, Darsha had been coddled and cozened in the Jedi Temple, protected from direct contact with the dregs of society—an ironic situation, since the Jedi were supposed to be the protectors of all levels of civilization, even those considered untouchable by most of the upper classes. True, elements of her training had taken her to various rough neighborhoods, but nowhere else had she seen anything that even remotely compared with this. It horrified her that such poverty and neglect could exist anywhere, let alone on Coruscant.
She made it to the recessed entrance of the safe house and pounded on the reinforced door. A slit opened, and a sentry cam extruded from it. “Your name and business?” it asked in a rasping voice.
“Darsha Assant, on the Jedi Council’s business.”
An emaciated Kubaz sought to pluck her lightsaber from its hook on her utility belt. She seized his hand and bent the thumb backwards. He squealed and backed hastily away, but others took his place immediately. The only reason they did not drag her back into the street was that there were too many to crowd into the narrow aperture where she stood.
The security cam quickly ran a laser scan over her face. “Identity confirmed. Please hold your breath.”
Darsha did so—whereupon hidden nozzles surrounding the door sprayed a pink mist at the crowd of mendicants. A chorus of indignant shouts, squeals, bleats, and other protests rose from them as the airborne irritant drove them momentarily back. The door slid quickly up, and a metallic arm grabbed Darsha and pulled her inside.
She found herself in a narrow corridor that was almost as dark as the street. The security droid who had taken her arm now led her down this passageway and around a corner, into a small, windowless room. The light was not much better here; Darsha could barely make out a hunched form sitting on a chair. Bald and humanoid, he looked like a Fondorian to her.
The droid said, “This is the Jedi who will take you to safety, Oolth.”
Though she knew it was foolish, Darsha felt a little thrill at being called a Jedi, even by a droid.
“About time,” the Fondorian said. He stood quickly. “Let’s get out of here before it gets dark—not that it ever really stops getting dark around here.” He moved toward the room’s entrance, then stopped and looked back at Darsha. “Well, come on,” he said testily. “What’re you waiting for?”
“I’m just trying to decide how best to get back to my skyhopper,” Darsha replied. “I don’t relish the idea of wading through those poor beings out there again.”
“We’ll be the ‘poor beings’ if we don’t get moving. This is Raptor territory. They make those scum out there look like the Republic Senate. Now let’s go!”
Darsha moved toward the hallway; Oolth stood aside to let her pass. “I’m the one who needs protecting; you go first.”
Whatever good he was to the council, Darsha was sure Oolth the Fondorian wasn’t valued for his bravery. She pushed past him and strode back to the outside door.
The cam’s monitor was mounted by the door; it showed a few street people still loitering aroun
d the area. Most of them, however, had apparently gone looking for someone else to importune. If Darsha and Oolth moved quickly, they could probably get back to the intersection where her vehicle was without too much trouble.
“All right,” Darsha said. She took a deep breath and reached for the Force to calm herself. She was a Jedi Padawan with a job to do. Time to get on with it. “Let’s move out.”
The door panel slid open. Darsha quested with the Force and felt no sense of anybody nearby who posed a danger. Thus reassured, she started down the street with Oolth. The vagrants seemed to materialize from out of the shadows, clustering around them again. Oolth shoved at them as they crowded in. “Get away from me! Filthy creatures!”
“Just keep moving,” Darsha said to him. She had refused the droid’s offer of escort because she didn’t want to draw any more attention than absolutely necessary. If she had to, she could activate her lightsaber; she had no doubt that just the sight of the energy blade would send the majority of the street people fleeing. But she hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. They were almost to the intersection.
And then her heart, already pounding from nervous tension, suddenly tried to batter its way up her throat.
Her skyhopper was still where she had parked it, hovering twenty meters up in the air. Clustered on the street beneath it was a heterogeneous assortment of beings, about a dozen in all. Among the species Darsha recognized were humans, Kubaz, H’nemthe, Gotals, Snivvians, Trandoshans, and Bith. All of them appeared to be in the late adolescent stage of their particular species, all were dressed in colorful and motley styles, and all looked extremely dangerous.
Star Wars: Darth Maul: Shadow Hunter Page 4