Star Wars: Darth Maul: Shadow Hunter

by Michael Reaves

  Oolth the Fondorian gasped, and whispered in a strangled tone, “The Raptors.”

  Darsha had heard tales of the street gangs that terrorized many of the more run-down sectors of Coruscant’s surface. The Raptors were reputed to be the worst, by far. She had hoped to complete her mission quickly enough to avoid an encounter with them. So much for that idea.

  Several grappling hooks had snagged into the two-person craft, and from them dangled ropes. Three members of the gang—a human female and two male Bith—had climbed aboard and were busily ransacking the vehicle. They tossed down various items—a holoprojector, an aquata breather, a pouch of food capsules, and medical supplies—to the gang members below. Even as Darsha watched, one of them managed to disable the autopilot, causing the craft to settle gently to the street. This was greeted by a cheer from the rest of the gang.

  Oolth grabbed her robe and tried to pull her into the shadows of the narrow street. “Quick—before they see us!”

  She shook off his grasp. “I can’t let them strip the skyhopper. It’s our only way out of here. Wait here until I’ve dealt with them.” Then, forcing herself to project a confidence she did not in any way feel, Darsha strode toward the Raptors.

  She hadn’t taken more than a few steps before her approach was noted. The raucous chatter and laughter quickly subsided; no doubt, Darsha thought, because they were having a hard time believing someone could be this suicidal.

  She stopped a few meters from them. There was no one else on the street now, save for the Fondorian cowering somewhere behind her. No one in their right mind wanted to be around when the Raptors were on the prowl.

  “That’s my skyhopper,” she said, relieved to find that her voice was not shaking. “Please return the things you stole and move away from it.”

  The Raptors looked at each other in astonishment before breaking into the various sounds that constituted laughter for each species. One of the human males—lean and wiry, sporting an improbable mane of green hair standing straight up in an electrostatic field—swaggered toward her.

  “New around here, I’m guessing,” he said, causing more sniggering—this time with a distinctly unpleasant edge—to erupt from his compatriots.

  Darsha reviewed her options quickly. There weren’t many. She was one against a dozen, and while her knowledge of the Jedi fighting arts improved the odds somewhat, she was still not at all confident in her ability to come out ahead in a battle. She was on their turf, after all, and for all she knew, there might be a dozen more of them lurking in the shadows.

  But there were alternatives to fighting. The mind trick she had tried earlier on the beggars hadn’t been completely successful, but it had turned away a few of them. It might serve now to confuse the Raptors long enough to allow her to reach the vehicle. Of course, she still had to get Oolth in the craft with her, but one problem at a time.

  She raised her right hand, fanning the fingers in a gesture designed to focus their attention while she reached out mentally for the Force. “You’re not interested in me,” she said, using the soft but compelling tone she had been taught, “or my vehicle.” She could see by their confused and uncertain expressions that it was working, could feel their wills beginning to vibrate in resonance with hers.

  Green Hair was either the leader or something close to it, because when he nodded and said slowly, “We’re not interested in her, or her vehicle,” the rest of the gang mumbled the same words in ragged unison.

  Darsha took a few steps forward, making the hypnotic gesture again. “You might as well go now,” she told Green Hair. “There’s nothing interesting going on here.”

  “We might as well go now. There’s nothing interesting going on here.” The rest of the gang again echoed him.

  Darsha kept moving slowly but steadily forward. She stepped past Green Hair and was now in the midst of them, only a step or two away from her craft. She had them now; she could feel their minds, some struggling feebly, others willingly surrendering to her suggestive power amplified by the Force. Another moment and she would be in the skyhopper.

  A scream echoed down the dark street.

  Startled, Darsha whipped around, staring back toward the source of the cry. It was Oolth the Fondorian, staggering out into the middle of the narrow thoroughfare, shaking and kicking his leg frantically to dislodge a large armored rat that had clamped its jaws onto his shin. Even as she realized who it was, she realized, as well, that her tenuous mind-lock on the Raptors had been shattered by the unexpected sound. Blinking and shaking their heads as if awakening from slumber, the Raptors realized that their prey had obligingly delivered itself right into their midst.

  Darsha had no choice now but to fight. She reached for her lightsaber, but before she could seize it they were upon her.

  Hath Monchar was afraid.

  This was not a particularly surprising state of affairs to anyone who knew the deputy viceroy of the Trade Federation. Even among Neimoidians, Monchar was considered remarkably timid. Which made it all the more amazing that he had done what he had done.

  Monchar was afraid, yes, but underneath that was another emotion, one far less familiar to him than fear. This emotion was pride—a nervous and fragile pride, it was true, but pride nevertheless. He had taken a chance—a big chance. He had dared to steer his life in a new and, with any luck, more profitable direction. He had a right to feel proud of that, he told himself.

  He glanced around at the patrons of the tavern he was sitting in. It was a different establishment than the one he usually frequented when on Coruscant. That tavern was in the affluent Kaldani Spires monad, where he had an apartment. He was not staying in his apartment on this visit, however. That would make him too easy to find. Instead he had rented a cheap domicile near the Galactic Museum under an assumed name. He had seriously considered buying a holographic image disguiser that could change his appearance to that of another species, as well. His paranoia had warred with his parsimony for quite some time on that one, and finally the stinginess had won out, though just barely.

  Hath Monchar had come to Coruscant because the capital world was the best place to move information quickly and anonymously. That was what he had to sell—information. Specifically, information about the upcoming blockade of Naboo and the fact that the man behind it all was a Sith Lord.

  It was a dangerous scheme, to be sure. If his coconspirators found him, Monchar knew they would quickly give him up to Darth Sidious’s tender mercies. The mere thought of being in the Sith Lord’s clutches was enough to make the Neimoidian start to hyperventilate. Even so, Monchar couldn’t resist the opportunity to make a quick fortune.

  He took another gulp of the agaric ale he was drinking. Yes, the risks were high, but so was the potential for profit. All he needed was to contact the right person as an intermediary—someone who knew the people who would pay handsomely for the news he had. All it would take was a bit more fortitude on his part. He had come this far; he was not going to stop now, not with his goal nearly in sight.

  Hath Monchar signaled the Baragwin bartender. One more flagon of ale ought to give him the fortitude he needed.

  Mahwi Lihnn had been a bounty hunter for going on ten standard years, ever since she had been forced to leave her homeworld after killing a corrupt government official. During that time she had traveled nearly the length and breadth of the galaxy on various assignments. She had pursued fugitives from justice on such diverse worlds as Ord Mantell, Roon, Tatooine, and dozens of others. Oddly enough, however, she had never been to Coruscant, and she was looking forward to seeing the capital of the galaxy.

  The assignment from the Neimoidian viceroy’s lieutenant seemed straightforward enough. Lihnn did not anticipate any great trouble in finding the missing Hath Monchar, even on a crowded world like Coruscant. As her ship descended on autopilot toward the landing pad at the eastern spaceport, she reviewed her equipment and weaponry. Her garb looked like no more than a simple utilitarian tunic and pants, but they were made of d
ensely woven shell spider silk, a material capable of resisting even a vibroblade’s thrust, as well as reflecting low-power particle beams and lasers. It was armor that did not look like armor—to the uninitiated. Experts would spot it, of course, but she didn’t expect to run into any opposition. She wore twin DL-44 blasters on each hip, and a small disruptor pistol in a concealed ankle holster. Strapped to each wrist was an MM9 wrist rocket, and in her right hand she wore a palm flechette shooter. On her utility belt she carried, among other things, a set of stun cuffs, a stun baton, and three glop grenades.

  Mahwi Lihnn believed in being prepared.

  Her first stop after disembarking from her ship was the Kaldani Spires Residential Apartments. She seriously doubted that Monchar would be foolish enough to stay in an apartment registered to him, but one never knew. More than once Lihnn had saved herself needless trouble and time by looking in the most obvious places for her quarry.

  As she entered the lobby the security droid on duty asked whom she wished to see. “Hath Monchar,” Lihnn told him. The droid checked a monitor screen, then informed her that Monchar was not in; indeed, was not even on Coruscant. Lihnn nodded pleasantly and clapped the circuit disruptor she had pulled from her belt onto the droid’s chassis. The droid stuttered for an instant before its photoreceptors went dark.

  Lihnn took the lift tube up to the five hundredth floor and strolled down the corridor to Monchar’s apartment, where she used an electronic lock breaker to void the security system. Once inside, she quickly checked the rooms. The droid had been telling the truth; Monchar was not there. Furthermore, the apartment appeared to have been vacant for some time.

  The large suite was decorated in what was, to a Neimoidian, the epitome of tasteful decor; to Lihnn it looked and smelled like a fetid swamp. She did some more investigating, hoping to find a clue to Monchar’s whereabouts. In this she was disappointed.

  At last she left, going back down to the lobby and pulling the circuit disruptor off the security droid. Before it could reaccess its memory banks sufficiently to realize what had happened, Mahwi Lihnn had left and was strolling along one of the skywalks fifty stories above the surface.

  It would certainly take some time to search a city the size of a planet for one person. Fortunately, Lihnn felt fairly sure that such a search wouldn’t be necessary. Even though Monchar was smart enough not to stay in his apartment, she was willing to bet that the Neimoidian was somewhere in the general vicinity. This was the part of Coruscant with which he was most familiar, so it made sense that he would be holed up not too far away.

  Lihnn stopped at an observation deck and enjoyed the view for a few minutes. The descriptions she had read and the holos she had seen did not do justice to the stupendousness of the real thing. The last census put the population of Coruscant at somewhere in the neighborhood of a trillion living beings. Even if she could investigate one person every second, she would still need the life span of a hundred Tatooine Sarlaccs to get to them all. But there were ways to narrow the search.

  Paranoid as Monchar no doubt was, he still had to eat. Lihnn pulled a portable HoloNet link from a pocket and consulted it, entering search parameters for restaurants in the area that specialized in the disgusting swill Neimoidians called food. As she had thought, there were not all that many. She glanced at her chrono and saw that it was almost the hour when most species eat their evening meal. She would go check out a few of these restaurants. It was worth putting up with the smell if it meant an early resolution to this case.

  Darth Maul signaled for an air taxi. Even though his speeder was not far away, he did not wish to risk anyone connecting him to it, now that he was close to his quarry. The taxi pilot—a Quarren—looked somewhat dubiously at his passenger as Maul got into the backseat, but said nothing as he was given the address. The taxi rose rapidly straight up through two strata of traffic, its lift repulsors humming barely within the threshold of Maul’s hearing, then veered north in a long arc toward a cluster of towers in the distance.

  The taxi landed gently at a terminal within fifty meters of the tavern. Maul entered, stepping immediately to the shadows near the door while he looked about. His vision adjusted far more quickly to extremes of light and darkness than did most species; he was able almost at once to see the tavern’s dim interior and its customers.

  He saw humans, Bith, Devaronians, Nikto, Snivvians, Arcona—a cornucopia of species, all drinking or otherwise imbibing various substances capable of altering their brain chemistry. He did not see Hath Monchar. For that matter, he did not see any Neimoidians at all.

  Maul approached the bar. The bartender was a tall gaunt Baragwin, his folds of facial dewlaps as leathery and creased as a bantha’s skin. “I am looking for a Neimoidian,” Maul said to him. “He would have been in here within the last few hours.”

  The Baragwin sent a ripple running through his dewlaps from top to bottom—the equivalent of a human shaking his head. “Many beings come in here,” he said, his voice absurdly high and flutelike coming from such a massive head. “They come, they drink, they talk, they go. I do not recall seeing a Neimoidian recently.”

  Darth Maul leaned forward. “Think again,” he said softly. He could easily use the Force to get whatever information might be had from this weak-willed creature, but there was no need. He knew he could get what he wanted by intimidation.

  The Baragwin’s nasal polyps began to quiver—a sign of nervousness. “Upon further reflection I do seem to remember a representative of that species imbibing here perhaps an hour ago.”

  “Did he speak to you or anyone else?”

  The Baragwin’s polyps were vibrating almost too fast to see now. “No. That is … he—he ordered agaric ale.”

  “And did he speak of anything else?”

  “Yes. He inquired of me how one might contact someone proficient in the buying and selling of sensitive information.”

  Maul leaned back. “And you told him—what?”

  “I gave him a name.”

  “You will now give me that name.”

  The Baragwin rippled his dewlaps from bottom to top in acquiescence. “Lorn Pavan. A human—Corellian, I believe. He is well known in this city sector as one who traffics in such merchandise.”

  “And where might I find this Lorn Pavan?”

  “I do not know.”

  Maul leaned forward again, his yellow eyes blazing. The Baragwin backed up hastily. “I speak the truth! He comes in here occasionally, always accompanied by a protocol droid called I-Five. I know nothing more.”

  That was interesting news, Maul reflected. It should help to narrow the search; personal droids were not that common in this area of Coruscant. “Describe this Lorn Pavan.”

  “Tall. Muscular. Black filamentous cilia on his scalp, but none on his face. Brown ocular pigmentation. The females of his species would probably characterize him as ‘handsome.’ ”

  Maul nodded, then raised his right hand in a focusing gesture as he mentally reached for the Force. He had to make sure that this next question was answered truthfully, because the answer would determine whether or not he had to kill the Baragwin.

  “Did the Neimoidian speak at all to you about the nature of the information he wished to sell?”

  The dewlaps quickly undulated downward. “He did not. I have told you all that I know.”

  Maul sensed no negative vibration in the Force as the Baragwin spoke. He turned away without another word and exited the tavern.

  He was glad that he did not have to kill the Baragwin—not out of any moral sense, or even out of pity for the pathetic creature; his relief stemmed purely from having avoided the inevitable difficulties brought on by killing someone in a public place. Nevertheless, if the Force had told him the Baragwin was lying, he would have struck him down without a second thought and dealt with the consequences. Darth Sidious had told him to kill everyone with whom Hath Monchar had shared knowledge of the blockade, and Maul would follow his master’s commands, as always.


  He strode along the outdoor concourse, pondering his next move. Though the walkway was crowded, his passage was not impeded, as most of the pedestrians gave him a wide berth. Which was as it should be. Darth Maul had nothing but contempt for the masses. Of all the uncounted trillions of sentient beings that populated the galaxy, only one was deserving of respect: Darth Sidious. The only man who dared to dream of conquering not just a world or a star system, but an entire galaxy. The man who had taken the young Maul from a backwater planet and raised him to be his successor. He owed Darth Sidious everything.

  It had not been an easy path that he had been set upon. To be a truly superior being, apart from and above the senseless herd, required absolute devotion and dedication. He had had to learn self-sufficiency, both in body and in mind, almost from the time he had learned to walk. His master would accept nothing less than the absolute best that Maul could offer. When he was younger, if he had flinched during his training when the edge of a weapon found his flesh, or when an incorrect block or defensive maneuver resulted in a cracked bone, his punishments had always been swift and inevitable.

  He had soon learned to think of pain as his teacher. From fearing it, he had actually come to welcome it, because he knew it would test his willpower and his courage; it would make him stronger. To be content, to be comfortable, was to be complacent. No one learned anything from pleasure. Pain, on the other hand, was a most efficient instructor.

  He returned to the problem at hand. Perhaps tracking down the human Lorn Pavan would lead him in turn to his primary target. In all probability the Corellian would have to be killed, as well. The longer the Neimoidian was alive, the more likely his information would be disseminated. Still, Maul was not worried. If he had to wipe out this entire city sector in order to contain the news about the blockade, he would do it without a qualm. Lives, even hundreds of lives, did not matter.

  The first blow came from behind, half stunning Darsha and causing her to drop to her knees. A booted foot impacted against her side, driving her breath from her. Half-blinded by pain, Darsha reached for the Force as the Raptors closed in, felt its power enfold her, cloak her like an invisible shield. She stood, thrusting out one arm in a warding gesture, and felt the reverberating ripples flowing outward, hurling back her surprised attackers. For a brief moment she stood clear of them, and she used that moment to draw and activate her lightsaber. The yellow energy blade boiled out from the hilt’s projector, extending to its full length.