Not tracking some pathetic failure through the slums of Coruscant.
Maul shook his head and snarled silently. His purpose was to serve his master, no matter what the assignment was. If Darth Sidious knew he was having such doubts, the Sith Lord would severely punish him, such as he had not been punished since he was a child. And Maul would not resist, even though he was now a grown man. Because Sidious would be right to do so.
The human and his droid emerged from the underground thoroughfare and proceeded along the narrow surface streets. It was late at night, but the planetary city never slept. The streets were crowded no matter what time of day or night it was. This was fortunate, in that it made it easier for Maul to keep his quarry in sight without being noticed.
It would not be much longer, Maul told himself. He would bring this job to a successful conclusion—and then, perhaps, Darth Sidious would reward him with a task more worthy of his abilities. Something like the Black Sun assignment. That had been a challenge he had enjoyed.
Pavan and his droid turned down another street, this one so narrow and bounded by tall structures that there was barely room for two lanes of foot traffic. They entered a doorway under a hanging sign decorated with a rampant dewback.
This was their destination, then. Despite his near-perfect control of his nervous system, Maul felt his pulse quicken slightly in anticipation. If all went as planned, soon this onerous chore would be over. He entered the tavern.
Lorn looked around the dingy, ill-lit interior. The Dewback Inn was even less reputable-looking than the Glowstone, and that was saying something. There weren’t many customers, but each one that he noticed looked like he or she or it had seen their share of combat. Lorn noticed a Devaronian with one horn missing, a piebald Wookiee—half of whose hair had apparently been singed off—and a Sakiyan whose bald head was stitched with ridged keloid tissue, among others.
I-Five surveyed the room, as well. “It just keeps getting better,” the droid said.
Lorn noticed a sign above the bar that read NO DROIDS ALLOWED in Basic. He also noticed several of the patrons looking suspiciously at I-Five. “I think you’d better wait outside,” he told the droid. “Sorry.”
“I think I can deal with the rejection.” I-Five went back outside.
Lorn saw a Neimoidian sitting alone at a corner table, looking very uncomfortable. As he started to make his way through the tables he heard the door open behind him, and out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed a cloaked and hooded form entering. The newcomer had a sinister aspect about him—but then, with the possible exception of the Neimoidian, so did everyone else in the room, so Lorn didn’t give the new arrival much thought.
As he drew near the Neimoidian’s table he felt his arms seized abruptly in an iron grasp. “Hey!” He tried to pull free, but his assailant—a Trandoshan—was far stronger than he was. His struggles alerted the Neimoidian, who looked up.
“Are you Lorn Pavan?” he asked.
“That’s me. Call off your bullyboy.”
The Neimoidian made a gesture. “Release him, Gorth.”
The Trandoshan let Lorn go. Lorn pulled back a chair and sat down, rubbing his arms, both of which had gone somewhat numb from the reptilian being’s grip.
“I do apologize,” the Neimoidian said, his gaze darting here and there about the bar as he spoke. “You can understand my desire to have some protection in a place like this. Gorth comes highly recommended.”
“I can see why,” Lorn said. “Let’s get down to business. What do you have?”
As Darth Maul slipped into the rathole called the Dewback Inn, he kept his cowl up and moved to the darkest corner. When one of the weak minds surrounding him caused its owner to idly cast a glance in his direction, he used the Force to squelch or redirect that interest. As always when he wished it in such dens of mental weakness, he was effectively invisible.
He had spotted his prey immediately. The urge to simply step up and sever the Neimoidian’s head from his body was tempting, but he knew that would be foolishness. He would have to kill the big Trandoshan bodyguard first, and probably the Corellian, as well. Slaying three people, even in a pit such as this, would not go unnoticed. Calling attention to one’s self in a public place would be bad; his master had impressed that upon Maul at an early age. The Sith were powerful, but there were only two of them. Stealth was therefore one of their greatest strengths. Even as weak-minded and chemically besotted as most of the patrons of this place were, there were simply too many to control completely. He could not wipe the memories of a cold-blooded assassination from several dozen heads, nor could he be sure of destroying all of them. And here and there burned an intellect too strong to be swayed by simple mind-control techniques. These he could feel; they stood out like photonic lamps on a darkling plain.
And besides all that, he had to question the Neimoidian thoroughly to find any others the traitor might have tainted in his flight.
Nevertheless, Maul had his target in sight now. That was what was important, and it would now be only a matter of time before he was able to close the assignment. He would wait for a propitious moment to deal with him.
The human dealer in information was speaking with the doomed Neimoidian, and likely that sealed the man’s fate, as well. Later, when he questioned Hath Monchar, Maul would determine precisely what had passed between the man and the Neimoidian. If this Lorn Pavan had come to discuss other matters and knew nothing of Monchar’s treachery, he would be allowed to keep his insignificant life. But if he had become party to the subversion, then the human would die. Quite simple.
Mahwi Lihnn trekked through the back streets and alleys, searching for the Dewback Inn. She was certainly not overimpressed with this area of Coruscant. The surface streets in this sector were all twisted turnings and narrow byways, teeming with gutter scum looking for an easy mark. Lihnn, armed to the teeth as she was, did not present such an easy target, and the strong-arm thieves and head-bashers watched her pass but stayed on their own ground, smart enough to recognize danger when they saw it. Lihnn wasn’t particularly worried about her safety; she had been in much worse places than this and survived. It was largely a matter of attitude. She projected confidence and an air of danger as she walked, an aura that made it clear that, at the first sign of trouble from any of this riffraff, the troublemaker would find his-, her-, or itself a smoking corpse on the greasy walkway, to be quickly picked over by the rest of them.
She came to an intersection, hesitated briefly, then chose the right fork. Another person could easily get lost and stay lost in this maze, but Mahwi Lihnn had honed her sense of direction in scores of such places around the galaxy, and she knew she would eventually arrive at her destination. She always got where she was supposed to go, and she always came out on top when she got there. She was, quite simply, the best at what she did.
As Hath Monchar would soon find out.
After climbing a few flights of stairs Darsha Assant reached the lowest inhabited levels of the building. Here she found what passed for a pharmacy at the end of a squalid corridor. She had lost her regular credit tab along the way, though she still had her emergency tab. It was good for only a small amount—not nearly enough to rent a speeder, unfortunately, but sufficient to purchase enough antibiotic synthflesh bandage to treat and seal her wounds and even hire a taxi, if it didn’t have to go far. Her robes were in pretty sad shape, as well, but the emergency fund was not up to covering replacements for those. No matter—she had more important things to worry about than her wardrobe.
Feeling somewhat better after she smoothed the healing synthflesh into place, she looked for a quiet spot—preferably one with walls to protect her back and sides—to ponder what she should do next.
There was no way to sugarcoat her situation. She was, quite simply, ruined. She had lost her charge; the hawk-bats were no doubt picking clean the Fondorian’s bones by now. She had lost her transportation to a common street gang. Her comlink was shattered. The mission, in sho
rt, had been a complete and utter disaster. Master Bondara had been right to wonder about her ability.
Darsha sat down on a graffiti-scarred bench and sought to center herself as she had been taught. It was no use; the stillness that a Jedi should always operate from was nowhere to be found. Instead she felt grief, sadness, anger—but most of all, she felt shame. She had disgraced herself, her mentor, and her heritage. She would never become a Jedi Knight now. Her life as she had known it, as she had expected it to be, was over.
Maybe it would have been better to have died, to have been eaten by the hawk-bats. At least she would not have to face Master Bondara, not have to see the disappointment in her mentor’s eyes.
What was she going to do?
She could find a public comm station—some of them would work, even down here—and call for help. The council would send a Jedi—a real Jedi, she thought bitterly—to come and fetch her. She would be escorted back as if she were a child, taken into custody so that she could do no more damage.
She envisioned entering the Temple with such an escort. That would be all that was needed to make her shame complete.
Darsha clenched her jaw muscles. No. That wasn’t how it was going to go. She had failed her mission, true enough, but she still had her lightsaber, and she still had some pride, if only a trace of what it had been. She would not call for help. She could find some way to return to the council under her own power. She owed that much at least to Master Bondara—and to herself.
She took a deep breath, let it escape slowly, and once again sought calmness in the Force. Her path as a Jedi Knight was done. There was no way to change that. But she could deliver herself to that judgment without begging for help.
She stood, took another deep breath, and blew it out. Yes. At the very least, she could do that much.
Lorn could not believe his luck. Finally, it looked like things were taking a turn for the better. Carefully, so as not to reveal his enthusiasm, he said to the Neimoidian, “And you say you have recorded all this information—the details of the impending blockade, and the fact that the Sith are behind it—on a holocron?”
“That is correct,” Monchar replied.
“And may I, ah, see this crystal?”
Monchar gave Lorn a look that was plain to read, even given the differences between Neimoidian and human facial expressions: What am I, stupid? Aloud, he said, “I would not carry it around on my person in such places, even with Gorth as a protector. The holocron is safely stored and guarded elsewhere.”
Lorn leaned back. “I see. And you would want to sell it for—how much?”
“Half a million Republic credits.”
Lorn grinned. The way to play this was cool and easy. “Half a million? Why, sure. You have change for a million-cred note?”
The Neimoidian gave Lorn a fishy smile in return. “I’m afraid not.”
Lorn had played this game before, and he knew it was time to palaver. “All right,” he said. “If it is what you say it is, I might be willing to go two hundred and fifty thousand.”
“Don’t insult me,” Monchar replied. “If it is what I say it is—and I assure you, it is—the information on that crystal is worth twice what I am asking—more, in the right hands. We will not dicker like a couple of bantha traders, human. Half a million credits, period. You’ll stand to make that much and more off it if you have the wits of a Sarconian green flea.”
That was true, Lorn knew. Of course, if he could lay his hands on half a million creds, he wouldn’t be sitting in this dive trying to negotiate stolen data. But there was no way he could let a deal like this pass. He might never see another like it. “All right. Half a million. Where shall we make the exchange?”
The Neimoidian touched a button on a wristband, and a small holographic projection lit up just above the surface of the table, no bigger than Lorn’s thumb.
“Here is the address of my cubicle,” Monchar said. “Meet me there in an hour. Come alone.”
One hour! Lorn kept his expression carefully noncommittal. “I, ah, might need a little longer than that to raise the funds.”
“One hour,” Monchar repeated. “If you cannot procure funding by then, I will seek others who are more capable. I am told there is a Hutt, Yanth by name, who would be most interested in this commodity.”
“I know Yanth. You don’t want to deal with him. He’s shiftier than a crystal snake.”
“Then bring me the money and we will consummate this transaction.”
Lorn memorized the address and nodded. Monchar shut the holo off.
“Okay. No problem,” Lorn said. “I’ll see you in an hour.” He stood and wended his way toward the door.
Outside, I-Five was waiting. “Well?” the droid said, as they walked down the narrow street.
Lorn explained quickly as they walked. “So we’ve got an hour—actually, fifty-five minutes—to raise five hundred thousand credits.” He looked at the droid. “Any thoughts?”
“It is an excellent opportunity, to be sure. In fact, it might well be the chance of your lifetime, though I expect to have better opportunities myself, since I will probably outlive you by a factor of seven-point-four to seven-point-six, at a conservative estimate, disallowing major accidents, natural disasters, or acts of war—”
“We’re on the chrono and you’re discussing actuarial tables. The big question is, where are we going to get half a million credits in less than an hour?”
“That is indeed the question.”
“We could find a card game. I’m good at sabacc.”
“But not consistently—if you were, we wouldn’t be in this situation. And since we have no money of which to speak, who in all of the underground would give us enough of a marker to buy into a sufficiently high-stakes game?”
“Offhand, I’d say … nobody,” Lorn admitted.
“And how long would it take to win such an amount, assuming you could get into such a game? Even if you cheated and were not caught, could you do it in fifty-two minutes—not counting, of course, transit time to the Neimoidian’s domicile?”
“All right, sabacc is not a viable option. I assume you’ve got a better idea?”
I-Five cleared his speaking circuits in what sounded almost like a human cough. “There is only one viable option: bank fraud.”
Lorn stopped to stare at I-Five. A Givin blundered into him, muttered an apology, and kept going. Without taking his gaze from I-Five, Lorn grabbed the Givin’s exoskeleton, pulled him back, and retrieved his wallet. He then shoved the pickpocket away. “I’m listening,” he told the droid.
“I have been considering this idea for some time,” I-Five said. “Keeping it in reserve as a final contingency plan. If we effect it, we will be forced to flee Coruscant, and it would be unlikely that we could ever return, unless we wished to radically change our appearances and spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders.”
“If we had a million credits in our account, that would take us a long, long way from here,” Lorn said. “And I’d be happy to leave. We could set up shop on some outlier world where the Republic doesn’t have a presence, make a few smart investments, live like kings. Tell me about this plan.”
They continued to walk while I-Five elaborated. They wouldn’t really be able to steal the money, but the droid was confident he could jack into the data flow of one of Coruscant’s many banking firms and manage a phantom transfer of funds into their personal account. The auditor droids would catch it almost immediately, so timing would be critical. But if all went well, Lorn would be able to show Hath Monchar an unencumbered credit tab that was worth half a million. Much more than that, the droid explained, would kick in automatic inquiries, and if they tried to transfer the funds after the audit, the bank would catch that, too. The real trick would be to have the Neimoidian accept the credit tab as payment and make the transfer to his account before time ran out.
“The window will be narrow, and it will close quickly,” I-Five concluded. “But in theory
it can be done.”
Lorn felt a warm rush of excitement. They might actually pull this off. And if they did, they could walk away with a holocron worth a million creds and leave the Neimoidian holding an empty bag. Which would be too bad for him, but that’s how life was in the real galaxy. Lorn wouldn’t stay awake nights worrying about it, that was for sure.
“Let’s do it,” he said. “If it doesn’t work, we won’t be any worse off than we are now.”
“Save for the distinct possibility of you occupying a cell in a Republic asteroid prison for thirty years, and me having a complete memory wipe.”
“You worry too much.”
“And you don’t worry enough.”
But Lorn knew I-Five would take the risk. Droids were supposed to be programmed with more integrity and honesty than humans or other natural-born species, but it didn’t always work quite like that. I-Five had somehow evolved a greed circuit along the way, and the glitter of credits called to him as much as it did Lorn. Which was one of the reasons they got along so well.
Lorn felt an excitement he hadn’t known in years as he contemplated it. It would work, and they would use the money to build a new life out on the Rim. There were plenty of worlds where, with enough money, one could disappear into a new identity and live a life of ease with no questions asked.
A new life—a real life this time. Maybe not the one he had before, but certainly a better one than this hardscrabble existence he was suffering through now.
Of course, it would mean leaving behind any possibility of ever seeing Jax again.
So what? a savage voice in the back of his head asked. Like there’s any chance at all of that now? That’s in the past. It’s time you started living again.
Yes. Far past time, in fact.
Star Wars: Darth Maul: Shadow Hunter Page 7