Scourge

by Jeff Grubb

  “First time I’ve ever seen that,” said Threnda. “Must be a mistaken shipment. Happens all the time. Like I said, I don’t carry hard spice.”

  “Then you won’t mind if we get rid of it for you,” said the Jedi. “Eddey?”

  The Bothan produced a small grenade and held it over the crate, putting his thumb on the arming toggle.

  “Wait,” said Threnda. “All right, what do you want? Information?”

  “No thanks,” said the Jedi.

  Threnda goggled at him. “No? I can tell you where this came from, and you leave me alone.”

  “No,” repeated the Jedi. “You got this shipment from the Demoneye out of Ventooine. It picked up the shipment from the Bosph system.” He looked at Threnda’s startled expression, “This isn’t the first distribution point we’ve been to, and some of them have been positively chatty. Eddey?”

  The Bothan thumbed the activation switch. A red light flashed at the top of the orb.

  “Ten-second fuse,” said the Jedi. “You should stand back.”

  Threnda and Mitt dropped back and fell to the ground as the grenade detonated. The resulting blast caused the container to bulge outward, and a pulse of violet fire to spring from the top of the case. Fragments of burning Tempest scattered around the warehouse, and some of the other crates smoldered in the flames. A thick purplish smoke oozed from the top of the box, surrounding them like a fog.

  Threnda cursed and slammed Mitt on the shoulder. The Trandoshan ran for a fire extinguisher, pulling the heavy lifters away from the fire on the way.

  The three visitors stood there, unaffected by the blast.

  “It has been three minutes,” said the Jedi. “We’re going now.”

  “Why are you doing this?” yelled Threnda over the flames. Behind her Mitt was cursing and trying to operate the fire extinguisher with his thick reptilian fingers. “What do you want?”

  The Jedi paused and turned back. “We want you to send a message to the rest of your clan, and to the Spice Lord you work for,” he said. “We’re going to stop the Tempest trade, and it doesn’t matter how long it takes.” And then he was gone in the swirling smoke.

  “At least you still have the cantina,” said the Bothan, and he was gone as well.

  “Ma Lorda,” said Koax, her face in the holoreceiver a grim mask. “The Jeedai and his allies have proved most nettlesome.”

  “Report your status,” burbled the Spice Lord. As usual, the Hutt chose to have a bright light shining from behind, cloaking the Spice Lord’s cruel features. Koax was always careful when contacting her superior, but the Klatooinian had turned anxious and nervous of late, and had none of the proud declarations and good news that had been typical of her.

  “The Jeedai has been striking against our distribution centers,” said the worried Klatooinian. “In particular those tied with the Bomu clan. He and his allies have hampered our cash flow.”

  The Hutt made a dismissive noise, the sound of mud dropped from shoulder height. “There will be spot shortages, which will be good for the trade,” said the Spice Lord. “Drive up the price, create some desire. I trust your ability to expedite the orders to the most critical areas.” The Hutt leaned back and took a hokuum pipe from a nearby holder, making a show of unconcern.

  “With respect, Ma Lorda,” said the Klatooinian, choosing her words carefully, “it is more than merely a tightness in the market. We are seeing a dramatic slowdown in sales as local governments are becoming aware of the Tempest spice. In the Corporate Sector alone, market penetration has halted completely, and we are in danger of losing our new prospects in the Nuiri sector. No one wants to deal in a spice that might promote a visit from the Jeedai. They strike and say they are sending a message—that they will end the Tempest trade.”

  The Spice Lord leaned forward. “What are you not telling me?”

  Koax stammered for a moment, then cast her eyes down. “The Bomu clan,” she started.

  The Spice Lord let out a laugh that made the Klatooinian, far away at the other end of the connection, jump. “The Bomu clan! Have we not had them all killed or made them too busy to think about revenge?”

  “They are resilient,” said Koax, “and numerous as well. But the losses the clan has sustained at the hands of the Jeedai are sufficient to make them question their … loyalty. One of them has given up the name of Morga Bunna, the depot runner.” She let the last word trickle out like an admission of a secret.

  The Spice Lord wondered how long she had kept that information to herself. “Ah,” said the Hutt, leaning backward. “And you fear that they will cut their losses. That they will decide that this Jeedai will be pleased if they simply tell it what they know and they can be done with it. That they will lead the Jeedai back to me.”

  “Not that you could not handle it,” said the Klatooinian firmly, “or that the Jeedai and his allies would not fall to your obvious power. But it could affect our work further.”

  The Spice Lord chuckled. “Yes, I see. I do not fear them tracking the spice back to its origins—we have left a tangle of warehouses, drop points, and supply depots throughout the spiral arm. But I appreciate your concern.

  Set up a meeting with the Bomu clan matriarch. Tell her I am pleased with the achievements of her clan and concerned about this most recent threat, and will do whatever I can to help protect her. Go yourself. Make it clear to her that the protection of the Spice Lord is upon you. I will protect you as you seek to protect me.”

  Koax smiled, her gemmed eye glittering in the wash of the Spice Lord’s image. “I will protect you,” she said, reassured and at peace. “It is as you wish.”

  “It is as I wish,” said the Spice Lord, and terminated the connection with a tap of a stubby finger against the side of the hokuum. Koax had served long and well, but she had clearly been rattled. And she had been concealing the worst of the news from her master. Her actions could be corrected, but the nervousness she now exuded could spread like a disease among those she dealt with, into the rank and file.

  What Koax did not know was that not all of the spice shortages came from the Jeedai’s actions. More was being shuttled elsewhere, through other pipelines. The Bomu clan had been overexposed through their vendetta, raising their profile to the point that others were paying attention now. That was bad business. Better to close down this less profitable operation and move on.

  And if Koax was one of the casualties of that change, it would be regretted, but it would not stop a good Hutt from making the decision.

  The Spice Lord snapped thick fingers, and a jade-green droid moved out of the shadows. “I think,” said the Hutt, “that it is time to deliver a message of our own.”

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  DEALINGS

  The outermost moon of Bosph was a moon only out of pity, a mere chunk of rock that was the remains of a larger chunk of rock that had been blasted apart in a forgotten war. It was far from the planet and far from the primary, and was as desolate a spot as one could wish for, far from the populated space lanes of the galaxy.

  It was the perfect place for Morga Bunna, retired Bosph bounty hunter, to set up his supply depot.

  The tides of trade were fickle, Morga knew. A seller might want to hold on to an item until he found the proper buyer. Unfortunately, such an item could be rather warm to hold on to, sometimes being as hot as the surface of a sun. And the seller may not want to meet directly with the buyer. And that was where Morga Bunna’s depot came in useful. It served both as a cache point for particularly hot items, and as a trading post for individuals who did not want to deal face-to-face.

  Over time, Morga had burrowed through the moon-let, carving out halls and passages and storage rooms, as well as building himself a translucent pleasure dome along one side. There were things that had been there for years, their original owners having forgotten about them or died. And there were other materials that moved smoothly as the tides favored their sale and they were shipped out.

 
; Yet Morga Bunna did not become an old Bosph by being a fool, and he was prepared when a ship identifying itself as the New Ambition contacted him through a channel that only clients should have, requesting a meeting.

  The New Ambition landed on one of the transport pads, little more than level spots on the moon, while droids maneuvered access tubes to the ship’s air locks. Three individuals left the ship, as he had been warned—a Bothan, a Pantoran, and a Jedi. He met them beneath the transparisteel dome at the heart of his complex.

  To the new arrivals, Morga looked like any prosperous and respected Bosph—his four arms inscribed with the star maps that recorded his travels, his slender horns tipped with gold, his compound eyes newly washed and gleaming, his robes of the finest quality. He stood calmly in the center of his small dome, surrounded by native plants of his homeworld, growing under radiation lights. The oppulent garden space was flanked by balconies leading off into other parts of his den.

  Morga rocked back and forth as the three approached. “Welcome to my humble shop,” he said. “Are you the Jedi called Mander Zuma?”

  The human nodded, and motioned to the others. “These are my companions, Eddey Be’ray and Reen Irana. I must confess that I am surprised by your allowing us to land.”

  “Civilization reaches out even to the darkest corners of space,” said Morga. “I would offer a libation, but I don’t know your preferences, and to be honest I hope that this exchange will be brief.”

  “You know my name,” said Mander. “Do you know why we’re here?”

  “I can guess,” said Morga Bunn. “I know your name, and those of your companions, because you have been tearing through the space between Hutt Space and the Corporate Sector, discomforting a lot of my normal clients. This has been both good and bad for me, as there have been those who have come to me to extract their supplies, and others who have sought to hide them here.”

  “We are here about Tempest spice,” said the Pantoran.

  The Bosph raised all four arms. “Fresh out,” he said. “Oh yes, I had some in. Quite a bit of it. But when news began to spread of you destroying stocks of Tempest wherever you found them, well, I sent what I had on, and refused all new contracts.” He proffered a data cube. “Here are the transaction notes, for what good it will do you.”

  Mander took the small cube as if it were a crystal of Tempest itself. “You realize, of course, we need to be able to confirm this.”

  “Yes,” said the Bosph, “just as you realize that I must refuse. I have no problem giving you what I have to send you on your way, but if you stick your nostrils in the rest of my business, I am afraid I must draw a line.”

  “I think you want to tell me,” said Mander.

  Morga Bunna staggered back half a step, as if Mander threatened to strike him. He raised a tattooed hand to his forehead and shook his horned head. Then he let out a deep sigh. “There is no need to use your warlock ways, Jedi. There is nothing I can tell you. All of my deliveries, going in and going out, are by blind drops. And they change shipping schedules regularly. And within the last few weeks, shippers as well. You can fire your jets for years without getting any closer to touching the Spice Lord.”

  “We could take your computers and find out for ourselves,” said Reen, clearly frustrated now.

  “You could,” said the Bosph, “but I would not recommend it.” He snapped a set of fingers, and along the balconies now stood a squad of black-garbed mercenaries, their carbines drawn and aimed at the three newcomers.

  “They arrived three days ago,” said Morga Bunna. “They had been hired through one of those aforementioned blind drops, with orders to come here and offer whatever help they could muster. I welcomed them, of course, much like I welcome you. It gets lonely out here in space, and any company is welcome.”

  Mander frowned at Morga Bunna. “I think you should have them put down their weapons, and we will talk about your dealings with this Spice Lord.” Strangely, his suggestion lacked even the slightest hint of the Force.

  “There are only three of you,” Morga Bunna scoffed. “You are outnumbered. I implore you to return to your ship before they get nervous and open fire.”

  “We haven’t gotten what we came for,” said Mander. His hand drifted to his lightsaber, but he shot a look at Reen. She shook her head, and he nodded.

  “For that I am sorry, but you must go,” said the Bosph. “This is too big for just three people.”

  “We know,” said the Jedi.

  “That’s why we brought reinforcements.”

  There was an explosion and the entire moon seemed to list briefly to the right. Morga looked up and gasped, as the hulk of the CSA ship Resolute hung above them, like a hammer ready to strike. The great looming ship swarmed with IRDs, and even now shuttles were deploying to the surface.

  The mercenaries looked around, and for a moment Morga was afraid that they would try to fire through the dome. Their weapons would not be able to punch through the reinforced transparisteel, but he had no doubts that the ship’s turbolasers would have no such problems. He gave the order for the mercenaries to stand down; slowly, they obeyed.

  “You have me at a disadvantage,” said the Bosph. “But as I said, I have no information on the Spice Lord that can help you. The one you seek speaks to very few as I understand it, and the deliveries he stored here come from a variety of sources. I fear that I am a dead end.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Reen. “Can you tell us where to find the leader of the Bomu clan?”

  “Ah,” said the Bosph, looking up at the towering shape of the Resolute, dwarfing his little moon. “There, I believe I can help you.”

  “The Bosph is telling the truth,” said Angela Krin. “We did a scan on his data drives, and the bulk of his business is through blind drops. No identifier as to what ships stop here or who is paying the bills. There is simply no other data than pickups and deliveries.”

  The four of them were sitting in the commander’s briefing room once more. Angela Krin punched a few more glyphs on her desk, and several items appeared in the holographic stream—jewelry, weapons, and even a small starship. “We did, however, find a number of items belonging to CSA citizens.”

  “I think you’re within your rights repossessing those and returning them to their true owners,” said Mander Zuma. “But you should let him go on the rest. He was straightforward with us.”

  “A true man of his word,” said Angela Krin, sarcasm in her voice. “But yes, we are far outside of our patrol area, and a larger incident would raise questions back at headquarters. Still, I did get an interesting message when you were talking to the Bosph. Let me play it.”

  She shifted a few more toggles, and the full form of Mika Anjiliac appeared on the screen.

  “To Lieutenant Commander Angela Krin, House Anjiliac bears greetings and hopes that you are in contact with Mander Zuma and his people. Our clan is rebuilding in the wake of the deaths of my father and brother. Much remains to be done. Vago is still missing, and I fear the worst. However, one of our traders found this droid in a spaceport.”

  Mika stood to one side, and an H-3PO unit shuffled into view. Even in the blue static of the holofield, it was clear that it was one of Vago’s protocol droids.

  “Very important,” said the droid. “Very important, very important, very important. I must get back.”

  “It was badly damaged, and most of its memory units were scrambled,” said Mika as a Twi’lek led the droid away. “But from what we can gather, Vago is meeting with the head of the Bomu clan. I cannot go myself, but I know that you will be interested.

  “I hope this helps, Angela Krin,” the Hutt concluded, “and I wish you the best of luck.”

  And with that the transmission returned to static.

  “He sent us the coordinates where the droid was found,” said the lieutenant commander. “Vago is apparently on …”

  “Dennogra,” said Reen, cutting the CSA officer off. “She is on Dennogra.”

  Angela Krin
halted, her mouth open in surprise. Then she scowled and nodded. “How did …?”

  “Morga Bunna,” said Mander. “We could not track where the Spice Lord is, but Reen thought to ask where someone who might know was.”

  “So we have two leads that take us to Dennogra,” said Eddey. “Trap?”

  “Likely,” said Mander. “But the question is, for whom?”

  “The droid was sent to Mika,” said Angela Krin. “An opportunity to lead him into the krayt’s den?”

  Mander stroked his chin. “I don’t know. But I do know one way to find out.”

  Reen nodded and rose. Angela Krin said, “Keep me informed. I have to bring the Resolute back from this ‘extended drill’ and smooth a few ruffled Corporate feathers. Bringing back some lost treasures will help to a great degree.”

  Eddey stood up. “One more thing, Commander. Can you punch up that molecular map of the Tempest and the Endregaad plague for me?”

  Krin ran her fingers over the desk, and the two images spun above its surface. “Here they are. We are still checking white dwarves, but haven’t come up with any good candidates.”

  “That’s okay,” Eddey said. “What I am looking for is here.” He pointed at another loop of molecules in the plague. “Can you compare it with similar chains, and figure out where it comes from?”

  Angela Krin said, “I can get some lab techs working on it. It shouldn’t be too hard.”

  “What are you thinking about?” Mander asked Eddey.

  “A hunch,” said the Bothan, shrugging. “In the meantime, we have a date on Dennogra.”

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  THE RODIAN MATRIARCH

  “The problem with your people,” Hedu, matriarch of the Bomu clan, said in Huttese, “is that you think the Hutts are gods.”

  Koax bristled at the frail, ancient Rodian’s words, but replied, “And by ‘your people’ you mean …”