Shield of Lies

by Michael P. Kube-Mcdowell

  “Li Stonn.”

  “Li Stonn, walking through that door is going to be one of the best decisions you ever made. When you leave us, you’re going to leave satisfied—but you’re not going to want to leave, because we have everything. Did you see something particular that you were interested in? Don’t be shy about asking—”

  Luke pointed upward. “You had an ad up just a few moments ago. Something about the lost secrets of the Jedi—”

  “Oh, excellent choice—a real find. We just added that to our catalog, and it’s already a best-seller. Absolutely authentic material, answers all the questions we all have about the secret masters of the galaxy.” The hook pressed a bright blue tab the same size and shape as the credit tab into Luke’s hand. “For security reasons, all our sensitive documents are available only at our central archives location. Just give these tabs to any trading agent when you arrive. Would you like a courtesy cab?”

  Dual display screens in the back of the cab subjected Luke to a concentrated dose of Galactic Archives advertising—advertising that seemed to be tailored to the request he had made at the satellite shop.

  The offerings included Emperor Palpatine’s Principles of Power, a private publication for Imperial Moffs; the Sith book of offerings and rituals; the H’kig book of laws; and the secrets of forming Bilar-type claqa group-minds, among others—with a special discount if Luke took any three or more. Most of the documents were undoubtedly frauds, and none tempted Luke beyond idle curiosity over the skillfulness of the fraud.

  When Luke reached the traders’ central site, negotiating the price of his purchase required most of an hour, two attempts to leave empty-handed, and a promise to bring a friend back to The Galactic Archives with him. The final agreement brought the price down from two thousand credits for the Jedi file to nine hundred for the file and a pocket datapad.

  By then night had settled solidly over Talos, and the bustle of activity had shifted away from the commerce district, leaving the flyways and walks there nearly empty. Luke walked west, drawn by a bright nightglow in the sky. Twice he was approached from the shadows, but the weak minds of his would-be attackers were easily influenced by a simple projection of doubt, and they retreated to await easier prey.

  The nightglow came from the lights of a sprawling and boisterous entertainment district, The Revels. He could hear that it was well named long before he reached the district boundary and paid the general admission. The walks were jostling-full with visitors bent on pleasure, and the air was full of loud voices, laughter, and the music escaping from dozens of rec centers, casinos, and club bars.

  Li Stonn wandered The Revels looking for a place to sit undisturbed and read about The Secrets of Jedi Power. Luke Skywalker wandered The Revels listening, watching, and trying to understand what drew so many and stirred in them such a desperately fevered energy. With the effects of his exercises lingering, the pleasures offered on the banner displays of the clubs and rec centers seemed shallow and uninviting.

  Be a pirate for a night at Tawntoom Territory—

  Play Point 5 where it was invented! New games every five minutes! Ninety-percent payoffs!

  Near-Death Experiences! Walk Right to the Edge with our Master Torturers and Million-Credit Insurance!

  Melee!—Any Weapon, Any Target! The Ultimate Personal Combat Simulator!

  The Daughters of the Empath Princess Know Exactly What You Need—

  Arena Shock-Ball—Now with Ultracharge!

  Li Stonn was no more interested than Luke. But there were no places to sit outdoors—not even a half-wall or a ledge—and no peace from the crowd or the hookmen. The managers of The Revels had cannily decided that if a visitor needed to rest, it should be somewhere indoors, where the average seat turned a hundred credits an hour in drinks, food, and services.

  Facing that prospect, Luke decided to leave The Revels and return to the docking bay. It was possible that Akanah had already returned—and if she had not, he would at least have quiet for his reading.

  But making his way to the outgate, Luke turned a corner and was taken aback by the brilliantly lit exterior of a club bar called Jabba’s Throne Room. Performing Nightly—The Original Max Rebo Band, said the scroll. Visit Jabba’s Guest Quarters with a Pleasure Slave. Face the Mighty Rancor in the Pit of Death—

  Driven by an outraged curiosity, Luke joined the line and paid the membership charge without haggling. Inside, he descended a curving flight of stairs into a remarkably faithful copy of the throne room in Jabba’s desert palace on Tatooine. Some of the dimensions had been stretched to accommodate more tables in front of the bandstand and around the rancor pit, but the architecture and atmosphere were authentic.

  “Why, it’s just like the Palace Museum,” Li Stonn said to the tall and elegantly dressed Twi’lek barring the way at the bottom of the stairs.

  “I’m afraid my master Jabba is away on business,” said the Bib Fortuna look-alike, nodding toward the empty dais. “But I’m having a little party in his absence, and I hope you’ll enjoy yourself.” His head-tails stirred in signal, and one of the scantily clad dancing girls hurried to him.

  “Yes, Lord Fortuna,” the server said.

  “Oola, this is a friend of mine,” said the major-domo. “Treat him well. Find him a seat at my best table.”

  The same fiction was carried through everywhere else—an Ortolan keyboardist leading a jizz-wailer trio on the bandstand, the roaring of the rancor underfoot, an annoying Kowakian monkey-lizard skittering around the room stealing food and cackling rudely, even a carbon-frozen Han Solo hanging in the display alcove. But a busy kitchen was concealed down the corridor to the servant’s quarters, and the price card “Oola” left for him included various services available upstairs in the guest quarters and downstairs in Jabba’s dungeon.

  It was tasteless and exploitative, but the music was surprisingly agreeable, the roast nerf was tantalizing, and the clientele was markedly more subdued than their counterparts out on the walks. Li Stonn ordered a drink and the executioner’s cut of nerf, refused all other offers with a polite smile, and settled in to discover the truth quotient of The Secrets of the Jedi.

  Shortly after his meal arrived, Luke’s consciousness was pricked by hearing a familiar name spoken at a nearby table: Leia’s. He looked up, fearing that the evening’s entertainment at Jabba’s Throne Room would be a dance by a slave-girl-Leia look-alike. But the band was on a break and the transparisteel dance platform over the rancor pit deserted.

  Luke extended his awareness, seeking the voice and the conversation that had intruded.

  “This’ll lead to war,” the woman was saying. “And bravo for that. The Republic has every right to slap the Yevetha down for what they’ve done.”

  “That’s nonsense,” her companion—a slender Lafran—retorted. “It’s like going into someone else’s home to break up an argument. Completely inappropriate.”

  “We’re not talking about an argument. We’re talking about murder.”

  “It’s still their business, not ours.”

  “You can’t just let them get away with murder.”

  “What does it matter to us what anyone does outside our borders? If we try to police the whole galaxy, we’ll always be at war. Organa Solo should just grow up and accept that the universe is an imperfect place.”

  “That’s awfully cold,” the woman said. “It sounds like if you heard me screaming next door, you’d just complain about having your sleep disturbed.”

  “We’re all responsible for protecting ourselves—and no one else,” the Lafran said, shrugging. “We have no business going into Farlax to pick a fight over someone else’s business. If a single Fleet pilot dies there, the Princess should be put on trial—for murder and treason.”

  That brought a chilly end to the conversation. The woman left the club alone; shortly after, the Lafran disappeared up the stairs leading to the guest quarters. Luke returned his attention to his meal.

  But when “Oola” came
by with an unordered second drink, Li Stonn asked if it would be possible to get a newsrecord on the troubles in Farlax. She smiled as though he had asked a foolish question, and returned with it before the last bite of nerf disappeared. The price of that convenience was added to his bill as a stiff service charge, along with the cost of the drink.

  Shortly after, a holographic Jabba made an appearance on the dais above the main floor. That signaled the start of an elaborately scripted show that promised to involve not only “Bib Fortuna” and the dancers, but additional actors and the audience as well.

  Luke took that as his cue to leave. His decision was affirmed when, climbing up the curving stairs to the street, he encountered the bounty hunter Boushh coming down them with an unconvincing Chewbacca in tow.

  “Aren’t you a little short for a Wookiee?” he muttered under his breath as they passed.

  When Luke reached the docking bay, the door was still locked, the skiff was still secure, and Akanah was still away. Nor was there any sign she had returned and left again. Checking the chronometers, he found that she had been gone more than sixteen hours.

  Where are you? he thought. What are you doing so long out there? You have so little money, and asked me for none—and that’s all this place respects—

  But Luke resisted the impulse to collect his lightsaber and head off in the direction of the Pemblehov District. Climbing up to the Mud Sloth’s flight deck, he settled in the flight couch with his reader and two expensive data cards. As the balance of the night slowly ground by, he diverted himself with absurdities about the Jedi and the troubling news about what sounded like a coming war—hoping that wherever they were at that moment, neither Akanah nor Leia needed his help more than she needed him to stay away.

  Akanah stood before the housing block known as Atrium 41 and viewed it with dismay.

  Even in the forgiving early-morning light, the fifteen-level tower looked like a home for people who had made a habit of leaving everything they had in the casinos. Every other letter was missing from the unlit sign, and the entry arch’s security doors were propped open with metal bars. There was an unpleasant smell in the air that seemed to arise from the sun shining on the stone.

  Akanah’s journey to reach this point had taken her through dozens of shabby clubs, shops, and nightspots in the second-tier outer districts of Talos—the optimistically named New Marketplace, the tawdry flesh auction that was Pemblehov, the rough-tempered Demon’s Lair. She had bought and traded information as she could, walked long distances on now aching feet, fended off three attacks and at least twenty propositions without drawing blood, and been granted an unexpected measure of compassion by a street captain, who gave her a sheltered place to rest without expecting anything in return.

  Now she stood before her objective brushing a streak of alley grime from the sleeve of her dar-cloak and trying to fight off disappointment. She found herself hoping that her last informant had lied to her—it would be better to be played for a fool than to have to accept this as the truth. It was that hope, as much as anything, that finally moved her forward through the entrance arch.

  The tower’s atrium was barely deserving of the name. Just four meters across and ten meters long, it was more truly an open stairwell with a skylight at the top. Metal-grate balconies with bent and broken railings circled the atrium on each level, linked up and down with companionways at the narrow end. Triangular doors aping the gratings led to each level’s four apartments.

  Akanah made her way to the third level unmolested, but there her way was blocked by a gray-furred Gotal wearing a black Imperial Navy officer’s tunic with a blaster hole scorched through it, and a vibroblade slung in a smuggler-style hip belt.

  “Nice trophy,” Akanah said. “Vice admiral, isn’t it? Did you take him yourself?”

  The Gotal answered with a wordless growl. “What’s your business?”

  “Does Joreb Goss live here?”

  “Who asks?”

  “I am Akanah.”

  “Who sends you here?”

  “I am here on my own, on business of my own, in search of Joreb Goss.”

  “Master Joreb owns all of this, and by his graciousness allows his friends and servants the comforts of his domain. Are you to be one of his girls?”

  “Yes,” Akanah said. “I am.”

  “You’re early,” the Gotal said. “Don’t be disturbing the Master. Wait in the playroom for the others.”

  “I’m not part of the morning auditions,” Akanah said, growing impatient. She washed the Current gently across the Gotal’s sensitive head-cone receptors, hoping to make him more pliant. “Take me to him, please.”

  “When the Master rises, I will tell him that the woman Akanah comes, asking after him on business of her own,” said the guard. “He will decide what meaning that has to him.” The Gotal pointed at a door one level up on the opposite side. “Wait there.”

  Joreb Goss had the swagger of petty self-importance and the presence of someone who believed he was the power in the room. Tall and trim, with pale blue eyes in a lined but otherwise unmarked face, Joreb was handsome despite his age. His long, thick silver hair was swept back to a vertical comb and hung to the small of his back.

  But his mock flight suit was gaudy and cheap, his black boots buffed to an unlikely shine. His smile had the same false cast, and those alert blue eyes appraised Akanah familiarly before meeting her gaze.

  “So you are my visitor,” Joreb said.

  “No,” Akanah said, holding herself erect. “I’m your daughter.”

  Joreb’s eyes widened, but he said nothing at first. Clasping one wrist behind his back, he circled her slowly. “My daughter,” he repeated. “Who is your mother?”

  “My mother was Isela Talsava Norand,” Akanah said. “She’s dead now.”

  Completing his circuit, Joreb stopped facing Akanah and leaned in toward her. “I don’t know this name,” he said. “What is it you want, daughter of Isela?”

  “That you not lie to me,” Akanah said. “You knew my mother well—let me remind you when. You met her on Praidaw, came to live with her on Gavens, where she had a house in Torlas—the house in which I was born. You moved with us to Lucazec. And within the year, you left us there.”

  “You speak of things older than my memories,” Joreb said. “How am I to know the truth of them?”

  “What do you mean?” Akanah said, a sudden flare of anger in her eyes and her tone. “I was the child, not you. I’m the one who had to learn about you in a story told by my mother.”

  “I have not heard this story,” said Joreb. “Perhaps you will tell it to me.”

  “I came so far to find you,” she said in a small voice. “How can you be so cold to me—”

  “You are not unattractive, and perhaps there is something about your eyes I find familiar,” Joreb said. “But, you see, I have developed a fondness for Rokna blue.” HIs tone was sorrowfully apologetic. “Do you know it?”

  “It’s a deadly poison,” Akanah said. “From a tree fungus that grows on Endor.”

  Joreb brought one hand forward and waggled a finger at her. “Yes, that’s right—Endor. I had forgotten. But you see, Rokna blue is not so deadly as some think. The smallest amount brings an exquisite state of bliss. It magnifies all other pleasures for hours—indescribable. You must try it to know. I would be happy to stand you to your first—”

  “No, thank you,” Akanah said curtly. “What does this have to do with your memory?”

  Joreb looked momentarily lost. “What—Ah, yes. I was saying, in the proper doses—a microgram, no more—the blue is not deadly. But it still does demand a price for its blessings.”

  “A price?”

  Joreb touched his temple with two fingers of his left hand. “My memories do not go back even as much as a year. Everything is new to me. No, do not pity me—I have chosen to live in a vivid present rather than hold on to what is now the forgotten past.”

  Akanah wore her horror openly. “How co
uld you make such a choice?”

  A smile spread slowly across Joreb’s face. “Bliss beyond imagining,” he said. “I could show you.”

  “No,” she said firmly.

  Joreb shrugged. “I find your choice as puzzling as you find mine. Do you have memories worth treasuring? It seems I did not.”

  “I would have treasured them,” she said, and tears ran freely from her eyes. “I came here to find my father. What am I to do now?”

  “You can stay if you like,” he offered. “There are rooms open on the upper levels. Or, at least, I think there still are. Trass will know for certain. But I’m afraid I will never be able to add anything to the story your mother told you. You may be my daughter, as you say,” Joreb said, then shook his head regretfully. “But I am not your father.”

  Chapter Nine

  Akanah returned to Docking Bay A13 twenty-two hours after she had left it, her face pale, her clothing dirty, her eyes dull. “They aren’t here,” she said wearily as she climbed into the skiff, waking Luke from an unplanned nap in the pilot’s couch. “We can go.”

  Then, without saying anything more, she tried to crawl into the bunk and draw the curtain against Luke. But he followed close behind her, unwilling to settle for so little after so long.

  “Go where?” he said, catching the curtain with a hand and throwing it aside. “Did you find anything?”

  “I found enough,” Akanah said, turning her back to him. “I’ll tell you when we’re outbound.”

  “You said you’d come back for me. I’d like to see the scribing. I’d like to see where they lived. There might be something I can pick up.”

  “I’m too tired,” she said.

  “You’re a mess, too, but I’m not keeping score,” Luke said. “Look, I paid to have the shower cleaned. I think you should go make it dirty again, and we’ll talk after. You’ll feel better, no matter what comes next.”