Star Wars: The Old Republic: Revan

by Drew Karpyshyn

  The population seemed to be primarily made up of the red-skinned Sith and humans, all dressed in standardized uniforms or military garb. She noticed a handful of Zabrak and Twi’leks; unlike the Sith and humans they did not wear uniforms, and without exception they were all fitted with shock collars. With a start Meetra realized that the unfortunate slaves were likely descended from prisoners who’d been taken by the Sith a thousand years earlier during the Great Hyperspace War.

  The directions the customs official had given her were simple, and she found her destination without any trouble. From the outside, Larvit’s shop didn’t look like the kind of place one would chose to conduct illegal business. It was situated in the middle of the street, and its window boasted the same official government seal she had noticed on virtually every building she’d passed along the way.

  She stepped into Larvit’s store and made a quick evaluation of her surroundings. It looked like a cross between a pawnshop and a supply post. The tall, gray-haired man behind the counter was wearing a red shirt and black pants, both freshly pressed. On his left shoulder were several bars that probably represented some kind of military rank, and the left breast pocket was emblazoned with the same symbol that adorned his window.

  Meetra had expected to find herself in a shady black-market operation, but clearly she was in some kind of official government-controlled business. Still, she had nowhere else to go, so she marched straight up to the gray-haired man and dumped a handful of gems on the counter.

  “Please present your Imperial identification card—” he started to say, but the routine greeting died in his mouth when he saw the small fortune scattered across his countertop.

  His eyes went wide, first with greed and then with fear. Leaping from behind the counter, he rushed to the front of the shop and quickly closed and locked the door.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded in a low voice, peering through the window to see if anyone had noticed his sudden dash across the store.

  Meetra slowly brought her right hand up to the lightsaber hidden at her belt. “I was told you’re the man to see about business I want to keep off the record.”

  “I am, I am,” Larvit assured her, regaining some of his composure. “But you can’t just toss your stuff out on the counter for anyone to see. What if an Imperial inspector happened to wander in?”

  “Sorry,” Meetra said. “I didn’t realize it was a big deal.”

  Larvit snorted derisively. “Great. A Subjugate. Here’s a tip, off-worlder. Next time you visit Dromund Kaas, learn the customs first.”

  Meetra nodded and let her hand drop, but she remained vigilant.

  “How did you find out about me?” Larvit asked. “Who sent you?”

  “Does it matter?” Meetra replied.

  Larvit shook his head and made his way back over to inspect the stones still sitting atop the counter.

  “Is this the full extent of your collection?” he asked, picking up one of the gems and bringing it up to his aging eye for closer inspection.

  “It’s as much as I’m willing to sell right now.”

  “I understand,” he said with a smile. “Do you need the credits immediately, or can you wait a few weeks?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “I can offer more if you give me time to find the right buyer,” he explained.

  Meetra shook her head. “I don’t have that kind of time.”

  “That is unfortunate,” he said sympathetically. “That will have to be reflected in the price, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m willing to offer seven thousand Imperial credits for the lot,” he said, leaning back and crossing his arms to signify the price was non-negotiable.

  Meetra wasn’t about to fall for such an obvious ploy. Even though she had no concept of what an Imperial credit was actually worth, she had done enough haggling in her day to know that his opening offer was merely a baseline.

  “Twenty thousand,” she countered, knowing it was a ridiculously high number.

  “Even if you could wait to find a buyer I could never go higher than eighteen,” he answered. “I’ll give you ten.”

  “Make it fifteen and I promise I’ll come to you first the next time I’m looking to deal.”

  “I’ll give you twelve,” he said, wagging a finger in her face. “You won’t find anybody else who’ll go higher than eleven!”

  “I’ll sell them for thirteen and some information,” she answered.

  “What kind of information?”

  “I’m looking for someone. A friend. I need the name of a contact who knows how to find people.”

  “People that don’t want to be found?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  The storekeeper crossed his arms again and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Make it twelve-five and we have a deal. I’ll even set up the meeting.”

  Ten minutes later Meetra walked out of his establishment with twelve thousand, five hundred Imperial credits and an appointment to meet someone called Sechel in two days.

  MEETRA WAS SURPRISED by the high-class atmosphere of the Nexus Room.

  Over the past two days she’d come to learn that Imperial society was all about status, caste, and class. Clearly her contact was a being of significant rank.

  She was greeted at the door by a young human male wearing expensive clothes and a prominently displayed slave collar. Larvit must have provided a description of her, because he seemed to know who she was.

  “Welcome to the Nexus Room,” the young man said, casting his gaze respectfully to the ground. “Master Sechel is expecting you.”

  In Meetra’s eyes, slavery was one of the most vile and despicable practices in the galaxy. The Republic had officially condemned slavery, though she knew it still existed under euphemisms like indentured service or lifelong personal attendant. And on Hutt-controlled planets, which were outside Republic jurisdiction, individuals were openly bought and sold like chattel. But somehow what she had encountered on Dromund Kaas seemed much worse.

  In the Sith Empire slavery was a societal institution, governed by laws and regulations and seemingly accepted without question by the citizens. Slaves were symbols of rank; the wealthy and powerful used them as status symbols to be paraded out in front of their peers.

  There was an abject hopelessness in the eyes of the slaves; they were condemned to a lifetime of servitude with no chance of freedom. Even on Hutt worlds slaves could at least dream of one day escaping to the Republic and starting a new life. But in the Sith Empire, slaves had nowhere to run. Every planet would condemn them; at best an escaped slave would be returned to a wrathful owner, or claimed by a new one. Multiple escape attempts were met with public execution—a slow and agonizing death according to what Meetra had seen in the official records from Nathema.

  “Forgive me, mistress,” the young man said, bowing low and folding his hands together in a universal gesture of supplication, “but droids are not allowed inside the club.”

  “Wait here, Tee-Three,” Meetra said. Her voice was sharp as she fought to contain her outrage at the young man’s circumstances. Unfortunately, the slave thought her barely contained anger was directed at him, and he began to tremble.

  She could see the terror in his eyes, and she could only imagine what punishments he would be subjected to if he offended a guest of the club. But he no doubt faced even worse consequences if he were to violate the rules and let T3 accompany her inside.

  She didn’t dare offer him any words of comfort. She couldn’t do anything that might draw attention to herself. So she simply had to let the young man suffer, silently hoping his mental anguish would quickly pass once she went inside.

  “P-please follow me,” he stammered.

  Still trembling, he led her to a table in the back where a Sith in expensive courtier’s clothes was already seated. She could tell by his appearance—and even by the way that he sat—that he was more diplomat than warrior. There was so
mething soft and supple about his appearance; his muscles were not well defined, and he didn’t seem to possess the physical self-awareness common among those who relied on their martial skills to survive. He was clearly part of the aristocracy.

  Meetra made a mental note not to underestimate him; what he lacked in physical prowess he probably more than made up for with intellect and cunning.

  Sechel dismissed the young slave with a disparaging flick of his wrist, then motioned for her to sit down at the table in the chair across from him.

  As she did, he flashed a well-practiced smile and she noticed something odd about his face. In addition to their red skin, the Sith were marked by fleshy tendrils that dangled from cheeks and chin. On Sechel, two of the tendrils were disfigured stumps; it appeared as if they might have been cut off.

  She pulled her focus away from his cheeks and up to his eyes, lest he catch her staring at his deformity.

  “Larvit tells me you are looking for someone,” Sechel said, jumping right to the matter at hand.

  “He said you could help me find him,” Meetra replied.

  “For the right price I can find almost anyone,” Sechel assured her. “And I happen to know you have more than ample funds to cover my costs.”

  “I see Larvit does not believe in discretion when it comes to discussing business matters,” Meetra grumbled.

  “If you didn’t want him to discuss the terms of your deal, you should have negotiated that into the price,” Sechel replied. “Shall I assume you want our discussions to remain private?”

  Meetra nodded, wondering how much of a premium that would be.

  “Tell me about the person you are looking for.”

  “I’m looking for a Sith.”

  Meetra wasn’t foolish enough to admit she was looking for Revan. Without knowing who had taken him or why, even bringing him up would be too great a risk. Thanks to T3’s holorecording, however, she knew what the Sith who had captured him looked like. Hopefully, if she could find his abductor, he might lead her to Revan.

  “Does this Sith have a name?”

  “He probably does, but I don’t know what it is.”

  “Ah, progress,” Sechel said, clapping his hands together and rubbing them in anticipation. “Now we know he is male. Can you provide me a description?”

  “I can do better than that,” she answered, pulling a personal holoprojector from one of her pockets.

  She flicked a switch and it displayed a still image she had copied from T3’s holorecording. The image was carefully cropped to remove all traces of Revan or the Ebon Hawk, leaving only a close-up of the Sith who had taken him.

  Sechel’s reaction to the image was so subtle that Meetra almost didn’t notice it. His eyes widened slightly in recognition; an instinctive, unconscious reaction. It lasted only a fraction of a second, and Meetra was impressed with how well he was able to hide his surprise.

  “Interesting,” the Sith said, pretending to study the picture. “He appears to be a Sith Lord. That means I will have to charge extra.”

  There was no doubt in Meetra’s mind that Sechel knew exactly who the Sith Lord was, but she thought there was more benefit to playing along than calling him on his lie.

  “I need to speak with him on an urgent matter.”

  “Perhaps if you tell me the nature of your business, it will help me track him down. Is he a friend? An enemy?”

  “Not a friend, exactly,” Meetra said evasively. “But certainly not an enemy. He has information about a private matter that I wish to discuss.”

  “Keeping information from me will make my job more difficult,” Sechel warned her. “It will drive up the price substantially.”

  “You already know I can pay,” she reminded him. “My business will remain private.”

  “If I do locate this being, what should I tell him?”

  Meetra hesitated. She didn’t know the exact nature of the relationship between Sechel and the mysterious Sith. If they were friends, he wouldn’t simply tell her where to find him. Not without warning him first.

  “I would like you to set up a meeting between us,” she said finally, hoping her answer was vague enough that Sechel might still suspect she didn’t mean the other Sith any harm.

  “A private meeting, yes?” he asked with a smile.

  Meetra nodded.

  “Very well,” he said. “I will try to locate him and offer to set up a meeting. Of course, I can make no promise that he’ll agree to see you.”

  “It’s in his best interest,” Meetra said. “I’m sure you can be very convincing.”

  “Certainly. But that also costs extra.”

  Meetra sighed wearily. “How much?”

  “Five thousand credits.”

  Sechel proved to be a much shrewder negotiator than Larvit; he knew he had all the leverage. In the end they settled on four thousand credits, much closer to his opening offer than Meetra had originally intended.

  She rose to leave the table, then was hit by a sudden inspiration. “How much to purchase the slave at the door?” she asked.

  If she could buy the young man, she could give him his freedom.

  “If you are interested in purchasing slaves, you’ll find a much better selection in the city’s central market,” he assured her.

  “I’m interested in him specifically,” she said.

  “Why?”

  There was no mistaking the sudden suspicion in Sechel’s voice, and Meetra knew she had misplayed her hand.

  “I like his look,” she said with a coy smile.

  “You can hire his services by speaking with the concierge of the club,” he said.

  “That’s something I’ll have to look into,” she said, her heart sinking as she realized she could do nothing for the young man now.

  Sechel wouldn’t just forget about her unusual interest in an otherwise anonymous slave. If she did anything to help him win his freedom, it would certainly get back to Sechel, and she couldn’t risk blowing her cover.

  “Would you like me to have him escort you out?” Sechel offered.

  “Thank you,” she said, grinning lasciviously.

  The young man was summoned to the table, and she could feel his fear at being singled out by the woman he thought he had offended earlier. He didn’t speak as he led her to the door, where T3 was waiting for them.

  “It was our pleasure to serve you, mistress,” he said, his voice cracking.

  “Everything was satisfactory,” she said, her voice dripping with disdain and contempt.

  The slave bowed and backed away, obviously relieved at what he perceived to be a more normal reaction from a patron of the club. Once he vanished back inside, Meetra spun on her heel and walked away quickly, anxious to put the club behind her.

  T3 scurried to keep up, beeping out a question.

  “We’re getting closer,” she promised him. Then she added, “The sooner we’re off this accursed world the better.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  YOU WILL UNDERSTAND IN TIME.

  Back in his private quarters, Scourge tried to push the last words of his most recent conversation with Revan from his mind, but they kept returning.

  It had been almost a week since he’d walked out on Revan, abandoning him to suffer the torments of his solitary confinement. They had been talking about visions: how the Force could speak to you if you listened; how it could show you visions of your possible future.

  The Jedi had implied that he had witnessed something to do with his eventual release from Nyriss’s prison, but Scourge knew better than to take anything the captive said at face value.

  Revan was smart. Even as Scourge used him to learn about the Force, the Jedi was trying to manipulate Scourge into helping him escape. It was possible everything he’d said had been nothing but lies. It was also possible he had been telling the truth. Maybe he really had seen something that gave him hope of escape.

  Scourge knew he should tell Nyriss about this latest development, but so far he h
ad kept silent on the matter. If she knew, there was a strong chance she would simply decide to execute Revan rather than allow him any opportunity to escape.

  And that was the real problem. If Revan died, did any real chance of stopping the Emperor die with him? When the Jedi said Nyriss would never step forward to lead the others against the Emperor, the words rang true. Revan, on the other hand, had already proved he was both eager and willing to stop the Sith from invading the Republic. He had hinted at an alliance between them, and as ridiculous as it might have seemed at first, Scourge couldn’t help but see some merit in the idea.

  They shared a strong commitment to a common goal; alliances had been forged on far less. But agreeing to work with the Jedi wouldn’t just mean freeing him from his cell. It would mean a betrayal of Nyriss, and Scourge wasn’t ready to take on both her and the Emperor quite yet.

  Especially when all of this was predicated on an alleged Force vision of Revan’s that might not actually have existed.

  The sharp knock on his door came as a relief. His mind was running in circles; it would be good to have something to distract him.

  When he opened the door, he was surprised to see Sechel standing on the other side. For the most part, the sycophantic Sith had avoided him for the last three years, partly out of fear and partly because Nyriss had forbidden him from seeking vengeance for the brutal interrogation that had left him scarred for life.

  There had been occasions where they had been forced to work together on some task or mission for Nyriss, but the innate mistrust all Sith had of one another had escalated between them to the point that it actually impacted their ability to work effectively together. It hadn’t taken long for Nyriss to realize their talents were put to better use independently.

  “Why are you here?” Scourge asked.

  “I have news you will be interested in,” Sechel replied, smiling in a way that made Scourge want to strangle him.

  “Did Nyriss send you?”

  “I am here of my own volition.”