One Too Many
11:03 standard local time
"For stars' sake," Obi-Wan muttered, massaging his temple as the pulsing cacophony carried on and on. "Anakin."
The boy was as discreet as a rabid gundark. The bleeping of his comlink was barely audible over the pandemonium echoing across the entire spaceport. He ducked inside the port authority office, waving the transparent panel shut behind him.
"Kenobi."
Anakin's voice came out garbled amid the strident blaring of three dozen security alarms. "…..Chimera…. Ordennian, class beta… pretty beat to the hells, I don't think…."
With a heavy sigh, the Jedi master thumbed the device to standby and shoved it back in a belt pouch, mentally appending failed to teach Padawan benefits of subtle approach to his ever-growing litany of personal regrets.
"Can I help you, General?" the droid-on-duty intoned.
Just his luck. The office of port authority had been delegated to an automaton, who – it was to be noted – did not require the inconveniences of a salary and benefits.
"Ah yes – I need to know if anyone matching the description of this individual has docked a ship here in the last standard week." He displayed a holo-image over his compact projector, watching the thing's optic receptors glint as it analyzed the shimmering portrait.
"I am sorry, Master Jedi, but the records are strictly confidential. Without a Senate Security Committee warrant, I cannot release that information to you."
Obi-Wan pushed his first impulsive thought about bureaucrats into a small and strictly repressed corner of his psyche and instead focused upon his second impulsive thought : the confounded thing about droids was their invulnerability to mind tricks.
He decided to change tactics. "In that case, I suppose I will be paying my bill and moving along. How much do I owe?"
The droid whirred and consulted its datapad. "Ship class and registration number?"
"Ordennian Chimera… I seem to have forgotten the number."
The droid obligingly pulled up several scrolling hologram fields in midair. They flew by too fast for the human eye to read, even with the Force's aid. "There is only one Chimera registered here at present. You have prepaid for a class C berth until tomorrow at noon. There is no outstanding balance."
"No, that can't be right," he protested. "My credit account doesn't show any transfers." The wonderful thing about droids was their inane sense of infallibility; an affronted droid would argue with anyone about anything, far past the point at which a living person would have stalked away in a huff or grown suspicious.
"No, that is correct," it sniffed. "My records indicate that you have paid for a berth already. Two hundred twelve credits including customs and usage fees."
"No, there must be a mistake. I haven't paid." It was uncompassionate to torment another sentient being, he chided himself. But a droid was only technically a sentient being.
If an only technically sentient being could look offended, this one would have. Its professional competence was under severe censure, and it rose to the defense, blunt digits flying over the datapad's input surface. "No, your transaction cleared Muniliist Mutual Branch 12765, confirmation sequence 2H7903B640DN."
"I'm sorry…. What was that again?"
He entered the data onto his own 'pad and feigned crestfallen realization. "Oh.. yes. I see now. You were right after all."
"Of course I was," it huffed. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"No, no – I would not wish to put you to any further trouble. I'm sure you have confidential business to attend."
"Yes, indeed," the thing agreed stiffly, as oblivious to irony as it was to subtle persuasion.
11: 29 standard local time
"So, what'chya come up with?" Anakin rolled back smugly on his heels.
"I have a transaction code for a bank account," Obi-Wan informed him. "And a headache, thanks to you."
"That's the drinks, master - not my fault you're a lightweight. And I did better in the espionage department, too.."
"Oh?"
The younger man crossed his arms in imitation of his mentor's dubious posture. "Yep. Ground mechanic who came to disable all those security alarms says he saw the owner of the Chimera hobnobbing with a cocktail waitress in the PanGalactic pilots' and officers' lounge. They'll let us in, seeing as we're Grand Generals of the Republic and all."
"One of us is a General, Anakin. The other is a general nuisance."
They fell into step side by side, heading for the spaceliner company's private facilities on the other side of the port. "If it makes you feel any better, I sabotaged his ship just for good measure. Little flamm retardant on the external temperature gauges, and reversed the ion stabilizer input valve. His ignition sequence will stall out automatically, and it'll take him hours to find the problem. He's grounded."
"Why is it," Obi-Wan inquired, "That you excel at destroying and mangling ships, but can't maintain your own in working condition?"
Sore topic, that. Anakin bristled. "If you're dissing the Twilight again, I might ask who borrowed and then proceeded to get her blown to smithereens?"
The Force itself winced. Obi-Wan's expression froze to stone, and he lengthened his stride. Anakin kept pace, grimacing. It had probably been a mistake to mention anything touching on Mandalore.
The officers' lounge was a tastefully appointed and carefully sequestered corner of the PanGalactic corporate headquarters. Plush carpet muffled their footfalls as they entered; gleaming wall panels reflected the muted chandeliers.
"Find the waitress in question," Obi-Wan ordered, off-handed. "You seem to have a way with the ladies."
Never mind that all three female freighter pilots huddled at a tall table in the corner were staring unabashedly at the Jedi master. Anakin scowled. "Where are you going?"
Obi-Wan's brows lifted. "For a drink," he blithely informed his companion, heading jauntily for the bar.