Hutt Space. Nar Shaddaa. Business Sector. Bounty Hunters' Guild Headquarters.
"Of course, Madam," the glossy, red protocol droid answered Risk eagerly. "If you would be so kind as to swipe your guild card for me." It gestured stiffly toward the desk's sole prominent feature. As the guild receptionist, the droid had no need of flimsies or a personal terminal. It also could easily be repaired in the event of a visit from an unsatisfied client. The multitude of scratches on his plating suggested that such visits might be a regular occurrence.
Risk slid her counterfeit card through the reader, disguising her uncertainty with boredom. Bina had made the credentials' weakness abundantly clear: Risk could pose as Ryal Solum indefinitely—until the real Solum swiped her real card at any guild office or in any Imperial Security Post.
Solum hadn't used the card in three months, checked in rarely, and seemed to only hunt bounties when it suited her. It was the best Bina could do.
A tiny light on the card reader flickered white as data bounced along network links. After a few agonizing seconds, it glowed a steady green. "Ms. Solum, Guildmaster Cradossk is waiting for you in his office. Please, use one of our complimentary weapons lockers and we will be on our way."
Risk waved off the droid-receptionist. "I don't need a complimentary locker today, thanks." The combination of her unreliable credentials and the lucrative bounty she wore around her neck made disarming sound more than unappealing.
The droid shuffled around his anachronistic desk and addressed her again, his golden eyes glowing. "Madam, the weapons lockers are both complimentary and mandatory." He raised his arms at the elbow, as if expecting to shake both her hands at once. Instead, the droid's forearms split along a hidden seam and revealed a pair of nasty built-in blaster rifles.
Risk lifted her hands in surrender and stepped over to the lockers. "I see your point."
"Do not forget your key. I assure you that your weapons will not be disturbed until three months after your demise—should you choose to leave them with us." He recited the Guild's policy as if it were a cheerful marketing screed.
Risk wondered if the guild's doorway weapon scanners could detect her lightsaber as she stole a glance over her shoulder at the droid. She hooked her elbow into the drape of her cloak and used it to cover the locker as she obediently placed her entire private arsenal inside.
The receptionist's weaponry retracted amicably and he led her into the oddly professional central guild office. Risk would probably have been more interested in the unexpected corporate decor if she hadn't been preoccupied by the uncomfortable lightness of being unarmed.
Disarmament complete, Risk was free to address the key inconsistency, "I thought I was meeting with the council."
"Ms. Solum, Guildmaster Cradossk is waiting for you in his office," the droid repeated. He showed her to a large set of black double doors and bowed graciously before he shuffled off to resume his duties.
Risk glared at his oblivious, shiny back and mentally discharged a bit of lingering resentment over her absent weaponry. The emotion was misplaced, and she didn't care.
The doors parted to reveal a bright office caught in the height of a colorful Nar Shaddaa sunset. Risk's eyes were dazzled by the light streaming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows and she was forced to pause in the doorway to adjust to the scene.
"Enter," said the office's sole occupant, in the Trandoshan tongue. Risk could follow the language well enough to understand the invitation. Fortunately, anyone as business-minded as Cradossk would comprehend Basic even if his anatomy wasn't well-disposed to speaking it.
She squinted at the reptilian silhouette. "Guildmaster, forgive me but I expected to meet with the council."
"Instead, you meet with me. Perhaps you are disappointed, Risk," he hissed. Her name stood out among the grunts and hisses of Dosh. She could see well enough to catch the light glistening from an antique dagger in Cradossk's hands. He was engrossed in the task of cleaning what must have been a prized family heirloom. She wondered, grimly, how many beings it had slain over the generations.
"I've yet to decide. But I am grateful that I don't have to keep up the charade," she lied. Her stolen credentials had been one of her few comforts.
"We allow for poachers. Do you know why?" Cradossk stood up and began slowly stalking towards Risk. He didn't bother to sheathe the knife.
"They make real bounty hunters look good and they take the jobs you don't want," she offered, head held high like a student called upon in class. The Trandoshan nodded approvingly and stopped a couple of meters away from her.
"Very good. The council wants me to gut you from here," he pointed the knife at her stomach, "to here." He brought the blade up to point at her neck. "Again, Do you know why?"
Risk squared her shoulders and answered as dispassionately as she would have answered an instructor at Relco. The vicious threat was transparent, familiar and easy enough to deal with. It also frightened her, a little. She stamped out that little fear, smothering it as she would smother any errant thought of her own mortality. "Because I'm better than a poacher."
Cradossk narrowed his orange eyes and blinked. His eyelids closed lazily, like a sleepy crocodile napping as it waits for its prey. He spat out a laugh and sheathed his dagger. "You must be. But you are wrong; that is not why they want you dead."
Risk allowed herself a breath, a fluttering diversion from the tension saturating her body. For an instant, she had been so certain that she'd won him over with her bravery. Though, she had to wonder if she'd correctly understood that sudden phrase in Dosh; she spoke so rarely to Trandoshans. Risk's focus shifted, and she found herself reminded of Zeraina's treacherous feints in their sparring matches, the way the Miraluka could play Risk's own expectations against her. "Then what's the problem?"
He closed the gap between them with a single, long step. Risk clenched down on her urge to retreat, to reach for a lightsaber that wasn't resting in her belt. He sniffed the air around her, mouth slightly agape. "You ruin our reputation. You let bounties go. You killed three licensed hunters." He added, after a moment, "The Wookiee survived."
She studied Cradossk for a long moment. "Why don't you want to kill me?"
"The Scorekeeper teaches many things. She says we must not waste. Gutting you is a waste of a good hunter." He circled her once and made his way back to a chair behind a simple, curved desk. Sharp claws on his bare, clawed feet clicked on the hard flooring. "The ones you killed were not good hunters."
Now that her eyes had adjusted to the room, and her attention was free to wander, Risk noticed that rope nets hung from the ceiling, full of dessicated trophies. The walls were covered with ancient weapons, most of which had been restored to their former, gleaming glory. A few camouflage and flight suits stood near the door, immaculate and ready for use. He gestured for Risk to take a seat opposite his desk. She obliged and gave his hunters' regalia an appreciative nod as she sat.
"So we can forget this bounty and you'll let me join the guild."
"You could have joined the guild any time—before you made us angry."
"Then, I don't understand…."
"You killed three licensed hunters on Nal Koska. You let the prey go free. That is unacceptable. You will make amends."
Risk leaned forward in her seat. "And how am I supposed to do that?"
"You are not sworn to the Creed. You cannot break an oath you have not sworn."
The Guildmaster fell silent, then, as if he expected her to parse out his logic from such a vague statement. Indeed, Risk's mind was working through the possibilities. What business could be too problematic for Cradossk to take on himself? It couldn't be a matter solvable by violence, or petty intimidation. Something personal? Political? Risk was accustomed to thinking fast, but the Guildmaster had her pride held hostage. Every time her thoughts grazed something encouraging, the idea skittered away before she could grasp it.
The leather of his chair creaked as leaned forward. A soft, clicking hiss signalled his impatience. He must have grown tired of watching her think.
Risk surrendered. She wouldn't gain the upper hand with cleverness, so she settled for humility. "...go on?"
Cradossk slid a picture, printed on flimsy, across his desk. In the photo, a well-groomed man with a tidy goatee was frozen in the act of adjusting an expensive crimson jacket. "Fore Prion has broken the Creed many times. But the council does not believe that he could disappoint them. They dismiss the evidence. They like him. He has hurt acquisitions that should have been protected. He always cuts on them. Every body is missing pieces. The Gamorreans are unrecognizable. The last one was missing half his ribcage." Cradossk shook his head. "Unnecessary."
Risk winced; she couldn't help but think of Bythar Kull—a man whose depravity warranted his timely death. The two certainly had a sadistic streak in common. "Then, you do have proof. Just let them see it."
"He is an oily man. His smile covers up the truth and our council believes that the damage is just part of his work. It is a great dishonor to the guild."
"And you want me to restore your honor."
Cradossk smiled with rows of perfectly conical teeth. "Thank you for the offer. I accept."
Risk collected the rest of the necessary information, all of it covered in caveats and oaths to secrecy. She left the Bounty Hunters' Guild headquarters steeled for her first guild-sanctioned hunt.
Risk preferred to rent convertible airspeeders. They cost more, and they could be seen as more vulnerable in a firefight. But, they were well worth the freedom and the ability to easily access the backseat.
She had the top down as she piloted her way to the high-rent district bordering on the Hutts' Pleasure Sector. These penthouses were far enough away to avoid the light pollution, but close enough that they could enjoy the Huttese conveniences on a whim.
Jormund was having a fit in her ear.
"—which is exactly how Cradossk is going to screw you!" He had spent the past twenty minutes finding new and colorful reasons that Risk should give up on this deal and maybe move to some exoplanet casino somewhere.
"He's an honorable man. It's a good arrangement, where everybody wins but Fore."
"Fore Prion is practically a Guild Council member, you do realize that. He's got his own legion of hunters who report to him rather than the guild. If any of them spot you… just wait for me and we'll take care of this together."
"We've been over this. You're responsible to the creed. I'm not. It's the advantage of being a poacher. It's the only reason Cradossk didn't just shoot me when I arrived."
"I don't like this. You know I don't like this."
"I know." She closed the channel and threw the comm into the back seat. Jormund wouldn't have anything new to say and she was about to arrive at Blueshift Towers.
The speeder's cloth roof stretched back into place as Risk piloted the vehicle into the valet garage. She pulled up the hood of her dark grey robes to cover her primary distinguishing feature. Her life as a fugitive might have been simpler if she dyed her hair black or brown, but where was the fun in that?
"Welcome to Blueshift Towers, ma'am," said the valet who ran up to greet her. The adolescent Nikto's horns hadn't completely come in yet, and he looked as shy and embarrassed as an acned human teenager. "I'm a-afraid that our security regulations require all visitors to check in and allow our scanners to—"
"I'm not a visitor. You just haven't seen me before," Risk asserted as she eased back her hood just enough to make eye contact with the boy. She kept her back turned to the cameras for good measure.
"You're not a visitor. I just haven't seen you before." The Nikto stepped aside to let her pass.
Risk tossed him the speeder's access card along with a credcoin and continued on her way toward the parking level's expensive, transparisteel elevator.
Inside, she attached one of Bina's more ingenious inventions to the elevator's console. Risk didn't exactly understand the technological genius behind it, but the device worked like a mind trick for machinery. Risk could select any private floor she wanted, so long as the blocky little device was attached correctly.
The short ride to Prion's penthouse offered her an excellent nighttime view of some of Nar Shaddaa's most garish casinos and highest-class gentleman's clubs. Their dancing plasma displays were just distant enough to blur into a scintillating field of color and light. She couldn't make out a single effigy of gyrating dancers or pirouetting credit-signs, but Risk knew they were out there.
The elevator chimed twice, giving her just enough time to remove Bina's device and tuck it away for later use. If Risk left it behind, she'd never hear the end of it. Bina's attachment to her technology bordered on the pathological.
Risk stepped into the marble-lined salon of Prion's penthouse. She cringed as soon as her feet met the polished floor. The dark side hung in the air, like a pervasive, moldy odor that clung to buildings rotting from within. Risk's lip curled in disgust. She'd encountered brushes of darkness in Nar Shaddaa, but this penthouse housed a gloom that belonged on Byss. Or a tomb.
There was no sign of Prion, or his staff. In fact, none of the interior lights were on. Risk took a moment to look around the dim space, to get her bearings. The floor, the walls, the ceiling were sheathed in polished white marble. Curvaceous vases, expertly-carved busts and masterful paintings filled every sculpted alcove. The entire place spoke of Old Republic nobility and Risk had to admit, Fore had taste.
A polished, state-of-the-art protocol droid arrived in the salon to greet Fore's visitor. The feminine model's plating had been painstakingly customized so that she looked like an animated statue wrought by a late Alderaanian master. Before the droid could even activate her vocabulator to greet Risk, the former Jedi held up her hand and gently flipped the droid's primary control switch.
Risk wouldn't destroy a work of art, even one commissioned by someone as indulgent and cruel as Prion, if she didn't have to. The lights in the droid's eyes went dark, her spine slumped and she fell still. Risk had to credit the designer; the droid stayed on her feet while deactivated and managed to look even more statuesque than before.
Unannounced, Risk was free to collect herself and search the Force. Fore mustn't have kept living servants, as she could only sense a single, dark presence nearby.
The scents and muted sounds of cooking drew her onward through the spacious penthouse, searching for the kitchen. More priceless works of art adorned his living room, which had another spectacular view of Nar Shaddaa. Risk would have forgiven anyone for believing these were senatorial quarters on Coruscant, rather than a glorified murderer's home.
That careless thought stopped her short. Who was the murderer here? Prion, or the assassin sneaking around his apartment in the dark? If the Jedi Council were still around, they would be disgusted beyond words. Shame tried to take hold of her feet, to turn her back to the elevator and to make her forget this entire despicable enterprise. Instead, her thoughts turned back to the mangled bodies, the suspicious behavior. Prion wasn't an innocent man; Cradossk had provided her more than enough evidence to convince her that he defied the guild's few laws, defied basic decency. Maybe she could give him a chance to prove his innocence—or guilt—and her conscience would shut up for once.
She pressed on and found a sliver of light escaping around the cracks of a door near the formal dining room. The door presented another anachronism of Alderaanian nobility: it swung on hinges. Risk eased the door open, just enough to peer inside with one eye.
The kitchen matched the rest of Prion's decor perfectly; it was enormous and packed with every appliance and tool on the market. A large island filled the center of the space, covered in cut vegetables and a half rack of ribs. She watched as Prion brought a large chef's knife down, hard, as he finished separating the different cuts of meat. His every movement was practiced and natural, as befitting a man who took pride in his culinary skills. But there was a stuttering shakiness in his muscles that Risk couldn't quite explain.
Prion wiped his bloody hands on his utilitarian white apron and turned to the mostly shut door. "Do come in! I am always eager to share meals and yet so rarely have the company."
Risk's blood drained to her feet, regrouped and rushed back to darken her cheeks with surprise and embarrassment. She obliged her "host" and stepped inside.
He beamed at her, though his eyes narrowed as he studied the cloaked figure that stood in his kitchen. She threw back her hood, the disguise useless at this point. Either the man would die by her hand and tell no tales, or live and she would have to explain the whole mess anyway.
"You are brilliant. Absolutely radiant, my dear." His oily compliments slid through the air and made her desperately crave a sanisteam. "Come, sit. I have a very fine steak finishing under the broiler. You must eat with me."
A cold draft brushed against Risk's neck, out of place in the perfectly-maintained penthouse. "I'm not hungry, thank you all the same."
"That i-is a pity," he stuttered. He retrieved a pot holder and in turn, used it to retrieve the aforementioned steak. It looked more like a white meat to Risk's eye. The scent was the wrong kind of buttery and turned the edges of her stomach. "I hope you don't mind if I...?"
Her brow furrowed as she nodded an uneasy assent. "You are Fore Prion, aren't you?"
"Well, of course. I should hope you know that, given that you are trespassing in my penthouse," he replied, matter-of-factly. He plated himself a meal, with an expert presentation of vegetables and a reduction sauce. The cleaned rack of ribs waited patiently on the butcher's block, bloodied knife laying nearby. Without an eye to the charnel mess less than a meter away, Prion sat down to enjoy his dinner.
"And that doesn't bother you?"
"Well, no. In one sense, you are saving me some trouble. In another, as I said, I rarely get to enjoy the company of others for very long. Especially one as bright as yourself. You really should have something to eat…." Another chilling draft caressed her cheek and sent an unpleasant tingling around the back of her neck. He took a bite of steak and made a show of enjoying the morsel.
"I'm fine, thank you." Risk wasn't sure how to segue into the assassination, and so she sat awkwardly as her victim-to-be savored his last meal.
"It's been years since I've seen anyone as bright as you. Even then, only at a distance. Does it hurt? Hurts my eyes."
"What?" She was baffled beyond hope, now.
Prion slammed his hands onto the sturdy island, apparently choking. He gagged, shuddered, and Risk saw muscles twitching all over his body. Fore stilled the seizure with great effort, but a pathological laugh escaped before he could crush it.
Risk stood back, eager to get some distance from a man so possessed. He turned a sheet-white face up at her and grinned. "Don't be frightened; I feel fantastic." He sat up straight, adjusted his clothing, and the color returned to his skin. This time, a gust of cold wind swirled into the room, strong enough that Risk couldn't dismiss it as a quirk of the heating system. Her hair hadn't been disturbed in the slightest, but her senses had. Prion wasn't just a locus of dark side energy. "You're using it. You know exactly what you're doing."
His smile faded. "Do you?"
Risk's saber ignited and cast her hair in a pink hue. She swung the red blade in a wide arc, aimed at Prion's neck.
He ducked and threw back his chair as he leapt backwards, far faster than any civilian—even a bounty hunter—should have.
No one had ever dodged her! No one outside of the Jedi or Sith should have been able to keep up. Risk's mind swam, unprepared for these bizarre revelations.
Prion laughed again, an uncontrollable and mirthless sound better suited to a coughing fit. The dirty chef's knife flew towards Risk, though she hadn't seen him throw it. Before she could react, it had lodged itself deep in her thigh, straight through to the hilt.
Risk cried out and sent her free hand to the wound. When she looked up, she was alone in the kitchen, the door swinging wildly on its hinges.
She staggered after Prion, knowing better than to remove the knife and unstopper the blood in her veins. The wound was off-center in her leg and that gave her hope that it hadn't damaged an artery.
The rest of the penthouse was still dark and her eyes had to adjust to the dim light provided by the cityscape outside. All around her, Risk heard that horrible, convulsive laughter. She couldn't pin down the source and stood as best she could, saber at the ready.
"Everyone's heard the stories. Eat the dead and gain their strength. They're missing the most—" laughter overtook him "—vital part. Eat what you kill, you see? That is what all other, honorable hunters do."
Risk heard the light tapping of footsteps behind her, rushing toward her. She reversed her grip on the hilt and jabbed it into the darkness at her back. The blade clashed against a pliant weight and she heard a body hit the marble floor.
She used the light of her saber to investigate the crumpled body. Prion's previously cordial expression was drawn and startled in death, eyes wide open. Risk took a shuffling, painful step backward only to find her ankle caught in his tight grip.
Prion grinned at her again and whispered, "Eat what you kill…."
She put her lightsaber through his neck.
The bandage around Risk's thigh was red and wet, soaked through to the point of uselessness. She would worry about that later. Prion's body lay across her airspeeder's back seat, wrapped in one of his bedsheets. She was worried about that now: she wanted as far away from this demon as possible. Even dead, he reeked of evil.
Ahead, a few unfortunately rib-like beams jutted out of the skeletal remains of a long-abandoned shipyard. Risk brought the speeder down through the collapsed roof and came to a stop in a small tempest of dust.
Cradossk's clawed foot stepped from a murky shadow into a rare shaft of light. He watched as the speeder's convertible roof rolled back to reveal the shrouded body within. "You work fast. The Scorekeeper smiles on you today, Risk."
She wanted to hop out of the driver's seat with catlike grace. Instead, she hid her bloodied leg within her robe and took great effort to strike a nonchalant pose next to the speeder. "You were right about him. He was… doing terrible things. Darkness like that, Cradossk, like him…." She couldn't finish the thought.
Cradossk reached into the backseat and lifted the sheet. Fore Prion's dead eyes were still open, still staring out with that hungry look. She shuddered and pulled her cloak tightly around her shoulders. Risk hadn't wanted to touch him, and thanks to her knack with the Force, she hadn't had to.
The Trandoshan took a few slow, purposeful steps towards her. He must have detected the lie in her posture or a shadow of anxiousness on her face; his movements were methodical and gentle, as if he were working with a frightened animal. "It is done now. My honor is restored. Your reputation is restored." He handed her a crisp ID card featuring her image and her alias, and a listing of the preferred territories for her contracts.
Risk's nerves were still shaken and she felt woozy from the loss of blood. Vertigo threatened her every movement. Even so, she smiled in spite of all the little agonies and pocketed her hard-won legitimacy. She nodded and climbed back into the speeder, taking great pains not to reveal her injured leg.
Cradossk tossed a roll of bandages into her passenger seat and waved his goodbye.
Hutt Space. Y'toub System. Star Destroyer Arbalest.
One of the stormtroopers had a poor grip on the body. The former captain's feet slammed into the floor. They were better marksmen than pallbearers. Sly Moore glared at them from her newly acquired desk as they awkwardly hustled the black body bag out of the room.
Her hatred for the Y'toub system was still running strong. The Arbalest had been lurking just beyond the asteroid cloud for nearly a galactic standard year now. The crew had strong doubts about her ongoing mission to hunt down Relco's only graduate; doubts given to them by the traitorous Captain who would no longer be a problem.
Moore had absolutely no intention of skulking out of Hutt Space in defeat. Relco Training Facility hummed on, as she had placed competent instructors in her office back on Byss. Sly Moore's only concern was the retrieval mission—which was not going well at all.
Even with Zeraina Holl's eager searching, they hadn't seen a good lead in three months. Her own call to the bounty hunter had turned up nothing. She considered paying him another visit; this time, she could make use of fear and perhaps even pain. Enticement to greed hadn't gotten her anywhere.
Lord Vader would no doubt demand results soon. That was the only timetable Moore cared about. Darth Sidious had a fondness for the broken man that the Jedi Council had called the Chosen One; Moore had to concede that he did have some impressive capabilities. But Vader was shortsighted, and not only because of the restrictions on his body due to that regrettable life-support suit. Moore preferred to think in the long term.
And there she is, returning like a headache.
Zeraina Holl pushed her way through the crowded hall outside the former captain's office. She barreled through the door, clutching a thin datapad. Moore noticed an energy in Zeraina's Force Aura, something that went beyond her hungry pride and desire to serve. Zeraina had an eager alertness, the energetic satisfaction of a spider who has just sensed a vibration on one of the silken strings of her web.
"Ma'am, you'll want to see this."