Apart from a holoposter of Krev's face here and there, Telos looks about the same as always.
They got a picture of him - he has no idea when or where it's from. He looks very young in it. He doesn't look like himself at all.
Not like it matters. Nobody looks at wanted posters anyway.
Indeed: two weeks pass by since Krev's place shooting, and other faces cover his on every information wall he sees out in the city. Telos IV has its unique way of hiding fugitives: by piling more and more fugitives upon them. It's like an ever-replenishing corpse pit - if you can survive under the mounting weight of your followers, nobody will notice you.
Sorval makes room for him at his place. The situation is making Sorval agitated - understandably. He's young. Housing a wanted criminal is exciting. The problem is, he takes it too seriously. Fancies himself a wanted individual, too. Doesn't leave his apartment. So Krev has to.
Life on Telos IV sucks without a speeder. The planet isn't suited for walks, and he doesn't want to use taxis. He finds out the maximum length he can walk from Sorval's apartment is two blocks, and that's only if he's going northeast - after that, there are no pedestrian ways. He explores the district. It's the same as any other one on the planet. Well, maybe save for Coruscant City - but Krev wouldn't go there even if he could.
Sorval is sort of in contact with Agvar and Triskin. He calls them once in a while. So far so good: doesn't seem like the police got them in their scopes.
Sorval flies him to Atruba when Krev's - Kossar's - ID is ready.
"Man, you sure it's not a set-up?" he asks Krev in the aircar for the thousandth time.
Krev sighs. "Even if it is, what can I do? I need this ID. It's not the best time to be Krev Devin, you know. That passed like fifteen years ago. And besides, I don't even have my own ID anymore."
"What's the plan if it is a set-up?"
"I go down in a blaze of fire. The New Man on Nal Hutta, the final scene. Or, more likely, they punch me in the gut once and my liver fucking explodes from all the booze I've had over the years."
"You and your gallows fucking humor, man."
Sorval drives in silence for a minute - but Krev knows he hasn't got it all out of his system. "I wish I still had my blaster."
"Don't we both."
"Relgo, that fucker. Still hasn't given it back. No word from him."
"That's for the best, if you ask me. Who knows what we'd be dealing with today if you had it on you back in the embassy."
"Oh, come on. I'm not a person to shoot honest guards."
"Yeah, sure."
"Damn right, sure! It's you who is a Commissioner No-Questions-Asked type."
Krev stares at him. "Fuck was that for?"
"Nothing, man."
"No, I'm serious. What was that supposed to mean?"
Sorval looks back at him, loses the staring contest immediately, glances back again at once, and looks away for the second time. "Okay. If you want to go into it, let's go into it. You did shoot Brate, okay? I don't wanna... I don't wanna bring it up or anything-"
"That's why you're bringing it up right now?"
"I'm... Look, I understand how it happened. I know it's not great for you."
"Oh, thank you. You're so fucking understanding. When should we make the next appointment, doc?"
"Oh, fuck you, man. I'm so not having this conversation."
Krev listens to his feelings for a moment. Doesn't like what he's hearing.
"You should be grateful you're at the wheel," he finally says.
Sorval grins. "Itching for a rematch, old man? Go ahead. I can pilot with one hand."
"And that I don't have a blaster."
Inside the Forest - the Dug-owned part of it - unseen speakers are roaring ragged minga rhythms. Krev passes by Gzulla's joint...
No, there's no passing by Gzulla's joint. Not for him.
He didn't cash out two thousand credits for nothing yesterday.
He's here anyway, isn't he? There's no avoiding Gzulla. Atruba will tell him Krev's been here later. That's a given.
And just how are you going to transport the glitter through two spaceports?
Who says there's gonna be any glitter left by that point, Krev tells the no-fun part of himself. That's an argument he's been saving for now. One he didn't wanna spoil by repeating it too many times.
Only it still doesn't work.
You should leave as soon as you've got your passport. Ten ampules of the Big G - you ain't shooting that much in a day or two.
And there's absolutely, absolutely no way you can bring the leftovers on board. Maybe they won't search a citizen of the Republic too hard here on Telos. On Coruscant? You bet they will. Especially if his passport is as much as slightly off.
It won't be off, Krev argues. Red neon arrows run left to right on the betting shop sign - some five meters away.
It's true they won't be hard on me here. Hell - I can bribe an officer or two if they are.
And set your operation up with what funds?
It's just a customs officer (or two) on Telos IV. How much can they even take? Not much. They know how to control their appetites when there's no food.
It's okay. It will all be fine. He'll use all the G on the ship.
Ten ampules in as many days.
Nope, fuck off. It's eleven days. More than enough.
Buying less than ten: out of question. Call it an old Kessel habit: you don't walk away from a dealer with cash still on you.
Somebody's gonna notice you're high. If you take an ampule a day - or close enough - they're gonna notice. A vigilant citizen will tip a Coruscanti cop, and that's gonna be it.
But eleven days without a hit? Krev hasn't had any since the day before the shooting. He's fine - for now. But eleven more days? Ain't happening.
Well, it has to. You have to.
Or you can flush what's left in a toilet when you're on Coruscant's orbit. Wouldn't that be symbolic?
What if they take blood samples now? At the customs? They can do that, right? They don't want a Sep biological time bomb in the fucking capital. Maybe the G won't show up in their test - or maybe it will.
He walks by the betting shop. Two thousand credits burn his pocket.
Atruba's eyes look like they're about to spill over the glasses' frame. They fill the two circles entirely, and Krev shivers every time a wave runs across them - Atruba blinks.
"It's a work of art, friend," Atruba says, handing him the passport. "The Galaxy is open to you now!"
Krev looks into his own holographic face. Yep, this one is his: years of drug abuse spelled all over it.
Name: KOSSAR, Jezideg. Issue date: 12.8.34. Expire date: 22.8.33. An open Telosi visa. A Devaronian visa, expired last year. A Corellian visa, expiring in five days.
"What's this address?" Krev asks.
"Huh, friend, you worry too much. It's a real place, wouldn't you know it."
"That's what I'm worried about. Don't want the customs dude to recognize his address."
Atruba throws his hind-arms up. "What would the chance be? One in a trillion! But I told you already, friend: stop worrying so much. I know my craft. I respect my customers. This address? It's real, but it's not." The Dug laughs. "My grandson, he works in construction on Three Zeroes. You know construction? No? They do this little trick there. They leave some space... they account for some space - in a building. This space, it's unused. No flats. No... no nothing. It's there - but nobody lives there. But in the documents? It says otherwise. It says you live there."
"Is that so? What's that space really used for? A spice den?"
"Always with your assumptions of bad things! One after one after another! No. It's used as home. For construction workers. They come to Coruscant, the boys. There is a dormitory the company gives them. But the dormitory," Atruba places a cup on one corner of his table, "is here. And they have to build," he places a holoscribe on the opposite corner, "here. It's inefficient - to go from here to there and from there to here every day. So they build one building here," he moves the holoscribe closer to the cup. "And then they build another one here," he raises the cup and puts it back down. "And while they are building it, they live in the first one."
"And when they're done building?"
"My friend! It's Coruscant! They're never done building! There's always work. No work in this district now? It's okay. There will be next season. And don't worry: they are good boys. They don't do dope. Don't do nothing like that. It's all legal. You will be safe."
Credits draw him to the betting shop again on the way back. He almost runs past it.
He takes the stairs - doesn't feel like going by lifts lately. Around the fourth floor, doubts breach the shoddily repaired dam in his brain.
Gzulla probably doesn't have ten ampules on him. You didn't call him. Why would he have so much to spare? Maybe he's got something like two. Two sound good. Two would solve Krev's problems.
He turns back. Walks three flights up before stopping.
No, fuck this shit. Do you have to show up in every place they may connect you to? You don't know how often Atruba speaks to his cousin. They work close to each other, but it doesn't mean they discuss every little detail. He's probably told Gzulla you needed a new passport back when you paid for it. Remember his surprise when you ordered the Republic one? That's when he talked to Gzulla. And today? There's no reason for this conversation. A good chance Gzulla won't know you were here for a few days. Or at all.
It feels good when he turns - again - and starts walking down. Less good - when he's sitting in an air taxi. That's when he starts thinking about the state he's going to be in when he gets off the liner.
Eleven days. That's no joke. You're gonna be a mess, Krev boy.
He was fine without glitter back in his Coruscant days. Which ended more than ten years ago. But he was also doing fine on Manaan. But he had a job then - and didn't have eight years of fear behind his back.
He won't be doing fine in eleven - let's make it thirteen, he's not on board yet - days. He's fine for now. But in thirteen more days, any cop will be able to tell he's not doing fine by just looking at him. Shit, even a blind one - it's enough to catch a whiff of a forced-cold-turkey g-head's sweat to tell.
No crime to go cold turkey - but it can and it will cause questions.
And questions aren't what Mr. Kossar needs - more so when he's in no state to answer them.
Krev goes on a tour. A final lap across Telos IV - with stops at every drugstore he sees. It takes him the best part of three hours. The result: almost forty tubes of Flu-Away. Krev doesn't buy more than two at the same store. Even so, four chemists tell him it doesn't do shit against flu. All four know what he's buying it for - he can see that in their eyes.
Yes, Flu-Away does jack all against flu. What can a per os spray do against it, anyway?
It can do something for Krev, though. Flu-Away is a bad weather friend to any down-on-his-luck drug fiend. Formula: contains no less than 1.3 percent of nytillium. Which, as any drug fiend worth his salt knows, is made out of the avabush leaves extract.
Mmm, avabush. You can make truth serum out of it - but who would do that?
Avabush is no glitterstim. Especially in quantities like this.
Truth is, Krev's gonna barely feel any effect.
But that's why Flu-Away is still permitted - in the Republic as well as on Telos, Krev has checked it.
So Flu-fucking-Away will have to do.
He buys a ticket: Coruscanti Spacelines' spacecraft ADF-3499-b-18. Departure: Chodo Habat Intersystem Spaceport, 14:10:12 11:01 PM Galactic Time. Arrival: the Pius Dea Intersystem Spaceport, 14:10:24 04:45 AM.
He shops online: two pairs of breeches, a faux leather jacket, a pair of boots. A duffle bag: something to carry his Flu-Aways in.
He leaves his blaster and holster to Sorval.
"What's the point, man," Sorval says. "I'll be going to Coruscant in a month as well."
"Maybe they reconsider and call your visa back. I think there is a rule: they can't give it to douchebags."
Sorval shows with his face what he thinks about the joke.
"Seriously, take it," Krev says. "Maybe it'll help you get your blaster back."
"Oh, then I'll have two blasters I can't bring. Nice."
"I don't like leaving anything unfinished when I move to a new place. Don't know about you."
"Take care of yourself up there." Sorval slaps Krev on the shoulder three times, as if trying to drive a nail in.
"It's you who needs to take care. Two weeks, and I'm gonna hit the best Coruscant clubs - and you'll be still stuck in this shithole."
"Not for long, old man. Treat it as a head start."
He goes to Citadel by municipal bus this time. As Telos IV drifts behind, Krev wonders if he should've shaved: the holopic in his ID has no facial hair. He decides he's made the right call. It's more realistic this way: an honest man won't bother making himself look more like in his passport.
He's got almost eight hours till the departure. He toys with an idea: what if he checks up on G'Be's Gym-Resort? Just to see if the boys have left.
He doesn't. After all, the boys may have not left. Hell - maybe they called for a backup.
He goes straight to the spaceport. Chodo Habat is one of the few - either three or four - that do passenger flights. The rest - something like thirty - are cargo-only. Small wonder: who wants to go on a trip to Telos fucking IV? Some pseudo-suicidal jerks, at best. Get a load of this poisonous air! No, nobody wants to go to Telos IV. Everybody who lives here wants to leave - that's for sure. Few can. Krev can consider himself lucky.
Even here, he sees through a large, wall-sized window, most ships are freighters. Even smaller wonder: Telos is fucked up beyond repair, but its main quality is impossible to fuck up: it sits right on the Hydian. You fly shit from the Corporate Sector to the Core? You bet you're gonna have to refuel on Telos.
He spends two hours going to small shops and drinking caf. Then proceeds to the passport control.
Two check his passport: a Human and a security droid. Krev puts effort into not fidgeting as they look through it.
"Safe travels, Mr. Kossar," the droid says.
The Human doesn't say anything.
Krev's heart speeds up again when he puts his bag for scanning. Slightly at first - but then it keeps and keeps going up.
He doesn't like the look on the Zabrak officer's face.
Not one bit.
And by the looks of it, the Zabrak doesn't like what she's seeing, too.
"Can you please open your bag, sir?"
Krev complies. I've got nothing illegal, he tells himself - and almost tells the officer.
The Zabrak puts gloves on and rummages in his bag. Then she produces a Flu-Away tube. Then another one.
Krev watches her. His head is vacant - the only semblance of a thought he got is telling him he should be thinking about something.
The Zabrak gives him a long look. Then she puts the tubes back into the bag.
"Thank you," she says.
He walks fifteen or so steps away from the scanning booth before he checks what she has slipped into his hand together with his ID. It's a holocard that says:
GOT PROBLEMS?
Addiction is getting better of you?
YOU ARE NOT ALONE
Coruscant Center for Addiction Treatment
Free & Anonymous
Commenor Str. 38/L701/234
He doesn't chuckle at his overanxiousness until the boarding.
The ship is a Botajef 11-AO: not exactly a luxury ride. Krev's cabin got a viewport, though. That's nice: he can peer into nothingness if he wishes to.
11-AO leaves Citadel Station behind, but Krev still feels on Telos. Five years - man, five years weigh him down like ballast he can't shake off.
The trip is mostly staring into a screen - that's day one. A message on the cabin terminal arrives about two hours in: come to the scenic deck to see the ship enter the hyperspace! Krev ignores it. The view in the viewport changes: colors of this world shrink and wrinkle, and soon only the swirl of bluest blue for which there is no word is left.
The Flu-Aways call to Krev. It's no good knowing you have a stash like that. That's something you're supposed to find two days into withdrawal - then it's the real shit. Then you can't believe the Galaxy or whatever gods rule it can be this kind to you. It's 1.3 percent nytillium - nothing compared to the Big G - but at that point, it's the best thing in the world, because at that point, you are in the world where the Big G doesn't exist and has never existed - that's what your body tells you. Knowing you have all that 1.3 fucking percent in your bag plays tricks on your mind. You mustn't listen. If you take it, it's basically over: it's 1.3 percent nytillium. Taking it is like becoming aware of how badly your back itches - right in the spot you can't reach. Nytillium won't help you - not until you really need something; anything; it. Nytillium is the perfect fit for "anything" - it's everything anything is and should be. But take it a minute earlier than you can no longer survive without it, and you're done. It won't scratch your back. All it'll do is it'll make the itch worse - and kill the right moment to take that sweet, sweet, awful 1.3 percent.
Krev fights the impulse to open the bag and have some. Come on, it's day one. It's barely started. You got more than ten more to go.
He tries to think about his future operation and about what he has to do to put Vygo Alnam down. Those are huge things, huge wheels that put the Galaxy into motion - but they are miniscule when put next to the fucking Flu-Away tubes in his bag.
He manages to get through the first day without succumbing. He smokes a lot. The ship is old and third-class, but they make you go smoke in a special room. He doesn't have to follow the colorful shuffled-over lines on the floor to get there from the third trip on.
He gives in the second day - but closer to the third one's beginning. Something to find pride in. Convinces himself the glass of fizzwater he had at the dinner was too cold - he's not proud of that at all.
No sleep at night. He just lies there eyeing the bag.
The next four days are dashes from one hit of Flu-Away to another. They don't do shit, those hits - except remind Krev he's a fucking g-head.
You know you are when you know exactly how much time is left until the next one.
By the day seven, he's through fifteen tubes. Nytillium keeps doing nothing to stop his organism from falling apart - this thought plays on repeat in his head. He's only hearing it now. It angers him so much he gets up and leaves the breakfast.
It's all a fucking placebo. It doesn't work. So stop worrying about it.
He keeps taking Flu-Away, though: only now he rubs some into his wrist every half an hour or so. A day later, he feels a bit better - his need for glitterstim grows by hour, but now that he doesn't get these mock-hits of spice, he's doing not as badly as before. 1.3 percent can't get through his skin, he assumes, but rubbing it in makes his mind think he's doing his routine.
It kinda works out. He's in a bad shape - really bad shape - when the 11-AO exits the hyperspace for the second time, less than a day after Brentaal. But he can stand upright, walk, and talk. He even enjoys the view of the cyclopean rings on the planet's surface - not for long, his late-nigh snack decides Krev's not up to its liking and gets out - but he does enjoy the view.
The ship lands an hour later than supposed - some hiccup with getting the clearance. Then it takes more than five hours for all the passengers to get processed - nobody is released into the city until everybody is checked. A tired fat Zeku immigration officer runs what feels like eighty checks on Krev's ID. Krev's not worried - all the people in front of him were treated just like that. Then he gets his ID back and goes to get the bag at the baggage control. It's lost a lot of weight - some inhaled, some rubbed into skin, and some just left in the cabin. Nobody remarks on how shit Krev looks.
He walks out of the inspection zone into the arrivals hall. He's never been to this spaceport before. It looks nice: giant windows. Spacy. Morning sun shines outside.
Krev walks past a huge statue that looks like someone tried to make a sculpture of wind and steps outside.
For a second, he is lost - lost between his present self and the young Krev Devin setting his foot on Coruscant for the first time.
It only lasts a second, however.