Krev Devin draws on his cigarette.

"You can't really smoke here," a lanky lodger tells him without stopping. Scurries inside his cell.

Krev keeps on drawing.

The eternal technogenic night of Telos IV outside the lobby's window. They burned the surface some thousands of years ago — one side or the other. They were all fanatics. Other fanatics have tried to restore the planet — a few times, in fact, but they say in the Outer Rim: it's like Telos Restoration Project. A pile of shit, that is.

Krev Devin's life is one huge TRP.

Ships sweep by the high-rise. A spaceport nearby, one of the dark ones. Pilots don't like landing and taking off through the poisonous clouds, but whatcha gonna do? Telos IV is a good place for refilling. For some other things, too.

Krev hears the elevator doors screech behind him. A third of the cigarette is still left, but he snubs it out on the transparisteel of the window. Turns around. Sumar walks down the corridor, rocking on his boney legs. Huffs and puffs as though he took the stairs. Sumar is an Ubb, a small fat reptilian. Got a bottle of water in his hands — for moisturizing.

"Couldn't get here any slower?" Krev asks. The Ubb is short as it stands, but next to Devin he looks a real dwarf.

"Inseminate yourself, Devin." Sumar sips from the bottle. Pours some on his head. Blinks. The amphibian eyes dart around. Sumar huffs and puffs.

"Up for some work?"

"Sure am. Where did you park?"

"Three floors from here. At the municipal lot."

Sumar nods. "Okay. We got some riding to do."

"Then riding it is."

They walk to the elevator. The high-rise clanks and plinks around them. The rhythm of the evening. Krev knows this rhythm, knows it too well: he grew up in the Kessel dorms.

Krev's speeder finds its way between the equally battered speeders: the traffic of Telos IV. Condos and warehouses fly by. Point of destination: Coruscant City, the most neon-ridden district on the planet.

Sumar outlines the situation. "Some anti-Republic nonsense."

"Here?"

"Here and everywhere else. Telos's a good place to drop off the radar. You should know."

Krev shrugs.

"That's how it is. I bet our target found out that some senator from Cloaca XIX loves little boys' cloacae or something."

"That counts as anti-Republic to you?"

"Don't get yourself so worked up, I'm just guessing. Maybe it's some embezzling stuff — how should I know? The thing is, he's talking to the wrong people. Our client has dropped some pretty interesting names."

"Like what?"

"Like Alnam. Get it?"

Krev gets it.

Vygo Alnam. Industrial tycoon from the Core Worlds. Droids, mods, parts — you name it. Krev has worked with an IG whose central unit was made by Alnam Robotech. Accurate son of a gear, and smart one.

Alnam sure used to be a welcome guest at all receptions in the upper echelons. Real in-crowd. Some reporters tried to accuse the Chancellor — Valorum, not the current one — a couple of times of promoting Alnam's monopoly. They even got shots of the Chancellor at Vygo Alnam's Alderaan villa — stripped down to swim trunks and with a cocktail in hand. Went nowhere — though maybe played a part later in Valorum's downfall.

No receptions for Alnam now. Reason: Alnam spoke in favor of systems' right of secession. Could've hinted at his opinions in the company of the likewise liberally-minded senators and stars. Did not stop there: instead, old Alnam recorded a video for the Holonet. Outspoke all his points. No one really cared before the war. Problem: he retracted nothing when it started. Then it turned out that old Alnam has never had any friends. It turned out that old Alnam was a rapist: no evidence, tons of victims.

Now Alnam is ostracized just like his pal Valorum was. Has been sitting on Sanner for around two years now with no one to keep him company save for his billions. Some say he provides the Confederate droids with hardware. Krev doesn't believe that: has seen them at work.

"What should Alnam care?" he asks.

"You know what they say. Alnam this and Alnam that."

A cab cuts them up. Krev hits the brakes. Sumar jumps up. A Rodian taxi driver looks into Krev's speeder, enraged somehow. Then he floors it: he has made out Krev.

"Seems like it's true he's digging into the Republic," Sumar sits back. Blinks frequently — he could use some moisturizing, but that won't fly in Krev's speeder.

"How do you know?"

"I'm saying what the client told me."

"Just up and told you, huh?"

"Extra annoying today, aren't we, Devin? What's it to you? We're getting paid to meet the guy and explain to him he should stop running his mouth. Running his mouth hurts the Republic, get it?"

"Never took you for such a fucking patriot, Sumar."

"Ah, fuck you. I just care about things. That's the, uh, that's the difference between the two of us."

Krev drives in silence for a while. Then he gives in: "Why would the client tell you shit? Even if that guy meets Alnam in person, why should we know?"

"I should've gone alone."

"Reach the pedals first."

He parks the speeder at the corner where Sumar shows. Sign: King of Corellia. Pazaak, roulette, slot machines. Bar. Striptease — best girls of the Galaxy all in one place!

On Coruscant — real Coruscant — such an establishment would stay at the lowest levels of the middle sector. Here in Coruscant City on Telos IV, it's entertainment for the elites: freighter captains, prospectors, passing-by trade agents welcome. Anti-Republic whistleblowers. Not bad.

Krev and Sumar sit and wait in the speeder. The casino entrance is hidden behind a ribbed airlock that cars couple to. The process is slow and dangerous: the slightest depressurization fills the lungs of the customers with the air of Telos. No lethal cases yet — in this casino.

"I figure that client of yours," says Krev, "wants to brainwash you."

"Next time, I'll sure take that rabid Dug instead of you. I'd rather get cut up for five credits than listen to your drivel again."

"Think about it: you just believed her for no reason. Now you're gonna tell everyone how Alnam is trying to bury the Republic. That's propaganda for you."

"Get yourself a tinfoil hat at last. It's you who's talking about Alnam, not me. You in love with him or something?"

"So you just believed what you were told."

"Better watch the entrance. A green M-31, plate number KA418."

Krev watches for sure, but his heart's not at ease. Doesn't like the job. No one from Kessel likes the Republic. But it's not like you have a choice. Nobody's paying more for this line of work on Telos than Sumar's contact in the administration. You know no other line of work. And you can't leave Telos.

Eight years ago. Krev Devin is a year-after-Atnakis Krev Devin. It's peace time in most of the Galaxy. War veterans are in high demand for certain operations. Krev Devin makes vice chief of security in a hotel on Manaan. No weapons: local traditions only allow spaceport guards and a limited number of military personnel to carry.

Some medicine conference. Krev's being called from one of the suites. A pharma executive, a relatively young man from Ixtlar. Smiling guiltily. A twi'lek girl in his bathroom. No more than sixteen. Cigar burns all over. Traces of a rope: wrists. Neck. She's not grown cold yet, but she will. Krev has seen her a couple of hours before loitering in the hall. Knew why she was there. Did nothing. "Our little game went too far, I'm afraid," the exec says. "I know how guilty I am, I really do. I would like to somehow make it right with the family. Can you please make sure they get paid? Not right now, of course, after I've left Manaan. You'll get your cut, I promise."

He doesn't seem to expect Krev to hit him.

No weapons. Krev kills him with his bare hands.

Standing over two dead bodies, Krev realizes what it'll look like to the law: a huge Kesselian was given a chance to live a better life but it wasn't enough for him. Started sneaking prostitutes in for rich guests. A conflict ensued with this one. Iced both the guest and the whore. Bless the privacy rights: no cameras inside the rooms. No calls to the security post will resurface as soon as they arrest him. That's how things work on Manaan.

He walks out of the room as if nothing has happened. His knuckles: bloodied. He gets back to his post and sits there till morning when his shift ends. The next symposium is six hours away. Krev gets off the planet in nine — in the cargo hold of a Taris-bound ship.

Then: three years on the run from cops and the exec's friends. Turns out he was mobbed up. Rule: no killing cops. The mob — if there's no other way. Then: Telos IV. Republic lawmen show up there sometimes, but have a whole bunch of C's and B's with the local big wheels. Rule: be useful to the local big wheels. The Ixtlar outfit seems to have lost his track. Has done so before and has found it again. Not this time. Krev's not heard of them in five years.

Krev doesn't know if they're still looking. In truth, he's scared to find out. If they aren't, he'll have to move on, and the five sedentary years made him weak.

He refuses to use aliases: it gives him the illusion of being of control. In truth, it doesn't help.

"There he is," says Krev. An M-31, green, new model, takes off the landing platform a level below them. A valet wearing a gas mask pilots it: no airlocks at the parking lot.

The man who gets in the speeder has long hair. A cheap suit — doesn't fit the speeder. Krev only sees his back.

"Two speeder-lengths," Sumar keeps telling him, "two speeder-lengths!"

Krev doesn't reply.

They follow the M-31. Sumar fidgets in his seat. His little feet kick around as if it's he who's driving. The long-hair doesn't fly fast. The long-hair changes the lane often. The long-hair seems to know he's being followed. Krev checks the rearview. Krev suspects they may be followed as well. Krev opens his mouth to tell Sumar they've fucked up — but says nothing.

The M-31 enters the parking lot of an apartment complex. A force field divides it and Telos — you can breathe inside. The long-hair gets out of his airspeeder. Krev and Sumar ride past him. Park in the far end of the lot. The long-hair has scuttled to the stairs that lead to the stores, alleys, and apartments.

"Shiiiiit," says Sumar when he sees the stairs.

They follow the long-hair. At the ground level, Krev sits down on a bench while their target enters a store. Krev squints at him across the alley.

"Go to the top floor and don't step away from the elevator," Krev tells him partner. "Wait for my call."

The Ubb hobbles along to the elevator. The long-hair pays up: instant supper, a pack of beer, cigarettes. Come on, thinks Krev, go to the elevator. Nothing else here, go to the elevator already.

The long-hair goes to the elevator. Krev calls Sumar as soon as the target enters the car.

Krev watches the panel above the elevator. Can't see the number from this far. When the spot of light goes out, he says: "Call it now. Which floor?"

"Rides up from the floor eight."

"Go down there and wait for me."

"Got it."

Krev gets up and goes to the same store. Buys a six-pack. Gets in the elevator and rides up to the eighth floor.

Sumar stands next to the lift.

"Seen our guy?" Krev asks.

"No."

To the left of the elevator shaft — a locked door to the utility staircase. Krev leans over the card receiver — a thick layer of dust. Krev looks right. The corridor is long: Sumar would've noticed the long-hair if his apartment was on the far end. So: either close to the lift or in the middle.

"Keep your blaster ready," he tells Sumar.

Krev walks to the first door. Slouches — people tend to get nervous when someone his size asks them questions. Puts his hand to the doorbell panel.

A tired-looking fat woman opens. Krev remembers his mother.

"Evening," he says, "sorry to bother you, mam. But maybe you'd know where this long-haired guy lives?" He shows the length of the hair on himself. "I was behind him down there, you know, at the groceries. Saw he paid for the beer but left it there." He shows her the six-pack. "I didn't really notice myself until it was too late. A long-haired guy."

"I don't know anything," the woman answers and shuts the door.

"What if she's covering for him?" the Ubb asks. "Can be hiding him in her bathroom for all we know. Or may be calling him right now."

"Calm down."

Krev goes to the next door. To the next door. To the next door. To the next door. To the next-

"I thought it wasssss a woman firssst," says an old one-armed Trandoshan. "Then I got a better look. Two-oh-eight, I think. He lives there."

Krev and Sumar walk to the door of 208. Krev turns back: looks at the elevator. Either Sumar was slower than usual of the long-hair ran. Krev'd like to blame the first variant, but he's got a bad feeling. He puts the six-pack down and unholsters his blaster.

"Go," he tells Sumar.

Sumar shoots the lock panel. It sparkles. The door slides to the side.

For a thousandth of a second Krev muses he should've put his DY-225 into stun mode: he'll need to shoot if the long-hair knew he was followed. But-

Too late. The 208 door is ajar. A dim room inside. A window opposite to the door. Neon light coming through the half-lifted blinds. AC hum. The instant supper sizzling.

A convertible chair between the door and the window. The long-hair stands behind it. Turning to the door. A rifle in his hands. Half a second — and the muzzle will face Krev.

Krev Devin is faster. He shoots four blasts. One grazes the long-hair's arm and hits the transparisteel behind him. The other three take the man in the chest. He drops behind the chair. His rifle — on it. Krev can't say if the long-hair managed to shoot. Then he exhales and realizes: no.

Sumar shouts: "What in the fuck!"

Krev enters the apartment. Smells of fried meat and burned flesh. Sumar enters next and closes the door. An open bathroom door at the left end of the room. Empty. To the left of it: a niche with hangers. Most vacant. A long countertop with a sink below the window. The long-hair — Krev knows — lies between the chair and it.

Sumar looks at the rifle. Swears. Goes to check the bathroom. Krev looks in the dead man's face — and also swears.

"Great." Sumar pays him zero attention. "Know what this is? More trouble for the client. Know what that is? More trouble for us. Shit, Devin, what the fuck? Everything was going so smoothly."

The reptilian walks to the corpse.

"Look at this asshole. Got himself a rifle, huh? What does a civilian need a fucking full-automatic for? You know..."

Krev swears. Sumar looks at him.

"What?"

"What? You don't recognize him, do you?" Krev can't look away from the face in the pulsing neon light.

"I don't. You all humans look the same. Who is he?"

"Not a human, let me tell you that. It's a clone."

Sumar looks at the long-hair. "Nah. The hair's all wrong."

"Look at the face, not the hair. You don't watch news? This fucking mug is everywhere."

"You sure? Doesn't look like a clone to me. The hair is... the face—"

"I'd recognize it anywhere. It's because of these fuckers there ain't any military jobs for normal people during a war."

Sumar giggles. Perhaps he wants to remind Krev Krev's been sitting ducks on Telos IV way before the clones were a thing. He knows better than that.

"Well, shit. I guess I can see that. Do you think it's a setup? What if there's a whole fucking squad of these bastards?"

Krev takes his time. The neon pulses in his eyes. The he says: "No. It's a deserter."

Sits down beside the body. Pulls on the hair.

"See? Grew himself some locks to be less noticeable. Worked on you, huh?"

"Shit, Devin... I get it. An ex-clone, ah, whatever the fuck, ex-marine can spill some serious beans. Shit!"

Sumar gets thinking. Walks to the countertop. Pinches off a piece of meat from the instant supper.

"Do you think," he says, "they'll believe us if we tell he was like this when we found him? I'm sure there were other people who wanted to shut him up. His war buddies... Maybe they burned half a planet from its orbit, you know, with all the kids and stuff. They don't show that in the news. And now—"

"The neighbors saw us."

"So what? We were looking for him. Questioned the neighbors. Makes sense. We'll say those who wasted him had legged it before we got here—"

"Say what you want, just tell me what to say if they ask me. Better yet, make sure nobody does."

"Devin, my friend, you got us into this mess, not me. Of course they'll ask you."

Krev thinks. Shakes his head: "Fuck that. We'll tell it how it was: we entered, the artificial one started shooting. I wasted him."

"Well, first of all, it's not how it was. Second of all, it's still a mess."

"Unless we dig up something else."

Krev digs. The comlink: recent calls — all from unidentified numbers. Pockets of the two jackets in the niche. The insides of the chair: nothing. Holo-terminal. Search history: last cleared thirty hours ago. Since then: bookies, race results, porn, news, mail. Sumar rejoices: a message from today's morning arranging a meeting in four days. "We shall talk about your contribution to the common cause." The corpse's clothes: the keycard to the apartment, a credit chip. A cache under the sink: an extra rifle clip, two CR-2s and an EM grenade. While Sumar drools over the findings, Krev goes to the bathroom. Another window there, blinds closed. Krev spreads two planks and looks out. Airspeeders flash by. Casino signs flicker. Krev sits down. Adrenalin vents from his system. Krev is afraid again.

He gets up and flushes. Opens the cistern. A terminal hard drive wrapped in film inside. Krev takes it out. Glances at the door. Puts the drive into his jacket, washes his hands, leaves.

"You done?" Sumar asks.

Krev nods.

He dons his gloves before leaving, takes the rifle and shoots the doorframe where the clone's shot would've landed. The smell of burnt plastic fills the room. Krev puts the rifle down.

They leave the apartment. Nobody in the corridor. Krev picks up the six-pack and they ride down to the parking lot.

"I'm not sure we're getting paid," says Sumar when Krev drops him at his complex.

"Do your best," says Krev and goes home.

At home, he opens a can of beer. Turns the stereo on. Good fifty-year-old jatz. Pauses for a moment. Then takes out a syringe and an ampul of glitterstim. Don't face the truth alone, they say on Kessel.

Four archives on the hard drive. Encrypted, but shittily — it even says "with a trial version". Krev's decipherer cracks them in under an hour.

1. Contingency orders

2. Geon. project

3. Dangor Industries engineers

4. My life

Krev Devin reads the names. The drug makes them glitter and sparkle like neon signs. The meaning of words hurries past him like a high-speed Coronet train.