If droids could sweat, this 3PO would sweat a river.
Captain Aloii of the Skados City Police doesn't choose his words carefully. Alnam can hear it in his angry hisses and chirps. The poor droid has to choose them for Aloii.
"Captain Aloii says the case clearly doesn't fall under the jurisdiction of the RDS. Nothing relating to it has happened off-world, nor has it affected citizens of any other planet."
"This case," Mtoro sighs, "concerns the stability of the Republic, which is reason enough for us to intervene."
The captain squawks again. The droid turns to him.
Aloii must've used some very, very serious words judging by how long it takes the droid to relay them to Mtoro and Alnam.
"The captain suggests that there are many things more worthy of the RDS' attention on other planets."
The captain's deputy, a mute Cattesian named Skevo, moves his feathered appendages over a web of laser sensors. A synthesized voice chirps them to the droid, and she translates, "The deputy says Skados VI is a peaceful place and loyal to the Republic."
"We are here to help it stay that way," says Alnam. He knows it's a wrong thing to say, but he just can't help himself: the whole conversation sounds like a farce.
Aloii's long neck swells when he replies. His feathering has lost its luster, but something tells Alnam: this one was never a singer.
"The captain says he cannot sanction your activities, Agents. Unfortunately."
"We do not need your sanction," says Mtoro. "With all due respect, Captain, the Domestic Security Office deciding our presence was required on your planet is all we need to be present on your planet."
The captain and the mute start talking together. Alnam expects one of them to stop once they realize it, but no — they both keep going.
The droid doesn't know what to do. They should make a protocol unit based on an Ithorian, Alnam thinks.
Finally, 3PO gathers her thoughts and says, "Captain Aloii maintains that this case is well within the jurisdiction of the planetary police. Therefore, there is no—"
"Look, I've already explained why it doesn't matter. You can repeat as much as you like that it's not our jurisdiction, but it won't change anything."
This is the first time Alnam is seeing Mtoro this annoyed. It's a somewhat scary sight — and would be even more so were he a fifty-kilo bird.
Captain Aloii isn't easily moved, though. He starts his song once again.
"The deputy says the Senate is not at liberty to interfere in the legal process of the member planets," says the droid. "The captain says the case is firmly under his personal control."
"So firmly that no progress has been made in eighteen weeks?" Alnam asks.
The droid looks at him — unsure if she should translate it.
"The next transmission is scheduled for tomorrow," Alnam continues. "What has been done to prevent or track it? What is your plan for tomorrow's evening, Captain?"
Aloii makes a cackling sound. He looks at Skevo, and the deputy covers his eyes with his wings momentarily. They exchange a couple of words the droid doesn't even bother to translate.
"There's nothing we can do here, Mtoro."
"I'm afraid so. Frankly speaking, I'm appalled by how uncooperative you appear, Captain."
"Obstruction of justice comes to mind."
This time, the droid is dutiful. Maybe she can tell what's meant to be delivered to the other party and what's not.
Aloii is unperturbed.
"The captain says that while we are loyal to the Republic, we adhere to all its principles including the right to self-governing."
.
.
.
The Fozatta studio building is duracrete — one of the ten duracrete buildings in Skados City. The others are all temples of other planets' religions, the audio guide in a cab says.
Alnam is just happy to see a building that looks like a building.
"Do you think the chief's going to throw a wrench in our works?" he asks Mtoro as they exit the cab. The platform in front of the studio is sunlit. Three or four groups of young Cattesian women take holopictures of themselves with the building in the background.
"He's just pretending to be a thickhead," the Ithorian growls. "He's not that stupid in reality, let me tell you."
"There are just two of us here. Just reminding you."
"Do you take me for a go-in-blasters-blazing type? Sorry to disappoint you, Vad, but I'm not. Especially not if it's against the police the blasters are supposed to be blazing."
"A damn shame. I was getting ready for a good shootout."
Mtoro thinks for a moment before she asks: "You ever been in one?"
"Yeah."
"Good. Then I can count on you if things go sour."
It's cool inside the entrance hall, never mind the transparisteel ceiling. Golden statuettes line the floor and the wide half-swirl of stairs. Runner rugs: red with a large golden letter Forn in the middle of each. Holoposters of bands and singers, Cattesian and otherwise, shimmer on the walls.
Rich kitsch.
No one inside. Nobody even guards the door. For the locals, the tenth duracrete edifice also counts as a temple.
Finally, a man with a ponytail exits a door on the second level and walks down the stairs. Notice the sound of his footsteps: slippers on long, long-since-washed pile of the rugs. Walks at a leisurely pace.
"Can I help you?" The voice is also leisurely.
"We're with the RDS," says Mtoro.
"RDS?" the man's eyebrows crawl up. "Oh me, oh my. This is a music studio. We record music here? Fozatta Records? It says so on the door?"
"That's right. Agent Alnam and I would like to see the supervisor here."
"A supervisor, really?"
This one's probably not on spice. Death sticks, more likely. A one-hundred-percent junkie, though — Alnam's sure of it. His instincts tell him so. His instincts tell him to apprehend the fancy pants. His instincts make him a dog, and the only leash is the headlines calling police brutality.
"Really," says Mtoro. "And you are..?"
"Name's Odoacer Giles."
Alnam grins. A name to match the man.
"In Mr. Fozatta's absence, I am tasked with supervising the studio. I suppose, that would make me the supervisor."
"Great," says Mtoro. "It means we're making progress."
Giles's face feigns attention. A junkie giveaway: you can always tell when the attention is real and when it's fake.
Giles is fake as a toy blaster.
"You've heard of the transmissions Isk Povo Rapol's been making," Alnam says. Don't ask a junkie anything — tell him.
"I've... I might have. Some political nonsense. Well, obviously, it's not coming from the real guy, you know. Not from the real Povo Rapol — he's made no such statements... to my knowledge. And to the knowledge of Fozatta Records."
"Why don't we talk in your office, Mr. Giles?" asks Mtoro.
The hololabel next to Giles's office door says Giburin Fozatta. Giles feels right at home at a single-piece wroshyr table, though. Not even a huge portrait of Fozatta hanging above it bothers him.
"If you've got any business with Mr. Fozatta or Isk Povo, you came to the wrong place, Agents. They're both on Coruscant presently, and I can't really tell you when they're going to grace us with their visit."
"Well, maybe." Alnam smiles Giles his most charming smile. "But to tell you the truth, we just wanted to see the studio. I mean, it's kind of a cult destination at this point, don't you think? All the legends you've recorded here..."
He glances at Mtoro, and she doesn't fail him: "Old Man Eagle and the Broad Boys... HOM... Torpu C'Dzovi..."
"We didn't record C'Dzovi on Skados," Giles says as he files his nails. "It was on Coruscant. But I can see where you're coming from! Lotsa great stuff been done here, too."
Alnam spreads his arms. "Right? That's why I told Agent Apani, 'Our case might be a pile of shit, but at least we'll get to see Fozatta Records!'"
"That's brilliant, man!" Giles laughs. "Where can I get a job on which I can travel the Galaxy and, like, see places?"
Alnam shrugs. Anyone who's not junkied out of his mind can see how fabricated Alnam's smile is.
"I mean..." The supervisor looks up at Fozatta's giant face. Giburin's younger than Alnam would imagine a music studio boss: around forty standard. Sports a fucking undercut, too.
"I mean," Giles goes on, "all I do is sit in the office, you know. That's fucked up, man."
"You know what else is?" Alnam slaps the table. The wood is so smooth he wants to do it again immediately. "We're here to see your office!"
"Right! That's fucking brilliant!"
A well-off junkie: can see the beauty in a non-high moment.
"You want something to drink, Agents?"
Mtoro shakes her hand.
"Regrettably, we are on duty," Alnam smiles on. "Man, but I really hoped we'd meet Povo Rapol today, too. I'm not really into him myself, but I wanted him to sign, you know, an album for my son. Did I miss him by a lot?"
Something changes in Giles's eyes. A blink, and it's gone.
Shit. Don't be so pushy.
"I don't..." says Giles. "I haven't seen him in a while. He's on Coruscant. It's not fair, man. Imagine how many hot girls there are on Coruscant! Any species you want. Do you know how hard it is to find a mammalian here?"
"Not sure I want to."
Mtoro makes a little cough. Coming from her, it sounds like a reek getting very pissed off. "The studio, Mr. Giles."
"Oh yeah! Right."
Looking at all the equipment in the studio, Alnam wonders how Yalgi would like it here. Probably would have the time of his life amid all the control desks and alien instruments.
And maybe, Yalgi would have a better understanding of what to look for than his father does.
He looks at his partner. By the look on her face, Alnam can tell: this is where the limit to her knowledge of the music world lies.
"Well," says Giles, "here the magic happens. The transparisteel," he knocks on it, "is made by the same manufacturer that makes, like, panic rooms for senators. Shit, I forget the name, but you get the gist."
"Can you broadcast from here?" Alnam asks. The consoles and the note-sets that look more like torture devices make him desperate.
A junkie Giles may be, but he's smarter than this. "I'm not a technician, but as far as I know, no, you can't. You'd have to talk to our tech guy, Bechin. But he's on a vacation in the other hemisphere. He's not coming back for, like, another month."
"An entire month?" says Mtoro. "How are you going to record any new songs until then?"
"We don't have any scheduled. In any case, I can operate the studio — as long as I don't have to change any settings."
.
.
.
"Fuck me, that was useless," Alnam tells Mtoro as they exit the building. Now the sun's reeeeeally frying. He should get some tanning lotion if he doesn't want to get cancer.
"We'll see about that," she replies.
"What's to see about it? Theoretically, Rapol can be broadcasting from here. Or he can not. We're no closer to the solution than we were before we arrived on Skados."
"Have some patience, Vad."
"I don't know if this is usual routine for the RDS, but it's my first case. It's my first case, and it's gonna look bad to the brass."
"Oh, poor Vad. What are you going to do?"
He looks at her. Why is she so cheerful?
He really doesn't get it.
Eventually, Mtoro gets tired of his silence and says, "Why do you think we went to the police headquarters?"
It clicks.
"We let them know why we're here. You think they're watching us, and if the studio is the real location, they're going to act."
"Learn from old woman Mtoro while she's still alive." She chuckles and then adds: "Greenhorn."
"Are you sure Aloii knows the real location, though?" he asks, trying to keep the Ithorian's pace.
"I guess we'll find that out, too."
"Or not — if he decides we can't hope to crack this place open."
Mtoro opens her purse. At first, it looks as if she's feeding the birds — non-sentient ones — on the platform in front of Fozatta Records, but then Alnam notices all the crumbs dissipate before hitting the ground.
"Nano-droids," he guesses.
Mtoro groans in agreement.
"When do I get to use them?"
"Even I get only a hundred capsules a year. So this is a special occasion."
"Now we'll see if the cops come to chat with the Giles fellow. Not if they call him, though. Might be a waste of capsules."
"Would you make calls that confirm you know of illegal activities? I doubt they have a secure line from the precinct to the studio."
Alnam nods. "Alright then."
"Nice work with the druggie talk back there," Mtoro tells him in a cab. "You sure you chose the right walk of life? You seem like you mingle with that crowd real sleek."
"Excuse me? I worked on some major anti-drug cases back in the CorSec. Don't tell me you just skimmed through my reports."
"If you want more involvement from me, you should take a writing lesson from The Honest Herald guys."
It suddenly worries Alnam that she speaks of The Herald. "What are you getting at?"
"Nothing. They just have a style."
.
.
.
Obar opens the door fully — a sign of trust?
"Can I come in?" Alnam says.
The Nautolan lets him in. Nothing has changes in his apartment. Nothing could, Alnam supposes.
"Look, I'm sorry about yesterday."
Obar waves his hand: don't mention it, but Alnam doesn't stop.
"It's just the fucking headache. I needed to get off somehow. What I did was, uh, unethical and ungrateful."
The informant's eyes are still suspicious behind the ever-changing pattern of newsfeed. "Do you need some..."
"No. No, I don't do it, really. You shouldn't either."
Obar's smile is sad. "Yeah. Well, cafstim?"
"I brought something better."
The Nautolan grins when he sees a bottle of Corellian whiskey. He might just have a couple more friends than glitterstim.
He takes two glasses out of a cupboard and some cheese out of a fridge.
"Will Agent Apani be joining us?"
"No, not today."
Alnam waits for a follow-up question. None comes.
"How is the investigation going?" Obar asks while Alnam opens the bottle.
"Productively, I'd say. We went to the Fozatta studio. Didn't catch the guy himself there, but his assistant was of help."
Whiskey in the glasses glows like embers in a fireplace — even in the dim light of Obar's room.
"For your investigation, then?"
"Nah. For Skados."
Whiskey burns inside as much as it does without.
"Long live the Republic," the Nautolan exhales.
Alnam has never tasted cheese like this. The taste is sour but not unpleasant.
"They have cattle here?" he asks.
"Why, they do. There's even a festival every year dedicated to the domestication of the nje. Generally, the food is pretty good."
"I eat at the hotel. It's just the usual stuff there."
"Right. Well... it's good if you can live without poultry and eggs."
"Seriously? That's off-limits on Skados?"
"Yeah. You'd think with how much birds eat other birds, it wouldn't be, but it is. I guess the Cattesians can't stand the thought of seeing other species indulging."
Alnam laughs, and Obar joins him. Readily so.
Another glass.
"So this fellow at the studio," Alnam says, "he really pissed his pants when he heard who we were. Odoacer Giles, can you imagine that?"
"I don't think I've heard of him."
"He told us he's a supervisor when Fozatta is off-planet. Maybe he was lying, and he's just a guardsman. He wasn't completely clueless, though."
Another glass.
"Not completely clueless, but a complete moron. I was this close to shooting him on the spot," Alnam brings his forefinger and thumb an inch apart from one another, "this close, I swear."
He almost forgets to laugh as he says it.
"That's the small-time official syndrome," says Obar. "He thinks, you know, since he's in charge of cleaning services or something, he's a big shot."
Alnam barely registers his words. "This is the type of guy... cocksuckers like this would typically orbit my wife. Artist types, you know. Singer types."
"Oh, so you're married, Agent?"
Alnam glances at Obar. "No."
The Nautolan is nice enough not to press him. The whiskey isn't.
"We're going through the thing." Another glass down. "My parents got separated when I was what, thirteen or fourteen. Now I'm putting my son through the same shit. I mean, he's even younger than that. It cannot be good for him, right?"
The Nautolan makes a half-shrug.
"When I get back to Coruscant, I'm going to find a good lawyer. A good lawyer, yes. It's my son, right? I have my duties to him. I must be his parent. I have to do it. And I don't," Alnam doesn't like how apologetic his voice sounds but can do nothing about it, "and I don't want to take him from his mother. She's a good mother, it's... I'm not saying she's not. The boy should have both his parents. That's the fucking... That's how it supposed to be."
With the fifth glass on the way to his stomach, he hardly notices Obar's asked him a question.
"What's that?"
"Did you live with your father or mother?"
Alnam laughs. "Try boarding school. Neither he nor she had time for me — even before the divorce. My father — you know my father — he always had this businessman approach to things. Nothing matters if it doesn't make money. And Mom... well, she's a..." He waves his hands for a bit trying to find a word. "A socialite. Old aristocracy. You know, a distant relation of the Demicis. Ahhh, let's have another one."
He spills some on the table while refilling the glasses.
"For the RDS?" Obar proposes.
"Fuck that! RDS... Do you know what I had to do to get in the RDS?"
"If that's, uh, classified..."
"I won't go into the classified parts of it. Ah, you should see your face! What, do you think I had to execute somebody to prove my loyalty? Nah. It's nowhere near as dramatic." Alnam sighs. Why are you telling him all this, a distant voice in his head cries out. He pays it no mind. "Just had to... rough a guy up. Fuck, I didn't even rough him up. We just talked. But it felt like I was roughing him up. That it did."
Obar remains silent, but at his point, Alnam doesn't need him to reply.
"I don't even know if I'm doing the right thing."
"Here on Skados?"
"In general. I don't know that anymore. When I was in the CorSec, I had a purpose, you know. I thought it sucked, but I had a purpose. What am I doing here? Isn't it, you know, freedom of speech? What Povo Rapol is doing? If I'm against freedom of speech, what does it make me?"
"Well, if—"
"But enough about me! I'm just talking and talking... and talking. Tell me your story, Hvenda. How did you end up here?"
Obar shrugs. "If you're hoping for some crazy tale of my exile, I'm afraid I don't have one. It all was pretty, uh, prosaic. I got some money by the time I was twenty-eight, I guess. And I decided to just, you know, see the Galaxy. I followed the music..."
"Music?"
"The music in my heart, brother! I went whenever it led me."
"And it led you here."
"I suppose it did."
Alnam laughs. "You don't look — please don't take offense — you don't look like this music nomad to me."
"Yeah, well," the Nautolan points at his room with a wide swipe of his arm, "this doesn't give the right vibe, I agree. But I fell in love with Skados. With Cattesians. And I dispensed with my spaceship and made my dwelling here."
Alnam throws back his head. "So you're a xeno-, what's it called, a xenophile?"
"For me, Skados isn't exactly xeno."
The prospect of going native suddenly seems very appealing. Alnam's even surprised he hasn't thought about it earlier. Some part of his consciousness knows it's the spirits talking, but the séance roars over it.