His hands are shaking in the morning. Bad sign.
Krev hasn't taken any in more than a week. He calls it "being highly functional".
But a day or two more, and he'll be in no shape for motivational speeches to his reflection. He'll be in no shape for anything other than being a wicked, aggressive beast covered in cold sweat.
Sometimes, his "I'm highly functional" shtick has a second part: "I can quit this shit any time I want".
Today, Krev doesn't feel like lying.
It's time to call the Dug. Krev knows it is, but he tries to postpone it. Thinking usually helps — at this stage. The beast to come does no thinking.
Does Alnam know about his addiction? He seems to know everything there is to know about Krev. Krev has to take extreme precautions to leave the old man in the dark at least on something. So he must know about Krev's relationship with the Big G.
It feels shameful, somehow.
It feels insulting.
Maybe Alnam should start paying his glitterstim bills.
Krev tries to take his mind off glitterstim, but it just finds its way back. Nuna-ball doesn't help. Jatz doesn't help. It's time to call the Dug.
Gzulla always picks up after the second tone.
"Yes?"
"It's me. I wanna make a bet."
"How large?"
Krev thinks. "Let's say four."
"Okay. Today's game?"
"Yeah."
"Fine. Come to the Forest in half an hour. Can do or no can do?"
"I'll be there."
The Forest is a large mall twenty blocks away from Krev's apartment. A park takes up its first two levels — with real trees and rocks and even a stream. People on Telos like to feel like they aren't on Telos.
Krev makes it in thirty-three standard minutes. It's weekend, and the parking lot is all busy. Some idiot can't find his way out of it, and Krev wastes two minutes waiting for him to free the space.
When your hands shake as much as his do now, two minutes is an eternity.
The Dugs reside on the seventh floor, above the nightclub and the ice rink. Gzulla's son-in-law owns the main attraction of the level seven: a meat market. Got turbolifts going to the garage level. Gzulla's son-in-law says meat gets to his shop from spaceports in less than an hour. Other relatives of Gzulla hold tailor shops, holophoto shops, laundries, barber shops, and even a book store.
Gzulla's is a betting firm.
Everything is perfectly legit: Gzulla's got all permissions. You can actually make a bet at his shop.
Gzulla's always ready to laugh about that.
"I'll be damned if it's not my favorite Kesselman!" Gzulla greets Krev. "Dakle, Devin!"
"How are your okays?"
Gzulla laughs. Krev hides his hands in his pockets.
The betting store is tight: you got two holoscreens for odds and two for games, a sofa, and a water cooler. Gzulla spends his days on the sofa. His two daughters work shifts behind an armored window in a separate room. You can only get there through a labyrinth of Dug-infested corridors.
"Wanna get a piece of homeland, Devin?"
"You know better than me what I want."
"That's true, that's true. Well, make your bet, then."
Krev pays eight hundred credits — he really needs to start multiplying his twelve key ASAP — to Gzulla's daughter. When the metal box under the window opens, no Dug stays inside the shop. Gzulla's quickness never ceases to amaze Krev.
He takes the piece of flimsiplast out of the box. His fingers feel through the plast: four ampules. Gzulla has a long history as a supplier, but Krev still counts the ampules multiple times.
The Dug returns inside no sooner than the package goes inside Krev's pocket.
"Want a sandwich?" he asks Krev, presenting said sandwich to him with one of his feet-hands.
"No, I'm good."
"Yes? You look anything but good. You have to eat more, my boy."
As he looks at the ribbons of meat stretching from the Dug's hand to his mouth, Krev feels nauseous. His taking burns his thigh where it lies in his pocket.
That's enough of small talk.
"Come again!" Gzulla shouts in his back.
On the way home, pride rears its head. Did you really have to?
Krev thinks so.
But didn't he abstain from glitter back on Manaan? Not an injection in more than a year. Was doing fine. Did almost none of the shit on Atnakis — but that was mainly because it was in short supply there. Didn't feel too bad, either. On Coruscant, he wasn't clean — but that was weaker stuff almost exclusively. Had to smoke some or put some under his tongue once in a while. Was mingling with the elites sometimes then. Still, barely any G.
But it was different back then. He was still somebody — not Krev Devin's corpse floating down the stream of time. Still got future.
What about now? He's turning thirty-nine in a month. Not exactly the end of life — unless your life ended eight years ago.
Krev thinks about Coruscant again. He's going there, he tells himself. He's going back. Now, though, the plan doesn't sound so good. It sounds like it has a million holes in it — so many that Krev can't focus on one.
What if Alnam finds him? Or the Ixtlaris? It can happen. No planet is safe for a man who's fucked up as big-time as you. Especially if said man is a spicehead.
What's he going to do on Coruscant? Let's not lie to ourselves: he's not making enough money to sustain him until his life runs out no matter what he does for Alnam. He can make some, sure. Some starting capital.
Starting capital is worth jack all if you've got jack all to start.
After he stings himself, doubts retreat. Krev becomes the nicest Krev the Galaxy has seen. The Galaxy holds her breath — she knows the regular Krev will be coming back.
He does, and when he does, he picks up his jacket and goes to his speeder again.
The bitemark on his elbow burns a little as he's driving. So does the frame of his vision. His hands don't shake no more, though. A major improvement.
The abandoned factory complex is the church to Vygo Alnam — there, his presence is felt, but he does not live there. It doesn't see much traffic these days: only women from a better society marooned on a dead planet, demonmen, and scheming stim addicts.
You can't tell from the outside that a heart is still beating within this place of worship. Krev knows it does — he's one of the acolytes.
No one's in today. He overshoots and goes down two storeys too many. Only notices that when there remain no more working lamps above his head.
Alnam doesn't respond the first time Krev calls. It's okay. Krev waits. Glitterstim has made him patient.
He calls again in ten or fifteen minutes, and Alnam picks up. Now Krev notices there's a delay between the call coming through and the image of Alnam appearing.
Vygo Alnam is a cautious son of a bitch.
"What brings you to me, Mr. Devin?"
The holo-relay buzzes, strained. Maintaining a line this secure must take a toll on the hardware.
"Just calling to say hi." Keep up the image of a dashing mercenary. Ladies used to like this trick — well, until Krev's face started showing what he really was.
"In a good mood today, aren't we, Mr. Devin?"
The old man sounds less bothered himself than he did the last time, though.
"Yep, and I've got a thing or two to show for it."
Alnam raises his eyebrows.
He says nothing, so Krev continues: "I looked into that ConCare thing you mentioned."
"And? What did you find out?"
Alnam looks like a magician who's about to witness his apprentice do his trademark trick for the first time. Krev goes with it. As long as it pays.
"A very peculiar firm, ConCare."
"How so?"
"Well, at first, I thought the sole purpose of its existence was to do the heavy lifting for BioTech, since it's in the Outer Rim and exempt from taxes. But then, I checked Brate's notes and guess what? The poor bastard mentioned ConCare as well. You'd think a clone deserter wouldn't care about a dog-eat-dog market, would you?"
Alnam says nothing — just peers into Krev's brain.
"Anyway, I read more of what he had to offer, and an interesting picture began to present itself. Apparently, there was this phenomenon on Geonosis during the second battle thereof called the ConCare boys. And the ConCare boys, if you're willing to imagine, were clone troopers who had gone through ConCare. What Brate writes about them is that they were something like brain-dead. Not brain-dead in the sense they were vegetables, no, but in the sense they only did what clones are supposed to do: shoot and kill and obey orders. None of those desertion, whistleblowing, secret diary shenanigans." Surprisingly, Krev's amused telling all this to Alnam. It's like he's back in school on Kessel, reciting his homework.
Always feels good to recite to a grateful audience.
"I asked myself how that was possible. So I looked into it. Wanna guess where I find the info?"
"Why don't you just tell me?"
"No? Alright. On the ConCare site. You know, on the Holonet."
Old man Alnam's laugh sounds like a cry of some alien scavenger bird. "Never underestimate the extent the sentients are willing to go to to avoid the necessity of thinking!"
"To be fair, I had to dig into it quite a bit to find the info. Like, I spent maybe two hours."
Alnam laughs again. "This is their weak spot. Everyone's, if I'm being precise. Their sloppiness. Please continue, Mr. Devin."
"As I said, I found the info on their site. Turns out, ConCare is big into lobotomy. They even had a government grant from the Republic about four years ago for research in that field. Well, lobotomy is—"
Alnam raises his hand: "I know what it is. So what is your conclusion?"
"They were testing that shit on clones. Well, some of them. The way I see it, they probably thought themselves real humane, letting the test subjects live after the experiments and all."
"It was a part of the experiment," says Alnam. "How they socially adapt after the surgery. How proficient they are and how self-sustaining. They wanted to make better droids to fight droids."
"So our conclusions match, Mr. Alnam."
"So they do."
"Well, fancy me this, then," says Krev as the drug races through his system like substitute anger, "the grant was granted four years ago. Which puts it before the war. Can't say I ever bought into the story of the miraculous discovery of the clone army just when the Republic needed it, but whom did they say they were performing lobotomy tests prior to said discovery? Sentients?"
"It was always sentients, Mr. Devin. It was always sentients regardless of the womb that had begotten them."
"Were there any born of a real one?"
"What does it matter? Cruelty is cruelty. We have laws that protect animals from mistreatment, but we send sentients to fight and die for our order. The only thing worse than this is how quiescent we are about it."
Alnam pauses. "You are right to ask about non-clones, however — even though for a wrong reason. Your own xenophobia moves you, whereas you should think about the others' xenophobia."
"Whose?"
"The people our message will target. The people of the Republic. If you tell them how clones who went through lobotomy became more efficient in combat, they're going to cheer."
"Then we need some sentient victims."
"Do you think they just let their victims walk?"
"Social adaptation? You said it yourself."
Alnam shakes his head. "It's one thing to send them to a war and another to let them back to their homes. No. They used prisoners, most likely." He smirks. "I know that's what I would have done had I lost all of my integrity."
Or just did, Krev thinks. After all, Alnam knows all this — somehow.
"So what do we do?"
"We act smart is what we do."
That'd be new for Krev.
"We spread the data through the right channel," the old man continues. "Nobody in the Republic is going to care if we present your findings as evil or immoral. That's how low we've stooped. But our goal is to inspire rejection and discontent, not this low-brow patriotism, and we must account for the reality. Have you heard of the Shadowfeed, Mr. Devin?"
"CIS broadcasts? Sure."
"Not just broadcasts. It's more of a different dimension of the Holonet, if you will. Broadcasts, news, forums for CIS supporters. Not only for them, though: it is monitored by several Republic security agencies and a great many patriots of the Republic."
"Not sure I'm following."
"Oh, Mr. Devin, don't you think there's nothing quite as exciting as arguing with your enemy on his grounds? Bringing evidence of his stupidity back to your home base to share it with your comrades?" Seeing Krev's still not following, Alnam says, "Maybe it's masochism. Maybe they mistake the pleasure they get from it for sadistic, I cannot hope to say for sure. Or maybe it's the forbidden nature of following Shadowfeed discussions that draws the patriots in. In any case, whatever scandalous information gets posted there ends up on the Holonet as well.
"Now if you were to leak the ConCare data on the Shadowfeed, it would take a completely different turn. The Separatist sympathizers would brandish it as a showcase of the Republic's great inefficiency and cruelty — forgetting, of course, their own treatment of droids. And the first reaction of the Republic patriots who stumble upon those discussions would be to prove it false — which they won't be able to do, because it is actually true. And then the story becomes not something to be silently proud of, but a thing of shame."
"Just because it is first brought up by the enemy?"
"Exactly."
"You mentioned security agencies that watch over the Shadowfeed. This gives me a bad vibe, Mr. Alnam."
"What did you expect?" laughs Alnam. "We're working on a huge project. Of course it will bring the attention of the guards of the regime."
"I want a secure line for posting," says Krev. "As you know, I've already got a bunch of people on my back. I'd rather security bureaus stayed away from it."
"This building will be off-limits for this kind of operation. I don't want to call one day and be greeted by an RDS operative."
"Then think about another building. Just so you know, if they start cutting my balls off, I'm gonna squeal."
"You will be thinking about another building, Mr. Devin. You know the world of Telos IV much better than I can ever hope to."
"And you have much more money than I can ever hope to."
"Don't worry about it. Do you know you have been trading in Mon Cal paintings and amassed, dare I say, quite a fortune?"
Krev half-coughs, half-laughs. "What now?"
"A respectable source of income, as far as the tax services are concerned. You have an account at the Bank of the Core, though I'm afraid you aren't at liberty to access it whenever you see fit. Instead, I will give you one-time codes for opening it when a need presents itself."
Smart, Krev thinks, but not fool-proof. Not Krev-proof, either.
"Okay, I can buy a building. After the war started, there's plenty of unused real estate here. Nobody's going to bat an eye if I use some of it. But let's go back to the secure connection."
"Sorval will help you with it."
"Sorval? That dickhead? I thought you kept him around for tearing people's heads off, not for fixing your Holonet."
"Aren't looks deceiving, Mr. Devin?"
"Getting thrown off the stairs isn't."
Krev knows what this is all about: it's about having a demonman babysit him. So that Krev doesn't do anything stupid, like take all the money from the account and run off-world.
But that's fine — Krev has a goal. A large, shiny, coruscant goal. Hard to miss.
The demonman is but an obstacle. A large obstacle — also hard to miss.
"Where do I find him?"
"Ask Fadrina."
"He's not here?"
"It's best not to draw attention to this place. Too much traffic is going to raise some suspicions."
"Not on Telos IV it isn't."
"Fadrina gave you her contacts, didn't she?"
Krev nods. "Okay. I buy a building, I get your horned servant to establish the connection. Then what?"
"Then we start spreading the information, Mr. Devin."
"'We' as in..."
"As in you and whomever you hire. Don't go with too many people. Two or three are more than enough."
"The fewer know, the better, am I right?"
"Absolutely. And the fewer know about my involvement, the safer you are, Mr. Devin. We are both interested in keeping that number as low as possible."
Alnam strokes his beard. "Let them start discussions on Shadowfeed forums. Don't overdo it, but keep at least a few going at any given time. Make sure to mask your points of entry. Sorval will teach you all the technicalities."
Krev mulls everything over for a while. Then he asks, "Why don't you let Sorval or Fadrina be in charge?"
"I don't trust them with the data I trust you with. You've seen Brate's files."
"Why?"
"Fadrina is too easy to compromise, being a Republic official. Her role is different. Sorval... Sorval is just an impressionable young man. He's much too willing to die for the cause to be put on the point. You, Mr. Devin, you, on the other hand, have something to lose. You know how to save your skin. Your caution will be useful in this operation."
Alnam makes it sound like mockery and not at the same time. He's not wrong, though.
"Our angle should be that the Republic is incompetent and needlessly cruel," says Alnam.
"So incompetent as to lose track of what I assume is billions of credits of taxes unpaid by the companies outsourcing to the Outer Rim?"
"You can mention it, but keep the main argument simple: they lobotomize some of the clone troopers. Emphasize 'some': otherwise, it'll be too easy for the Republic Holonet warriors to dismiss the whole story."
Krev tries it another way. "Maybe I should work with Brate's documents for a while longer? I feel like there's still something I can learn from them. He keeps mentioning these engineers from Forakk..."
Alnam regains control of his face muscles so quickly he deserves a damn award for it. "Do you think some engineers are going to sound inspiring to the CIS sympathizers? Or tax evasion, for that matter? Stick with the plan, Mr. Devin."
I'll stick with a few, Krev thinks.
He calls Fadrina from his airspeeder — a few blocks away from the abandoned factory.
"I'll tell him to meet you at the sauna in Coruscant City. You know where that is?"
Krev does: it used to be Sumar's favorite spot for hanging out before a pool opened at his high-rise.
"I can get there at around eight."
"I'll tell him." The junior rep falls silent. Then she adds, "Don't hold a grudge against Sorval. He's a hothead — it's just how he is. When... before our first encounter with you, he hated our mutual friend. Now he hates you. It's just how he is."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Look, there's something else I need to tell you."
"Okay."
"Not over the comlink. Let's meet up at The Herder at ten."
"If your friend doesn't murder me, then sure."
He thinks about it on his way to the sauna. What does she want from him? A replacement for her clone lover, if we stick with that theory? She'll probably gonna get disappointed, if so: Krev isn't even sure he functions that way anymore. Gets his hard-on every morning, but that's about it.
The sauna is empty save for a family of Ithorians taking up the cold pool. The towel Krev's given is slightly, unclearly moist. The air smells of fungus.
The Devaronian is waiting for him in one of the niches surrounding the hot-water pool. Got himself a nice weeping bottle of beer. One glass.
No blaster in sight. The demonman: only wears a towel around his waist. Good. What danger from a naked foe?
The demonman reminds him what. "How're your ribs, old man? I guess I might have broken a few."
"Want to beat an old man again?"
"Any time you want."
"That'll have to wait." Krev sits down at another steamer chair. Sitting idly doesn't sit well with him: he really, really wants to go for the round two with the Devaronian. He knows it's a stupid idea, but the Big G spurs him into action.
"I heard you are some tech wanker," he says picking the bottle up.
The Devaronian's eyes narrow as Krev takes a sip of beer. In a second, though, the red fucker's smiling.
"Yeah, I am. Can you imagine that? Having a skillset? Being employable? Sounds like a fairytale, right?"
"Great. Your wankery is needed. Your boss' orders."
Sorval the demonman wipes his lips. "Uh-huh, Fadrina mentioned it. So what's what?"
Krev explains.
"So what do you want me to do?" the Devaronian asks. "Buy the building or whatever first. Do I look like I can set up a com line in a building that doesn't exist?"
"I want you to show some enthusiasm. It's your boss you're trying to please, not me. Keep it in mind. The place won't take me long. When the deal's done, I want you to start putting the line up at once. So start buying all the equipment you'll need."
"Start paying me, and I'll start buying shit, grandpa."
Krev smiles. "I'm not the one who pays for shit in this little gig of ours."
The morning and its shaking hands seem like they happened a lifetime ago when Krev arrives at Aul Sebbata's. When Krev's high, he's high, and tonight, he's real high. This is the best time — glitterstim has stopped burning inside of him, but the euphoria is still there.
It's dark tonight in The Lonely Herder. A band is performing instead of a lonely drummer.
Fadrina is waiting for him. Got a cocktail in front of her — just one. Seems a recurrent trend.
Krev lights up a cigarette. "What's kicking?"
"We have a problem. Well, I do. And so do you."
It doesn't distress Krev. Not tonight. "You don't say. I wasn't expecting that."
The junior representative twirls a cigarette in her fingers. Decides to put it away. "It's Skumaki."
"A what now?"
"Skumaki. The senior rep. My boss. They're calling him back to Coruscant."
"And you are to take his place?"
"No. The entire mission is being replaced."
"You either fucked up or made it big. Which is it?"
She takes the cigarette out of the pack again. "Another junior representative apparently was digging into Skumaki. She got proof he's involved with his secretary."
"Oh no."
"Leave your sarcasm. The Senatorial Commission on Professional Integrity has been very heavy-handed lately. You know, with all the protests against corruption and nepotism... So Skumaki will be tried on Coruscant — at a closed hearing, of course — and then sent to another planet to represent the Republic."
"You mean it all is just a slap on the wrist?"
"Yes and no. The apparatus is going to give him a good chewing, as is his wife, I'd wager. But they can't admit he screwed up, can they? That would mean that the protesters have a point."
"Well, that's all very interesting, but I don't see how it affects me beyond the fact I'm not going to see you again. Tragic, I know."
Fadrina looks at him with a suspicion. Maybe she's wondering if he's high.
"Brate's body is kept at the Republic embassy."
"You gotta be shitting me."
"I wish I was, Mr. Devin. Krev."
"What, does it, uh, does it just fucking lie there in the... in your office?"
"It's in the morgue."
"There's a morgue in the embassy?"
"The Republic doesn't want any meddling from the locals in case a representative dies on duty. There are morgues or freezing chambers at almost every embassy."
Sometimes, Krev questions why he even takes glitter if shit like this happens without it.
"How..." he starts. His blood's boiling — he hoped the clone wouldn't make any more problems for him — but he also is trying not to laugh. Trying hard. "How did you even sneak it in there?"
"With Sorval's help," says Fadrina. "The same way you're going to extract it."