"For free Skados. For Skados independent of both the Republic and the CIS," finishes the droid.
The broadcast is over.
"What do you think?" Alnam asks.
The Ithorian sighs. "We're chasing after somebody with the political savvy of a teenager. I feel bad, Vad."
He smiles — though there's little to smile over. "Yeah. The speech may be rousing, but... Who's going to go and take government buildings by force after listening to it?"
"We'll end up arresting a dozen Cattesians who aren't of age, and that will go all over the Holonet, I'm calling it now."
"Think the Senator will cover up for us?"
Mtoro harrumphs. "And also pay us a fortune for our outstanding work while he's at it. Where do you plan to spend your unexpected retirement?"
"How did Dibasi even end up helping Ktii? I don't get the impression the woman's popular with anyone."
"Dibasi is doing what he thinks can raise him in the hierarchy. Nobody here likes Ktii, but maybe the Senate sees some use in her."
"Or — more likely — it's his idea of what hard work should look like. He can put some wonderful reports proving he's doing something while we're here."
Alnam takes a sit. His hotel suite is painted green. He misses the greyness of Coruscant. "Look, the Commission is meeting in two days. We haven't found anything yet. I'm afraid the Senator is going to be disappointed with us. Maybe he'll even take us off this case."
"No. He understands perfectly well his deadlines don't mean anything. He can come off as very full of himself, but he's not a complete idiot."
"Could've fooled me. So what are we going to do? Just sit around here indefinitely? I fail to imagine any way the local law enforcement will change its tune and help us."
Mtoro looks out the window, her hands behind her back. "I still can't get over how the studio isn't involved. If it was, we'd be on our way home now."
"Gotta write that report for why you wasted your nano-droids, huh?" Alnam stands up. Walks closer to her. The Ithorian's frame blocks most of the view, and he can only see a large sign in Cattesian outside. "Don't sweat it. Put them on me, if you want. Say it was my idea and I wouldn't stop bothering you until you showed me how they work."
She laughs. "I'll write you made me do it at gunpoint." Drumming her fingers on her hip, she adds, "Maybe you were right. Maybe the cops just called the studio. Maybe they called Fozatta directly, who knows."
"At least we know the chief doesn't want to get up close and personal when doing his dirty laundry."
The spy droids reported no one entering the studio building this day or previous one — not even Giles himself. The moron must be sleeping at his work couch.
"Problem is, we don't know if he has any."
Alnam scratches his nose. "Well, seems like it's the time for us to do the usual cop routine."
"What would that be?"
"Covering our asses, Agent Apani. We gotta show the big man we did everything we could." He looks at the droid. "Besides, since the Rep Administration was kind enough to provide us with a translator unit..."
Mtoro looks at him. Says nothing.
Alnam explains: "Let's go fraternize with the common people of Skados, shall we? Who says we can't find twenty patriots among the honest workers?"
"I doubt the Senator is going to be impressed."
"He may not. But the coppers may finally betray themselves if they see us mingling with people not on their payroll."
Mtoro's growl starts high and goes low, low, low. By now, Alnam can tell it's an Ithorian thoughtful nod.
"I'll admit I want to work this cop connection through," Mtoro says. "My gut's telling me there is something to it. But we shouldn't focus on one lead too much. From experience — that's detrimental more often than not."
"Come on, it's going to be fun. It's not like we have a ton of leads anyway. And one more thing: can I have a capsule of these nano-droids?"
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.
.
Workers spend Benduday mornings the same way they spend other four days' evenings. They hit pubs and sports games. They drink and they bet.
And they discuss news.
The industrial area of Skados City is downed in a giant basin about forty miles away from the habitable districts. Its enormous pipes can be seen from the city proper. Its fumes can be seen from the low orbit.
Some life takes shelter at the factories' feet. A carcass large as a Coruscant apartment building put on its side takes all the space between various industrial complexes. Visual hum of a force field stuck between the metal lines of the carcass. That's the only way anyone going so close to the factories can not cough his lungs out in a year's time.
That's where workers spend their Benduday mornings.
Alnam is surprised: they managed to recreate the lower levels of Coruscant on a mostly green planet. The similarity is uncanny, and he's sure he could find a lot of suspiciously polite and careful drivers around these parts.
"Why would anyone choose to hang out here?" Mtoro says as the cab they came in leaves the platform. "They have an entire planet to go to. There are so many interesting sites in the city. But they still go here on their weekends. I don't understand it."
Indeed: varied crowds of Cattesians go by. Almost no empty spots on parking lots.
"Maybe they just love their job so much," Alnam says. "Or they hate their wives this much."
"Do you know why?" Mtoro asks their droid.
4-3PO is just glad he's out of the box again: the administration official Alnam and Mtoro spoke to had kept him deactivated most of the time. "I can understand what they're saying just fine," that Ansionian woman told them, "so I don't need the damn thing. I have to pay for his maintenance from my own pocket, too, so be careful with him."
"The cheaper prices for alcoholic drinks and other forms of entertainment would be my guess," the droid says. "I should remind you, Agents, that this neighborhood is considered not completely safe for visitors of Skados City."
"So if the factories paid more to their workers, nobody would even listen to Povo Rapol," Mtoro sighs. "What the Senate should've done was send a negotiation team to deal with the management. This is where ammo for our armies is made, and the workers have to save on drinks."
"Wouldn't that be bribing them?" says Alnam.
"What, paying them more? Do you take your wages as a bribe as well?"
"I'm not planning to secede from the Republic, you know. These guys have a problem with the central government, and your suggestion is to raise their pay. So you take an economic approach to a political issue. In other words, bribing."
"So what's your solution?"
Alnam shrugs. "You're veering dangerously close to my father's rhetoric." He is unsure if he should continue, but he does anyway. "He was always fond of saying raise the wages this and raise the taxes that. Well, unless it concerned his company, of course. I'm sorry, I'm sure you don't mean it like that. It just gets on my nerves."
"Oh, I'm sorry I reminded you of your father," the Ithorian says. The next moment she turns with her whole body to Alnam. It must count as subtle for Ithorians.
"Vad..."
"It's okay. My father is who he is. I've got used to it."
"I shouldn't have said that."
"No, you shouldn't be saying what you're saying now. It's fine. Really. He's not a bad man, my father. I can talk about him. Let's just not do it now. We have some work ahead of us."
He wonders if him saying this about Father would be noted by his higher-ups. How much of sonly love is allowed? How much if your father is socially irresponsible?
And no less importantly: does Mtoro report his outbursts?
They question the idle workers. Alnam makes sure 4-3PO tells every last one they are with the RDS — if they want to make the cops do something stupid, they have to do stupid as well.
The droid works his freedom off. Doesn't waste Alnam's time on he-says' and she-says'. He doesn't wait for the Cattesians to finish before he starts translating. His voice is loud enough to get to Alnam over all the screams and mechanical noise of the district and low enough not to drown the interviewees' voices. After the third or the fourth group of workers, Alnam doesn't even have to repeat his greetings again: the droid salutes the birdpeople all on his own.
The birdpeople:
"Are you kidding? Povo Rapol is a poser. I dunno who constantly puts him on a pedestal."
"I don't care for his songs. But what he says on his program is good stuff. It's what we all feel. You should tell so to your bosses!"
"We don't talk to your kind here. I don't care! Call me to your station, if you like."
"Don't listen if they tell you he doesn't deserve his fame. They just can't accept that he's just as good as Avgli was. It's because he's new. He lives right now, okay? You'll see, come visit Skados in twenty years, and you'll see — the same people will swear by him. He just needs to die first. Then they'll see him for what he was."
"Nah, it's all shit. Avgli was a real poet. This one? Nah. It's just young girls who love him."
"What broadcast? I don't know of any broadcast. Do you?"
"Fuck you, pigs! You're no authority here!"
"I just listen to the songs. It's irrelevant what he says. If he wants me to listen to his opinions, he has to make them into songs."
"That faggot? Yeah, he called us all to strike last year. And what? Fuckers on Coruscant still implemented their droid plan. Fuck the lot of them!"
"Povo Rapol's probably got more money than all of us combined. I'll listen to him when he shares with us!"
"I don't know. My mom listens to him. He's alright, I guess. But I don't really know about any broadcasts."
"What, interested in our culture? Come and see the shit we work knee-deep in! No rich kid will sing about that, that's for sure."
Alnam questions those spiteful of Rapol further.
"Where do you figure he records his addresses?"
"How would I know? On Coruscant, probably. The fucker's got property there, I heard."
"No idea at all? There must be some talk in the streets."
"There ain't none. You don't think Povo Rapol tells us what he does and when, do you?"
Or: "I don't care where he does that from. I don't care about him at all."
Or: "Even if I knew, I wouldn't tell you guys. No offense — I'm just not a snitch."
"But you don't like him. I didn't get the impression you liked him."
"He can go burn, for all I care. But I'm no snitch."
Alnam mentions Fozatta Records as much as he can get away with. Nobody knows anything — but some may remember it if the cops question them.
Make it when: Alnam's sure Captain Aloii is on the case.
Seen his boys twice now after going back to the hotel from Obar. Perks of being a detective who might require an intervention before he turns forty: you get to see stuff good, teetotaler agents don't. Drove past him yesterday in their long speeder after he'd looked at it for a minute. Really tore off seeing he'd noticed them.
Alnam tries not to get ahead of himself. It's like that: when a lead or theory is reeeeeal sweet, you can't let go of it.
But this time, he's pretty sure the police are on it. Even drunk, he can tell a tracking vehicle.
And the vehicle he saw — it reeked of incompetence only a nowhere-planet police force can exhibit.
He puts a lot of faith in their incompetence.
They spend most of the day in the shadow of the factories. When they head back to the city, 4-3PO says, "It really was a pleasure to be of assistance to you, Agents. I hope our cooperation will continue. I know a few more districts tourists are not advised to visit."
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.
.
"The Commission meets tomorrow." Senator Dibasi's hologram is fuzzy. The sound is clear, though. Alnam would like to make that reverse. "Do you have any good news, Agents?"
"You have to understand, sir," says Mtoro, "that our work takes time. We would have been of more help had we arrived at Skados well in advance of the Commission gathering."
Dibasi rubs his eyes. "But do you have anything I could report as a success? Don't hold back, Agent Apani. Let it be a moderate one."
"Well... we're going through the procedures we deem necessary. Plus, we've conducted a survey of the local working population that shows Povo Rapol isn't particularly popular with them. Agent Alnam and I don't think there will be any, if we can put it roughly, crisis if that individual is apprehended."
"How about we do not put it roughly? You have to understand me too, Agents: tomorrow I will be speaking in front of the distinguished members of the Commission. Vice-chancellor himself will be present. The last thing I want to do is put anything roughly with that crowd."
The senator smiles. With the image quality like this, his smile seems a distortion.
"We understand it, sir. The investigation is going full-force. We have determined several leads that we are working on now. The most promising one is Giburin Fozatta. We suspect he can be providing his studio equipment to Povo Rapol... and whoever is behind Povo Rapol."
"Fozatta? The music records guy?"
"This is correct."
"Oh. I'm not sure I should bring him up at the meeting. He has some friends in the Senate. Unless you are one hundred percent sure he's involved, and I mean consciously and willingly involved, let's not put his name on any lists."
"You are right, sir. To bring him up would be counterproductive if he has friends in the upper echelons. Our colleagues on Coruscant have trouble scheduling an appointment with him as it is."
If Alnam was Mtoro, he wouldn't draw the senator's attention to this.
Dibasi nods. "Very well, then. Keep working on that lead and all the others. But is there anything I can bring up at the meeting? Anything positive?"
"Our proposition would be to mention that the locals do not take Povo Rapol's addresses too seriously. They think of him—" Mtoro looks at Alnam.
"They think of him as unqualified to speak on the topics he's speaking on. His image as a singer does not help his cause. It's a double-edged sword, really."
"Exactly. As my partner says, his fame doesn't help him to garner a lot of support or sympathy. We should be happy they didn't put the same money into promoting an actual factory worker. Povo Rapol may be from a simple family, but his opulence has long divorced him from most Cattesians."
The senator's face — even covered with a veil of static — betrays just what he thinks about this.
Mtoro must have noticed that, too. "While it may not sound like much, sir, please keep in mind that we have only been deployed on Skados for four days. We are making steady progress. And part of the reason why you cannot present more to the Commission is that to tell about some leads we have could be later called libel, as we do not yet have evidence to prove those leads' relevance."
"I hear you, Agents, I hear you. Well then. Keep on digging — and don't hesitate to call me any time when you get something meaty."
He disconnects. Alnam gives his eyes some rest after ten minutes of staring at holographic jumble.
"The senator probably made some promises on our behalf," he says. "Now he'll have to apologize — also on our behalf. Tough work being a senator."
"He'll be fine. He is a senator, after all. This won't be his first time breaking a promise."
Alnam laughs, but his stomach is clenched tight. He has another call to make.
.
.
.
Ormi picks up this time. Good — the sooner he's done with it, the better.
"How did your exhibit go?" he asks.
"All things considered, it wasn't too shabby. No fights — that's an upgrade from the last time."
"Oh yeah, I remember. What did they fight over, the use of Mon Cal aquamarine?"
"Yeah."
Her laugh is nervous. Tends to be lately when she's talking to him.
And now — maybe — she's got a reason for that.
It hasn't been comfortable talking to his wife in a long time. Add the fact: he plans to backstab her now.
It's not like that, he thinks. He knows, though: for her, it is.
"How's Yalgi?" he asks. How false his voice sounds surprises him.
"Everything's fine. He's making plans for his birthday already. Will you—"
"Can't promise anything — you know that. So far, I'm stuck in the Mid Rim and I don't know when the investigation is going to be concluded."
"I understand all that, but... maybe you could do something about that? Like a day off?"
"I wish I could. It's a four-day trip from here to Coruscant."
"Oh, right. I tend to forget how large space is. Don't really remember the last time I've been off-world."
Alnam does: four years ago, Bacrana. Their last family vacation.
"Well, come work for the RDS if you want to go to other planets. How does Skados VI sound? We've got wonderful factory pipes bigger than the building you live in!"
Again this nervous laughter. "I think I'll sit this one out. So about the party..."
"As I said, no promises if I'll be able to come. I hope we'll close the case by then. But even if we don't, I'm going to be present by a holoconnection. I can say that much. I told Yalgi already. I'll be there the entire time, that's... that's, yeah."
She presses her lips together. "Look, Vad... if you think... I don't want you to think I don't want to see you anymore. Because I do. Things may have not worked out between us, but you're a good man."
"Oh, come on."
"No, I mean it. You're a genuinely good man, and I'd like to think we can still talk to each other."
"Of course we can. You need anything — you call me. I mean, if you just need to talk, you call me. It's... it's..."
"And Yalgi, he needs you. You know, my greatest fear is that I'm standing between you two. That I'm taking him away from you."
"No, you're not. You are really not." Alnam feels like shit saying this. There's this fucking trembling somewhere deep in his chest — it's like he's turning into an Ithorian. "It's all good. Don't do that to yourself. Everything is good, I promise."
Ormi looks down — Alnam knows it means she's thinking real hard. Then she says, "And about your father... Do you know if he's going to send Yalgi a gift this year?"
"I don't," says Alnam, no tender sadness left in him now. "I don't talk to him."
"Because the last time..."
"Yeah, I know. There's nothing I can do about it."
"I just don't want to feel indebted to him and I don't want Yalgi to feel that way. And with gifts like that..."
"I heard you. There's nothing I can do about it. He doesn't consult me before he does anything. Even if I called him, he'd do things his own way."
She glances at him. "Okay. Let's leave it at that."
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.
.
Alnam can't sleep that night. Alnam can't believe she said what she said just to get him go bowing to his father.
But maybe she really thinks that way, some part of him suggests.
A shit suggestion, Alnam tells that part. She just wanted to placate me. Just chose the lesser of two Alnams.
She's always tended to jump from one topic to another.
She has, Alnam admits, so what?
He can't sleep that night: he's forging his justifications.
He still feels like shit.
.
.
.
Next day results: nothing.
They pay another visit to Fozatta Records. It's still the domain of Giles. Giles is still as unhelpful as only a well-stocked junkie can be.
They file an official request with the Skados City Police — for the second time.
Planetary police force: the only entity in the Republic that is able of being less cooperative than a well-stocked junkie.
Nobody on Coruscant has managed to get a hold of Fozatta or Povo Rapol. Alnam's suspicion: nobody really tried to.
The case looks more and more like a way to get him off Coruscant.
He tells himself that's absurd. Nobody cares about him — he's nobody. The only person in the Galaxy who gives a shit where Vad Alnam is is ten years old.
Mtoro, though? She could do something to piss the RDS direction off. So they sent her away — with Alnam as collateral damage.
He thinks about it. The Ithorian has her own opinions on just about everything. Not a rebellious kind, however. She may grumble all she wants but she'll still go and do her duty.
Nah, the notion is absurd. But so is their assignment.
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.
.
He gets shit-faced that night with Obar again. So shit-faced he can barely stand as airspeeders flash by him.
He feels oooooooold. He feels like there's nothing to do. The only thing he wants is to go back to Coruscant.
While he's not on Coruscant, that passes for a goal.
He falls, hitting his brow. The sound comes a second later, with the heat wave: a low-frequency reverb of a speeder's engine.
That's it. It's over. He's killed in a traffic accident on Skados VI.
Great fate.
But the world doesn't hurry to fade to black. No, instead his head hurts like a bitch, and his forearms start bitching too: he must have left some skin on the coarse wood of the walkway.
"You fucking—"
As he attempts to stand up, he sees the airspeeder that knocked him off his feet has stopped about ten feet away, hovering above the walkway.
A Cattesian standing next to it almost makes Alnam laugh. The vision is funny, Alnam has to admit: the birdman balances on one foot, his wings spread, a fluorescent drawing painted on them. Alnam nearly loses himself in the spirals and coils of that masterpiece.
Then his brain finally manages to hit the alarm button.
Blaster! The fucker's got a blaster!
And he's aiming it at you.
Alnam stops, half-crouched. His right eye begins burning: blood from the wound reached it.
The blaster in the clawed foot of the Cattesian moves slightly to the left. Go.
Alnam doesn't need an interpreter to get that.
Four more birdmen sit in the crescent long seat of the aircar. Another blaster immediately prods Alnam under the ribs. The first one looks him right in the eye.
As Alnam struggles to blink the blood away, a voice calls to him: "No panic, pigster. We're here to talk. For now."
He looks around. There it is: a 3PO unit head mounted on a small terminal. Wires everywhere. Too costly to bring the entire thing along: two extra birdmen can fit instead.
A Cattesian with faded feathering twits something. The others laugh. A sign of who's boss here.
"Love your booze a little too much, pigster? Can't stand on your feet?"
Alnam feels he's about to start joking back. Alnam feels he's about to piss himself.
Jokes come out first.
"Are you guys from the anti-alcohol league or something?" Okay, okay, don't hold it. Show them you speak their language.
A blaster-whip on the head lets Alnam know these fuckers aren't here for jokes. Also brings him one step closer to pissing himself.
"They allow buffoons like you into the RDS nowadays? Tsk, tsk." The droid clearly pronounces every sound of his tsks. "These are indeed the last days of the Republic. Well, listen here, pigster, 'cause we won't say it twice. Stop poking your nose into the transmission."
Oh fuck.
"Furthermore, stop snooping around the factory district if you value your legs. Is that clear?"
Shit. Think! You expected this would happen. You prepared for it.
"What the fuck, guys, I wasn't snooping! I was just fucking doing busywork for my bosses! It's nothing!"
"Stop squealing, little pigster, or we'll drop you out."
Only now Alnam realizes the speeder has gained height.
"When we say stop snooping around, and we say stop snooping around now, you stop snooping around whatever your bosses say."
Didn't take your blaster to Obar's. What would you do if you did? Play a gunslinger? These fucking birds would ice you faster than you can reach for the thing even if you were sober.
"Okay, noted. I won't go to the factory district anymore."
"Stop talking to people. Don't fucking talk to them, understand? Enough of this fucking investigation. The only thing you're gonna find is us. Do you wanna find us? Huh?"
"No, I don't... I don't want to find you."
"Thatta smart pigster!"
There you go. The nano-droid capsule. Right in your pocket.
"Conclude your little research, little pigster, and leave Skados. We don't care where you run. Just leave. Your stench is getting too vapid."
Problem: if you as much as reach in for it, they'll ice you.
"I understand. But I have a partner. I'll have to convince her."
He can feel the capsule through the fabric of his breeches. His hands are not inside his pockets. Everything is good.
"The hammerhead? Do what you want, but get her off the planet too."
He tries to push the capsule out. No way: his hands are too numb to manage that.
"I'll need to look like I'm doing my job. Otherwise, she'll get suspicious."
"Oh yeah? How's that our problem?"
No fucking way he's getting it out of his pocket.
"Look, I won't actually investigate anything. But if I just up and go, they'll fire me and send somebody else to work on the case next week. Somebody not as incompetent and alcoholic as me."
And so he breaks it within the pocket.
The old Cattesian looks at his goons. They discuss something that the droid doesn't translate.
Come on! Is it working? Are the droids just gonna stay inside Alnam's breeches? He tries to head them outside, although even now he realizes the futility of that.
"Alright," says the droid, "we don't want any more pigsters here. You're one too many as it stands. Make sure they don't send any more."
"I will. I will pretend like I'm working. That's all I do anyway. It can last for however long you want."
"Don't expect us to pay you, pigster."
"Okay, fair enough. The only thing I want right now from you is that you let me go before I pissed all over your aircar."
No laughter now, either. No blaster-whipping, though, too.
Fresh air hits his lungs like hallucinogenic smoke. He can't believe he got out alive.
Doesn't recognize the place at once. Then it hits him as well: he's near Obar's house.
"One last thing, pigster," the droid tells him from behind his back. "Don't think of going to the Skados pigsters. They are our pigsters!"