"Who would have though irresponsible behavior would get us this far," says Mtoro.
Not "your irresponsible behavior". Alnam likes that.
"It is what it is," he says.
His partner's datapad shows the result of the nano-droids's work: the car Alnam had been held in made it to a factory tower in the industrial district.
Mtoro drove the droids out of the car and around the building. Nice joint they got, those workers: with a full-blown recording studio right at the factory.
Before the droids' lifespan ran out, they'd reported home a good portion of the layout of the place.
Smart little bastards, Alnam thinks affectionately. Managed to get out of his pocket.
"Why would they act in such a stupid way?" the Ithorian says. "Kidnapping an RDS operative is very serious business. Enough to send you to a jail for the rest of your life."
"They were scared to death," Alnam says. "I won't say I wasn't when they got me in their speeder, but they were scared way more than me. Wouldn't have reacted this way otherwise."
"And you think it was our visit to the factory district that made them this scared."
"The droids say so."
He nods at the datapad. He tries not to rub it in.
"Do you think the cops are involved, after all?"
Can't let go of your theory, eh, Agent Apani?
But Alnam really tries to not rub it in — although something is rising in his solar plexus like a wave he's riding.
"The guys who got me didn't wear uniforms. Could still be cops. Even if not, I'm sure the police is on it. You just start questioning our guys and see how they sing."
Mtoro intertwines her fingers. "We won't be informing Dibasi about it for now."
"No, we won't."
It didn't sound like a question, but Alnam feels like decision-making is now a tandem thing.
"There can be a lot of them in there," he says. "I don't think there will, but there can."
"You think about requesting backup?"
"No. They might have contacts in the customs. No need to attract attention."
"And it would take too much time anyway. So how are we going to take them out? Go in clandestinely?"
"Exactly. We'll need to rent a speeder. Blacked-out windows. We'll fly it to the spaceport. I'll tell Obar to wait for us there. He'll take our speeder and go to the sea, and we'll take another one to the factory."
"Can we trust Obar?"
"You've spoken to him."
"Not as much as you. They got you right outside his house."
"They were watching me the first time we had our little carousing."
"Can we trust him?"
"We can."
Mtoro looks at him for a few seconds. Then she says, "Fine then. But if the cops are involved, we're going to find ourselves in the world of crap once we make the arrests."
"True."
"I'm thinking of calling an emergency with the administration."
"So we'll take cover at the Republic facility... Invoke the immunity and all. Well, apart from sinking our diplomatic relations with Skados VI, I see no downside to that."
"As long as Ktii remains in power, we should be fine."
"Right you are. It's not like we have a choice, anyway." Alnam stretches his back. "We're doing it on Zhellday."
"Do you think the broadcasts are really live?"
"It sure looks this way. I mean, we know they aren't pre-recorded en masse. Povo Rapol mentioned that banker crashing his speeder the last time, and that happened the previous Centaxday. He also says what time it is when he's going live, but yeah, that can be recorded a few days in advance and then just synchronized."
"Well, Zhellday is our best bet." Something in Mtoro's tone tells Alnam she's not so certain. "Okay, let's see the approaches."
They spend the next three hours looking at the holopics of the factory the aircar nests at. Most show it from within: safety commission visits, bosses' hatchdays, new contracts being signed. Not much to take from those — there aren't any floor plans on the Holonet. They find some interconnections with the things the droids have told them, though.
Outside views are more interesting. Not a ton of detailed pictures, but Mtoro finds a presentation video about the factory that's got a long shot of the exterior going around the tower.
"It's from two years ago," she says.
"It doesn't seem like there's anything better. Look, there are these catwalks at the bottom of the foundries."
"I wouldn't call it the bottom. It must be at least two hundred meters above the force field."
"Yep. But there is access to the factory itself. Let's see," Alnam brings one of the pictures they've looked at back to the screen, "it probably leads to the area downstairs." He points at the large number 1 painted on the wall behind the plumes of the Cattesian officials. "And here are the stairs. We know the location of the garage: it is at the lower levels. Makes sense — you wouldn't want to put anything on top of the foundries. So we want to go down as well."
"But they'll see us if we take the garage route," Mtoro sighs. "So the catwalks it is."
.
.
.
They're probably watching, Alnam thinks. Would be stupid not to watch us.
He tries to guess which aircar behind them is the one. No long speeder — his old acquaintance — is present.
So the Cattesians are either smart or even stupider than he'd think.
Mtoro pilots their speeder. Their going to the starport must set the alarms off — but that's the only place in Skados City where you can rent a speeder and not draw too much attention. Plus: hard to follow anyone at a spaceport. Plus: they should be busy recording the next transmission for tonight.
It was Alnam's decision. It is his operation. He knows it is. He knows Mtoro knows it as well. They haven't discussed it, but they both know it.
Mtoro parks the aircar deep within the roofed lot. Not too many cars here: half the spots are empty. Alnam looks back once every ten seconds. No speeder has followed them inside.
He gets out of the car. Walks to the rental terminal. Rents one of the speeders parked in a dedicated row by the wall of the lot. Gets in.
Mtoro joins him. They wait. Their previous speeder blinks with its parking lights.
Obar walks out of an elevator in about five minutes: Mtoro called him. The Nautolan's eyes wander around. He's searching for them.
Obar finds them and stops in his tracks for a second. Alnam purses his lips. His leg twitches. He shouldn't have enlisted a civilian. Not a junkie, at any rate.
But then Obar resumes his stroll and gets in the speeder with the blacked-out windows. He carefully flies it out of the parking spot and down the oval corridor leading outside.
They wait. Two more speeders leave the parking.
Alnam starts the engine.
His stomach is shrunk into a needle point when he drives out of the lot. Four lanes of speeders in front of him. Speeders trying to unload their passengers and cargo right at the spaceport doors without paying for parking. Speeders waiting for their passengers to come out of the building. Speeders trying to change lanes.
He turns right. That's a longer route into the city. That's a back-up safety measure.
Alnam knows it's not going to help — if the guys shadowing them haven't bought his first trick, they ain't going to buy this one. Still goes with it.
Mtoro doesn't say anything.
He turns left before reaching the city. This turnpike goes straight to the industrial district.
The road there takes about half an hour. The traffic is sloooow today. Alnam wonders why just to wonder about something other than his operation.
His operation.
He starts gaining altitude when the force-field of the factory district recreation area becomes visible. The speeder breaks through some wisps of clouds, leaving their mangled corpses slither behind.
All the factory towers look alike, but Alnam knows his one like a mother knows her child. He's looked at its pictures: every angle is printed in his brain.
He has to lower the speeder to reach the catwalk.
From up here, it doesn't look like such a great idea to do what he's about to do.
Hanging so far above the ground — or force-field — puts you in a different state of mind. Alnam's never noticed how much a speeder rocks when hovering. Now he does.
The catwalk: narrow and porous. Has a rail, though, and doesn't come falling down when Alnam lands on it.
Alnam wears a jacket, not that its thin leather does much this high. The wind here is freezing. What's worse, it howls as if it already has blown Alnam off the catwalk.
The catwalk vibrates under Mtoro's weight. It's fine. Alnam has got used to how standing here works. Now it's time to try walking.
Their speeder vanishes in the suggestion of fog. Mtoro's idea: this way, it won't give away their position if it yet hasn't.
The rail is cold under Alnam's fingers. Should've packed some gloves when going to Skados.
Mtoro says something — he sees her mouths move — but Alnam can't hear a sound in all the wind.
So they make their way without words.
The catwalk takes them around the tower and between it and the one it is conjoined with. Here the wind is not permanent: the two duracrete colossi block it from most sides. When it finds its way in, the creeper, the air current becomes so strong Alnam and Mtoro have to turn their faces away from it: otherwise, there's no breathing and their eyeballs feel like someone's applying sandpaper to them.
They walk farther in between the two towers. The catwalk ends at a little balcony with a door to its right. Alnam wonders if workers go here to have a cigarette break.
The door: a double-leafed durasteel slab. No control panel in sight.
"How do we get in?"
He turns to Mtoro. She stands there with a blaster in her hand. Alnam chuckles: so absurd it is. They can shoot at this door for a year and not get any closer to opening it.
He doesn't panic. That has nothing to do with his resolve, though: it's more like the part of him responsible for panicking is shell-shocked.
He looks around. There are no other doors: they have landed close to the other end of the catwalk. Alnam's guess is that they use the balcony for unloading trucks. He has no idea what the rest of the catwalk is here for.
He looks around. The towers connect several levels above their heads, but here at their bases they are separate: each stands on its own absurdly thin leg.
He looks across the precipice. The base of the other tower is also girdled with a catwalk. This one is much shorter. Five or seven meters, Alnam would presume. Doesn't jut to the outer part of the tower. There, nice and cozy: a door. A fancy one: has a control panel at its side.
Alnam glances at the door he has. Why wouldn't there be a control panel next to it as well?
"I'll call the speeder back," says Mtoro.
There's doubt in her voice.
"What?"
"I don't know, Vad. Look, there's too little space to maneuver it."
Alnam sees she's right. Between all the rails and cables hanging from one tower to another, it would be hard even for Anakin Skywalker to pilot the aircar to the catwalk on the other side.
And he's no Anakin Skywalker.
"Maybe let's evacuate for now," Mtoro says. "We can hire a swoop—"
"A swoop won't go so far up. And good luck getting it to hover there long enough for us to get off."
"Then what? What other choice do we have?"
Alnam bits his lip. He knows the answer.
He just hates it.
"Look," he finally says, "there's supposed to be a bridge. Here at the balcony. The rails are supposed to open."
"There's no control panel."
"Seems like the other side got them all. See?"
Mtoro brings her blaster in front of her head, but Alnam raises his hand.
"Wait! If you fry it up, it can screw us real bad."
"I've done it a thousand times."
"With doors, right? Well, with doors, it's not the end of the world if they get stuck somewhere in the middle. With the bridge..."
Mtoro lowers her blaster. "It seems like the only chance we've got."
The fewer thoughts, the better.
"There are a few more."
He takes his jacket off. It's not so cold anymore.
"There. Two rails one above another. I can cross."
"Are you mad?! No, you can't."
"What are you talking about? Of course I can," he says as he takes the holster off his belt.
The lower rail looks wide enough. Runs maaaaybe two meters below the balcony. The upper one: much thinner. Looks sharp. Alnam wouldn't want to grab it with his hands.
Luckily, he has his belt.
He ties one end of the belt around his wrist and lies down on the balcony's edge. "Come on, hold me."
Mtoro pauses before Alnam feels her hands on his shoulders.
"Nuh-uh. I still can't reach it. Hold me by my legs."
He tries to focus on the metal rail, but the blue screen several hundred meters down doesn't let go of his attention.
Mtoro's holding you. You aren't falling anywhere.
"You know," he says to say something, "I really don't understand these art programs. Like, why does the government support some movie directors?"
He can't reach under the rail with his free hand, so he has to throw the belt over it from below. The fucking thing keeps sliding off.
"I don't know anyone who'd like those movies. It's all propaganda, right? And shitty propaganda at that. They don't just go for propaganda, but also manage to put a million of their weird fetishes in it."
There! The plate stays on top of the rail. Alnam touches it as tenderly as he hasn't touched anyone in more than two years. Come here, you little bastard!
"So nobody likes them, right? They never make their money back. But that's not the point. Even had they been great and profitable, it still would've been unethical to waste taxpayers' money on art."
As he pulls at the free end, his left hand is dragged down.
The realization the balcony ends somewhere around his waist almost makes him kick at Mtoro.
He keeps talking. "And I'm not even talking about, you know, the medicine and education and the military. Even apart from those... Let's say, they all were taken care of. Even then, it would be unethical to spend people's money — without their consent — on art."
He ties a knot around the rail as best he can. Checks if it's slippery.
"There's always someone who's not going to... Okay, pull me back."
He can't stand up with his hand tied to the rail. Can't even squat. Feels something under his chest — and that's improvement enough.
"Maybe let me do this," says Mtoro.
"I'm lighter than you, Agent Apani."
Alnam can't tell if he's happy to rest. He knows what's coming, so the nice feeling of not hanging over an abyss isn't so nice.
He crawls under the balcony railing and brings his feet forward.
Son of a bitch — he never thought he'd make an acrobat.
Think about the rail. Just the rail.
He wants to be thinking about his son. About his duty to the Republic. About his father, maybe. Or even about Ormi.
No such luck, Agent Alnam.
He takes a dive. He's sure he missed the rail — for the whole second it takes his feet to hit the fucking thing.
The rail bends under his weight. The feeling of a free fall strives to squeeze Alnam's guts out of him. His back feels every single meter that separates it from the force field.
Then the belt tightens. Tries to dislocate his shoulder.
Alnam grabs onto it with both his hands. It almost throws his feet off the lower rail, but he finds his balance.
"Careful!" he hears Mtoro scream.
"Yeah, thanks!" he replies.
He looks across the gap. Gonna be tough twenty meters.
He takes the first step. The knot slips along the upper rail only when Alnam pushes it with his free hand.
The other side doesn't look any closer.
Alnam takes another step. Another. Can't think about anything. All that's left of him is the pattern: left foot. Right foot. Then adjust the knot. Left foot. Right foot. Adjust the knot. Left foot. Right foot. Adjust the knot. Left foot. Right foot. Adjust the fucking knot.
Wind comes breaking into this world like an invading army of extragalactic horrors. Both rails start having a seizure — with Alnam stuck between.
He holds to the upper rail. No hope the belt will save him: it may be durasteel-reinforced all it wants, but Alnam's knottery is just not up to the task. As soon as he pulls on it with all of his weight, he'd done for.
Smart of him to have taken off his jacket: it would've open up now like a sail.
As he's trying to turn his face away from the wind, he's thinking — or maybe he's talking, he cannot say. To the Galaxy. To the fate. To himself.
Let me survive this, he's saying. Let me survive this. I'll be a better man, just let me survive this. People depend on me. My son does. Let me survive this. I won't take him from his mother. He's better off with her. I knew it, I always did. Just let me live!
Another gush comes, knocking Alnam's hand off the rail.
But no other gush follows.
Mtoro screams something at him. His brain is physically incapable of registering the meaning of her words.
He proceeds. His hands are numb, and he lowers the right one. It tingles as blood returns to it like a family to the charred ruins of their home.
And he proceeds.
Left foot. Right foot. Adjust the knot. Adjust the balance.
It's panic-inducing when he realizes there's no more rail to pattern along. But it is what it is: the body of the second tower is so, so close. He's made it.
That is, if he can make it to the catwalk.
He gives his hand some rest. At least some parts of him should be ready.
He grabs the rail and pulls himself up. The metal is cold. The edges are sharp. It bends and rebounds under him.
But Alnam catches it with his thighs. Blood finally races to his left arm. It feels great to not be standing stretched between two fucking rails.
He crawls to the catwalk. Grabs its floor — bless the engineers who made it have these little holes! Pulls himself up. No-go. Okay. That's fine. Just wait a second. Catch your breath.
He pulls himself up again. This time, he doesn't stop until he brings his body onto the catwalk.
It feels like every bit of strength has been pumped out of his muscles, and he's happy to be this amorphous mass. He wrestles his hand out of the knot — he prefers not to dwell on how loose said knot has become — and just lies panting on the cold and dimpled durasteel.
Slowly, Alnam sits up. The bridge control panel looks at him. No fancy stuff: just an extend/collapse button. Nice and easy. He wouldn't be able to solve any hacking puzzles after his rope dancing.
He feels really awkward while he watches Mtoro cross the bridge. Feels like he has nothing to do. Feels like laughing because of it.
"Are you alright?" Mtoro asks, concern oozing from both of her mouths.
"Sure."
"Well, look at you. I guess it looked scarier than it was."
The joke is poor, but Alnam laughs. Mtoro does too.
"You dropped something, Agent Alnam."
She hands him his jacket and his holster.
"Yeah. I'm afraid, I won't be of much use in a fight, though. My hands are shaking. Too much strain. Not like I was scared."
Mtoro laughs again. "Well, let's hope it doesn't come to a fight, then."
Alnam still takes the blaster out of the holster. He's not picking the belt up — so he puts the holster in a pocket of his jacket.
The door yields to them at once — Alnam's spider tricks must have impressed it. They don't even have to shoot the control panel.
Behind the door is a dark hallway. It exhales soft, warm, fusty mechanical hum.
"We should hurry up," says Alnam. "Before they're done recording for today."
That is, if they're even recording the day of the broadcast.
They go in. They don't have the lay of the land for this tower: the droids had burnt through their energy reserves doing the reconnaissance of the main one.
"What are they doing here?" Mtoro asks. "Rent this place out?"
Alnam just shrugs. A timer ticks in his brain: Rapol won't stay here forever.
His partner's right, though. The place got the look of one of those office buildings on Coruscant that get foreclosure signs on them before they open. Transparent inner walls show conference rooms and gyms with enough ropes to induce a stress attack in someone who just crossed an abyss with nothing to keep him safe but a belt.
Not a person in sight. No lights — it's only thanks to the transparisteel walls that Alnam sees where he's going.
They make their way to a tube in the middle of the tower. The turbolifts. Powered.
"You sure we don't want to search for the stairs?" Mtoro asks.
Alnam ponders on that. There are sure to be cameras in the turbolifts.
But so there might be on the stairs. Could be some at the entrance.
If anybody's watching, it would be easy to just send the elevator and the annoying RDS operatives down to the ground level. At the free fall speed — if said operatives are extra annoying.
They won't do it. Alnam knows. Even somebody drugged out of his mind would never kill an RDS agent. Kidnap one — maybe. Maybe even hit one on the head. That they might do.
And somebody's about to answer for that.
"We take a ride," he says.
The ride ends six levels above. There, across a crowded lobby, is a passageway into the second tower — a prism with its two upper sides made of transparisteel.
Nobody reacts to Mtoro and him as they walk into the next tower. Every bird here has something to do, be it watching some weird laser-based game on a screen on the wall, speaking to other birds, or checking something on their datapads. There are some aliens on this level: Alnam spies a Gotal arguing with a cafstim machine in the corridor between the towers, a couple of Sy Myrthians taking pictures, and one or two characters whose species he can't tell.
The next tower looks more like a structure above a slow-burning cauldron of toxins should: empty. Also has an elevator in the middle, but it won't go to the lower levels.
That's fine. They can take a walk.
The lower levels start resembling a factory — the lower they descend, the more. Mechanic arms put boxes on magnetic conveyor belts that go round or up or down.
It doesn't take long before Alnam begins discerning the places he's seen in the nano-droid footage. This realization makes him forget how tired he is.
More Cattesians in a tiny offshoot corridor. These watch Alnam and Mtoro with panicking squawking.
But it doesn't matter: Alnam sees the recording studio in the end of the corridor. Full to the fucking brim with birdmen.
"RDS!" he shouts, and it's the best fucking feeling in the whole wide Galaxy. "Down on the floor!"
The Cattesians outside of the studio comply.
"Everybody down!"
Those inside the studio don't. Alnam remembers what Giles said: transparisteel made by a panic rooms manufacturer.
All the better.
"Open the door!" he commands the Cattesian closest to the studio.
The poor bird squeaks something in her tongue, not knowing whether to stand up and do what she's told or to finish lying down.
Mtoro solves it for her, shooting the door control panel.
The door slides open. No sticking in the middle. Not today.
"RDS! Get down!" Alnam repeats for his new audience.
He knows Mtoro controls the people in the corridor. It's the first arrest he's working with her, but he feels safe as if they've covered each other's back for a million times before.
That's the way with law enforcement. You either trust your partner or don't work in law enforcement.
He sees — from the corner of his eye — a Cattesian behind a music desk reach for some laser grid with his wing. Doesn't hesitate to introduce the feathered fuck to the might of his DC-17's stunner. The feathered fuck leans on one arm of his chair and falls down, chair included. No one rushes to help him.
"You're all under arrest for government destabilization, inciting of civil disturbances, and anti-Republic libel. I will now read and explain your rights to you."
Before he does, though, he peeks inside the recording booth. There, at a mic with a large letter Forn on it, sits Isk Povo Rapol. Alnam would recognize his dull feathering anywhere.
Alnam smiles at him and waves him a greeting.