Water under the bridge — so Lawrie said. Alnam has to remember bodies of water are scarce on Coruscant.
He'd prefer for them to work separately, but Mtoro has reported RI involvement to Ven. It ticks some of the cooperation boxes the Director wants ticked, so Ven is happy to sanction the whole thing. Then Mtoro betrays Alnam once again: her past cases catch up with her and take all of her time. He helps her on the senator-running-his-mouth-to-her-paramour one and some on the expired-meds-supplied-to-a-Metellos-drugstore-chain one. Mtoro suspects the command will assign her to deal with the Unbridger aftermath as well. She kindly gives Alnam all of her prelim work on the Fozatta case. It's perfectly structured in such a way that Alnam can't find a thing in these files no matter how hard he tries. After the third time he has to call Mtoro for clarification, he stops using her legacy — it's faster to uncover something for the second time with the Tax Office or Giles or the club owners than to try and make sense of Mtoro's databases even with her assistance.
He runs into Arlos several times. She keeps her half-flirt routine up. Alnam doesn't reciprocate — at least not in the way she must expect him to. Too much work, he tells her — as well as himself. He knows there is another reason. Maybe she can guess it too.
Late second month. Another day in the office — Alnam wouldn't mind a second Unbridger cell going active. Mtoro vents her sinuses. The low growl is both soothing and irritating — though Alnam suspects the intention is responsible for the latter.
"They're going to send me there," she says. "Metellos. Ahhhh. I hoped it wouldn't come to this."
"And me?"
"And you have plenty of work here."
"I thought you did as well. So what, they'll separate the partners like that?"
"They will if I ask them hard enough. And enough times."
"Wait a sec — it's your idea?"
"It sucks one agent must go there, let alone two. I'm saving you, Vad."
"Oh yeah, thanks. I really didn't want to miss any important event on Three Zeroes. Just loathed the thought of seeing the famous flying cities to boot."
Mtoro stretches her back. "Believe you me, there won't be much sightseeing. More checking every blister pack against the list. There are thousands of blister packs."
"Well, I suppose. Hey, wait, oh shit! It means I'll have to locate the senator's fuck buddy? I've slept through the last briefing on that one..."
"The last," Mtoro emphasizes. "Sotctia's days as a senator are ending. Regardless, it waits. Better focus on Fozatta."
"Another hard-to-get."
"That comes naturally in the DS."
"Are you sure Onoile won't get on my ass? If I'm not chasing that bimbo, I wanna be sure I can blame it on you."
"Fozatta is a priority. Besides, you have Rengart."
"Yeah, right."
Water under the bridge, huh?
While Mtoro is still on Coruscant, Alnam enjoys not seeing Lawrie. But she leaves too soon: less than a week after their conversation.
He bathashits his way through a day more of office work. Then it's time to call Lawrie.
.
.
.
A disturbingly accurate thought: Lawrie looks just like Yalgi on the Fete morning. Look at this fifty-year-old kid all jumpy and high on adrenaline — there are presents to open!
"I thought you'd bring your guys," Alnam says shaking his hand.
"Why? We won't need them to apprehend a fucking producer. He's no ex-military, you know."
"I hope there's just one exit in that building, then."
Lawrie's joviality goes down a notch. "Look, my boys are all very loyal to the Republic Intelligence. Would be hard for me to justify to them letting you take the Fozman into the RDS custody."
"Why would you want that?"
"As much as it pains me, I figure there are fewer people with Senate ties in the DS than in the RI. And the Fozman has a shitton of Senate ties. You see where I'm going?"
Alnam does.
They walk in silence. The plaza in front of the Ganotegli Building is an Avenue of the Core Founders wannabe — or knockoff, depending on how well the cleaner droids do their work today. It's a hundred-meter wide step at the top of another building going down. Slightly lacking in the statues department — just four of them.
"Besides," Lawrie says, "maybe we won't find him today at all. I doubt he's just sitting there by the reception all day."
The CHT: two offices at the levels 49 and 50 of Ganotegli. Alnam and Lawrie go through a reception desk at the ground floor and then there is one more at the CHT proper.
It's manned — hm — by a droid. It addresses them in Aqualish, the sneaky fuck. Unfortunately for it, Lawrie speaks mad Aqualish — Alnam has an easier time understanding the droid than him.
He gets the gist, though: Lawrie insists on seeing Tuu Bnagen. The droid attempts to persuade him he can leave a holomessage for Ms. Bnagen. Lawrie will have none of it. It ends with the droid establishing a call on its built-in comlink.
"She's trying to get the director," Lawrie tells Alnam — in a hushed voice, as if the droid can't hear that.
"But we need the deputy."
"Uh-huh. Well, I hope Kurasis can tell us where she is."
"Somewhere around here would be my guess. Sending Bnagen a quick memo to get the fuck out of here — if the droid hasn't."
Lawrie smiles. "You worry too much, Alnam."
"You take on the director. I'll get lost and go through the office."
"No need."
Bad vibes. Is he trying to job?
"Come on. Let's spread our efforts."
"Alright," Lawrie says, "you do you. But come to the director's office if — or should I say when — you get tired."
The droid ushers them inside. Alnam drops behind. The office is empty. Silent. Doors left and right. Reminds him of the factory building on Skados — the same air of desolation.
Voices on the second floor — Lawrie and somebody else. Alnam keeps going. The droid shuffles past him — but doesn't ask why Alnam's loitering here.
Some rooms are closed, but each has a window to it. All empty — from what he can tell looking through the blinds.
The second floor: a larger hall and just three rooms opposite to the stairs. The door of the one in the center is open — that's where the voices are coming from.
"How many more times are we gonna go through this?" Lawrie is saying. "Look at you. This isn't okay. What you do to yourself isn't okay. In what world is it okay?"
Nobody's in the left room.
"I know, I know. I'm a lost cause, Rengart. I'd rather try and do something for other people than keep denying that."
Boxes cover the window of the room on the right. Alnam tries several angles.
Lawrie's coughs. "You need to get a grip, man. I'm saying it both as your friend and as an RI agent."
"Which capacity are you in today, though?"
"I just told you: both. Alnam! Are you ready?"
The central room: a water cooler. Filing cabinets on both sides of a writing desk. The director sits with his back to the window and two tubs with crestfallen dusty plants.
"RDS. Alnam," Alnam introduces himself.
The director rises. He's a thin man — malnourished-looking, even. Bags under his eyes.
He offers Alnam his hand. "Odo Kurasis. I'm the Center's director." He looks at Lawrie.
"Agent Lawrie and I are here as part of a joint-effort investigation. We have a few questions to ask."
"Please. I'm quite accustomed to Rengart's visits at this point, frankly, so questions do not surprise me."
"Mr. Kurasis," Alnam says sitting down, "you've been the director for how long?"
"Since the very beginning, Agent."
"So even when the CHT was under the RRM?"
"That's right."
Alnam demonstratively looks around. "A bit quiet here today, isn't it? I imagined, you know, refugees. Or — targeted individuals, sorry."
"There's not enough space for them here." The director's smile is a careful one. "We have five harbors on the planet."
"Harbors?"
"Yes, they are... hostels, you can say."
"I thought it was six," Lawrie says.
"It used to be. We had to close the one in Tirga down."
"Fewer targeted?"
"More monetary concerns."
"Oh, we've heard about those," says Alnam.
"Really?"
Lawrie gets up from his chair. Examines the labels on the drawers. "Yeah, really. The Fozman went to ground."
Kurasis looks at Lawrie and Lawrie at Kurasis.
"Lawrie," Alnam says with a smile. "The Fozman."
"Oh. Huh! Right. Fozatta."
Kurasis manages to keep the confused expression on his face. Pretending or legit?
"So what?" he says. "I guess he donated a couple of times, but trust me, it was never enough to keep an entire harbor working. Nobody has this much money to give us constantly. It's a blessing of sorts: we don't have to worry that the loss of any given donor will disrupt our work."
Speaks too much. The voice is calm, but he's said more than he should've.
Verdict: probably knows about the Fozman.
"Come on, Odo," Lawrie says, "cut the bantha. We know how it works. That you're running a charity front here."
"We need Fozatta," Alnam says, "not you."
"We know it all. How you register paper companies in the name of your clients. How you buy Fozatta's paper companies with the money his clubs donate to you."
"Ms. Matli's courtesy."
"Hers and Tymo Beranen's."
Alnam can't help but glance at Lawrie: the greasy fuck never told him they got Fozatta's head of the financial department.
Maybe he's bluffing. Either way, it can wait.
Lawrie comes closer to Kurasis. "Which one of your harbors harbors him?"
The director raises his palms to his eyes and peers into them — as if expecting to find the answer.
Then he starts shaking. Screws up his face. Howls come out of his mouth.
"I'm an ill man," he cries. "I'm an addict! It's ten in the... in the morning, and I've had half a bottle of gin already!"
Lawrie steps in. Pats Kurasis on his slouched back.
"I'm a fucking ruin, Rengart! I can't do it anymore!"
"That's all right, pal. That's all right."
"Do you want us to call a doctor for you?" Alnam asks, but for some reason, Lawrie answers: shakes his head.
"It's all over! I cannot do this!"
"Just tell us. Tells us how it all happened."
"Look at me! I'm a fucking wreck! I can't do anything! They got me, man! All I can do is watch what she's doing to my fucking Center!"
"She?" Lawrie asks, still patting Kurasis. "You mean Tuu?"
The director makes an affirmative sob.
"It's all okay," Lawrie says. "It will all be okay. Do you know where we find her?"
"I don't. She hardly ever comes."
"We've heard she was here at the start of the year," Alnam says. "She and Fozatta."
"I don't know! All she has to do is slip me a bottle. I cannot keep myself from doing it! Look!" Kurasis shows them his shaking hands. "I tell myself, stop! Stop! You have to stop! But I can't! The next time I see a fucking bottle, it's all over!"
"Try and figure out where Tuu may be. Look. Look." Lawrie raises the director's head to look into his eyes. "We want to help you. To help the Center."
"Got any ideas where to start looking for Fozatta?" Alnam asks.
Kurasis is still weeping — but now he's wiping his tears, at least.
"I'm a complete fucking ruin," he says again. "How did it come to this? Tuu runs all the affairs now."
"But you are the director, sir."
"It's because it looks good to the benefactors. Those fucking hypocrites! They don't want to do business with a non-Human, oh no. They're helping non-Humans, but actually looking at them is too much. That's the only thing she needs me for — to look good to the donors."
Lawrie: "Is it so?"
"Why would I lie, Rengart? Why would I lie to you of all people?"
"Mr. Kurasis," Alnam says, "we're not trying to pull a gotcha on you."
"We're trying to figure out how this all happened to the CHT," Lawrie nods.
Kurasis gets up and walks to a filing cabinet. Picks a bottle of vodka and a whiskey glass out of it.
"Excuse me," he says. "It's... I'm constantly stressed out. And your arrival, gentlemen... I mean no disrespect, but it didn't help my condition. Not by a tiny margin. No sir."
His voice is strangely merry. Alnam notices the director's hands quit shaking when he pours vodka.
"So, Odo," Lawrie says looking in the window, "how did it happen?"
"What do you mean?"
"Everything that comes to your mind. But try to focus on how Tuu got so much power in the Center."
"She, man... she's not just a girl, that one." Kurasis takes a shot and spends a minute snoring and coughing. "I thought she was once. You know, when she just entered the Center."
"As a targeted individual?" Alnam asks.
"Yes. Well, hard to come by an Aqualish who isn't these days, isn't it? She came to us last year... no, wait, the one before."
"You were your own entity then, right?"
"Yes, it was after we quit the RRM."
"Alright," Lawrie says, "you didn't think she was not just a girl at first. What made you change your mind?"
Kurasis fills another glass. "She was very proficient, you know. I mean, she still is. But now I don't... I can't even tell how proficient she is. This shit," he slaps the desk next to the bottle, "is messing with with my head. I don't have any reference point at this point, huh-uh. Well, Tuu, she's proficient, and I see it. You know, many of our clients help the Center. They help other people, too. It's normal practice. They do the same in the RRM." He tries to empty the second glass, but Lawrie puts his finger on it. "These people, you know. They are not just manual workers. That's true, a lot of them are. Secondary sector. But many are not. There are law students among them. Imagine: you come to your classroom, and everybody there starts telling you how much you suck because of your species. They call you a traitor — to your face, man. Just because some cocksuckers in the CIS happen to be the same species as you. I tell them: isn't Count Dooku a Human? Shouldn't you call all Humans traitors then? I mean, where's logic in all this?"
"She helped you," Lawrie says. "In what way?"
"I was just telling you. She was a law student. We had those, you know... So she started helping around, you know. At the Center. Consulting people... that kind of thing. A lot, I mean, a lot of people were, but she was the best. When Bo D'Fadin left — Celly fucking Organa poached him — naturally, I looked at her as my new deputy. Tuu, I mean. And she was helpful, man. Better than Bo had always... had ever been. I finally had some time, you know. To rest. It's all so fucking... But she took more and more and more and more respons... responsibilities. I didn't notice it. Naaaaaah. I did. But it was too good. To finally not be responsible. Not to see Organa's face — we still, you know... the cooperation is going as usual. It was good. Thanks to Tuu."
"Mr. Kurasis," Alnam says, "but it can't be just Tuu. We know that Fozatta started laundering money through the Center way before Ms. Bnagen became your assistant."
"That's true, Odo. Here. Look: you officially hired her on 14.3.33. The first time you did the bogus firm trick was back in 13."
"So what? So fucking what? Who hasn't done it? Well, maybe you. You're boring. Too boring to take a fucking bribe, ain't you?"
"Get back to Tuu. She's not just a girl, because..?"
"Somebody's protecting her. Somebody serious."
"Fozatta?" Alnam asks.
Kurasis makes a farting sound with his mouth. "I said someone serious. She could... she could do stuff she shouldn't be able to. Stuff I couldn't do. And her? She's a law student. But there she is — getting us a contract with Macchus. That's impossible, okay? That's impossible to pull off without money. A lot of money. A neat publicity stunt, but... you need money for that."
"Embezzling?" Lawrie suggests.
"No. If I still can do something, it's notice banthashit in the accounts. I got master's in economics, after all. I can spot banthashit in the accounts all right. It's something I can still do."
"Who do you think is behind her?" Alnam says.
"Maybe someone in the Senate. Or some rich Aqualish family. I don't know. Ask her."
"We're dying to," Lawrie says. "Where can we find her? Think well this time."
"I don't know, I told you. I'll give you her home address, if you want." Kurasis grins. "But I doubt it'll help."
.
.
.
Iqooda Street. The speeder flies through the upper-mid sector.
"So you got Beranen," Alnam says.
"Uh-huh."
Alnam wants to argue Lawrie should've told him. Stops himself: the RI is under no obligation to share its investigation data.
"Anything you can tell me?" he asks instead.
Lawrie shrugs. "Not where Fozatta is, as you can see. Well... he told me about the Fozman's retreat in Chottlakh System. We send a team there to check, but it's just a waste of money, if you ask me: the old horndog is still on Coruscant and can't leave — Matli said as much."
"We didn't see the recording of that call. She could lie. Or maybe you saw it, Lawrie?"
"No."
"Chottlakh. That's not reflected in Fozatta's tax files."
"Can you believe it, Alnam? The fucking balls on that guy! Wow."
"I just look at it as a possible complication. Maybe there's more to his schemes."
"Relax. We know exactly how they work."
"We don't have the companies' documents. We don't have Bnagen. For all we know, she can be somewhere down there," Alnam nods at the underlevels beneath them, "with a hole molten in the back of her head."
Lawrie hems. "Fozatta doesn't strike me as a murderer. He's a Sep sympathizer and a rapist, but a murderer? He doesn't have the guts for it."
"Is he really a rapist?"
"Look. I know how it must look to you. I remember what the mass media said about your old man and I'm not insinuating any such rumors must be true. But with Fozatta, I'd say they very likely are. Nobody we've questioned ever challenged the assertion itself, only the details."
"Those are pretty big details, whether it was consensual or not."
"It's just arguing about semantics, Alnam. Imagine a girl from the Mid Rim, barely of age, coming to Coruscant: no friends, no money, no nothing. No brains, frankly speaking. Only a pretty face and a desire to sing. What can she do if she's alone in a room with someone like the Foz? She knows nobody will help her. And if he takes her for a private audition to his Chottlakh villa? There's nothing else but his villa on that entire moon, you know. Four weeks of hyperspace away from Coruscant. Two days away from the closest spaceport. Can she say no in this situation?"
Tuu Bnagen's apartment: one of the four cells surrounding the elevator shaft on the level 673 of a tower in Iqooda. The rain is drumming on the windowsill while Alnam and Lawrie wait at the door.
"Well, that's just great," Alnam says a minute in. "Such a journey all for nothing."
"Not so fast."
They question the neighbors. Only two of the three doors open. Yes, an Aqualish lady lives here. No, we haven't seen her lately. Noise? No, not really — but she's always been quiet. Is there a problem?
They check the apartments above and below Bnagen's. Nobody's home. They return to the deputy's door to buzz again. No response — again.
A droid surveillance team is set up. The RI one watches the elevator hall from a parking platform a kilometer to the southeast. Alnam designates two Prowlers to fly by Bnagen's window every half an hour. A droid's life expectancy is shit in Coruscant's traffic: he has to order one more in a week's time.
Whoever is behind Tuu Bnagen, it soon turns out, they have enough money to rent her another apartment. Alnam checks the owner of the Iqooda place — Bnagen last paid her bills eight days ago. The transaction came from the same account Bnagen had used previously. Alnam requests a bank statement from her bank. Bnagen uses this account very sparingly — just to pay the rent once a month and buy a can of some Aqualish-favorite fizzy drink from a vending machine in Ganotegli once a week.
Bnagen — or somebody who doesn't want anyone to know she's dead. Alnam shares his suspicions with Lawrie one day.
"I don't think so," the RI operative says. "There's no point in paying her rent if she's dead. They would've just sent the owner a message that she'll be moving next month."
"And then either leave all her stuff there or send someone who's not her to retrieve it."
"She's a woman. Not like she's going to be carrying all her belongings herself anyway. She'd probably hire some muscle or some gears to do it."
"And the neighbors?"
"Fuck the neighbors. It's not a holoshow, Alnam. Nobody spends their days watching what's up in the building. They're gonna look once — at best. They'll see a bunch of droids carrying shit out of the apartment — all with a moving company logo on their chests. Who's gonna call the police in this situation?"
Alnam takes to drinking with Lawrie in The Holocron twice a week. Lawrie's got good appetites. Lawrie's got good friends among the waiters: there's always a table for them in the upper gallery with a view on The Wall Mall and The Crown Jewel. Lawrie gets called by his wife four times an evening. He laughs it off. He never raises his voice talking to her. He enjoys the attention.
Ormi invites Alnam over once. He refuses. Not that he'd rather have a few drinks with Lawrie, but the very thought of seeing her hurts.
He works on the senator's case while Fozatta's stalling. The senator's fuck buddy is elusive as Fozatta himself. Alnam gets her by chance — when he's visiting her apartment. She tries to pretend she's not the person he's after, but soon breaks. Alnam gives her another lecture about the good of the Republic and makes her sign another recognizance not to leave.
They check the CHT office every day — Bnagen never comes. Her account shows no more fizzy drinks. Alnam suspects Kurasis squealed to her. Lawrie doesn't dispute that. He refuses to have Kurasis arrested, though: says he believes the deputy will come to the director sooner or later.
The fourth month starts. Alnam goes to the second Joint Commission meeting. It's as productive as the first — way less, really, because the Y'Bith Jedi isn't there. Mtoro's still bogged down on Metellos. She asks Alnam to check on her case or two once in a while. It's mostly calling an operative from another department and updating Mtoro's case file with whatever they say. Sometimes, he has to visit a witness or a suspect.
He keeps postponing seeing Father. Vygo Alnam has never called since the Fete. They have to meet. Alnam goes to Ven's office and asks for a week off. Ven happily obliges — but only the only free spot is in a month's time. In the meantime, he gives Alnam another case to work on: a judge's aircar stolen.
It takes Alnam to the Crimson Corridor. He almost gets in trouble with a gang of youths at a chop shop. They back off when they see an RDS ID. Wouldn't have, were Alnam police.
Another transfer from Bnagen's account: another rent paid. Lawrie says he's trying to find her other accounts, but no luck so far.
Famage District. Alnam's second attempt at explaining to an old lady why the windshield she got installed really cheap has to be returned. It's raining outside of her depressingly cozy home.
Comlink: Lawrie.
"My droid just spied something. Yours?"
Alnam excuses himself. He watches the feed in the old lady's bathroom. There is movement inside Bnagen's apartment.
He calls Lawrie back.
"I'm on my way," he says.
Dusk. Alnam gets out of his speeder and into the tower. He's been running the Prowlers by the apartment's windows all the time on the way here: sometimes a movement, sometimes none.
Lawrie joins him eight minutes later.
"Got a clearer view?" Lawrie asks him.
"Not really. She didn't turn any lights on. It's her, right?"
Alnam doesn't think it's Bnagen — but he's willing to make this concession to Lawrie.
"No idea." Lawrie shows him what the droid managed to capture: unclear footage of a figure entering Bnagen's apartment. "Can be anyone."
"Have you called your boys in?"
"Nope. They're busy watching the CHT harbors."
"Why can't droids do that?"
"Because droids don't try to intrigue against me."
"So what, it's just two of us?"
"Against one. Don't tell me it's the worst odds you've gone against."
"We can't let her escape. She's our only lead on Fozatta."
"If it's her." Lawrie smiles. "Don't worry — she's got nowhere to run. We'll get between her and the elevator."
They take the elevator. Level 673: looks the same as earlier.
Alnam takes his blaster out. Checks the stun setting: forty-seven kilocebs.
He looks at Lawrie. Lawrie aims his gun at the control panel.
Shot. Alnam blinks when the panel starts sparking.
The door slides up. Stops halfway with a creaking sound — then rushes down. Then it repeats the cycle — again and again and again.
Hear: somebody's running inside.
"Domestic Security!" Alnam shouts. "Out of the room, now!"
The door is still looping. Another sound: somebody's opening a window.
Alnam throws himself down. The entrance makes a shifting frame: a short corridor. An open window. A figure getting out.
"Lawrie! Fire escape!"
Lawrie swears. Listen to him pound the elevator button.
Alnam slithers into the apartment. The door makes its mind and gets stuck at the top position. Alnam feels stupid for getting up, getting up not soon enough, and for crawling in the first place.
The corridor: one, two, three leaps. Fresh air from the open window. Leap four: Alnam's boots are on the windowsill. The open pane shoves him in the elbow.
He's on the fire escape stairs. Clanking footsteps above. Aim: the figure is crossed by the railings and steps. Two shots go up. The energy dissipates on the metal construction. Alnam holsters his pistol and starts climbing.
"Up," he shouts into his comlink.
He doesn't hear what Lawrie says. Something about a speeder.
No matter. There's only the figure working its way up — up above Alnam.
Waste no time telling it to surrender. Waste no breath. Run up. Not as bad as on Skados. A cakewalk.
Alnam becomes a spiral — both in shape and purpose. Get over a flight — four leaps, better three — grab the railing. Let your speed do the turning for you. Repeat, repeat, repeat.
His body's getting strained. Short of breath. Still plenty of floors to go.
Hundreds.
He looks up. The figure is gone. He keeps going — can't stop. It doesn't hit him until several flights later.
He almost stops to look down — at the city the figure jumped into. Some questions swirl up in his mind, but all turn out stillborn.
Up. The brain doesn't know what to do — and the body is happy to keep up its self-destructing routine if it means the annoying fucker on the top level is silent.
A few flights later, he sees the answer. A technical floor. A cleft in the middle of the tower, supported by sixteen pillars in the corners. The elevator shaft in the middle.
Blood booms in Alnam's ears as loudly as his footsteps. Past the shaft. He can see the figure now — jumping over the parapet.
Slow down for the last couple steps. Gain enough breath to say: "Shit." Think up some other words you'd like to say but don't have the breath for.
A construction site across the street. Scaffolds reaching from it to the tower — must be an airbridge in the works. About three meters lower than the technical floor.
The figure — too far to stun. A moment, and it's on the construction site.
Call Lawrie. Tell him where the suspect is going. Jump down.
Feels like his legs are piercing his lungs. He gets up. No handrails here — the scaffold is at least four meters wide, but seems so narrow Alnam wants to shrink.
Not much running — more stumbling. Alnam pushes on.
The construction site. The gun is slippery in his hands. His legs hurt. His heartbeat feels like someone's hitting him in the chest two hundred times per minute.
The site is empty. Maybe has been for years.
Until tonight.
"RDS!" Alnam croaks. "Surrender right now!"
Wind tickles loose pieces of tarpaulin hanging from crates and boxes. Alnam's steps are accompanied by their jiggle.
There's a platform with a searchlight in one of the corners. The searchlight: dead. Alnam would go up there — if he was sure there's no other way from the site and the searchlight would work.
He walks through the labyrinth of hardware and rubble. Sometimes he shouts out a warning. Not the best idea — but his breathing gives his position away in any case.
Any precautions would've been useless: he spies the figure in the lights of the surrounding buildings, and it's fucking far. No way he's catching up — a single attempt to quicken his step blows a dirty bomb in his chest.
"He's moving south," he hisses into his comlink.
He stumps after the figure. Finds his thumb caressing the stun switch. Makes himself stop.
The figure is almost on the other side when a speeder rises up from down below. Its brights catch the running person out of the darkness. The figure turns and runs to the left. The speeder is following. It swoops down. Makes a sharp turn. Alnam hears repulsors crackle.
The scene: the speeder hovering between the knocked down boxes. The blue light of repulsors.
Blood is shining in it.
Alnam stammers his way to the runner. The speeder has kicked him down good. Right on a stack of duracrete slabs.
There's pulse, though.
"Call an ambulance!" Alnam shouts. "He's still alive!"
It occurs to him just now: he's holding Giburin Fozatta's arm.
"Shit," Lawrie says.
"Call a motherfucking ambulance!"
"Oh, shit. I fucked him up real bad, didn't I?"
"Fuck are you waiting for?"
"Listen... listen, let's end it now."
Dread hatches inside Alnam. He grasps for the last moments he can pretend it's not real.
"What the fuck," he says numbly.
"Look, it's, it's real bad. We're talking several years of rehabilitation. Months in a bacta tank. Look, his fucking neck is broken!"
"Call the fucking ambulance, Lawrie."
"Let's finish this. This is what he deserves for raping all those girls."
Alnam growls. It's a scary sound — but he's more scared to look up at Lawrie.
"This is a case-breaker, Alnam. We arrest him this way — we get him out of jail."
"The Chancellor won't allow it."
The scariest thing: how weak his voice sounds.
You're not considering it. You're not.
"The Chancellor isn't the courts. What he can do is get you off the hook — at best. If he's really willing to spend a ton of political capital. You don't fuck up a suspect this bad, Alnam. Not even a spiced-out psycho. Especially not a rich jerkoff like him."
"Call the ambulance."
"You don't fuck up someone you arrest this badly. He'll walk away from all the charges if we let him walk again. The arrest lawfulness proceedings will take preference. He'll get away on limitation by the time they're done."
"So what? So what? So fucking what? We kill him?"
"It's either that or I go to jail, maybe you too — joint investigation means you have to watch me so that I don't do anything like this. And this fucker walks away. Not gonna lie to you, Alnam — maybe Palpatine will break you out of this one. Maybe he'll stand up by his people. But I'm done. And for what? For this freak?"
Don't listen to him.
Alnam duly notes.
"It's jail for us either way," he says. "They'll lock us up if we kill him. What the fuck, man?"
He remembers his deposition. That was for a simple employee. It's nowhere near done.
"Nobody will know," Lawrie says. It's music, blasphemous and healing, to Alnam's ears. "I didn't report the sighting. Did you? You didn't, right?"
"No."
"You see? Nobody will know we were here. There are no cameras here, Alnam. You get it? No cameras. I looked it up when I was trying to check out when Bnagen was here last." Lawrie starts pacing the corridor between boxes and slabs. "Now, he's an outcast. Nobody will miss him. Not his victims, definitely. But if we present him like this, he'll become a hero. A fucking blameless victim of law enforcement. Look at him — maybe he won't ever recuperate. It's not life. I won't wish it even on the like of him. Nobody's gonna find him. Scavengers will take care of what's left."
"Fucking hell." Alnam gets up. Finally. "Fucking hell."
They carry Fozatta to the edge of the platform. Something is crunching inside him.
Abyss: hundreds of levels under them.
"What the fuck," Alnam says.
"Look at me," says Lawrie. "Look at me. You got this."
Alnam obviously hasn't.
Then how the hell does he pull it off?
He flies in Lawrie's speeder. The scaffolding is on his mind — why don't they have a handrail on it? Granted, nobody in his right mind will be jumping on it — but what if someone does? There are enough idiots around. A serious safety risk. It's wide enough, but when you know there's no physical object between you and the fall, your footing gets fucked up. It's as if a magnet is pulling you to the side. Somebody should do something about it. Alnam won't, of course — but somebody should.
"We did the right thing," Lawrie tells him when he drops him off at the parking lot. "Don't you ever forget it, Alnam. We did the right thing. All those girls he raped would be grateful to us. They'll breathe freely from now on."
Alnam agrees. He knows he does. It's the spirit of the law.
He knows he agrees, but what within him protests this so desperately?