The silver lining: Alnam gets to talk to his dad a ton.
"What about that cop from Telos? Sergeant Difasg? The Rell woman paid him not to inform the Ixtlari, then stopped paying so that he'd inform them."
"There's an answer in your question already."
"What, you'll pay him off? How feasible is that? I mean, have you at least contacted him?"
"Don't make me say more than necessary."
"Oh, fuck." Alnam rubs his nasal bridge. "How did it come to this? How did we? A year ago, I thought I lucked out when those fucking button men didn't get me, and now we're looking at The Five Planet Massacre: Reimagined. You know, he's got kids, that fucking guy."
"So do you."
Father continues before Alnam can respond: "And when it comes to choosing between your kids and somebody else's — who gets a better fate, who goes to a better college — you choose yours. It's purely biological."
What about choosing between your old man and somebody else's old man?
"We're not talking about college, for fuck's sake. I don't know — maybe I can go to Telos. Talk to him. He was pretty apprehensive the last time."
"What you need to do is what you need to do."
"I don't know. What's the lowest... body count we can do? What if... and I'm just saying — what if Rell was to leave us? Before talking, you know?"
"In a fucking ISB lockup? Who's going to do it, you?"
"You said you had people in the ISB—"
"She's got a kid too, just so that you know."
"Okay, okay."
"Besides, we don't know how far they've gone with her deal. She might've started blabbing already, which is why I ask you every day if Uerre is still around."
"He is."
"He can't stay this way for long, one way or another."
"Where does it stop? I mean, what's next? Devin? Because I'll warn you now: that's when I'm going to tell you to go fuck yourself."
"Then you have to make sure there's nothing to lead the Bureau to him."
"He's gonna flip the fuck out if Sorval dies. They're tight, these two."
"Not as tight as Uerre desires to be to Rell, so he'll get over it. Coruscant is a big place. He doesn't even have to know his friend is dead."
"He's not a retard. He can add two and two."
"You don't have to be a four, then."
Alnam's head is hurting. Seems to be permanent now.
"You don't think they may be watching him?" he asks. "Uerre? That he's under surveillance?"
"I trust enough in your discretion. Judge the situation. Your killing him in front of ISB agents won't help us."
"No shit."
"We cannot have anyone contributing to Rell's story when she starts telling it. Son, there is no other way."
He should be remembering a different — a far more recent — occurrence, but Alnam's mind takes him back to a conversation they had many years ago.
"You know," he says, "I never wanted to be a cop."
"What? You did. You went into the program because of it."
"No, I went because I wanted to, to, to be something else. A politician, I don't know. Maybe it was stupid, but I was sixteen. And then for almost two years, it was non-stop lecturing from you about how all politicians are these corrupt cartoons and how I had no chance, and no guts for this, and no this, and no that. And I was still trying to argue with you, even though I knew I couldn't win. Now, it's exactly like back then. I still argue with you, for some reason."
"You could have gone to become a lawyer, if you knew you would resent your career so much."
"As if you don't remember the only dynamics I had competitive grades for were adherence to the law and fucking physical activities. Those mock-up hearings — are you kidding me? They were worse than the actual thing."
"And you think you'd've made a fine politician with such inclinations?"
"Yeah, you see? You're right. You always were. And when you're constantly right, everybody else has no choice but to be constantly wrong."
"Don't be wrong this time, son."
.
.
.
"She got what?"
Krev's smile is almost guilty.
"Documents specifying the lobotomy experiments on clone troopers from the year 9."
Alnam turns from him to the Devaronian and back.
(Amazing how you can look him in the eyes no problem.)
"Done by..?"
"ConCare. The same fucking ConCare."
For some reason, it feels like they're accusing him of something.
"Did it even exist at the time?"
"You bet. Founded in 5. Still got four years of that no-tax deal they get for being in the Outer Rim."
"I don't know," Alnam says. "Sounds like banthashit to me. A Republic firm knowing about the clone army four years before the war? I mean, not even the Chancellor knew, but these jerkoffs did?"
"Technically," says the Devaronian, "the precise year is yet to be determined. But it's definitely from before the war."
"What kind of documents are those if they don't mention the year?"
"The documents are fine," Krev says. "We just need a better look."
"Yeah, it's probably banthashit," Alnam says in a tone suggesting this is the consensus. "Bnagen most likely wants to get you to write more of those outrageous articles. What's next? The big reveal that every citizen's DNA is secretly collected and stored in some vault just in case?"
"But Bnagen didn't tell me shit. It's this here guy who did."
Alnam faces the Devaronian again. "How do you know those documents aren't fake?"
"I mean..."
"You see? We shouldn't rush to a conclusion. It can be bogus."
"You really think it's bogus, huh," Krev says, "even though Tuu is still keeping it secret from us? What's the point of coming up with this shit if she ain't gonna use it?"
"Well, maybe she's using it alright. Who knows? Maybe she's extorting the CIS leadership for it as we speak."
"You really can't let go of your blind trust in the Republic, man, can you?" Sorval says.
"My blind trust in the Republic? Would someone with blind trust in the Republic sit here with you two and entertain your theories?"
"I'm just calling it what it is. I mean, it's natural — you're a government agent. But maybe you will remove your whatever-tinted glasses and look at it how it really is?"
"Oh yeah? And how is it, really? Why don't you enlighten me, boy?"
Krev coughs. "Come on, man. I think you're being unfair."
"I'm being unfair? How so?"
"Let's not call having your head up your ass being unfair," the Devaronian says. Alnam eyes him. The Devaronian goes on: "I'm risking my ass getting you this information, and what do I get in return? What? You just sweep me aside; oh, that's not important, that's banthashit, that's bogus. Fine, whatever. Go try finding anything out yourself. I'll look how you fare with that crowd."
"Come on," Krev repeats. "I understand: we're all frustrated. It's getting on my nerves, too, believe you me. But we cannot afford this grudge shit."
Oh, Alnam thinks, we can afford all kinds of things.
"I'm not here," he says, "to listen to your banthashit admonitions. If you want somebody to bitch to how much you think the Republic sucks — fine. Find yourself a companion who's willing to listen. There are plenty. But if you want to work and do something good, then start right away."
"What I fucking brought you—"
Alnam cuts the Devaronian off: "You brought me shit. It's all just he said, she said at this point."
"Because you don't wanna believe your holy Republic can be dirty!"
"We're not in a church. Show me the documents."
"What for, man? You'll just call them fake."
"Well, seeing a fake is better than taking your word it exists, isn't it?"
"I can't with this guy. He's not even denying it!"
"Alright," Krev says when the tension lowers a little. "We all need to calm down. Sorval — what Vad's saying, even though he could've chosen a better way to say it, is, well, right. We gotta get a copy of those files."
"Oh yeah, that's gonna be a breeze."
"Right, let's just do nothing, then. Too much trouble."
"I thought you were on my side."
"We don't have sides. We're all on the same one. What do you expect? Senators will just believe our hearsay? We gotta give them something."
"Yeeeah, and a copy of a copy of some file from some facility that we shouldn't have access to will be enough."
"It's gonna be something," Alnam says. "Something we can work with."
"What was it about cold feet you told me the other day?" Krev asks the Devaronian.
"I don't know, I just... I've been thinking about it. The more I think, the less fucking chances we have. They knew about it, the Republic. What can we do? We bring them evidence, and..." He looks at Alnam.
"Well, let's bring it to them, first," Alnam replies.
.
.
.
So what are we gonna do?
What are we gonna do indeed.
Call in sick, first of all. No way you're gonna be able to work tonight with this shit in your head.
All the traffic jams he goes through, he doesn't call. Why postponing? he's asking himself. The later you call, the fatter the chance they'll let you.
That's all banthashit. Doesn't make a lick of difference next to the prime, global banthashit he's just been exposed to.
No way it's true, he thinks. With their fucking Rodians... The chick is using slave labor. Why would you trust her?
A sick pulse is knocking on his skull: so what, so what, so what?
Somebody knew, that's what. Somebody knew and somebody used it. I mean, what's it matter? Whoever knew, knew enough to use it to his advantage — whatever that entails. Somebody made sure to make the clone army the ultimate means of control.
But somebody really knew! Somebody started it all, and went lying about what was going on. It's something worse than just the contingency orders — they didn't hide those. The fact they had known about the army since before the war — that they hid.
But that's assuming what Sorval says is factually true, and why would Alnam assume anything like that? So many links where banthashit could leak into the information: on Rothana — assuming anyone actually went there — with Bnagen, with Sorval... Who's to say she didn't recruit him? He's not a Human, after all. Not a citizen. Hates the Republic enough to get drawn in Father's schemes on Telos...
Yeah. What are we gonna do about that?
He needs to go, this cocksucker. Otherwise, Rell will sing, and then they'll get him — maybe it will be that smug cunt Glattri who'll do that — and then he will sing an even more fascinating song, and then they'll get Devin, and they'll get Father, and they'll get you.
What the fuck was he thinking, implicating himself like that? He should've distanced himself from Krev as soon as he appeared on Coruscant. Motherfucker, he should've arrested him back on Telos. Could've done a deal: no mention of Father for Alnam giving a speech in court about how Krev helped him against the Ixtlari. No, fuck that — just no fraternizing on Coruscant. What the fuck? The guy appears out of nowhere at your door, tells you some insane fucking things about some bakery or some shit, and you welcome him with open arms. Should've told him to fuck right off to hell, that's was the right course of action.
And one hundred percent he shouldn't have spoken to fucking Uerre here. What was up with that wannabe super-agent shit? Titus fucking Caleo over here. Haven't had enough of that shit when you were little? Thought you'll finally be the ringleader? How's that working for you?
His eye is twitching — he has to shut it forcibly every now and again. Call your fucking work, you fucking idiot. The last thing you need right now is someone dying because of your oh-so-poor nervous system.
Quit the drama, he smiles at his shitty image in the rearview screen. The smile lifts his spirits — a miracle. As if we get so many field assignments. Like with the Unbridgers — yeah, that was the only one last year. Some good shit there. Maybe that's what I need.
Okay. He shouldn't have rubbed elbows with the Devaronian fuck, but he did. He should've cut Father off after his antics grew too much for even Palpatine to tolerate him — but he didn't. I could've worked it out somehow, he thinks longingly. He could've still talked to his grandson...
Yeah, and let him corrupt him like he did with you? With his endless, incessant, putrid fucking non-stop banthashit? You'd think he was Master fucking Yoda, a three-million-year-old man, with how much of his fucking wisdom he's willing to share. Lots of good it did every-fucking-body he ever came into contact with!
Alright, he thinks and emphasizes the thought with another forceful blink. That's not the point. What we're gonna do is.
He clutches the steering wheel. Alright. I ain't doing this. Fuck this shit. I can't. I did too fucking much already.
But you will. Maybe you can't, but you will. It's how it is with Father.
No, he realizes, and his heart starts pumping hope — the worst of them. No, I really can't do that.
Why not? he asks. A careful maneuver — not to get burned by a banthashit glimpse of THE GREAT AND TERRIBLE WORST ONE OF ALL.
Because I need to see that fucking file first, that's why. This thought is as pleasant as stepping on someone's face — Alnam's unsure whom it belongs to. He's got several candidates. I need the horned man to fetch the file for me first. And hell if he's not gonna be more fucking careful than if he was doing a brain surgery.
And that will take him awhile.
But Krev can do it just as well, an echo comes from somewhere within Alnam's brain, but he's too relieved to listen to it. Fuck that: Krev's not an alien. They don't trust him.
And if they arrest Uerre, well... what're you gonna do? Then the whole scheme would be in vain — but so it would be if there is something to his files and Alnam says fuck it. It's a necessary risk.
As for Father... Father will have to live with it. Or not — his choice. He'll get home and call him. The old man deserves to know. Maybe he'll even reconsider when he hears the news.
He gets home. Takes Father's comlink out. It's 2 PM. Alnam finds he doesn't feel like calculating what time it is in RT.
You gotta do this, he thinks. Maybe he'll back off. Or, fuck it, maybe he'll send another bunch of assassins after Uerre, but that's not gonna be my problem.
He calls — and then hangs up before the first dial tone.
It's probably too early on Sanner. Definitely is on Coruscant — it can wait until he comes back from work.
He needs to clear his head a little. To live a bit with his decision.
Just to make sure it's the right one.
.
.
.
So it turns out to be true. Then what?
Alnam tries to shut thus little fucking interrogator in his head up. I need to concentrate on my work.
No, but really?
He sighs — loudly enough to warrant an apologetic smile to Mtoro.
If it's true — if it looks like it's real — I'll go straight to the Chancellor. No Dorianaing around.
Fuck little Mr. Doriana, that secretive fuck. Alnam takes his comlink out — his comlink — and fingers through the contact list. There he is: Captain Rantid. The red-robed guard literally foisted his number on Alnam — and took his — after the audience.
The red-robe won't ask what's the matter if Alnam tells him it's of state importance. What's better, he won't ask himself how he can profit of it.
Alnam knows he has no basis for assuming that. Has to trust his gut. He liked the bearded captain — from all the fifteen minutes they have talked or rather waited together.
And if not, I'll be at the Senate Building, and I will do whatever it takes to get to the Chancellor. Hell, I'll be there anyway — just to make sure.
.
.
.
He's home too late and too tired to make the call. Goes straight to sleep — not even worrying.
That comes in the morning. He spends half an hour — while taking a shit, taking a shower, brushing his teeth, and shaving — building back the neat algorithm he had the last evening that sleep has disturbed. When it's done — when he's making cafstim — he starts wondering if it's really that neat.
What if they knock at your door in a day's time just because they arrest Uerre today?
Then it's too late anyway. Maybe for the best.
Okay, but what if it's two days? Two weeks? Just imagine the regret.
Regret? That's rich. Imagine the fucking regret if you do this shit.
His eye starts feeling funny again. He's not calling sick, though.
He's not calling, period, and Father can go fuck himself.
Yeah, fuck him. High time I stopped taking orders from him. I'm a grown man now, not that approval-seeking machine, that fucking droid, Alnam RoboTech's most pathetic creation. Fuck him — let him find someone else to be high and mighty to.
It gives him a weird sense of satisfaction — enough to quench the anxiety. Last him the whole day — until he comes back and sees a missed call from Sanner.
It's just one call, about five hours ago. Not seven. Not an emergency.
He hesitates to call back. Majorly hesitates.
And then what? You go rogue and give him up to the authorities? Him, and Krev, and Uerre, and Bnagen? Lawrie, too? Think you can get yourself a plea bargain if you do? Letting a wanted criminal go plus being an accessory to murder plus entering — if we're generous — a conspiracy with known fugitives to obtain classified data from Republic facilities done in collaboration with a CIS cell which you never told any of your supervisors or at least the police about... Think they're gonna give you a possibility of parole once you've served life?
Or just run. Take Doriana's money — there's still more than a hundred grand on the account. One hundred and forty-something grand.
This kind of money can last you for many, many years on a less expensive planet.
What's there to lose? An ungrateful family? A friend who pulls you in more shit than Coruscant shits out in a month? A job that requires you to kiss senators' asses more than do any actual work?
Yeah, sure. I'll leave my son and skedaddle to some shithole where you can live on three creds a day. Great plan.
Why does it sound so good, though?
He presses the button.
"How are you?" Father asks.
"Okay. You know, as good as I can be in these circumstances."
"How is our thing going?"
"I'm working on it."
"You've been working on it for three weeks!"
"What do you want me to do? To fuck it all up, but quickly?"
"Every day you wait is another day they have to get us."
"What's your contact saying?"
"Nothing. As far as he's concerned, there's been no progress since the start of the year."
"Everybody's on a vacation, huh?"
"He told me that four days ago. He cannot constantly check up on her. He doesn't have a special comlink like you do, so he has to fly across the planet just to talk to me in safety."
"Poor him. Maybe he can put that energy in something else?"
"Listen. I know how it must feel for you—"
"No you don't."
"Okay. I don't. I'm a terrible father—"
Alnam sighs. "No you're not..."
"No father should ask his son to do what I'm asking you to do. No one should ask anyone to do it."
"But the stakes are just too high, eh?"
Father pauses.
"You can hire someone," he says then. "Do you have cash? I'll reimburse you later, not to draw attention."
"I don't wanna talk about it."
"We have to talk about it! It's us against the very corrupt nature of the political power in the Galaxy! It's tragic what we have to do, but we have to do it. Our goal does not absolve us from guilt, but it makes the deed necessary."
"So what? In your perfect world, we'll stand trial for this or what?"
"Let's not focus on it now. We will most definitely discuss it when there is a point in having this conversation."
"No, really. Do we go in jail for it?"
"How should I tell you? I do not want to install myself — or you, for that matter — as the supreme ruler of any kind. We will not be the ones to judge ourselves, I promise you that. And I also promise you that I will tell whatever court tries us that it was me envisioning and coercing you into following my plot."
This is what it is. Pure, unadulterated Father.
"So what are the news today, anyway?" Father asks.
"Nothing," Alnam replies.
.
.
.
Calls the Devaronian:
"You did what I asked you to do?"
"No, man. It's not that easy. I don't even go there every day."
"What about today?"
"I got courses till half past four and then I go to work. Even if I went there today—"
"It's okay, take it easy. I'm just asking."
"I'll let you know when something changes."
"Okay."
Alnam looks at his watch: it's 2:05 PM. He gets out of the speeder and walks towards an airbridge. Across the street and two levels down. He gets a little lost in the monad, but manages to find the elevator he needs.
Door 48011. It's down this corridor.
His eyes are fixed on the ceiling. Corners.
There are no cameras.
You're making me think you're really gonna do it, baby.
He takes a stroll back to the elevator, this time observing the doorbell panels. Two apartments between the elevator and 48011 got cameras built in, but those only turn on when someone presses the bell button.
And by the looks of it, there's little foot traffic in here at least during the day.
You're making me wooooorry somethin' awful...
He takes the elevator to the level 400 parking. No security cam in the cabin, either.
Before the doors slide open, he remembers something. Doesn't get out — rides back up.
Now, he checks every apartment door — even those farther away than 48011. A waste of time: no cams there at all.
Better safe than sorry when it comes to love.
Back to the garage. No CCHVs to be seen. It's a shit place.
Now aircars may pose a problem, with their little fucking dashcams.
A problem with what? You're making me think you're really gonna do it, baby.
But if you park right next to the elevator, they can't capture jack. There's a column right opposite the turbolift doors. You get out, you get in. They may get you flying by, but with footage as shitty as they produce? Get out of here. You can't even discern the face of the passengers behind transparisteel.
He returns to the surface and back to his aircar.
Good thing I'm not doing it. This is just... just in case. Plus — something to take your mind off all the fucking stress. Sure, it's a little dark, but... a bit of dark humor. And some preparations just in case.
Half an hour later, he flies away.
.
.
.
The directions are simple: first, you approach the Crimson Corridor from the east, and then go to the level 300. The hard part is finding a cab pilot who's willing to.
But if you look near the Corridor, you'll eventually get one.
It's an old model; they don't make them like that anymore. Hefty. Doors thick enough to stop handgun fire, at least. An amalgamation of droids pilots it: Alnam spots a loader droid torso and arms, heavily modified, an SE2 head with some very illegal-looking sensors, and an external computation block from something he can't identify, shoulder-mounted.
Father would undoubtedly get a giggle out of this.
Nobody cares to clear the vocabulary the droid learns from its clients, and it isn't coy about using it. Six hundred is hell of a lot of money for a couple-kilometer flight, at best, but Alnam doesn't bargain.
He gets out at a used airspeeders dealership. It was the next one on the list after the one he finally found traces of that judge's car in.
"You don't pay in advance, I leave," the droid tells to his back.
Alnam walks onto the premises.
The dealership looks like it was hot shit some forty years ago. Now, disrepair. Where once luxury — if maybe stolen — aircars were sold, now there are only some beaters in too poor a condition to participate in any remember-how-it-was shows. Some don't even have holosigns with their prices on — just pieces of flimsiplast stuck under a screen wiper.
Alnam has to question three repair droids before he finds anyone worth talking to.
It's an old Gungan woman — Alnam hasn't seen a Gungan that old before, and it's not a pleasant first.
"You the proprietor, ma'am?" he asks with the thickest Chandrilan drawl he can pull off.
"I. What can do for you?"
"Looking for a speeder — naturally."
"Anything specific in mind?"
"I want something old-style, something like my daddy used to ride."
She looks as if she has to make a continuous effort to keep her eyestalks erect.
"Don't tell much to me. What did daddy use to ride?"
Alnam shrugs. Looks around.
"That red one," he nods, "that a Turbo?"
"Yes, is a VB-9 Turbo. A 948 make." She notices Alnam's hokey confusion and explains: "The Reformation. Makes it 17 pre-Synch."
Alnam walks to the specimen. Back in 900-whatever, it was a decent choice for people who couldn't afford a Rian but felt like they really needed a Rian. Years have been cruel to this old lady — just like to the other one. Dents so deep it's painful looking at them. Hell, the paintjob looks like it gave up on life some ten years ago.
"How much is she?"
"Says right there." The Gungan lady feels the need to point her finger at the flimsiplast on the windshield.
"Eight thousand," Alnam says. "Ain't that a bit steep for this, darling?"
"Should be more. Inflation. Didn't account for it."
"Why not?" He fingers a dent on the driver's door.
"Hard times. Need to sell."
"Might as well take it down a notch, no?"
She says nothing.
"Okay," Alnam says, "how's the condition?"
"See."
"I reckon a test flight is outta question?"
"Too dangerous. Is a bad neighborhood."
Alnam opens the door. Gets inside.
At least, they knew how to make seats that didn't suck back then.
"It works, right? I mean, I'd like to see it start before I buy it."
With a sigh, the Gungan walks to the office in the back of the dealership. Must trust the droids to stop Alnam from hotwiring the Turbo and flying away.
What the fuck? he asks himself. This isn't real. An awakening is in order.
But the dashboard is going nowhere.
It's just a stupid fun thing I'm doing. Consider it a midlife crisis knocking early. I'll turn this baby into a real slick candy and go to every old-fart exhibit in the Core to show her off. But, well, if something needs to be done-
"Here," the proprietor says, handing him the keys.
"Not afraid I'm gonna fly away on you?" He puts them in the ignition.
"No fuel for that."
The engine roars. The Turbo soars about half a meter above the platform.
"No fuel? How am I supposed to fly it to my hotel when I buy it, then?"
"Fuel is fifty credits more."
Son of a bitch, Alnam thinks, and here's the bitch herself.
He kills the engine.
"Alright. I'm buying it."
"Eight thousand credits. Come to the office. With the ID."
He gets out. "How many credits is no ID?"
She doesn't look surprised. "One thousand more."
They walk in. There's a giant holoposter above the proprietor lady's desk. So she has the money for that, but not for fucking price tags.
"Representative Binks," he nods. "You must really like the guy."
A shrug. "Other say he doesn't represent people. Is a sellout. But me, I say Gungans had no representative. Is the first. Me, I respect that."
.
.
.
Fifty creds don't even buy half a tank. Alnam stops at a fuel station fifty kilometers away from the Corridor.
It's worrying how fast checking for cameras has become routine.
The inside of the station is cammed up, but the outside isn't. He pays with cash — obviously.
While he's standing next to his new Turbo listening to the fuel hum, a Quarren family exits the station.
"What did I tell you, huh?" the Quarren dad tells the Quarren boy while the Quarren mother is trying to calm down the crying Quarren girl. "What did I tell you about this?"
Alnam takes the nozzle out of the tank, gets in the aircar, and leaves.
.
.
.
Isn't it good that most people in the RDS try to take Zhelldays off? Alnam never manages to — it's all scheduled long before he comes no matter when he comes. Some people over here must do nothing else but schedule their fucking days off.
But it's a fact that there are fewer people at the HQ on Zhelldays and Bendudays.
And that is good.
Alnam comes early. Eight hours sharp. Mtoro isn't even here yet. He's got the report printed on paper — two pages.
A ballsy move. Alnam gotta admit he was somewhat drunk when he came up with it. But hey, it can make the difference between a meter by two by two cell on an asteroid and a dishonorable discharge.
Now when the alcohol has worn off, Alnam questions himself if it actually can.
It can — unless you get caught in process.
The report: dated 14:10:13. He was on a ship going from Telos IV to Coruscant then. It's later than he should've actually written it, but it is better than no report at all, eh?
He goes through the choice parts at his desk:
Following the shootout, Devin was recruited by me as an informant regarding the anti-Republic conspiracy in question. He was instructed not to severe (Alnam had to go over the last "e" with a razor blade in the morning — but it's okay, just adds to the authenticity, does it not) ties with his contacts within it, namely Rell, Fadrina; Uerre, Sorval; and Alnam, Vygo.
[...]
I understand the delicate nature of the matter at hand and especially my involvement therein. I leave the matter of my participation in this case up to my superiors and, if need be, to the courts. As to my own opinion on that, I can guarantee that my judgment is not clouded in any way by the familial relationship I bear to one of the alleged perpetrators of said conspiracy and therefore, do not request that the case is designated to another agent and leave it completely for your consideration.
Awaiting further instructions,
Special agent
Vad ALNAM
Reports have to be submitted to the data processing department in digital and paper forms each. Frankly, something like that wouldn't be out of place given to a superior officer personally — it's one of the cases when not bending the rules looks strange on your record, but Alnam has to make do with the hand he's been dealt.
No sending this shit in didge, obviously — dates won't match up. Maybe there's a way to make them, but hell if Alnam knows it, and looking it up will get him fucked sooner than anything else. So he'll have to do with the paper copy only. Bad, but what're you gonna do? Maybe the digital one got lost somewhere. Sending files from the hyperspace is known to be risky, after all. Which is why the RDS prohibits it — but it's not like nobody ever does it. Not like it's a big transgression, either.
Well, if shit hits the fan, then you bet it's gonna bite you in the ass.
Of course it will — just not as much as not having any safety net at all.
Waiting here like this — knowing he will have to do it — is pretty sweet, actually. Kind of like waiting for the lights in Father's room to go out, knowing that you'll sneak out. Sneak out, sneak in — what's the difference? Just a matter of perspective.
Enough with the waiting. Let's do this.
He almost starts out, but some nightshifter walks by to the water cooler. It presses Alnam into his chair for a good minute.
Completely ridiculous, he thinks, and what's even more ridiculous is that you thought you could do the other thing. Not with a nervous system like that.
When the water drinker is gone, Alnam gets up. Oh, I fucking hope Mtoro isn't like fifteen seconds away from the department. Hope she can wait a bit in the garage, or... today's a good day to be late. Surely she knows.
He tries to narrow his stride; it hardly succeeds. Look, the paper is fucking crumpled already.
Data processing is fourteen levels down. Alnam steps out of the elevator, and—
Fuck!
— it's full of people. Looks like it's a busy day down here.
What, don't these assholes have lives?
Are you gonna just stand here like a jerkoff?
He gets out, trying not to hide his fucking pieces of paper behind his back. Tries not to run.
Think about your son. This is the best thing you can do in your position. This way, he won't have a convict father. Sure, a security-officer-in-some-shitty-supermarket-for-the-rest-of-his-life father isn't much better, but — it's better. Maybe even much.
The physical storage unit Arch2b is less crowded than the hall, thankfully — only two Ithorian agents arguing in soft hums and growls. Be blessed cultural perception, he thinks watching them. A couple years ago, I would've had a heart attack right here. And now, look at me: Mr. Honest Diversity. Could tell at once neither of them is Mtoro. From the first moment.
They go, and he approaches the wicket.
"Alnam, 890." He flicks his ID in front of a protocol droid's likeness of a face. "So I've been sending you requests for a week now, and you still got no time to respond?"
"I'm sorry, sir—"
"Don't tell me you're sorry, I don't care. What I do care about is doing my job. Do you care about me doing my job?"
"I do, sir—"
"Well I don't see it."
"You mentioned requests you have been sending. What kind of requests, may I enquire?"
"Hello? The reports on Senator Trell's case."
"I'm sorry, sir, I am quite positive we have received no such—"
"What do you mean? An entire week I'm sitting on my ass doing nothing, and now you're telling me you didn't receive it?"
"I'm afraid—"
"Do you realize it's not just RDS business I need it for? That it reflects poorly on the entire agency that I'm idling here? I need it for a Joint Commission assembly next month. Did it cross your mind it might be urgent?"
"I am very sorry, sir, but our unit has not received any requests from you in the past week."
"Are you shitting me?"
"I am most certainly not, sir. Here, it says—"
"So where did my requests go?"
"I cannot tell you that, sir. Sometimes, they seem to fail reaching this computer. Yes, you are definitely not the first one to experience it. I am deeply sorry for the inconvenience—"
"Okay, okay. Fine. I'll just take them now."
"Whom, if I may—"
"The reports. Trell's murder. Can I finally get them?"
"One second, sir."
Alnam watches the droid's eyes as it peers into the computer screen. Come on, you mechanical fuck.
"Is it Senator Trell, sir?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
The droid digs back into the computer.
"I am sorry, sir," it says after a while, "but this unit is not in the possession of the reports you mention."
"W... what? What did you just say?"
"I am—"
"How the fuck do you not have them? I've been requesting them for a week, and you gave them away to someone else?"
"It seems that you are slightly misunderstanding me, sir. These reports were never in our possession."
Alnam steps back. "Whose possession are they in, then?"
"I cannot tell you, sir. I only have access to this unit's directory—"
"Well, then go to the unit where they have full access and find me those reports."
"I am afraid no unit has full access, as part of the—"
"I don't care. I'm not waiting for another week for those damn reports! Go find them — now!"
Alnam has to shout at the droid once more before it decides to abandon its post.
"And I need all of them!" he tells it for good measure.
Okay. Okay. It's working. We're golden. Well, not fucking golden yet, but soon, very soon.
He looks to the both ends of the corridor — no one in close proximity. No one's watching. Even if they were, he's not sure he'd be able to stop at this point.
He puts his arm through the wicket and presses the button that unlocks the door. Gets in.
What do we got? Like, five minutes?
Better start using them right.
He slouches over the computer. They're skimping major cred on droid-operated screens. Thank fuck they didn't build computers in droids' heads yet. His eyes start hurting as soon as he looks at this tiny piece of shit.
Where would it be? First Directory, well, that one's easy...
Shouldn't he unlock the keycard storage first? Without a keycard, it's all useless.
He goes back and forth from Directory to Physical storage management, doing nothing.
Get a hold on yourself.
It's not too late to—
To do what? Kill the Devaronian cocksucker?
Get a fucking hold on yourself. Keycard first.
Physical storage management—Work desk activity... no. How about Security protocols? Date of last check... Reserve copies... Banthashit.
He suppresses the almost instinctual urge to go back to Directory.
Aha! Fucking Auxiliary. Fucking A.
UNLOCK KEYCARD HOLDER?
Y/N
You fucking bet it's a Y.
No password required. Be blessed fearless idiots.
Well, it's an RDS facility, he thinks chewing into Directory. I mean, it's the RDS facility.
What would you do if it asked for a password? Just leave your epistle somewhere in the corner?
Fuck off. I knew it's not passworded. The droid is supposed to keep everybody away. Too bad it's an artificial cocksucker instead of anything useful.
Outer Rim—Affiliated worlds—ten fucking pages on this eye-screwing screen—Telos IV.
There it is. Just type the date.
His fingers miss more than one number. Time? He looks at the watch, but forgets what it says the second he looks away.
There! 14:9:10 — 14:10:11. ALNAM V. A/P a-R (?) No. 239/19. Box 1-144.
The triumph of taking the keycard is besmirched by one thought: Where the fuck is that?
Shelves are marked — what a fucking relief. Each filing cabinet has a number on it. Thing is, they start at 22.
Fucking droid motherfuckers!
Only the realization of how retarded he looks with his fucking paper in hand standing in the middle of a restricted area makes him move on. His pores leave more evidence on the keycard than a high Gamorrean at a liquor store robbery.
He presses on.
Cabinet 1 is not too far from the entrance. Alnam looks at the number of the box right in front of his eyes: 158. He looks one box down.
157, pretty ple—
Fuck him. It's 159.
He can spy 144 about two meters above his head.
The gear fucker is going to be back right now.
The urge to leave right now is not an urge, it's a necessity. Alnam looks at the wicket. The corridor seems dead.
He looks around. There's a ladder is down the passage between two rows of cabinets.
It's a heeeeeeavy bitch. How does the fucking droid move it around? How does it even climb it with its stiff joints?
Alnam finds out soon enough: every step got a tiny repulsorlift and they move in in an oblong motion between the two guiding rails. The construction truly takes a droid-like stupidity to use it, and sure enough, Alnam falls for the trick. Can barely stop his step at a somewhat right level.
Key to the key reader. Box out. Rummage through the folders.
Here, here, here. 239/19.
He half-takes it out of the box. The sight of his surname on the cover makes it feel like some ball-tripping act of autovoyeurism — a look into a healthier Alnam.
He opens the folder. Goes through the documents. Puts his "report" — all covered in sweaty fingermarks — after the last one.
Closes the folder, puts it back into the box, pushes the box back in, locks it in place with the card. Foots his way down.
He doesn't put the ladder back in place — just runs straight to the exit, he's so sure the droid's back or going to be any second. It's not. Alnam puts the keycard back into the locker, goes back to fucking Auxiliary, locks it back, plays drummer on the "go back" button to return the computer to the starting screen, and gets the fuck out.
Arm in. Button pressed. Door closed.
He doesn't think. He can't. He's aware there's a heart somewhere inside, and it's changing its position, going by where its thumps are coming from.
His shirt is so sweaty it's like he pissed himself through his skin. Wasn't there some species that does that? Who gives a shit.
The corridor's empty. Alnam laughs. Stops. Then laughs again.
The gearsucker comes back in twelve minutes. (In five or six impulses to go back and fix the ladder's placement.) It's carrying four folders.
"Here is what I was able to find on Senator Trell's case, sir."
Alnam scoffs. Alnam provides his badge for a scan. Alnam takes the folders. Alnam leaves.
.
.
.
Behold — the copper as a deranged man.
He tries to make it better with another splash of water in the face. The reflection doesn't really change.
He smiles at it. It's not a good smile.
There are cameras in the HQ, boy, there are. In all storage units, too, of course. They keep the feed for five standard months.
I didn't do anything to anyone. Ven didn't get it, so he's gonna be fine anyway. All mine initiative.
Nobody's watching it online, only if a need arises. If they get him within five months, well — this is going to be just one more accusation. Not the worst he's gonna have. He can live with it.
But if they don't... Boy, if they don't...
He smiles again, tasting water running down from the strand of hair across his forehead.
Then it's gonna be a completely different story.
.
.
.
The Wall Mall. There's a holotheater — a something-plex — right at its north end.
Each workday, they show a double feature: it starts on 4:30 PM . Runtime depends, but usually comes to about four hours thirty.
Today's is four-fifty.
Alnam took Yalgi here a couple years back. He has no idea how or why he remembered this place now, but when it fits, it fits, and he's not going to question it. He remembered about it last week. Checked out if it was still up and if it was any good.
He was here a week ago and the day before yesterday. Double feature both times. The more recent visit, on the twenty-first, was risky — it wasn't his day off — but what were they going to do even if they learned somehow he was not chasing after that city hall official's home holovid? Send a squad to bring him back? From a movie theater?
He goes up to the fourth floor. The main entrance. Today's pictures: The Swaying and Once Removed. Alnam's seen the first one some time, he thinks. The second one is some old stuff from before he was even born. What are they thinking? Why these two together? He looks at the posters but doesn't see any intersecting actors.
But it doesn't matter now, does it? What does is that it's four hours and fifty minutes, a fifteen-minute break included.
Alnam buys himself a ticket — pays for it with a code, not cash. Goes into the theater's hall. Gets a basket of bang-corn. A bottle of soda. It's still about thirty minutes till the start. He takes a walk around, looking at holoposters.
Not too many people in. Some more will come, but it's the weekend doesn't start until 5 or 6 PM, so no full house tonight.
Which is fine.
No one's none the wiser about his report trick — yet. A droid came from data processing yesterday to retrieve the Trell files. And that's it.
May strike four days out of five months. Not too shabby.
It's gonna be ten, fifteen minutes of ads — but don't add them: the credits on the second flick kind of nullify them. Better safe than... you know.
When usher droids open up the viewing hall, he waits for a minute or two before everybody else goes in, then follows them. Watches as the word ENTRY is laser-printed on his ticket by one of the droids.
The hall is about quarter-full. There'll be latecomers.
He starts his bang-corn as soon as they shut the lights off and the first sports team's commercial kicks in. His seat is in one of the back rows, so nobody's sitting next to him. That's a good thing about day times.
His basket is done by the fifth minute of the movie itself. Alnam catches himself trying to remember if he's really seen it before. It looks similar, but somewhat off. He arrives at no answer.
He finishes his soda. Gets up. Puts both the basket and the bottle on his seat.
Then, he beelines to one of the exits in the lower part of the hall.
They don't lock these exits, not since that fire in a holotheater four years ago. Alnam goes through the first set of doors. There's a camera in this little entry room, but it's a piece of rubbish and can't film shit in the dark. And now it's dark.
He still tries to look away from where he knows it is as he crosses the entry room and exits through another pair of doors.
And voilà — he's outside The Mall. Its northern butt end. The plaza is behind his back, and in front of him is Avenue of the Terraformers. He just needs to walk about a hundred meters, and the buildings The Mall is built on end.
His goal is right across the avenue, a block away from Torchlight. He has to go left, though, until he hits an airbridge.
He's over to the other side when the movie hits its fifteen-minute mark. He goes around Torchlight, with The Crown Jewel on his left hand.
Crazy how there are still normal, generic buildings so close — right next — to these posh spike-ridden clubs and business centers. Not for long, no doubt. The Terraformers'? Get outta here. Real estate must be more expensive than in the Senate District.
Alnam is in a well-like inner yard of the block that will fall first — it's less than fifty meters away from Torchlight. That's where he needs to be.
He descends into a parking lot — another no-cam environment. It's a slight surprise the windshield hasn't been smashed. No doubt, the locals don't like outsiders parking in their fucking garage.
Alnam puts the key into the ignition. Looks at the watch. The double feature has been going on for twenty-three minutes.
He should be fine.
He starts the engine. He flies out of the parking lot.
The day is sunny. It's an actual pleasure to fly up the avenue, but alas, Alnam has to turn right just a kilometer past The Crown Jewel.
Not so much of a pleasure going through those places. Away from the avenue, Coruscant becomes littered with unfinished construction projects and those that would've been better left unfinished, because who can tell how many people they'll bury under their rubble when they finally — and the wait isn't gonna be long — collapse.
Alnam flies slightly above the middle levels. Traffic is rather forgiving today as a whole, but these lanes are the safest still. He's not that accustomed to the Turbo, so no reason to squeeze top speeds out of it.
Slow and steady wins the race, eh?
One patch of respectable property later — the one at the Galactic Time Building — he enters the right borough. Looks at the watch: 5:18.
That's too soon. Might as well turn back.
He doesn't turn back. It takes him about seven or eight minutes to reach the monad.
This time, he flies into the parking lot on the level 400. Flies the speeder to the spot he noticed a week ago — it's empty. He didn't expect it not to be this time of day, but it makes him chew on his lips a bit.
Then he exits the aircar. Presses the elevator button with his elbow. The elevator is fifteen levels down. Fifteen seconds or so to turn back.
Alnam doesn't.
He gets into the elevator. Daylight makes him squint one last time before the doors close.
Another button. Another eighty seconds of wait.
He doesn't curse when he sees the corridor empty. Only clicks his tongue.
But the corridor is empty, and so he walks down it. Glances at the wristwatch. It's 5:31.
He orders himself not to go all the way down the corridor. There's no one there and there's no point checking it. He faces the door and presses the doorbell button.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five — each with an Alderaan following.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Okay, Alnam thinks. It was fun while it lasted. Now it's time to go home. Or maybe you can still catch Once Removed or whatever it's called at The Wall Mall.
His stomach much less tight now — cautiously so, but much less tight — he presses the button again. Just to be sure.
One...
"Coming!" comes through the flimsiplast-thin walls.
He doesn't curse this time, either.
The Devaronian opens the door.
"Hey," he says, his face hitting 100 concern faster than the Turbo does kilometers, "what're you doing here?"
You're gonna suck, Alnam's inner voice tells him, he's not gonna—
But then he hears his outer voice, and a tide of coldness sweeps over him.
"You gotta help me out, Sorval."
"Help you? What happened?"
Alnam casts a quick look left and right.
"Can we talk inside?"
"Sure." Uerre's tone is anything but, but he steps aside.
Alnam walks in. Leans on a wall. Quick assessment: one pair of boots on the floor. One jacket on the hanger. No noise apart from a newscast on the viewscreen.
"So..?"
"Man, I'm fucked."
"What... do you mean? Fucked how? Is it..?"
Alnam waves his hand. "No. I need my fucking fix. I was going to get it, but... should've done it yesterday. I'm fucked. I can't fly, I can do shit. Look," he shoves his hand in Uerre's face. Makes sure not to actually shake it. "That's it. I'm fucking dying."
"Your fix of what?"
"G."
"Shit. I didn't... Look, I'm s... I don't... I, I don't have any. I swear. I know I told you I was having some with my friend back on Telos, but... I was lying. I just thought it would make my story more, you know... But I don't have it."
Alnam raises his hand.
"Fine. I know. You're a good kid. You're just gotta fly me."
"Fly you? Oh, man... I don't know... Let's call Krev. I bet he has some."
"No!" Alnam jumps at him. "We cannot tell Krev!"
"Why not? He, I mean, he has the same problem—"
"He cannot know. He's been looking up to me, doing something, maybe, with his life. I fucking feel like I'm betraying him every time I shoot this shit into my bloodstream."
"He'll understand. He'll bring you some of that stuff—"
"Listen to me. Listen to me. You won't fucking tell Krev or I'll kill you. I swear on my son I will. You hear me?"
"Alright, take it easy! What the fuck, man! It's just... you come here, and now I gotta fly you to a fucking drug deal!"
"Keep your voice down. You don't worry. You just fly me. It's gonna be okay. Here," (Uerre cringes when Alnam puts his hand into his pocket), "there's almost two thousand in here." Alnam shakes his hand, letting the credit chips rattle. "You just fly me. It's not far from here. I was on my way, but... I couldn't fly no longer. I would've killed myself or somebody else. So I made a detour to find you. Fucking great that you're home."
Doubt is on Uerre face even as he accepts the credits.
"This is fucked up, man," he says.
Alnam watches him as he packs up. Turns the view off. Dons his jacket and boots.
Then they exit the apartment. The corridor is still empty.
"What the fuck is this?" Uerre asks him when he sees the Turbo.
"The first one my dad bought me. I was sixteen. Just got back to Coruscant. What? You expected me to fly my service speeder where I'm going?"
He throws Uerre the keys. Makes the throw weak, and the Devaronian has to pick them up from the floor.
"Some kick she got," Uerre says when they get airborne.
"Careful with the transmission. It's a bit wonky."
Uerre moves the Turbo in jerks and nearly hits the wall. Then he catches the flow, and they leave the parking lot.
"Fly east until Mardulis Street."
"I don't know where that is, man."
"I'll tell you."
They fly around Uerre's monad. Uerre asks:
"So how did you get into this shit?"
"Everybody in vice do it. I worked in vice before the RDS. Here. In CorSec."
"You should probably talk to Krev about it, man."
"He's a fucking spicehead just like I. I was able to tell the second I saw him."
"I'm just saying."
Alnam presses his forehead on the side window. Half-shuts his eyes. Opens them just in time to tell Uerre they're on Mardulis.
"Turn left here," he says.
Uerre does. "This shit, man... maybe Krev and you can go to rehab together. This is bad. I mean, for you. For everything else, too, but—"
Alnam closes his eyes again.
It's five minutes to six when they fly onto the 'Torial 'Terial. The Turbo quickly hits its top speed here. Alnam worries they'll miss the turn, but they don't: he spies it from a hundred kilometers away.
Takes them about twenty minutes of flying around narrow streets to find the alley.
Alnam's here for the second time today.
"Motherfucker," he says, looking around. "He left."
"You sure? Maybe it's not the place."
"I am fucking sure. I've been here a million times."
"Yeah? Can you call him or something?"
"Very funny."
"How so? I don't get the joke, man."
"It's a burner comlink. It's burned."
"How did you plan to contact him the next month or whenever?"
"I buy a new one, and..."
"Well, let's do that."
"Are you daft? I'm fucking dying here! Let's go buy a fucking comlink. For what? To hear I'm an asshole? Fuck that shit. We go to another place."
"Get the fuck outta here, man. I'm risking my neck for you, and our deal was this place. Now it's another one?"
"What's it to you?"
"Um, lemme think: they'll kick me out from the planet if they catch me flying you in this condition."
"I don't even have anything on me, for fuck's sake! What are they going to charge you with? Flying a sick man? Come on, I don't have all time in the world. Let's hit Ejoonor Station."
"This is getting... fucked up, man. Why don't you call a cab or something?"
"Any pilot will rat me out. It's a possibility. I'm doing a lot of shit I shouldn't be, and I don't need more witnesses. Look," he digs in his pocket again, "I got about eighteen grand on me. All I still have after the deal is yours. Chances are, I'll have to make do with shit-quality stuff. I'll have some money left. Plus, I'll give you ten extra whatever happens. Today or tomorrow or whenever you say."
"You're doing good, huh?"
"Look at me. No, I'm not. But I have cash."
Uerre places his hand on the gear stick. Flexes his fingers. Then puts the Turbo in the reverse.
"I'm not doing it for money, you know."
Alnam waves at him — too energetically, come to think of it.
Back on the 'Terial. 6:29. Alnam lets his head hang.
"You okay?" Uerre asks him a couple of times.
Alnam responds with weak mumbling.
"Ejoonor," the Devaronian says at about 7.
Alnam raises his head. Looks around. The sun is starting to set.
"Now where?"
"See that monad? Go around it and down. Level 317."
"You know," Uerre says — is that relief in his voice? — a minute later, "I'm working on getting you the files. Just so that you know."
"It's okay."
"I'll do it."
"Good. There's this little back alley behind a bar or something. Look for it."
Of course, he knows exactly where it is — he was here last evening. Flew his service airspeeder into it and gave a couple blares with the siren.
"Doesn't look like there's anybody there," Uerre says when he finally finds the alley.
"I knew it. We'll check some more places, okay? They're not far."
"Maybe some club..."
"I can't be seen doing this. The fewer witnesses, the better. Climb back and head south."
"How many levels?"
"Fifteen, something like that."
They hover at 330.
"There," Alnam commands. "Go across the street."
"Into the tunnel?"
"Yeah. I know a felinx on, uh, Star Avenue."
"I thought it was in a completely different quadrant."
"That's Starry Ave. This one is named after... a newscast or something."
They fly into the tunnel. There are surely cameras at the entrances, but there's nothing he can do about it.
"So how's Coruscant treating you?" Alnam asks Uerre mid-tunnel. "Found yourself a good Devaronian girl?"
"Devaronian? Get outta here. I know it's a stereotype, but it's kinda true. About how dominant our women are, you know. Not really my cup of tea."
Sunset's in full force when they leave the tunnel.
"Go slow," Alnam tells Uerre. "My memory is hazy. Last time I was here was back in 13 or 12."
There are almost no aircars here, this low and this early. Most people will start flying from work through Star Avenue in an hour or so. Few work close to home — almost no production around these parts.
After a left turn on the Barrek intersection, Alnam starts counting buildings in earnest. Time is rolling towards 7:30.
"Stop there." He points at a small opening in one of the buildings' side.
"Your felinx lives there?"
"I gotta take a shit."
"Can't you wait?"
"No. I had three street sandwiches for lunch. Hoped they would release some endorphins or whatever. Sometimes, it works. Now the endorphins want out."
"Yeah, but can't it—"
"No, I fucking told you! I'm gonna shit myself."
"It's your car," Uerre says but raises the Turbo to the opening's level.
He puts it in hover with the passenger's door facing the opening. It's a tiny dead-ended alley — one of the garbage disposal ones. Check all the bins overflowing. It was better this morning.
Alnam opens the door.
"Get me down," he complains.
"Down? I'll tear the fucking door off if I do."
"There's a fucking meter here. Down. Down! Easy!"
He gets out. Slouches. Moans. Walks down the alley and behind the bins.
He squats. Should take your pants off. He doesn't.
Checks the time: 7:33. It's still not too late.
But the truth is, it is.
It's been for ages.
7:35. On these levels, it's already dark.
The waste reeks like Alnam hasn't nosed since vice. The entire surface of the alley is littered with empty cans and empty bottles and peelings and torn garbage bags and food packages. 7:36. Fucking jacket. Should've bought something cheap at the credit store next to his block.
7:38. It's time.
He lies down — right in all that shit that used to be something. Makes sure his legs stick from behind the bins. Checks the time one last time — 7:38 still — and takes the blaster out.
It's quiet here. Only the Turbo's engine hums lowly and somewhere back in the streets distant airspeeders honk and rev up. Alnam wants to check the time but does not move.
"You got any tissue?" Uerre finally calls out. "You better find some, 'cause I ain't flying you around like that."
Voice: still remote. He's still in the pilot's seat.
"Come on, man," the Devaronian speaks up again in a minute. "You've been there for fifteen minutes! Hurry up!"
Even without checking his watch, Alnam knows it hasn't been fifteen minutes. He thinks about calling for help, but does not do it.
"Come ooooon! I'm getting cold already, and my ass isn't bare."
Alnam waits.
Some more minutes pass: four or five.
"Hey," Uerre says. "Man, are you alright? Come on, say something!"
The engine sound changes for several seconds. Then Alnam hears the thud of boots on duracrete.
"Hey," Uerre says, "say something. You here? What the fuck, man."
Three steps. Pause. Then another step — very deliberate.
"Oh, shit."
He must've noticed Alnam's legs.
Two more steps — very close now.
"Man, what the—"
Alnam rolls to his back. The Devaronian is a shadow among shadows.
Fucking jackass, Alnam manages to think, it's in stun—
But before he's done, two red beams hit Uerre in the chest. Uerre falls. His head lands on the floor fifty centimeters away from Alnam's.
Alnam gets up, holding to the wall. The alley is silent save for the speeder engine.
No way you could finish it if it was in stun, he finishes his thought.
He aims down and shoots the Devaronian once more. Then he puts his blaster away. Takes a pair of rubber gloves out of his pocket.
Puts them on, while looking at the body. Where did he put the credits? Alnam's stomach sinks when he remembers: the Devaronian left them at his place. It's fine, I can make it. Just grab the keycard...
No, it's not right. He took them — and then kept them in his hand until he came to the hanger. Then he put them into the left pocket of his pants.
Alnam squats — again. Reaches into Uerre's pocket. His other hand, he finds with some quickly-to-die amusement, is on the grip of the blaster.
He's dead, he thinks, fishing out the credits. Counts them: all eighteen hundred is here plus additional twenty. These must be Uerre's. But what if he's got more, and some of these aren't yours? That would mean some with your fingerprints are left in his pocket.
He searches the pocket again. Empty.
But was it really this pocket?
Of course it was. Here's the money.
But maybe he put part of it in this one and part in some other one?
Alnam rolls the body over. Gets into the other pocket. Despite the roll, the angle is awkward. I'm centimeters away from giving a dead man a handjob. The thought gets a chuckle out of him, but the chuckle doesn't cheer him up.
He finds a card — not the apartment key, something else. There's no light in the alley but what comes from behind the aircar. Alnam nearly breaks his eyes deciphering the card.
The Devaronian smiles at him from the piece of plastisynth. It's a pass for the Coruscant University School of Journalism.
He was a journalist? Alnam thinks dully. Well, not like it matters now.
He checks the pockets of the jacket. Here's the apartment card. He flings it into the dead end of the alley. No more money, but he finds a comlink. He puts both the credits and it into his own jacket.
And now the main course.
He looks around. No windows face the alley — but there is a door near its far end. Sometimes, someone must come out to throw away his garbage.
It means he has to hurry.
The streets — the real streets, the streets down below — are out of question: he'd need to move the Turbo away.
He opens the lid on the closest trash bin. There's almost no space left.
Isn't that symbolic as shit? Just like Coruscant itself, it is almost full — but always has space for more immigrants.
The Devaronian is fucking heavy. I'm gonna get a hernia and pass out here until rubbish droids come to make collections.
He doesn't — for now. One more pull, and the body finally moves. Alnam steps back and back until he hits the bin with his ass. The lid comes down. He doesn't jump. He doesn't curse. He turns and opens it again.
Then comes the hardest part: putting the body inside. Alnam has one hand on the collar of Uerre's jacket and the other on his belt. He really doesn't want to get into the bin himself. I'd rather leave him out in the open. Fuck, what's that — an hour off before he's found? Maybe even less.
But in the end, the body gets there little by little: the right arm first, then the chest, and then only the legs are left outside. Alnam stops to catch his breath, but then notices the bin starting to tip forward. He squats and rises, bringing the Devaronian's legs up and over the board.
It's a tight fit, but a fit nonetheless.
Alnam checks his gloves. The gloves hold. He picks up some shit from the ground — a mostly intact rubbish bag — and throws it into the bin. Not enough to hide the body completely, but maybe enough to full the droids. Not like the fuckers have good optics, going by the looks of this alley.
He brings the lid down. He scavenges through his pockets. The credits are there. The comlink is there — Uerre's comlink, that is, Alnam's ones are at home. The pass is there. He walks to the aircar. Takes the credits out and counts them again. All here — all eighteen hundred and twenty. He puts them back into his pocket. He gets in the car.
Closes the door. Crawls to the pilot's seat. Leans forward and starts getting out of his jacket. The thing's done. No amount of washing — whatever good old Mr. Lun puts into his machines — is killing the stench. Alnam places the jacket on the passenger's seat.
Then he flies off.
He looks at the time. It's 7:57. He's got almost an hour and a half.
He flies up and hits the 'Terial in less than ten minutes, without going back through the tunnel. Makes twenty kilometers and then waits for four minutes before he can change lanes and fly into a street on the opposite side of 'Terial. There, he dives down and puts the Turbo into hover some thirty floors above the ground. There is no traffic here. He opens his door. Takes the credits out of his jacket and throws them out. They sparkle for a second in the night air before they are gone. He takes Uerre's comlink. Puts it on the floor just by the pedals and crushes it with his boot. Then he carefully picks up the remains and makes them chase the credits. The School of Journalism pass follows.
Should the jacket?
It's ruined, that much is certain. But if he turns up at The Mall without it, the cams are gonna pick it up. Of course, no one will ever have a reason to look at the footage, but what if someone does?
The fucking thing stinks. Alnam sits with it in his hands. Loses time. Then he puts the jacket back onto the other seat, closes the door and returns to the 'Terial.
He turns from it to the Terraformers' at 8:36. Goes in mid-altitude lanes. Stupid, maybe, but it helps him evade the feeling that something big is watching him from above.
8:50. He flies into the parking lot of the building next to Torchlight. Panics when he sees someone by one of the speeders there, but the humanoid figure walks to the elevators, Alnam sees in the rearview monitor, before the Turbo gets into the spot. The elevator doors close, and Alnam is left alone.
He double-checks it — as much as he can without leaving the aircar. Then he opens the glovebox. Takes a disinfectant spray can and a mop out of it. Starts cleaning up.
First: the glovebox lock and handle. Then: the interior door handle on the passenger's side. Then: the steering wheel and the gear stick. Then: the key and the ignition area. Then: the pilot's side interior handle.
Then he gets out and works on the exterior handles on both sides. Door sides and windows. Then he takes the key out and picks his jacket up and locks the airspeeder.
There's nobody in the lot. Alnam takes a slow walk around the Turbo. Disinfects the trunk handle. Of course, he's left dozens of hairs and who knows what else inside, but who's gonna check? Burning the entire thing would be more reliable — but also riskier.
So he leaves the parking lot at 8:56, the can and the mop stuffed into the jacket's pockets and the jacket itself thrown over his arm. He holds the keys in his hand.
He gets into the staircase. There's a trash bin — a much smaller one than the trash bin — right next to the door into the parking lot. It's overflowing, but Alnam beats its contents down and makes room for the can and the mop. He makes sure to put some of the older garbage on top of them. Then he climbs two sets of stairs and leaves the building.
Outside, he takes his gloves off, leaving the keys inside one of them. He briskly walks towards the airbridge. On it, he checks the jacket for his belongings. His aircar keys, some old flimsiplast bit that must have survived several rounds of Mr. Lun's treatment, vacant now with dementia. The ticket, shines up in his head. But he's got it — here it is.
He crosses the Terraformers' and proceeds to the side exit/entrance of the holotheater. He's got eight minutes left until 9:20, but his heart skips a beat when he enters. It's still dark inside. He walks through the inner doors.
A droid usher stops him: "Sir? The show is not over yet. Please—"
"What? I went to the bathroom, you metal creep. Let me in."
"May... I see your ticket, sir?"
"Mother..."
Alnam produces the ticket. The usher's eye sensors glow up as they scan it.
"Sorry, sir. You may enter."
Alnam goes up and finds his seat. His soda bottle and bang-corn basket are still there — nobody has been cleaning the hall during the intermission.
He sits down and watches the last four or so minutes of the movie.
Then he gets up and leaves, making sure to put the ticket into the back pocket of his pants. He goes one floor down and into a bathroom there. He takes a piss at a urinal and throws the keys-carrying glove together with the other one into a large vertical trash container next to the mirrors. It makes a satisfying ding when it hits the bottom.
He washes his hands and exits the bathroom. His heart skips another beat when he sees a mall cop walking towards him.
"Excuse me, sir, do you have a permit for that?" The cop nods at Alnam's side.
Alnam realizes what he's talking about before he finishes looking down: his holster is wide in the open without the jacket.
He takes his RDS ID out of his pants: "Is that good enough?"
The cop studies it for no more than two seconds.
"Of course. Have a good night, and sorry for the inconvenience."
Alnam walks to The Mall parking lot in the back of the building. Before he gets there, he enters a Stotri & Gunnilo store and buys a kell drake-skin handbag. A motherfucking steal for thirteen gran.
He makes sure to pay with a code, and he makes sure it leads to the account set up by Mr. Doriana.
Then he goes into the parking lot, throws the jacket into the trunk, the bag into the backseat, and flies off.