It's Vad's eighth call Krev doesn't know how to respond to.
"He's still AWOL. I don't know. I wish I could tell you anything other than—"
"The next assembly is in three weeks. If I could present the files — if they exist — to them—"
"I know. But I can't reach him."
"Have you tried? I mean, anything other than comlink?"
"I'd been to his monad, like I told you yesterday."
"I'm starting to get worried, Krev. Worried and annoyed."
"I know. Me too. Listen, I'll go there again today, okay?"
Vad sighs. "I could maybe use my old police connections, but... the less pressure I put Broussard under after that mock arrest, the better."
"I'll go check on his apartment."
And Krev goes. It's a long way if you go by airbus. For some reason, he doesn't want the way to be short.
The corridors of the monad are the same, and Krev even misses the floor the same way he did the last time: goes to 408 instead of 480 first.
He rings the doorbell. He can hear its sound beyond the door. No response. He calls again and again, and in the end, he just presses the button and doesn't let go for a minute.
Nobody opens.
He told Vad Sorval was AWOL, but a better term would be MIA.
What if he flipped?
No such if, chief. Can't be, plain and simple.
He recalls — for the millionth time in the past eight days — the embassy job, and he's thankful it didn't get any less convincing.
But they could get him. Of course he won't talk himself, but maybe it'd be better if he did. Those people... you know they are none nicer than the Ixtlari boys. What if he's on his way to one of their black sites in some asteroid belt in the Mid Rim?
Krev rings the bell once again — just to do something.
No, it's banthashit, he decides. Why would they bag him now? He hasn't been doing anything.
And immediately in his head an image flashes up: that guy who sold them the HB. A huge man-shaped liability.
Banthashit.
He tries couple more doors. The first one that opens is almost in the end of the corridor. A poorly-shaven dude in a wifebeater looks at Krev with blurry eyes.
"Hey, brother," Krev says, "I'm looking for someone..."
"There ain't nobody here."
"Your neighbor. A Devaronian guy. You know, red skin. Horns." Why the jokes? Krev can't tell. "Seen him around lately?"
"Ain't nobody here," the drunkard says and slams the door shut in front of Krev's face.
Krev goes a floor down. Whoever lives in the apartment 47011 might know something — if he's at home. A good joke — on fucking Primeday.
To his surprise, the display on the doorbell panel lights up after the second ring. He can only see an eye and a part of a face.
"Who's that?" a cracked voice asks.
"Um, it's about your upstairs neighbor, ma'am."
The door slides open, but check this the fuck out — there's a legit force field still blocking the way in.
A diminutive black-skinned old lady is standing behind the field.
"The upstairs neighbor? Are you from the police? Well, finally somebody came! He's blasting this muuuuuuusic, this alien trash all night long!"
"Um... you're talking about the Devaronian guy, right?"
"How should I know? I'm not about to go upstairs and check it! You don't know what kind of people live here."
"You've never seen him?"
I questioned the neighbors the same way that night. When I shot — killed — Brate.
He tries to shoo the thought away.
"I know Mr. Kazimara who lives there, but it's none of my business who he rents his apartment to. Oh, who am I to tell me? I was only his late mother's best friend!"
"Ma'am, so has this music been... bothering you in the past two weeks or so?"
The lady peers into his eyes.
"Young man, when you are my age, you'll understand it. Oh, you will. When you are old, you pay little attention to time. Why bother? Every day brings you closer to death."
"Please, ma'am, try to remember."
"I suppose I didn't hear it the last few nights. Yes, I didn't."
"Do you have Mr... your neighbor's number?"
He calls this Kazimara from the turbolift.
"I don't know," Kazimara says in a cross voice. "He paid me for this month. You tell your friend: if he doesn't pay for the next one in time, there'll be trouble with the immigration. Don't let him think I will hesitate."
How will I tell him if I'm looking for him myself?
Krev exits the building. A really bad feeling is tossing and turning inside of him.
Maybe he decided to go back to Telos. Maybe all this was too much for him.
I fucking hope that's the case.
One more destination for today: the School of Journalism. Krev says fuck it and takes a taxi there: it's too far away from Sorval's apartment, and it's already almost two o'clock. It sets him four hundred back, but he just manages to get there a few minutes before 4:40.
He's surprised the guard at the entrance doesn't pay him any attention, but it's gone from his mind as soon as he turns away. Krev checks the holotable in the lobby and sees no cybernetics in it. Takes him a minute to remember: it's droid programming, not cybernetics.
The courses ended ten minutes ago. He goes up some very slippery stairs without much hope in mind. If he's here, maybe it's time for our rematch, he thinks.
310 — that's the auditorium designation. The door slides up, and Krev's mood surges when he sees there are people inside. It plummets right where it started at immediately: Sorval isn't there.
He waits outside. In two minutes, the door opens again, and people start pouring out. Stop as soon as they start: there are what, eight of them in total? Krev comes to the largest group — three guys.
"You take the droid courses, right?" he asks.
"Programming, yeah."
"The professor is still in there," another guy tells him. "You may wanna talk to him."
He's a tall one, this one, taller than Krev, but thin. Emaciated.
"I might," says Krev. "You all know Sorval? Sorval Uerre?"
"Yeah, sure," the third guy says, only to be elbowed in the side by the first one.
"I'm not from the police," Krev gives them his best smile. "Not that they'd be interested in him, from what I know."
"You're quick to jump to conclusions," the lanky one says.
"It's a joke. So you guys seen him today?"
"Nah," the first guys says, "he wasn't here. Not today, not the last time."
"He does it a lot? Miss classes, I mean?"
"Who are you, mister?" the tall guy asks.
"His friend. Name's Jezideg. I know him from Telos IV."
"Okay..?"
"Well, I'm supposed to be looking after him, but... Things got a little bit wild for me last couple weeks, so I've kinda lost contact with him, and now he's radio silent, and I don't know where to look for him."
The first guy: "It sounds like—"
The third: "Yeah, like some holoshow. Like he owes you big time, and now you come here searching for him."
Krev forces himself to smile again. This one doesn't come out so nicely.
"My fucking friend doesn't return my calls for two weeks, and his neighbors haven't seen him in a while. Come on. Do I look like a loan shark to you?"
"Maybe like one's muscle," the lanky dude says. "Well, anyhow, we didn't see him for a week, either."
"Two weeks," the third one corrects. "Last time we saw him was two weeks ago."
"That makes it twenty-first?"
"Yeah."
Krev's heard from Sorval on the twenty-first. Twenty-second and twenty-third, too.
"Do you guys talk to him outside of the class, you know?"
"No, not really," the second one says.
"What, because he's..." Krev puts two fingers to the back of his head.
"No, not like that. He kinda kept to himself."
"I think he was friendly with that Harbut, whatever," the first guy says.
"Harbut?"
"He dropped out about a month or two ago."
"Two."
"The dropout rate is pretty crazy here, man. When we started, there were thirty people, and now, you see it yourself."
Krev leaves not in a bad mood. He can't word why for some time, but when it comes to him: At least he's not avoiding only me, the mood is ruined.
You don't really believe he'd skedaddle back to Telos without telling you, do you?
Maybe they caught him and issued him an ultimatum. Leave or else.
Yeah... who "they?"
The answer is right here. The only people you haven't questioned so far.
He tries to remember if that's true. Turns out, it is: he might've asked a couple of times last week, but it was just that — a few questions. Hey, guys, you seen Batur?
Who the fuck else?
It gets him good. So good he exits the bus and sits down at a stop. Sits down for a good while.
Bnagen. Bnagen and her fucking clowns.
Part of him is sure — it knows — this can't be happening. It just can't.
But it is, and the rest of him has to deal with it.
They caught him in the act. Trying to copy the files. And they, Krev is sure, both parts are, issued no ultimatums.
He's a non-Human, though, he protests weekly. Maybe they wouldn't—
He almost cries from how banthashit that is.
But why... No, wait. They would've come for you, then. You wouldn't be breathing by now — or they wouldn't. Irregardless, they would've done something.
Except Sorval told them nothing. That's the only answer.
No, it's banthashit. This is banthashit. They'd still come after me. I introduced him. If they caught him—
He calls Sorval again — as if it would be a confirmation of anything. It's not — straight to voicemail as before. Sorval doesn't — doesn't — even have a personal message, just a droid voice telling you to leave a message.
Krev's left a few over the past week and a half.
No, it's bantha. Total fucking shit. I'd be dead if they got him. I put him on the team. I'm responsible for him. Only one type of responsibility in this line of business.
So why didn't they kill him?
Or maybe, why didn't they kill him yet?
Bantha-fucking-shit. They would have. Which means it's not the case.
Which means: Sorval isn't completely lost.
Such thoughts are impossible to hold. They make Krev want to take a step off the end of the platform.
They're better than others. There's still hope.
Then where is Sorval? He's been missing for eight days now. Nothing like that has ever happened before. He's always called Krev back an hour later at most.
Highly irregular? Absolutely. A reason for concern? Sure. But maybe not a reason for this much fucking drama.
He hasn't been home for who knows how long. Well, some other neighbors might, but going back to the apartment complex is the last thing Krev wants to do.
His own apartment complex is a close contender.
If you're so sure he's just gone on a sabbatical and Bnagen has nothing to do with it, why don't you go back to the bus stop? he asks himself, but his legs are carrying him to lower levels already.
Only on a very different airbus does he answer: Because there is a chance she's got something to do with it. And if so, I have one or two things I have to do.
Old man Bannison must be asleep — Krev gets to his apartment at 2 AM local time. His biggest desire is to wreck the door open. The second biggest is to lie down and sleep right there and then. He follows the second one.
His sleep is dark and brief. When he wakes up, though, it's already more or less legitimate time: 6:24 AM. He calls. Gets no reply.
The sleep was dark, but now is darker. All the thoughts from yesterday come back with vengeance and backup. No, it's impossible. He calls Sorval again. Voicemail.
He takes a walk around the monad. He still remembers the layout and the routes pretty well. Was it a mistake to do all this? To do the retarded investigation bit, search for Vad? Involve Sorval in it? As if you couldn't just spend some fucking hours reading up on HB transmitters. No, you had to put a fucking kid on the frontline.
I would be dead now if Bnagen got him. So it's something else.
Whatever it is, though, you can't deny it's something bad.
So maybe he did flip?
And what would be the point of keeping him off the streets? What use is he to them if he doesn't talk to me, Vad, or Bnagen?
Maybe they flipped him a long time ago. Maybe he delivered to them all they needed. Maybe got them the file, too.
It sucks to think so about someone close. Always does. But some thoughts you have to think.
He buys Bannison some Bri-O the ever luminescent. Still has to wait for another two hours before the old man gets up.
"Long time no see," Bannison says seeing Krev. "Ahh, good to see you don't forget me or my tastes!"
In the kitchen, he offers Krev some Bri-O. Krev refuses.
"I got standards, man," he says.
"As you wish. I'll have a glass or three."
And Bannison does, glass and three and five.
"Anything you need in particular?" he asks sometime into the sixth. "Or just visiting this old fucktwerp?"
"Just need to crash on your couch for a bit. That okay with you?"
"I like company. Especially company that remembers my tastes."
Fucktwerp Bannison helps himself to a seventh shot.
"Soooooo," he says, "you got yourself in trouble, Krevvie my boy? I got a feeling you did."
"I don't know yet."
"Then you did."
Krev attempts to give him a thousand credits, but Bannison roars like a sea monster at the suggestion.
"You bring me more of this," he shakes the halved can of Bri-O, causing the liquid to shine brighter, "and forget about that nonsense! That I would take money from a friend? You got a lot of balls coming here like this, Krevvie."
Krev leaves Bannison to his enlightenment and gets to work. He's got a shitton of it: checking newscasts. Surfing the Holonet in general. Just one piece of news in the past month about "Devaronian arrested:" cops took down a smuggling ring in the South Pole Spaceport bringing viewscreens from Midlano. The group included two Devaronians. There's even a picture. It happened on the fourteenth, and neither Devaronian looks like Krev's Devaronian anyway.
He hits police holosites. They all are made with enemy spies in mind, and one risks losing his while browsing them. Apart from a few exemplary ones, they are a mess that hardly works. Krev marines on. Everything: reports, press releases. Looks for Sorval's name, then species. There are thousands of police sites on Coruscant. He goes through all of them. Then again the next day in the reverse order — he's afraid his attention was shit by the time he was done yesterday.
There's jackshit, and you're doing nothing. He may need your help. As in now. And you're doing this banthashit instead.
But what else has he got to do?
Next day, he also starts calling hospitals. It's not viable in the slightest: he has to wait for ten to fifteen minutes before a droid frees up and answers him sometimes, and there are thousands and thousands hospitals on Coruscant.
He joins an emergency medics' forum. Has to provide it with his ID code, but it's fine. Things start going a little faster now: he gets to understand how it works. Gets a hold on a few directory numbers whose operators have access to multiple hospitals' data — most often, from an entire district. These numbers, though, only surface when someone on the forums asks for one — always a specific one — and Krev can't post anything until his account is a week old. He wants to murder whoever came up with the idea.
Krev calls all the available numbers. Krev goes on two trips, both to the southern hemisphere, to check on unidentified Devaronians in local hospitals. One is beaten so badly it's hard to make any features out — but he's much shorter than Sorval. The other one is being held in a psychiatric wing, sedated up the ass. Krev has to bribe his way into the ward, and that's half a thousand credits poorly spent: even through the reinforced glass of the cell's door he can see the guy's horns being at least twice as long as Sorval's.
No, it's not poorly spent, he tells himself as he exits the hospital. At least now you know it's not Sorval. What, you should've disregarded the possibility?
He arrives home almost physically feeling a belt tightening either on his neck or on his arm. It's arm — this time.
He wakes up when it's the next month already. Bannison doesn't scold him for it. He's the best and worst kind of company.
Krev re-calls all the numbers previously called. What for? Do you think Sorval can be now admitted into a hospital? He has no answer, but he still calls every number.
Then it is time to return the calls he missed while delirious. Vad:
"Where the fuck have you been? I thought something happened."
"No. Just had a little too much G."
"You fucking kidding me? We can't locate the guy, and you're gone on a drug trip instead? Fuck this shit."
"Come on, man."
"I cannot work with a fucking spice-addled moron! It's a liability, and I can afford none."
"I'm sorry. I'll get to it. I already did. I'm calling hospitals, uh, police stations..."
"At this rate, you should be calling morgues instead."
Then Toj Mer:
"Nobody's been able to get to you for like a week, dude."
"Get outta here. It was only two days. Three, tops."
Is this it?
"Look, is your friend with you?"
"Who? Batur?"
"Yeah, yeah. Is he around somewhere? Because he's kinda inaccessible too."
"No," Krev says and cannot help but gulp. "Why? What do you mean he's inaccessible?"
"Well, what do you think I mean? We can't get a hold of him. That's kinda worrying. Thank goodness you answered, at least."
Little piece of absolute fuck, Krev thinks. He has to remind himself the comlink isn't Mer's neck. "Maybe he went on a sabbatical or something. You see, I've been—"
"Look, I don't know about that. It's been a long time. When did you last talk to him?"
Careful, Krev. Be very careful now.
"As I was saying, I'm still a bit high. I don't really... maybe some time last week? Or the one before?"
"Our lady friend is worrying about it. You know how she is. When she's worried, everybody better be."
"Why? Is it something urgent?"
The Gossam bites his tongue, and whatever he was aiming to say dies.
"It's just not good that he's nowhere to be found for so long," he then says.
"For how long? When did you see him?"
"Me? Well, I didn't... I mean, I'm not the most hands-on guy. But from what I gather, the guys saw him maybe like four weeks ago."
Four weeks ago was the eighteenth of the first month. A week earlier than Krev's last communication with Sorval.
You miserable cocksucker, Krev thinks. The lot of them.
He feels like probing Mer. Ask him: "Not three? You sure?"
But that's probably a bad idea. No need to give the cocksuckers any edge.
"Four weeks, huh? No, no. I guess I talked to him after that."
"Well, it would be great if you could talk to him now. I mean, the woman is seriously worried."
"I get it. Yeah, I'll try calling him."
"I mean, we did just that — for, like, a week now—"
"What else do you expect me to do? Use my psychic powers?"
"Okay, man. You just call me when you find him, right?"
Careful little cunt must've thought that "when" out in advance.
Krev disconnects.
Piece of fucking shit, he thinks.
So the demonman is gone. The chances are. Krev refuses to believe it — but his refusal has no power. The stupid fuck got himself killed. But ultimately, it's my fault. I hooked him up with all this shit.
No, that's banthashit, a weak voice, a really weak, says inside him. He was in long before I came. It's all Alnam.
Well, who's gonna deal with it now? Alnam or you?
But Krev doesn't feel capable of dealing with it — or with anything. He's pretty sure that's the end of the line.
At least call Vad before you off yourself. Have this last bit of decency.
He slaps himself in the face. I don't even know it. It's probably all bantha. I mean, Tuu hasn't killed anyone.
Until she did.
I would be dead, too, if they caught Sorval hacking into their computers.
So what was that Gossam shit talking about? You wanna say it didn't sound like a fucking confession to you?
Krev doesn't know what to say, what to do. The end-of-the-line feel strengthens — it's like sitting in an empty train that rolls past its end station.
That's it. It's never going to be fine. You aren't. You set out to fish that capital ship-sized creature from Naboo, but got dragged down by a fucking sea-mouse.
Guess that's just how it is, huh?
Vad told him to call morgues. A needle and a little G sound more Krev's speed.
Calling morgues means admitting his defeat. Fuck it — his total loss. Absolute. No recovery. Once you start calling morgues, it's only a matter of time when you get an answer you're seeking.
And Krev, Krev got enough answers. More than. He came to realization: answers don't make you happy. Nothing really does, but answers especially.
The belt is nice and proper around his biceps, and he reaches for the syringe — but grabs the comlink instead.
I can always kill myself — one way or another — when I know for certain.
Six days later, he's standing in the Mazrara Hospital Deceased Return Department, as it's called. He has no doubts that's it: Devaronian, male, late twenties, and the place is probably less than an hour of walk away from Brotra, 8.
He half-expected for them to be waiting, but there's no one here. A Zhellday morning, whatcha going to do — it's empty. Pretty dead.
Krev remembers to smile. His comlink goes off. He can tell without looking it's Vad. Well, he's talked his last to him.
It's wrong, of course. Ignoring him for the past week. It halts the entire operation.
I'm done with operations, Krev thinks. I just want to bury my friend.
There are thoughts about burying the friendship with Vad in the process, but there are always thoughts, aren't there?
An orderly droid floats into the corridor.
"You are here for the body of a Devaronian man, right?" it asks.
Krev nods.
"I'm afraid, you are too late."
The droid suddenly turns into Toj Mer and Kadrur the Trandoshan and Tuu Bnagen.
"What do you mean?"
"His family picked him up about an hour ago."
"His family?" Krev's unpleasantly surprised by how much he doesn't want to die. They're here! Get the fuck out of here, now!
"Yes. They managed to ID the body."
"Were they Devaronians?"
The droid looks at him for a second in silence. Then it says, "Yes, they were."
Krev asks for the name of the deceased just in case before leaving.
Another sleepless night over the computer. His account is now on, and he asks for the missing directory numbers. No telling how quickly anybody will answer. There's one reply when he gets to Bannison's place from the Deceased Return Department, but it's an ad for some fucking boner pills. Didn't give whoever sent that a fucking probation.
He calls what numbers he has. He shoots some glitterstim — just a little. Just about enough to cause circles fluorescent like Fucktwerp Bannison's Bri-O to appear. Or so Krev thought — no circles appear this time. Time to up the dosage.
This is useless, some nasty wave in his mind brings from the deep. I'm getting nowhere. I need to call Vad.
Vad could help. Sure he could. And also: say Bnagen can't be dealt with. Not right now. The clone files still need to be extracted.
Clone files. It sounds ridiculous, almost obscene now. Funny how the largest things in the Galaxy appear the pettiest at times.
Well, he thinks, I'm sorry. Everybody's on their own. I'm on my own, and the Galaxy on its.
Next day, he calls some numbers, he shoots some skag. Usual business, looks like. It ain't hard getting used to bad things — just don't think how it will be once you are used to them.
No, fuck it, it's easy. He may've been too generous and his thumb too heavy on the plunger, but if it makes his task easy, he's all for it. Thinking is the hard part, and he ain't doing that. Every conversation the comlink spews into his ear goes the same: he asks about Sorval Uerre. The database search returns nothing. Then he asks about any unidentified Devaronians, the droid — or whoever's there, Krev stops differentiating after the hundredth call — takes a pause to look it up, and then says there are none. Krev hangs up and calls the next hospital slash morgue. Sometimes, there are Devaronians. Then Krev asks about their sex and approximate age. Most general-purpose number droids don't have that information, and he has to ask them for the number where there's another droid that does. If he gets a match, he questions the clanker further. Build, skin tone, all that. Sometimes, they send him on another wild bantha chase. Plenty of banthashit to be collected. But Krev ain't stopping before he gets the details. A sober Krev wouldn't, so why should the real one?
That's where his communication with a given hospital slash morgue ends: he manages to get the injured or dead Devaronian's description precisely enough to tell if it's Sorval or not.
So far, none is.
It's routine. It's like war, even if Krev would prefer to be shot at. But what are you gonna do? In a war, you don't get to choose your assignments. At times, you don't even have a radio to your commanding officer, so you don't know if you still have an assignment. So what? You keep doing what you're doing. And Coruscant, Coruscant is no Atnakis. No shortage of stuff that makes you not care.
Yeah. Easier than it was back there. Easy access to light — even in this place. No problem finding a vein that still works.
Oh, there's another step in his process. It tends to sorta slip from his mind. He falls asleep — sorta — every now and again. No big deal. He jerks back to life in a minute or twenty and starts where he left off.
And sometimes, his body keeps calling even as his mind turns off — the process is this repetitive.
"We got two, sir," he comes back to hearing. He holds the comlink in front of his face. When his vision focuses on the screen of the computer, he finds out he was even taking notes while out-of-bodying:
Glimmer LANE
8 AM maybe calll
Seve
What "seve?" he thinks.
"Sir?" the comlink says.
"Yeah. Yeah, yeah, I'm writing it down."
"We got two. One is, uh, for the lack of a better word, decapitated, and the police are still looking for, you know. But the condition of the internal organs and skin has allowed us to determine the age of this citizen as advanced."
"Advanced?"
"Rather, sir. Fifty-five or sixty standard years at the least."
"You sure? Without the head, I mean..."
"We are. Our technologies allow us to... you know... say for pretty certain."
"Okay. Oh, well. Well, that's good. You're being very professional."
"Uhm... the, the other body is significantly younger."
"It's a young one, huh?!"
"Uh... that's what I was—"
"Don't worry, I'm not some degenerate necrophiliac." Wait, what the fuck am I saying? "I mean, I'm just looking for someone. So you were saying—"
"Yeah. This other one is a younger... was a younger man. Uh... early thirties, that sounds about right."
"Uh-huh." Krev doesn't know whose neck his comlink is now, but it's suddenly more powerful than his grip.
"A big guy. Shot to death. The thing is, though, we've had him for some time. Let me check... Twenty-fifth last month."
Krev can't do any calculations now, but he just knows it's right. That's it. You've ridden your share.
"He's non-ID'd?" he asks.
"No, sir. Neither him nor the other one."
Krev takes the address of the morgue from whomever he's speaking to. Just sits there looking at it until the morning. His program, his algorithm was going nicely, huh? Right till it wasn't.
Standing in a hall of that morgue some six hours later, he tries to remember getting there. I hope they don't do drug tests on friends and family. Fuck, what am I even supposed to do? Do you have to bring a coffin or whatever at once? There's probably a bill for keeping the body.
He thinks back. I'm notoriously good at avoiding funerals. Been so far. Missed his mother's. Weren't there for Oglago Babel's. Who knows how Krev's life would've turned had those Dag or whatever pricks not fried Oglago. Maybe Ixtlar wouldn't've been a problem. And on Atnakis, it was simply not his task — burying people.
Well, now it's all catching up.
Only Brate — but he also killed Brate.
Looks like a theme.
He lights up a cigarette. He's not looking for a no-smoking sign — and he used to get a mischievous pleasure out of smoking right under it.
The days of pleasure are gone.
There are thoughts flipping from one side to another at the dried-up bottom of his mind: what if it's not him? It can't be him because... because... Krev's too tired to think them.
A morgue attendant comes out of a narrow door hiding at the end of the hall. A sentient. A Human or close enough.
"I'm here about the Devaronian," Krev tells him.
The attendant nods. "Which one?"
"I spoke on the comlink, I don't know if it was you or your colleague..." Krev realizes it's not getting him anywhere and stops. "The younger one. Unidentified."
Another nod. "Please follow me."
And two corridors later: "You can wait in here while we get the body into the room."
Krev waits. Maybe not waits, but he stands there until the attendant comes back and invites him into an adjacent room. He knows he could stand there some more.
"Gang violence," the attendant comments.
It takes Krev a while to find the slab — even though it takes up most of the room. The body on it is covered with a sheet, but Krev doesn't need to take it off to know what is under it.
"The district they found him in," the attendants says as he checks his datapad; Krev catches a glimpse of the screen: it's some hotel booking site, "seemed to have calmed down last couple of years. That's probably how they got the drop on him. I guess he didn't expect getting jumped there."
"What district?"
"It's not far from here. Barrek Street. About forty minutes away if the traffic is good."
"And who found him?" Krev asks, gesturing at the sheet.
The attendant lays off his datapad and steps closer to the slab.
"Garbage truck droids. Those bastards — I mean, who did him in — they, uh, stuffed the body into... one of the containers."
Flash. The sheet is removed.
Krev learns nothing new. Feels nothing new, either.
"A detective came by from the precinct, of course, but... it's been four weeks, and he didn't come since." The attendant purses his lips. It must convey solemnity, but with both his lips pierced, it doesn't work very well. "Do you recognize the deceased, sir?"
"I do," Krev says.
He ends up waiting — staying — for the detective who doesn't come in the end. They talk over the comlink. Krev gives him Sorval's information — at least he guesses he does, because when he leaves the morgue at eight, he doesn't remember a word of their dialogue save for the cop's "It's bureaucracy like this that stops me from actually going to crime scene, see?" He reaches in for a cigarette but finds the pack empty.
They have told them — a nice counselor lady the attendant brought and a protocol droid — something about the funerals and preparations and such, but Krev can't recall anything. It's fine, though — he'll call them in the morning and ask them again, and they'll have to answer, because he's left a deposit. But right now — right now he needs his only remaining friend.
It's good he didn't give the counselor all of his money.
Next thing he knows, he's sitting at what must be the very ground level. It's early morning — he knows by a distant reflection in a light-for-the-lower-levels mirror — but there's no telling what morning it is.
"Your com, man, be real," somebody almost shouts at him. He focuses his eyes and sees a thin figure down an alley. "Your com! Be real, be real!"
There's desperation in the figure's voice.
"Fuck you saying," Krev more thinks than says.
"Den't touch it, den't pocket your pocket man, be real!"
Krev looks away from the hood. Isn't that nice — he appears to have shat himself, as well as puked and pissed.
"Com, man, com!"
Come where?
Then it hits him: he's not the only one hearing the buzz. It's his comlink. Strangely, it's still in his pocket, and not in the hood's.
He takes it out, and the figure disappears in one of the alleyways.
"Yeah?"
"Mr. Kossar." A Coruscanti accent. "It's Mr. Weller from Podanti's Ritual Services. They gave me your comlink number at the Rowni District Hospital, and I have been trying to contact you for the past week."
"Yeah, about that. I'm fine. I don't need no—"
"But the money has already been paid, Mr. Kossar. Mrs. Latema was so kind as to transfer it to our bureau. Everything is ready, even though I had to take upon myself the liberty of choosing the resting place—"
Krev looks around as much as he can. "Yeah... yeah, it's not good, man."
"Perhaps you may reserve your judgment until you see for yourself, sir. I assure you, the spot is the best we could acquire with the funds we were provided."
It hits Krev again.
"You're talking about... Sorval?"
"Yes, of course. Today is Mr. Uerre's funeral at the Ninth Eastern."
"Oh shit."
"I'm afraid, we cannot postpone it any longer. The regulations, sir, you see... With the autopsy having been performed in the past weeks, the law prescribes that we lay Mr. Uerre to rest—"
It hits Krev again — he's holding a syringe in his other hand. A good, fancy autosyringe. With some product left in it.
His belt — relaxed — still hangs around his arm. Doesn't take a lot of practice to pull it in place and then loosen it up when the deed is done — he doesn't even have to end the call.
The call... He was supposed to call somebody...
It's day now, probably. He remembers there was a Coruscant mirror somewhere he could see, but he can't find it now. Feels like day, though. Feels like day.
Didn't I have to call someone?
Was it Oglago?
No, wait, he's dead. No calling the dead.
It was the funeral! He had to go to the funeral!
Mercifully, he blacks out again and doesn't need to think about it.
Waking up turns out to be a process, not a moment — a long process of floating from the somewhere-else into the right-here; long to the point where no distinction between the two can be made.
Maybe there is none.
Sitting on the ground, which is weird on its own on this planet, gradually becomes unbearable, and he can't pretend he's still in the blissful-wherever anymore. He has to get up. Has to function. It's not easy. He spends several hours, must be, getting in the right mindset.
Actually getting on his feet is only marginally better. Every muscle hurts, and as soon as Krev becomes upright, he bends over and throws up. The acid that gets out is vile enough to eat through duracrete.
He stands, holding to a wall. This is no way to attend a funeral.
Good thing I ain't going to any funerals, he thinks. Maybe I'll have to make an exception for my own. Unlikely — given that I'll most likely die within five minutes in this gutter.
He doesn't die, though, not in five minutes nor in twenty. After that, it becomes pathetic to stand there and wait for a release.
Maybe it's still going on, he thinks. Don't they have to inform the relatives or something? No way they'd be here within a day.
Or was it just a day? Mr. Posh Accent said something about a week. Hell if Krev can remember what exactly.
The comlink. He checks his right hand — it's empty. Looks around, but the comlink isn't there.
Maybe I melted it when I puked, he thinks, but on closer inspection, the bile covers mostly a wall and himself.
He starts checking his pockets. No money, no comlink. Whoever answers it the next time, the funeral man isn't gonna be pleased. Not that he was. His ID is still on him. That's good. That's useful. He won't be a pain in someone's ass if he succumbs to gang violence.
Gang violence? That's really what those fucks said, isn't it?
He feels like throwing up again. That's gonna be permanent from now on.
I can't be thinking about it. Not now. I did too much glitter. My heart's gonna give out if I leave it at that. Gotta take a smaller dose just to ease it up. Baby steps, baby.
He's got his ID on him, so when he finally finds an unlocked pathway up, he's able to stop a cab and pay via code. If someone starts looking, he'll know what Mr. Kossar was up to this day — but that doesn't really matter very much anymore, does it? The droid pilot says something about his olfactory sensors, but flies him anyway.
The old man doesn't even mention it.
"Sorry," Krev tells him, "I didn't bring you anything tonight."
"You kidding me, kid? You wanna say I only let you stay so you can bring me booze? Very high opinion of me you got, very high indeed."
"Listen, I need some shit."
"Seems to me you got all the shit you could handle and then some."
"Let's not turn it into," Krev opens the cold water tap, "into a lecture, okay. I need some shit real bad, but I don't have any cash on me. Some in my room, maybe a grand. But I'll get more from my account. I just can't go do it like this."
"Say no more."
"I need a guy who's gonna be good with that."
"I said, say no more. Let Fucktwerp Bannison take care of you."
Only a week later does he learn Bannison paid the dealer with his own money. The old man tries making a show when Krev pays him back, but Krev's not having it:
"You fucking take it, or I'll take offense."
"That's not right, son. Between us Humans, we shouldn't do this Muun shit. What's next, I'm gonna charge you vig?"
"You've been paying for my G habits for a week, and now you're letting it slip? No fucking wonder you don't live in the Senate District."
"You just had a bit of a hard time, that's all, just a little of a hard time. We're friends!"
"And I pay my friends back."
It almost makes Krev throw up.
"Speaking of which," he says, "that Nullan dude still comes by?"
That Nullan dude still comes by. Not very often, but Krev can wait — not like he's got anywhere to hurry.
In the meantime, he manages to push his weekly intake back down. "Back" is too strong of a word, though — he takes more than before. Just the course of life.
He comes unannounced, Nullan. It's a party night at old man Bannison's. Plenty of others here. They don't bother Krev — frankly, not much does these days, and these people are definitely not the one thing that does.
"Look who's here," Nullan says seeing Krev. "So — how's your government buddy?"
Krev can't be assed even to shrug. "I got another favor to ask. I'll pay this time."
Nullan does the shrugging.
"What kind of favor are we talking about?"
"The kind we'd better talk about somewhere more vacant."
They're in the balcony — again.
Nullan offers him a cigarette. Krev tries to remember if he did the last time.
"So who needs finding this time?"
"Everybody's found as it is. Some people need getting lost."
"Like, lost lost?"
"Like there'd be no finding them."
"I don't know. Maybe we gave you a wrong impression a year ago. We don't really venture into this type of business."
"Won't have to. I'll do everything myself. Just need tools."
"It's possible. What did you get yourself into, Krev?"
"You don't wanna know."
"Matter of fact, I do. It's important to have someone who wants to know."
"I don't even..." Suddenly, it turns into a thing that bothers him. "I lost a friend. I mean... it's my fault. It's my fucking fault."
"How so?"
"I introduced him to the wrong people. To the wrong fucking pieces of shit."
The cigarette breaks apart in his fingers. Nullan is there to provide another one.
"Police not an option?"
"No. I don't know. What the fuck? He wasn't a friend of the police. He was my friend."
Nullan sighs. "I see. Well, I'm not about to start lecturing you. I'm the last fucking man who should be lecturing anybody. But are you sure, Krev? You sure that this is how it should be?"
"Those people are aliens, if you must know."
"It's not because of that that I'm asking."
"Yes, I'm sure it's how it's gonna be."
"Alright then. What kind of tools do you need?"
"A thermal detonator."
"Really?"
Krev says nothing.
"Alright. Let me think about it."
"What's there to think to about?"
"Calm down."
"No, what's there to think about?"
"You gonna stay here for now? I'll come back tomorrow evening, alright? We'll talk again."
"Come with a fucking detonator or don't come at all."
Krev can't sleep that night. The morning is no better.
Motherfucking Nullan. Serves me right for putting my faith in these fucking lowlifes.
He storms out of the place. Goes on a mindless trip. It becomes numb in a couple hours.
He breaks his journey. Goes into a supermarket. Buys a new comlink. The shop assistant droid does its best to push the newest fuck-all model to him. Krev makes two attempts to exit the store before the fucker slows down and sells him a simple GTG.
Why the fuck am so I anal about funds now? Krev muses, leaving.
Next: a visit to the nightclub. This is where it all started. If you weren't such a retard...
It's a bit dead on a Primeday morning, but Krev's done waiting for opportunities. There won't be any, so why bother?
They said it was a Twi'lek, so he's looking for a Twi'lek. Tipping terrorist cells isn't one-time kind of business. She must be a regular.
Almost a grand later, he got a list. All are locals — thank fuck. Doesn't make much sense to hunt for a quick credit if you're gonna spend most of it getting to and from the place.
He makes a route. It's not optimal, but his optimizing days are gone, same as any other days.
The first girl: swears she hasn't been to the club for fifteen months. Krev is willing to believe her — he doesn't remember her from that night at all. He doesn't remember much at all, but he's never been into pink Twi'leks, so she's probably not lying.
The second girl: he fails to catch her. Nobody gets the door. Fine. He'll come back after the working hours.
The working hours, he muses walking to the bus stop on the corner of the building. Why would a bartender have addresses of his customers? These girls start working late in the evening, that's why. An ingenious idea — you don't hold a brothel, don't need to rent rooms, nothing. They take their clients back to their sorry little cribs. Dorms. And you still take your cut — because your club is where they find their clients. Isn't this what life is all about: skimming the cream off while having as little liability as possible?
The third girl: preoccupied. He's a Twi'lek, so probably a boyfriend rather than client. Krev shows him the door anyhow. The girl cries. The girl grabs her comlink and promises to call the police.
"They're right in front of you," Krev says, and all the fight leaves her.
She doesn't remember him, but he's insistent. They work out the exact date: the fourth of the fifth last year. The girl, without ever stopping her sob machine, procures diaries and organizers. You'd think she was a CEO. Good for her: she finds entries — with geo-marks and everything — that show she was in the other hemisphere that day and the next. Stayed at a moderately expensive hotel — her friend was getting married. Plenty of holopics to prove it, including holopics from changing rooms. Never has ripe young flesh in scanty clothes been so unappealing. Krev leaves.
The fourth girl: not at home. Krev will come back later.
The fifth girl: only came to the planet four months ago. Has papers to show for it.
The sixth girl, though. Krev knows that's her the second she opens the door.
And she knows it's him. Makes an almost involuntary move to shut the door, but Krev's already inside.
The girl's father has no illusions.
"Causing problems again? That's all you good for! When we come here, you had to study, not sell yourself!"
"I'm only here for comlink numbers," Krev tells the girl. "The people you gave me up to."
"You useless whore!"
"Pa, please! I-I didn't give you—"
"No banthashit. Numbers, then I leave."
The girl looks around, as if looking for support is an option.
"I only know the small guy, Toj."
"That's perfect."
Krev leaves. Isn't it amazing how your mood went up just because you don't have to visit the absent hookers again?
He calls Toj Mer while he's riding home.
"Guess who."
"Well, fuck me. Fuck you, rather. I thought you met your end somewhere in a ditch."
"You weren't wrong. Only I tend to come back. What's up?"
"Is Batur somewhere near?"
The fucking balls on these people.
"Uh, no. I thought you were in contact."
"No, he disappeared, same as you. We hoped maybe you were together."
"So you haven't heard from him since..."
"No."
"Okay. So what's new?"
"That's very rich to call me after all these weeks and ask what's new. You know, maybe I'm only a funny little guy to you, but even I have the concept of commitment."
"Hey, no need to lecture me."
"I beg to differ. You leave as if it's a book club, and come back when you feel like it. How do I even know there ain't cops sitting on both sides of you right now?"
"I have a debilitating health issue, Toj. I am an addict."
"You should be telling it to other fellow twelve-steppers or whatever."
An entire walking show, this one. Krev promises himself to remember it when the time comes.
"Don't make me beg, you're not a woman. I couldn't do shit. I was in no condition. Now I'm in condition, so do you still need me?"
"I'm not the decision-maker here."
"Well, then would you please ask her?"
"I don't know, Krev. I don't know if that's a good idea. You know, I'm pretty laid-back, but even I have a problem with your behavior."
"Fuck, what do I need to do to win back your trust? I don't know, send me on a suicide mission!"
Here's some foreshadowing for you, you theatrical fuck.
"Okay, I'll ask her."
"Great!"
"No promises. I'm not sure what she'll say."
"Thank you. You're a real friend."
"Don't make me regret my decision, okay? Don't disappear again when I need to call you back. Is this your new number?"
"Yep."
"Alright. I need to think how to present the information to her, so..."
"Take your time. Just call me back."
"It wasn't me who let everyone down."
And now for waiting, Krev thinks. The Coruscant Energy Lines Research Institute building dominates the landscape outside. It almost doesn't get bigger as the airbus is flying closer to it — it's already so huge.
He enters the apartment to find Nullan already there, in his room.
"You did give it a thought, huh," Krev says, putting his jacket on the hanger.
"I said I would."
Krev comes into the room and closes the door behind him. "And?"
"And I think it's a mighty stupid thing you're doing, Krev."
"Really? Might've spared yourself a trip. I would've guessed from your absence."
Nullan sighs. Then he takes a thermal detonator out of his pocket. Puts it on the arm of his chair.
"I understand what it is like — to not have another choice. All I'm asking is that you really ask yourself this question. Do you not have it?"
Krev wants to shake his head. Doesn't.
"How much?" he asks instead.
"Two."
Krev looks away to count the money. When he looks back up, a blaster lies on the other arm.
"What's this? You're bundling?"
"It's on me. Just in case there's another choice."
Krev hates this blaster so much he can't sleep. It is another choice, after all. A somewhat easier one, isn't it? Apart from having to live with it, that is.
Takes Toj Mer a week to call him back.
"She wasn't very enthusiastic about accepting you back," he says. "But you can count yourself a very lucky man. The Beard wants to talk to us."
"To us?"
"To the whole crew. I guess it only happened like twice before. The recent developments... Well, not over comlink."
"So how is he planning to do it?"
"We have a secure hololine."
"At the base?"
"Yeah. He specified that you should be there, too."
"Why the fuck? How does he even know about me?"
"You think our lady is eating her food in vain? It's a serious operation, Krev. It's run seriously."
"Yeah, yeah, I get it: no more fuck ups."
"Tomorrow, 10 AM."
"Alright."
Krev sits back. Funny fucking aliens — had to come up with this just to get him to come.
And he will come... but what will he be carrying?
Definitely not the blaster. Too much risk some of them will get away.
Take it. You don't really believe they all will be there for this special occasion?
They usually sit there all day, so...
Take both, but... having the blaster on you will make you want to use the blaster. Even if all of them are there. You ain't outgunning all five of them.
Only the lizard had a blaster.
Could've changed. Especially now.
He sleeps well that night. Gets up in the morning — 4 AM. Thinks some more and picks both the blaster and the detonator.
Then he picks up his comlink.
"It's me," he says. "I know I'm gonna be disrupting whatever you got going, but I can't do anything else. They killed Sorval, so... This is the only way. I'm sorry. It's all my fault."
He saves the voice file and schedules it to be sent to Vad's apartment at 2 PM.
They all are gonna be there, he thinks. She said it many times — they have nowhere else to go.
And his gut believes it.
He's got a good feeling.
The traffic isn't great. It's 10:03 when he gets off the train. 10:06 when Toj Mer calls him.
"Where the hell are you? We're starting the transmission!"
Krev hears voices in the background. He recognizes Bnagen and Kadrur. At least one of the Quarren.
And he knows the day will be glorious.
"I'm in the building," he answers. "I went by ground, so it'll take me some time to get up there with you."
"Come on! Hurry up, man!"
He can see Brotra, 8 already. He'll enter it from the level 411 — where the airbridge he's on is leading him. He'll reach the base way earlier than he would have by going from the first floor.
The bastards won't know what hit them.
The morning is pleasant. Sunny. Why not die on it? You can always wait for a better one, but the finality of the decision is what's beautiful.
He first notices a man walking towards him stumble. Only a moment later vibrations knock him off his feet, too.
He looks up and sees every window in Brotra, 8 pop out. Before they can hit the bridge, they are evaporated — right in midair. The heat wave hits him. Almost burns his lungs, but it's lost most of its kick by then.
He watches the top floors of Brotra, 8 chase the lower ones. The dust cloud grows as the building collapses.
"Come on," somebody's screaming, "get up, man!"
It's the man he saw stumbling. He tries to get Krev off the bridge, but he's too weak to do that without Krev's cooperation.
Krev cooperates. They run back to the train station — just in time to leave the bridge before any debris hit it.
"Goodness gracious," the man swears; his black skin turned grey from dust and who know what else. "What is it?"
Krev hears sirens. The bad kind of sirens — the one that drowns out every other sound and makes it absurdly insignificant.
A squad of fighters zips above the station. People start crying, and somehow, the sirens are not drowning that out.
Green beams enter the atmosphere on the horizon like sickly lightnings. Dust starts clouding over some other buildings. The sirens are wailing.