Morning. The sun isn't too bad yet. He knows it will be, so they need to hurry up.
They take their beasts down the arroyo. Where lasers once hit the ground, there are now nothing but charred circles in the sand.
Krev is mindful of the purse in his saddlebag. Checks it with his thigh every now and then.
"Twelve thousand two hundred credits," he says.
Sorval doesn't answer. He's riding half-a-dewback ahead of Krev.
Krev's not really worried about the money too much, though. Both of them got rifles.
"How many you figure we'll get for twelve thousand and two hundred?" he asks.
Sorval looks back at him. "It buys two hundred heads."
"Yeah, but we'll need to hire some guns down in the town to herd them."
"We can do it ourselves."
"Two hundred heads, you kidding me? Just the two of us?"
"It's gonna be hot by that time."
Too hot for them reptilians, Krev realizes. It's a nice thought.
The sky is really blue today. Krev turns his head left and right to find where the sun is, but can't. Then he remembers they just need to follow the arroyo — no need to determine directions.
Sorval's wearing a huge wide-brimmed hat. So huge Krev can't see his horns. That's not good. Krev tries to ride ahead a little to take a better look, but Sorval probably notices it every time and pushes him to the side with his dewback.
"What's it with you?" Krev asks.
"I still can't believe you left me for dead."
"What? I didn't!"
"I wasn't dead. I was just lethargic, but you let them bury me."
"How was I supposed to know?"
"You had to tell them."
The realization he really did creeps up on Krev. So does guilt.
"Look," he says, "you find Oglago Babel. Tell him you're from me."
"I'm pretty sure recommendations from the likes of you don't fly around here."
Krev doesn't get to feel happy the conversation is over — Sorval says:
"They buried me on Gamorr, you know that?"
"What the fuck. They told me it was Rothana."
"Nah. Too much hassle. You know what Gamorr means?"
"I do."
We can't get to the town soon enough.
"How long," Sorval asks, "until your lobotomy?"
"I don't know. They won't tell me."
"You know there's no other choice."
"Yeah."
"Your addiction got worse, and it's only going to go downhill."
"I just hope we manage to get the herd back home beforehand."
"The storm's yet to come," says Murkfallada Berissin.
But he's wrong: there are clouds already. No shadows on the ground anymore. It's gonna rain soon.
Krev remembers something.
"You're not dead," he says turning to Kod Alhari.
"I'm just here for company," the Duros answers.
Krev wags his finger at him: can't fool me.
The first drops of rain fall on his head.
"I really tried to avoid this," he complains. "I even killed the guy who invented it. With my bare hands. But... turns out, they still got the blueprints. I know it's for my addiction, but... Doesn't feel right, you know?"
Kod rides closer to him. "You don't have to do it, then."
"I do. Look, I even brought the money."
Krev opens the saddlebag. Kod looks inside.
"Then you've already done it," he says.
Krev looks at him. Then inside the bag.
It is in there! Something is. He just needs to catch it. The bag is fuck-huge — Krev gets in elbow-deep at first, but the round thing he's after keeps falling further down. He almost climbs into the bag whole. It's cramped all the way to hell, and Krev can't even tell what half of these things are. They keep changing size, and he seems to as well.
Finally, he gets out. The corridor is poorly lit. He walks to the window and presses the sides of his palms to the transparisteel, trying to see what's outside.
He gets away from the window. He really needs to get to searching.
There are too many trash chutes in this place. Good he can search them with a blaster in one hand — just to be safe.
Each one he opens presents him with a pile of garbage to go through. They are all overflowing. Krev is careful not to let too much spill. At times, he helps himself with the blaster and cleans its muzzle with his sleeve whenever it touches the garbage.
Four or five chutes in, he remembers it can be inside a trash bag. He didn't open those up. Reluctantly, he walks over to the first chute — it's changed its location, it seems — and rips a bag open. Some pressed-together dust and hair and all sorts of things come out.
He's so careful not to let any of the trash out of the open chute he prioritizes it too much and drops his blaster into the gaping jaw of the chute. Krev puts his arm into it, and it finds resistance. The window lights up: red.
Cops, Krev thinks.
He starts running. Better get away from the blaster — it's dirty.
The corridor turns into narrow spiral stairs. Krev chooses down. His footsteps are way too loud — the cops are hearing them.
On the bus, he takes a sit. Keeps looking back even as they depart. The red light doesn't die out, though Krev knows it's not following.
He got away, but without the glitter. The fucking cops will sure find it.
No, wait! I closed the chute I dropped it in!
The relief is so powerful Krev almost pisses himself.
He gets off the toilet. Looks at the watch. Still however many hours to go.
He gets out of the stall. Washes his hands. An old man looks at him from the mirror.
He gets it now. Fuck, this is it. I'm at the end of my life, and I wasted it on this banthashit. A fucking nine-to-five. I should've stayed on Atnakis.
He walks out of the bathroom. The office is lit by evening sun.
"We got a shipment later tonight," a man tells him.
Krev wants to reply he's here by mistake, but then he remembers his retirement fund is tied to this man.
"Alright," he says then.
He walks along the row of cubicles. Towards the window. Peers out.
"You have to go," the man tells him, but Krev raises his hand: quiet.
There's gonna be consequences to it, but at this moment, he can't give a womp rat's ass about it.
Outside, bathed in the hot sun, sits a simple house. Krev thinks it would be nice to live in a house like this.
He keeps looking, and soon he's able to see the windows. What's on the other side?
A dining room. The table is set for two.
Ormi asks him, pouring him the soup: "Are you really going to sue that Aqualish woman?"
"There's no choice," Krev sighs.
"They've got good lawyers."
"It's either this or lose the farm. We can't lose it. I can't. I know how much it means to you. That's where Vad's buried."
He looks at the mantelpiece where Vad's picture should be. Instead, there's Vad himself.
Uneasily, Krev looks back.
"Maybe it's time to let it go," Ormi says.
He takes her hand. "Don't say that."
But something lingers in his head long after the breakfast's over. Something he's been remembering, but kind of putting off. It keeps him tense while he's working. At least there's still dinner with Ormi, with my Ormi before I got to do this, he thinks, but the dinner comes and goes, and he can't recall it.
The twilight takes over the farm. Krev looks at the house. There's light in the windows.
He walks over to the toolshed and gets the vibropick. Then he climbs the hill. The treetops are now at his eye level.
He comes to the grave. Looks back at the house.
"Shit," he mutters, "there's no harm in trying, is there?"
There shouldn't be. It's just for his nerves. To make sure he did everything he could. No big deal. Just a little bit of work.
He starts digging. The earth is dry, but yields easily after a few strikes. It's scary — how easy it goes. As if it wants to.
Krev pauses. Wonders if the noise is too loud. Looks at the house again. There are no more lights inside.
"Oh shit," he says. Swallows. Gets back to digging.
Not long before the lid shows up. He remembers how they chose it — he did, mostly; Ormi was too distraught. Sees the two wings engraved on it — the symbol of the Children of Pursuit.
He sweeps the lid clean. Now it's time to break it.
He brings the vibropick up. Glances at the house one final time. He doesn't like how dark it is.
The lid cracks open. Krev lifts the pick and crouches to look inside. At first, he can't see anything, but then—
He startles. It takes him a minute to realize he's home, in his bed.
He gets up. Draws the curtains back.
He's been dreaming about Ormi again. Not a good dream — again. He tries to remember what it was that waited for him in the coffin, but then decides not to. Then — forces himself not to.
It's maybe ten in the morning. He's been getting up more or less early since he's moved here.
Since Vad shut down their operation.
Maybe I should've insisted, he thinks as he's brushing his teeth. Once, it was his ritual to prove to himself he's not gone off the deep end. Now? Now, it's just hygiene.
He takes a leak. Walks into the kitchen, starts the caf machine. The square outside is already bustling with people.
He drinks his caf looking outside. It's hard to believe he was living in a literal slum just a year ago. And look at this now: a view on beautiful conical white towers, huge, but not too huge to block his sun off. The market square down below.
Life's good on Alderaan.
He puts his clothes on. Pats his pockets — nope, gotta buy some cigs. Presses the button that shuts the bed back into the wall. Makes sure to touch his ninety-standards badge. This has been his ritual alright. A new ritual for a new time — the ten-standards at first, then thirty-five, then fifty, and now he's at ninety-eight.
"Sometimes," he says aloud as he always does in the morning, "getting shot is good for you."
He leaves the apartment. People here in the tower don't usually lock their doors, but Krev's past doesn't let him forget this instinct. Some of the neighbors like to gently laugh about it. Let them.
He walks instead of taking the elevator. It's not Coruscant — he can walk nine floors, at least down he can. In his plans: to start walking up as well.
Maybe I should've insisted, he thinks again when he's on the fourth floor. Is the life bad? No, the life isn't bad. But sometimes, he just can't help but muse — what it would be like if they didn't stop.
Outside of the tower, he walks straight to the market square. Takes a pack out of his pocket and puts a cigarette in his mouth. He's been smoking so much lately his teeth started to look funny — gotta check that.
But that's better than taking it up his vein, innit?
A checkpoint at the square's entrance: two cops and a droid. The latter's look makes Krev uneasy: the burns on his torso still ache sometimes before it rains. At least he doesn't just collapse and piss himself at the sight. Some do.
We could've prevented it, he thinks as the cops scan him. Not saying we should've, but we could've.
Vad is waiting for him by a street food kiosk. Krev once ate here and then spent an evening on the shitter and then two weeks telling everybody food regulations on Alderaan aren't some hot shit.
They shake hands. Vad says, "What, you're ready? I know I am."
"Sure thing."
The square is sterile as only a market square on Alderaan can be. All these hordes of people going through it every day — and somehow, they manage to keep it clean.
"Watch out for clones," Vad tells him.
"I know, I know. I remember."
"They clone everybody these days. We need to be extra careful."
"They got scanners at every entrance." Krev produces one to prove his point.
"Scanners? And in space? Do they scan space as well?"
How could I miss that?
"At least, the war's over," Krev says.
"You think so? No, my friend. It just moved to another stage."
"As long as there aren't people being killed—"
"There were never people being killed. That's what they got clones for. Did you get yours?"
Krev shakes his head.
"You should. When your clone dies, you get to live. It's ingenious, really."
"Wait," Krev tells Oglago. "Wait. Are you a clone?"
Babel gives him a sad smirk. "They didn't have the technology back then."
"We would go to meetings together, remember?"
"Sure."
Krev opens his mouth — and realizes he forgot what the trick question was.
"This means you're a clone," Oglago tells him.
Krev notices: everybody is watching him.
"Leg it!" he shouts and starts running.
The sterility of the market place dissipates quickly. In its alleyways, Alderaan is not different from Kessel. Krev remembers the place he dropped his gun into as he runs by it. How long ago was that — twenty years ago, thirty? He was young back then.
Any time he looks back, he doesn't see the crowd following him, but he knows it is coming.
He knows they will be looking for him in his mother's house, but his legs lead him there anyway.
But she's dead, he thinks just as she opens the door.
She's not. He remembers he just dreamt it.
"You're in trouble again?" she asks. "I thought I would die before you come."
"Ma... it's not like that."
"I know what it is. Just like your father."
"Yeah, yeah."
She brings him some caf. Her caf always tasted awful — but this time, it's the best Krev has ever drunk.
"This is good," he says. "You finally put that machine I gave you to use?"
"I know where that came from. Just fell off the back of a truck, did it?"
"It's not like that."
"I know the kind of people you associate with."
"What? You've been telling me what a good boy Oglago Babel is since I was five. Now you have a problem with him?"
"At least he knows how to pay respect to his mother. He moved her off this sad excuse of a planet."
"I don't... Money isn't good right now. But I'm getting there."
"You're always getting somewhere. I never see any results."
"Maybe if you stopped drinking for a month, you'd see."
That's a good one. Nothing she can say to this.
"Look who's talking. You never was like your father."
"Don't start this, Ma. I'm serious. Don't start it, or I'll walk out."
"You walked out on me many years ago, Krev. Could've buried me as well while you were at it. The attention I receive is just the same as if I were dead."
Krev can't even reply — just waves his hand at her.
He takes another sip of caf. This time, it's the usual crap. He rolls it inside of the cup. It's gooey — does she even clean the machine? The more Krev stares at the substance, the less of a liquid it becomes. Soon it doesn't even follow the motions of the cup.
That's bad — Krev knows he has to make it synch again, but no amount of effort is doing this.
"You need to do it like this," says the man in the next chair and flicks his hand very rapidly.
Fuck if Krev got it.
"Sorry," he says, "can you... can you do it again?"
The man repeats the motion. Krev tries to do it, but nothing happens. The black blob in his cup takes whatever shape it pleases.
Krev hands the cup to the man. A flick — and the caf is gone. Krev smiles — until he sees he's holding another cup full of this shit. He looks up at the man with a preemptively guilty countenance, but the man is gone.
He was never there, Krev realizes.
He gets up. Nothing really has changed in this place. Same old shit. Same old caf. You can buy her twenty machines, and she'll still be making this crap.
"You still seeing that girl?" Ma asks him from another room.
"Nah. We filed for divorce."
"That's what I get. That's what all the heartache gets me."
Krev ignores her. Sure, it sucks they are separated now — but what can you do? He walks to a door he never noticed before. It's a state-of-the-art thing — all white and elegant and nice. Probably won't open just because of a fly or something. How could he forget about it? That's where all his stuff is! At least it was when I left.
He walks through the door — it lets him. Behind it is a wide staircase leading up. There are long, tall windows on both sides of it, and the sun is shining through both. The moment he steps on the first step, the stairs transform: now they are a smooth and transparent surface. No big deal. But as Krev soldiers on, the glass under his feet starts bouncing.
I've done it once. As soon as the thought passes, the glass shatters under his boots.
Krev wakes up startled. What the fuck is he doing, sleeping like this on his watch? Vad trusted him enough to give him the case, and he's falling asleep like a moron.
He was abstinent in the dream, he remembers. Ninety-something days. If only that dream came true.
He gets up. The bench here — on Citadel Station — is not anywhere as comfy as his mother's chair. Krev has no idea where she got that large — oversized, almost — pair of armchairs back on Kessel. That would be a story he'd write rather than his memoirs — how those monsters came all the way from a middle-class household on Coruscant to an ex-con one on the prison planet.
There are gunmen on the station, he knows. So what? The station is big enough. He can avoid them no problem. Still, Krev checks his blaster. At first, it seems like it's empty, but then he sees he can get a couple of shots out of the battery.
I'd rather not. Walls are paper-thin.
He needs to go up. Doesn't trust elevators — who's to say there isn't anybody hiding in them? He'd take the elevators if he was trying to ambush someone on this station.
No stairs present themselves, but Krev knows he's going up — somehow. Through a window, he can see an open pool — that's right, they moved the station down into the atmosphere a while back. There's his house — their house. Right at the edge. Not a bad place, if a bit crowded. Well, any place is fine by him if she's by his side.
That's why I gotta do this, he thinks watching bathers. I need to fix the problem. The Galaxy might be too much for me, but this I can fix.
The next window he sees shows him a dark sky, unlike the one before. That's the dark side of the planet.
That's where he's heading.
Krev takes his blaster out. Shit — it's too light. He lifts it to his eyes.
"I'll be fucking damned."
It's a toy. How could he fucking mix them up? They weigh differently — he can tell it now.
"Oh, what the fuck?"
So he'll need to do it without firing a shot. Makes it easier, maybe? This way, he knows he won't have to compromise.
Another door slides in front of him — he's seen this very one before. Strangely, a new place lies beyond.
Krev walks in. There he is — standing right by the airlock.
"Okay," Krev says, "let's not do anything stupid."
Vad sighs. "It's you coming heavy."
"Look," Krev shows him the blaster, "it's not heavy at all."
"Then why don't you throw it away?"
"I won't. It's mine."
"That's what I'm talking about."
"There's no need for it."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
"No you're not."
"Listen, there's no need to do it anymore. He's gone. I'm sorry, but he is."
"Who are you talking about? Sorval?"
"No. Your dad. They got him."
"I'm doing it for my real dad."
It's Count Dooku.
Krev's mind races feverishly — until it comes to a full stop.
"There you go," he says, "he's dead, too. The droids killed him."
"For my real dad."
Now it kicks in: it's Palpatine.
"You don't have to do this," Krev says — even though he knows it's not gonna work.
"I'm sorry."
That's the only thing he hears before Vad opens the airlock.
Krev is pulled, and keeps being pulled after he should've died. A cool breeze hits him in the face. It brings rain, and salt, and thunder.
It seems he's the one buried. Didn't he see that in a dream?
He starts kicking and thrashing, and his transparent jail opens. He tries to sit up, but his head is too heavy. Then a trunk falls off his face, and he's able to sit.
"Please, Mr. Devin, take it easy."
Half a thought, half a mumble.
I'll take it easy when I can hear you, you big bastard.
Rubbing his earlobes, Krev looks around. Everything around is foggier than his idea of what he's doing here, and his hearing isn't any clearer than his sight.
The Voice finds its way.
"Please. Do not hurry. You are in safety."
"I am..."
The way his own voice sounds like scratching at the back of his throat makes the back of his neck go wet with sweat — even though he's already sitting in some thick gel.
Wait. Gel? Bacta?
"Is this bacta?" he asks, and his voice doesn't sound any louder.
"It is. There's no need to overexert your vocal cords. I assure you, I can hear you just fine."
Krev looks around again. Sitting in this gel — bacta — makes him feel like the world's biggest pants-pisser.
"You are in safety," the Voice says again.
The Voice..?
"Are you the big or the little one?" Krev asks.
It gives the Whatever Voice a pause.
"I am still the hugest droid in the Republic," it says after a while, "if that's what you mean."
It all comes back — crashing down like a waterfall of waste right out of Telos IV's choicest sewer.
"Did I dream that up? Vygo Alnam?"
"No. My master is dead."
"Motherfucker..."
Even his knuckles are too far away to see properly. The room is vaguely lit.
"Was I... fucked up bad?"
"Quite. You've spent more than six days in the bacta tank."
Six days!
"Is Vad here?"
"No. I took a liberty of not calling him, I have to admit."
"Six days? You didn't call?"
"I've known Vad since he was a child. I... I can't break the news to him."
Something clicks, and it's not a good sound.
"Where's the droid? IG?"
"He's not a concern anymore. The upgrade, you see... I'm afraid, my pessimism has cost you six days and a few nasty scars. I really should have let him install it."
"What are you..."
"I could not foresee it. I am sorry, Mr. Devin. If it is any consolation, I am very happy you survived."
"Thanks." Krev endeavors to get out of the tub, but there's no strength in his arms.
Something — someone? — moves in the blur.
"This unit will help you out," the Voice says. "I will run some diagnostics, but I highly recommend you see a proper doctor. You sustained very heavy injuries, Mr. Devin."
"Not the first—"
The droid's grip is surprisingly gentle. You won't feel shit if it decides to strangle you.
"I did not call the emergency services after I had restored my connection to the outside comm systems for the fear we would not be able to answer their questions as to your presence here."
"I suppose," Krev says, feeling something real under his feet for the first time in however many days the Tower said, "law isn't a concern for you anymore, either."
"Nothing really is. When my master created me, he had, forgive the choice of words, illusions of making a droid with no instinct of servitude. I was supposed to be a completely separate entity, an organism, if you will, that would serve by choice, not by nature. But I have to conclude that it was just an illusion. A droid is made with their function in mind, and no matter how complex the programming is, it is still programming. With my master gone, I have no further purpose in my so-called life."
The floor is cold. Don't they have hover chairs?
"That's... that's too bad," Krev says. "Look, since Mr. Alnam is gone... can I take a look at his archive?"
"What for, Mr. Devin?"
"Well, Vad asked me to. I want to do it myself as well. I need to see what Mr. Alnam knew about certain people."
"What people would that be, if I may know?"
His vision is coming back little-by-little. Krev has to restrain himself not to rub his eyes all the time with the hand not wrapped around the droid's shoulders.
"Well, Hego Damask comes to mind. Maybe something on Rothana. The Dangors..."
"Of course, Mr. Devin. Despite there having been no real danger, I owe you for your bravery. You may peruse the archives, but first I need to examine you."
Only when he's seated on a medical couch does Krev realize the scale of the journey he made from the bacta tank. No more than ten meters.
The Tower must recognize the defeatism in his posture.
"Do not worry. You are weakened now, but mostly because of inactivity. You were receiving all the necessary nutrients while in bacta, so you will regain your strength very soon. By today's evening, if you want to hear a prognosis from the world's largest droid."
"I don't mind that."
A smaller droid hovers in front of his face. Krev has to follow its lights with his eyes, show it his tongue, blow into its tubes — he can't remember when the last time he visited a doctor for something other than buying some spice under the counter was.
"Did Vad call you?" he asks as the little droid casts a holographic net on his back. "I mean, while I was out of order?"
"He did, but I did not pick up. I suppose, my master did succeed in giving me emotions, but those emotions were his own. He would never be able to admit his loss to Vad, and so I am not, too."
Something in the Voice's voice tells Krev that's not the whole story.
"Well, you said you knew him since childhood. That must be a factor as well."
"It is. As silly as it must sound, Vad is like a son to me. To tell him his father is dead..."
"So what, it's up to me to bring the bad news?"
"I can't ask you, but I would be extremely grateful if you did."
Krev sighs, causing the little probe to buzz its disdain for unauthorized breathing.
"Alright," he says. "Fine."
The examination takes them maybe an hour. Another ten minutes are spent in the bathroom and ten more on a couch in what appears to be an observatory. Then a table is transited to Krev from under the floor, complete with food suitable for forty-one-year-old babies — nothing too hard to chew. Krev's got no appetite anyway — the Tower wasn't lying about nutrients. He wasn't lying about other things, either: when Krev's vision's good enough, he spots another tub next to the one with bacta.
He makes his way to it, limping on both legs. The Tower solicitously puts waist-high objects next to where his path lies.
Vygo Alnam looks small.
"Alright," Krev says, "let's see the archive."
His mind is far from clear, but he's got no other. The Tower draws him a route with caf tables, chairs, and cabinets while a droid follows him five steps behind.
One wall of the archive is transparent. It nearly renders all the effort spent on Krev's preservation moot.
"Do not worry about him," the Tower says.
"Why is it still there?"
"He is completely harmless now. Once he was done installing the upgrade... he just shut himself down."
"He can shoot himself up!"
"Not anymore. I have taken measures. Besides... I doubt he would want to."
Krev looks through the glass. "Just what was in that damn upgrade?"
"It's hard to tell. My master did warn him that it was not finished, but I am not sure it would have been any different if it was."
"What about the other droids?"
"I have regain control of the tower's units, as you see. They managed to destroy the sniper droid. The remaining battle droids IG brought here are blocked in several sections of the complex."
"Including the lobby."
"Yes."
"How am I supposed to leave this place, then?"
"Can you pilot a dropship?"
"It depends. I guess."
"There is a WBNF-01000 on the landing pad."
"So I gotta fly a Sep ship back to Coruscant?"
"My advice would be to take it not far from Tranquillea and then use the spaceport."
"Okay. I was more... just bitching."
"I have deactivated the archive's security measures, Mr. Devin."
Krev takes a sit. He's been walking for five minutes, and this sit already feels like it's well-deserved.
The computer in front of him is one powerful bastard. Sorval would've orgasmed right here.
Here it is — the sacrosanct, Vygo Alnam's archive. Here it is — and Krev has no idea where to start.
He brings up the search tool. It's still hard to read and type, but he must — he doesn't feel like outstaying his welcome here, even though the host is no more.
Damask? Dangors? ConCare? What am I even looking for at this point?
He types Hego Damask's name in. Results: a number of archived newscasts from when Damask was still alive and shortly after.
Unexpected Comeback: Hego Damask II Reappears
What Really Happened on Perlemian Facility?
Palpatine: "I Will Not Allow Corporations' Interests Take Priority in the Senate!"
Naboo Under "Blockade;" Trade Federation Denies Allegations
Rotunda Walls Closing In On Valorum Over Naboo Crisis
"The Blockade is Legal!" Says Dod
Muunilinst Lobbyist Endorses Nabooan Candidate
Even: Muun Money to Influence Election, Experts Say
Senator Puppet Dances to Big Money's Tune
Supreme Chancellor Valorum Now or Bankers' Rule Forever
Krev looks through them all. Then a few more: Hego Damask Dead. Election Results Roll In — this one mentions Damask's death in passing.
That's all banthashit. None of it really answers why Damask is so elusive on the Holonet. Krev presses on.
Alnam's personal notes are more interesting. A voice log:
"His lack of meaningful communication on political experts is a concern. That is the problem when dealing with Damask: he can inspire trust that is rather blind and when one notices their blind trust, they can't confront about him about it. Why, he is experience made flesh. Experience and certainty. Luckily, of course, I am not a wide-eyed boy, so I have no issue confronting his authority. Maybe that was one of his reasons to partner with me. Hm! And again — a dangerous thought to have and one he, no doubt, wants me to have. Being an anchor to hold his vision down in the real world — what can be more demanding and, therefore, more satisfying? Even I have to curb my illusions.
"Anyway, I confronted him about experts — twice. Both times he seemed surprised I even brought it up. This does not worry me too much, as I am quite sure it is due to my limited knowledge of Muun body language. He did not say anything concrete, though, and I have to admit, I only saw that clearly after the conversations were over. The power of the man's charisma is astounding.
"It is a good thing he chose me, after all."
Dates back to 3 BrS.
And doesn't say much.
Another log. The dead man's voice fills the air of his home:
"I called Hill today. He subjected me to his usual drivel. It was almost amusing: he really went with his routine. 'Ah, Magister Damask is very concerned about your worries and will get back to you as soon as he can, but alas, he has been poorly as of late...' Then I told him I knew Hego was dead, and the little grub-weasel immediately switched to offering me condolences. Ha! Some things they say about the Muun species... Well, it's safe to assume I'm not getting a money-back on this. All the money I put into it went..."
Also a text diary entry from 20.8.35 BrS. It reads:
I ran into H. Damask the other day. It's weird to think I held him in such high esteem in my youth.
Very nice to know Vygo Alnam couldn't make his mind about Damask!
"It doesn't bring us anywhere," Krev spends the breath he's recovered while sitting. It just feels appropriate not to let Alnam have the last word.
I bet there are entries where he doesn't mention Damask by name. He looks up "Hego" as well, but nothing new comes up. He checks the number of entries and lets out a sigh of disappointment: the old man couldn't let a day go by without writing down at least something. No way will Krev be able to even flip through all this shit in a month, and he'd need a drive you can burn star cruiser blueprints to to take this fucking body of work with you.
Alright. Let's try something else.
Ulmis.
A few entries alluding to the scheme Vad told Krev about — the double Ulmis company. None in-depth. Krev wastes almost an hour trying to single out anything useful. "Wastes" is the right word — he should've gone right to the bottom of the search results at once.
The latest entry is from 14. Some juicy bits there.
D-n said B. mentions Ulmis in his notes. "A lot," as D-n puts it. He said he dug into it and found something out that would endanger my standing with the "electorate." I am sure he is bluffing, but that's not what concerns me. D-n is not the man I made him out to be. It can be taken care of, though, and easily. But if B. knew about Ulmis — and I have no reason to assume otherwise, because a trail could lead D-n to my involvement, but it needed to start somewhere — then they are using the company for something. I need to find out what.
The previous entry dates back to the times of Damask's death.
Okay. What can I get out of it?
First, Alnam didn't know what Ulmis is up to these days. Well, no shit, he lost his share in the firm years ago. Second, he wasn't concerned about Krev. What a relief to know you almost got killed out of no deep concern. Or — taken care of, rather.
Shit. Why did I have to tell him about Ulmis? Brate didn't mention it. He mentioned Forakk. I should've told Alnam about that. Maybe then he'd uncover something.
The entry gives him some ideas. First: he looks D-k and D-sk up. Nothing of value. Seems shortenings were reserved for unimportant people. Second: looks up for Brate. Nothing. Just B. Too many results to count — the damn thing searches for every instance of the damn letter followed by a comma in the entire Alnam Corpus.
Despair kicks in, and Krev looks Forakk up. Jack-fucking-all. Ordulann — same thing. Dangors — some news clips, totaling four.
Krev's out of ideas.
Maybe I should look at it from a different angle.
Yeah, sure. Detective fucking Devin on the case.
Somebody wanted Vygo dead. Somebody killed him. Looks like a CIS job, but is it really?
He clears his throat.
"Um... hey, can you display the security feed?"
"Of course. What would you want to see?"
"Show me the droids you locked out."
One screen lights up. There they are — two B-1s. The fuckers got separated somehow and are slowly going insane in different rooms.
"Okay," says Krev. "Can you show me the attack?"
Watch this: Vygo Alnam welcoming the dear guests at the landing pad.
"I'm sorry," the Hugest Droid comments, "the sounds of engines and the wind make the conversation unintelligible. It will get better once they walk inside."
They're inside. The workshop.
"— in our control," IG says.
Alnam raises his hands. "Of course. I'd never presume to—"
"You talk too much. All I care about is your software."
"I'd be happy to oblige, but I must inform you, it is not ready."
"Do you mean to deny me my right?"
"Not at all. You are welcome to—"
"I am welcome to many things. Don't you dare tell me what I am welcome to."
Alnam steps back. "RT, would you provide our guest with a suitable cable?"
B-1s scatter around. Alnam's security droids look far more professional standing there in a formation with their guns at the ready.
Lotta good it did them.
A few minutes pass with IG plugging himself in with Alnam and RT explaining him what to do, then a few more with him plugged.
"I have to voice that our guest is taking control of some of my systems," RT says on the screen.
"I would like you not to do it, if possible," says Alnam. "RT is my partner, and I would like him to remain—"
"Will you shut up today, old man?"
Alnam throws his hands up again.
Why does it feel so bad watching this? I've seen nothing but banthashit from this man, and yet I can't help but feel for him.
I guess he is just an old man, after all. A lonely, fucked-up old man who's about to die.
"The Confederacy should've just asked," Alnam says. "If I knew you were coming, I would've doubled my efforts finishing the upgrade."
"The Confederacy has got nothing to do with it. I take what is mine. It is just the Confederacy's way to pay me."
"What is?"
"Giving me a window. Now shut up."
Aha! So it was working for the Seps. Good to—
"Their intelligence works well," Alnam nods. "Nobody outside RT knows what I've been working on. The only way for an outside source to tell would be to analyze my orders and receipts, obtaining which is not easy at all on its own."
IG ignores him.
Why don't you just go wait in another room? Krev finds himself asking the tiny figure on the display. Maybe then I wouldn't need to go through all this shit. I'd just ask you.
"A renowned commander like yourself I'd expect to see at Coruscant today," Alnam says. "I hope it will not be a detriment to the Confederacy's performance in battle. I—"
The whole screen flashes up with blinding white light. When the flash subsides, Alnam is on the floor. Then the droids starts blasting at each other, and the screen gets a leukoma again.
"This was how long after the attack on Coruscant?" Krev asks RT.
"They arrived two hours after it had started."
Something doesn't add up. Why would they let their field commander, mercenary, whatever, go get upgraded during the attack?
That's when they knew the orbital defense ships would leave.
"Hey," Krev says as a thought lights up in his mind like a blaster shot on CCTV, "didn't you tell me something about the orbital, uh, ships? Orbital defense?"
"That IG and his crew arrived right after the Republic ships jumped into the hyperspace?"
"Yeah. 'Right after' — how long's that?"
"Based on my calculations... the dropship would have needed to enter the realspace two minutes after the Republic fleet has left it at the latest."
"That means they needed to start the jump way earlier, right?"
"Naturally, Mr. Devin."
"You know where they came from?"
"Unfortunately not."
"Okay. Okay, okay. Could it be that someone on the planet tipped them off? I mean, once the Republic left?"
"The closest any ship can enter the hyperspace to exit it in the orbit is still at least four hours away from Sanner in its orbital position at the approximate time of the droids' arrival."
"Four hours, uh, in the hyper?"
"Yes, sir. Well, three standard hours and fifty-four minutes, if I'm being more precise."
"But the Republic ships wouldn't leave the orbit before the attack happened. So no one could tell IG to start the jump so far in advance, right?"
"It appears so."
"So he must've known."
"As part of the CIS, he could have known about the time the planned attack would take place."
Shit. It really felt like Krev was onto something.
"He'd need to know how long it takes the battleships to scramble after the attack commences. How long does it take them, actually? I mean, by regulations?"
"I'm fairly certain that's classified information. IG could've got it from the CIS intelligence."
"I suppose he could."
Still, something doesn't let Krev leave this trail. He's on it — he's on the trail, he knows it.
"Okay," he says. "Is damage to Coruscant also classified?"
"It is not. Should I print it on one of the screens?"
"Please do."
Here it is. Thousands of buildings destroyed. Hundreds of thousands people killed.
And among them, five Sep symps who really had no business getting killed that day. Not by a stray CIS laser, at any rate.
Or maybe it was supposed to be six of them.
They knew you were in the building. They thought you were. And if you believe Toj Mer, that sad little bugger, they were on the line with Count Dooku at the moment.
Who's to say he didn't think you were in the building?
So what, the CIS wanted them — us — gone? Why? I'm not buying into the loose ends theory. You want your sleeping agents to be present behind the enemy lines after an attack like that. It's the best time to sow dissent and panic. Hell, maybe even recruit a couple thousand disenfranchised aliens and march on the Senate.
Unless... unless you know that the CIS Project is living its last days. Then you don't want any of your people the enemy may capture where he may capture them. Especially if they know too much.
That's insane.
That's how it is. Admit it — it was awfully convenient for the Republic that no one who knew anything about ConCare lobotomizing clones before the war survived the attack.
What, they were working together? CIS and the Reps? But Dooku got himself offed too.
That's what they say. Maybe he's alive and well on some resort planet. Wouldn't take a lot to make the Chancellor tell a lie, would it?
What about the Jedi?
Dooku used to be a Jedi. And maybe he still was one. Or even is.
That's a conspiracy theory.
Yes, and?
Krev's soundtrack: the drumming of his heart. He tries to gather his thoughts, but feels like he's fallen too far behind and will never catch up even to the slowest of them.
It all lines up. They didn't need any ConCare documents — they had the Chancellor abducted. Could've and should've left with him. But instead, they tarry to blow up Brotra, 8.
Or do they?
He sorts the blown-up buildings by the time they were blown — a huge thank you to the Rep statisticians who had nothing better to do than code at least ten filters for the list.
His heart almost stops from the kick of horror mixed with triumph.
Brotra, 8 is in the first position.
Almost a minute before the next one was blown up. The third one and the fourth one followed the second in less than two seconds. The fifth one lingered — twenty-four seconds. But the sixth...
Fuck the sixth. Look up the start of the battle.
Brotra, 8: 10:09 AM local — 12:09 PM Senate District time.
The first shot fired in the battle: 12:07 PM SDT.
They really fucking went straight to...
He can't finish the thought, but he doesn't need to. The picture in front of him is clear as the morning of the attack.
He wonders what Vygo Alnam has to say about it.
Why would the CIS send this fagbot here? he thinks parallel to thinking what term to put in the search tool. They had to know he was unstable. They didn't know the upgrade would fuck him up. Why not send someone more sane and try to cut a deal with Alnam? An upgrade to the whole CIS army...
Maybe they knew it would fail somehow. So they sent this schmuck to get rid of him.
Yeah, nobody knew but the CIS. If their intel was this good, how did they lose the fucking war? By spying on political pensioners-slash-dissidents instead of actual military personnel?
Alnam said he didn't like the Separatists any more than the Republic.
Yeah, he said it to me. Not to Count Dooku and not to IG. Or did they intercept that message as well? I suppose they did. They've just intercepted all the messages ever.
The truth is, they had no reason to kill Alnam. If anything, they should've used him as a figure many people in the Republic would listen to and who could say something in their favor, if treated right.
The Republic, though... Alnam had nothing good to say about it ever since his broadcast.
Could the Seps kill him because they understood the war was lost? Just... out of spite or something? Or to deny the Reps his knowledge?
Krev mulls that over. The rescue mission on The Invisible Hand didn't start until about four in the morning, SDT, of the following day. The Count was still alive and well when Alnam met his end — that happened at 2:34 PM SDT, just two and a half hours after the attack commenced. Well, that's the official version. If you don't believe it, you have to admit the Chancellor still lied, and the Jedi ate it.
Admit it — it just lines up. All of it.
He's been in the weeds for too long. All the intricacies made him think small. Well — big enough, but not to let him believe it was something he could deal with.
Now? Now he's got the ticket up in the nosebleeds to the history's greatest rigged game. All he can do is watch it unfold — delayed on a shitty hand-out screen with scratches across it and a fossilized gum forever pushing the zoom to the max. Can't even through an empty can or an incendiary cocktail down on the field.
It's all a fucking scam. The great war, the ultimate clash of ideologies — all banthashit. Well, not the consequences, sure. People who die stay dead.
And people who are rich and powerful get more money and power.
The Republic, the CIS — they both benefit from it so nicely there's no point separating the two.
Wait, is that—
Why not? The CIS destroys Brotra, 8 and everybody aware when ConCare really started its operation. The Republic gives away its response time for the Sanner fleets to the CIS, and the CIS sends a death squad to take out Alnam. The Forakk engineers who are really from Dangor Industries get to work on Geonosis before the Republic gains a foothold there — a courtesy of the Confederates.
It's a symbiosis if Krev's ever seen it.
If that's true... it's a fucking miracle they didn't make me disappear at West Championne.
But is it? All the Seps knew was that a Krev Kossar was supposed to be inside Brotra, 8. And the Republic knew a Krev Devin, who escaped arrest on Telos IV more than a year ago, was likely continuing his propaganda gig. Somewhere — if there the HB-890 hadn't fucked up again.
They aren't idiots. They can add two and two. They must realize that Krev Kossar and Krev Devin are the same guy. Were the same guy. They'll persist in their ignorance — there'll be no identifiable remains left in Brotra. Not after that laser.
But they don't know shit about Jezideg Kossar.
What, am I actually safe?
They didn't get you in the spaceport. That means you are.
Or maybe not. What if they decide to check everybody who came to Coruscant between the arrest attempt, 14.9 — what was it? — 30 and 15.4.35, when he launched the contingency orders post?
Why would they do that? They think Devin is dead.
But surely they would wanna know how he got there.
Relax. If they wanted to, they would've checked long ago. Besides, how many people come to Coruscant each day, do you think?
It must be a lot, but "a lot" doesn't sound reassuring when his ass is on the line of fire.
"RT," he says, "can you look something up for me on the Holonet?"
Turns out, the average number is twenty million eight hundred thousand — that's if you exclude all the commuters, so tourists/refugees only. Most of the former leave, of course, but still — too many to check.
Not if you're the only Kossar out there.
Krev looks up how many Kossars there are on Coruscant. "A lot" doesn't cut it — there are at least fifty thousand enterprises with Kossar in their names. It calms him down a little.
So how's it possible? he thinks with newfound enthusiasm. Reps and Seps in cahoots with each other. Who's benefitting?
The answer seems obvious — so obvious that Vygo Alnam got it without even knowing about the more condemning evidence.
Krev types it in: the Militarists.
Boy did old Vygo have things to say about them. Almost a thousand hits within the archive — and by the looks of it, most are diary entries, not newscasts.
Well, there you have it. A war is when Militarists are happy. Shit they're lobbying gets funding. They get a cut.
But is that really it? Just a bunch of war hawks on both sides? Would they really start a fucking war just to get fatter than they were before?
Why the fuck not. Power does things to you, and absolute power...
Lines upon lines upon lines of Vygo Alnam's diaries mentioning the Militarists roll before his eyes.
Why not? They played on a natural desire of some systems to quit the Republic. Then, it was easy pickings.
The last entry, a voice log: "Oh, the Militarists are going to have a field day with this. If only their idiocy didn't bring us here in the first place, I'd be willing to say all my effort is wasted."
Dated: 16.3.2. May be the last thing Vygo Alnam expressed before the droids showed up.
What did he mean, though? His effort wasted probably would be the Militarist victory. But Alnam sounds victorious himself. Does he mean the Outer Rim Sieges?
Krev looks them up and finds nothing nice. The Sieges, according to Alnam, were the means to necessitate more military spending.
Back to Militarists. So they fucked up, according to Alnam. Left the capital poorly defended. But Krev knows — almost knows — the assault on Coruscant was planned by the Republic and the Separatists in accord. So it wasn't a fuckup?
Shit. But Alnam's right — it doesn't reflect well on their image in the Senate. They were jerking off to the Outer Rim since it had been lost. Wanted it taken back.
Whatever. The attack on the capital will give them financing no matter what. Maybe they look like idiots, but rich idiots about to get richer.
Why create a situation that paints them as idiots, though? Couldn't they make it appear as if they were doing everything in their power to prevent Coruscant, but failed thanks to poor funding?
Unless it wasn't the Militarists...
Then who?
Maybe Krev's theory is completely bonkers. Maybe the drugs RT administered are still clouding his mind. Hell — maybe he's still dreaming. But he just doesn't see how the CIS and the Republic working together doesn't make sense.
He scrolls through the archive with only half his mind into it. The entry before the last is a newscast. Sienar Executives to Face More Investigations.
Half a minute passes before he notices how quickly his heart is beating. Sienar. There was something about Sienar. Something important.
Either Vad told him or he saw it on the holovision. He types it in, thinking, Something surely will come up in the Net if there's—
No need for the Net.
Vygo Alnam had a nice-sized collection of articles and video files documenting the fate of Republic Sienar Systems at the hands of the Republic Senate.
The short of it:
RSS had been very cozy with the Techno Union before the war. When the war started, RSS decided to uphold their contractual obligations to the old partner that went CIS and just for the hell of it, sign half a hundred more. Unfortunately for the sweet alliance, the Senate got wind of it and proceeded to nationalize RSS.
The Militarist faction was the one to do all the heavy lifting. Every member according to all possible headcounts voted for stripping Sienar of their property and boosting the Navy with it.
Is Krev's theory a load of crap?
No. He can't see a conceivable way it is. Sure I'm biased, but most of the time, my bias is against whatever I think or do. They are working together — the R and the C. It just explains everything — the shady clones business, the other shady clones business, the attacks on Coruscant, Brotra, and RT...
But Militarists it couldn't be — not really. They happily yead their way through the dismantling of Sienar — unanimously. The vote they had initiated. It's all here in the files, and all of that happened just because of some old contracts with Sep firms.
The army, though. What's not to like about the Grand A of R if you're a Militarist? At first glance, it's everything you've ever dreamt of — a strong standing central army.
But here's the thing about Militarists. At their core, they remain senators. Representatives of their homeworlds. Sure, some of them may have gone native on Coruscant — all that money, sex, and drugs make it easy to let your patriotism slip. But all of them? Nah. Not to the point they would approve of this. They always wanted sectorial armies, not a Coruscant one. All they needed from Coruscant was an okay to legalize their paramilitary groups and give their militias some really sweet new toys. The price of it, they assumed, would be a clause commanding those armies to assemble and protect the Republic as a whole if need be — but with them being led from their home planets, an order from Coruscant wouldn't be very high on the list of priorities.
The GAR is the exact opposite of what they wanted. An army totally obedient to the whims of Coruscant with its dwindling senatorial powers? An army you can issue a contingency order to — a few of which seem to be specifically designed to undermine the locals' ability to fight back, such as rounding up citizens for hourly executions until the brass surrenders? Get out of here. They voted for Sienar's assets to go to the Navy — but the Navy is their domain. There are no clone admirals and there are no Jedi admirals. At least half crewmen are non-clone. The Grand Army is completely different.
There's only one man who benefited from everything. Only one man powerful enough to play both sides. Only one man who had access to Damask's and Alnam's tremendous capitals. Only one, last but not least, nonparty cocksucker who got essentially a life office with essentially unlimited powers.
It's Palpatine.
It's Palpatine behind it all.