The two Jedi deposited their attackers with the authorities, applying subtle Force persuasions to ensure that the matter was resolved discreetly. There was little sense in letting the entire city know that there was some sort of conspiracy brewing. The Jedi then returned to Admiral Adguard's mansion.
"It did not go well?" the strapping man boomed.
"Another set up," Ran explained, "again, trying to implicate Admiral LeFrein. It was sloppily done, and I am almost convinced that there is, indeed, a third party involved."
The Admiral nodded, seeming to agree with the Jedi Master's logic. "What will you do now?"
"My apprentice learned of a rumor claiming that LeFrein is looking for something. He needs martial law to buy him time and give him a cover while he goes about his search. I'm intending on joining in on this search."
"I'm afraid I can't arrange anything like that."
"Nor would I ask you to. Something like this requires absolutely no ties to you," Ran said. "If it's going to work, I have to set this up myself, keeping your name out of the picture."
"Deniability," the Admiral said with an understanding nod. "I like it."
"My apprentice and I will need some resources however," the green-eyed Jedi ventured cautiously, wanting to avoid offending the jolly Admiral.
"What do you need?" he asked, his face open.
"A ten thousand-credit line, access to an encrypted transponder for a Corellian YT-2400 light freighter, alterations to our landing records to mark us as the crew of the Blue Crow, fake identification for a married couple living in Atari City, associated birth and marriage certificates, and about seven hundred gallons of blue paint." He noticed that Angela smirking at him at the mention of marriage certificates.
The Admiral looked impressed by the list. "That can be gained easily, but it will take time. May I ask what you're planning? It sounds like an expensive endeavor."
"Simply fabricating an alias for myself and my apprentice. If it's too much, I can draw upon my own resources to fill in any gaps."
"No, no, that won't be necessary. A few thousand credits is a small price to pay for this debacle to come to a resolution."
Ran bowed deeply. "Your generosity is greatly commendable, Admiral Adguard. Please send the materials to our ship." With that, the two Jedi left the Admiral's company, heading for the docking bays to prepare the Nebula Dancer.
Angela quipped, "Blue paint?"
"It's my favorite color, you know. I thought the old girl could use a new look."
"You're kidding."
He smiled at her. "Only partially. The Dancer is known in the underworld, considering all the syndicates and cartels we've crushed together. Those assassins earlier practically stank of underworld trash. Whoever is sending them knows who we are by now, so a paint job and an encrypted transponder should be enough to throw off anyone tailing us. We should also change our energy and hyperdrive signatures, just to be sure."
"I can handle that, Master."
"Good. While you do that, I'll see if I can scrounge up some way to contact LeFrein and offer him our esteemed services. When Adguard sends us our equipment, contact me on my comlink." He kissed her lightly on the cheek and went off to hail a taxi. "Take me to the Ato Mall," he told the driver.
The Ato Mall, he knew from tourist literature, was the planet's largest commercial district. It never closed and thousands thronged through the massive complex at all hours. On the surface, it was a shopping center with associated offices, showcasing everything from handcrafted jewelry and exotic foods to the latest holovids and speeder bikes. But Ran had worked over such places in his youth as a pickpocket, and knew them to be rife with underworld connections. If there were any way to get in contact with Admiral LeFrein, it was through the underworld.
"It'll be just like home," he mused to himself as he exited the taxi and paid his bill. The sounds of countless sentient beings slammed into his ears with dizzying might. "Time to go to work."
Finding a go-between was almost too easy, though it did take several hours. A few veiled questions and some verbal give and take soon sparked the interest of a female Bothan dressmaker. Ran was browsing through the various fashions, feeling the fabrics between his fingers. The Bothan walked up to him. "I think we can get you what you're looking for," she told him, "but only if you're willing to buy it first."
Ran picked up on the cue, saying, "Do you happen to have this," he indicated a long and elegant gown of forest green, fringed with lace and embroidered with white roses, "in a size four?"
"We do indeed, though the rose design is lily instead."
"That'll be fine. How much?"
She named a figure, and he handed her the appropriate amount. While their hands touched, the Bothan slipped him a small datacard. Ran palmed it up his sleeve, put the dress in a bag, and left the store. Angela would look ravishing in this, he mused with a roguish grin.
His comlink beeped, and he answered. "Angie?"
"Master, the transponder came in and all of our signatures and records have been altered," the girl informed him. "We also got those IDs that you asked for. Mister and Missus Terrik Telemachus—ugh, what an unflattering name. So how'd things go on your end?"
"I think I have a lead. I'm coming back to check it out. By the way, did the paint come in?"
"Forty droids are on the hull of the ship giving the old girl a new look," she replied.
"Excellent. I'll be there in an hour."
When he saw the Nebula Dancer, he smiled. Half of the ship was painted in navy blue. Angela walked down the landing ramp to meet him. "It's not a bad color," she commented. "We really should leave it that way when this is all over." She saw the bag he was holding. "What's that?"
Ran said nothing as he drew forth the elegant gown, handing it to her with a flourish. "Well, well," she murmured, holding it against her front, "you certainly went all out today. Trying to curry favor with your lady, are you?"
"Thought it might save me from being killed as a philanderer."
"You keep spoiling me like this and you may very well be saved. We'll call it a protection fee. You've got good taste, Master, but it seems a bit small."
"You think I have a problem with that?" he said with a wink.
She threw the dress at his face with a laugh. "All right, you rogue, let's see this lead of yours."
Ran put the dress back in the bag and tossed the datacard to her. "See what's in there." They walked into the Dancer's cockpit together, where Angela slipped the card into her datapad and began working.
Numbers and documents sprang open on her screen, too fast for Ran to keep track. "It's a help wanted ad, Master," the girl explained, typing furiously to decode the morass of information. "LeFrein is seeking mercenaries to protect a crew of archeologists he's hired. Going into the Outer Rim, near Dagobah. Looking for some kind of treasure."
"Treasure hunting?" Ran said dubiously. "What is this, the search for Irix Tammen's Golden Ship?"
"Nothing quite so epic," Angela said. "Looks like a simple search and extraction job. All interested are to meet at the Governor's Alehouse, an uptown bar and dancing hall." She threw Ran a smoldering look. "Size four, right? I might need help getting into that."
Night had fallen when they exited a hired taxi at the doorstep of the Governor's Alehouse. Angela had exchanged her humble homespun for the gown, adding a few pieces of jewelry she stashed onboard the Dancer. Ran had rented a tuxedo, complete with top hat, cloak, and cane.
"You clean up well," Angela murmured.
"Of course," he answered, taking her hand in placing it on his arm. He twirled the cane imperiously. "Shall we, love?"
"Let's."
They walked arm in arm into the establishment. A professional band was playing upbeat swing for the ears and feet of the couples on the dance floor. The air was bustling with conversation, laughter, and good times. Ran waved a waitress over, tossed a pair of credits onto her tray, and took two fluted wineglasses from it. "So, we're just supposed to wait for LeFrein to hire us?" he asked, handing a glass to Angela.
"The datacard didn't say," she admitted, sipping the light wine delicately. She was eyeing the dance floor with interest and then gave him a yank on his arm. "It's been a while since you spun me on the floor, Ran." He smiled at her and led her before the band. They quickly matched their movements to the beat, and soon he was twirling her with the seeming ease of an expert, though, in truth, he had no formal training in dance.
Where Ran had the charisma to make his improvisations look good, Angela had the skill. Ran knew that she had mastered several aristocratic skills, from conversation and art to riding and fencing. Dancing was just one of those many talents she had refined into an art form. Between her skill and his faking, they looked like a pair of master dancers. Their display drew the applause of those around them.
"Skywalker would probably have a heart attack if he saw this," Angela murmured into Ran's ear as they clicked their heels from side to side. "Dancing isn't one of those requisite skills of a Jedi."
"You look great," Ran said admiringly. "I have damn good taste in clothes." She laughed in response. When the song ended, they took a bow to the further applause of the spectators. Ran led Angela toward the bar and ordered drinks. "See anyone interesting?" he asked, looking around.
"No one who'd be hiring mercs," the girl answered, sipping a glass of Coruscanti tonic. Then her eyes perked up. "Wait, over there. The Rodian in the corner."
Ran followed her gaze and saw a well-dressed Rodian speaking in low tones with a Corellian human. But he paid more attention to what was passing between their fingers. "That looks like the datacard the Bothan dressmaker gave me. And look at that—he just slipped him a credit stick. Seems we've found our employers. Let's go make a good impression."
Ran and Angela strode up to the Rodian just as the Corellian left the table. They seated themselves without preamble. The Rodian almost stood up in surprise, a hand reaching into his pocket, no doubt for a hold-out blaster. "Easy there, friend," Ran said soothingly, showing that his hands were empty. "My wife and I are here to answer a help wanted ad."
The Rodian seemed to relax and settled back into his chair. "You're pretty upstanding folks to be doing mercenary work," the alien grunted. "Can't say I know too many mercs who can do the swing."
"What can I say? Business has been good of late. Besides, the missus and I are of the more…refined type of thug, as you might have guessed."
"Well good, we could use more of your kind on board." The Rodian tapped the table. "Starting fees are a thousand credits, paid up at the end of the month."
Angela whistled appreciatively. "That's a princely little sum. Who's hiring?"
"The sum is supposed to keep you from asking silly questions, pretty lady," the Rodian answered gruffly. "If you want in, I'll be needing your names."
"Terrik Telemachus," Ran said. He threw an arm across Angela's shoulders comfortably, "and wife, Callisto." The Rodian nodded, typing the names into a palm-sized datapad. "So, when do we start?"
"Meet at docking bay sixty-seven tomorrow morning, eight o' clock standard time. You'll be debriefed there, meet your travel-mates, all that. After that, you'll be flying in your own ship and following the lead craft, the Epsilon. Oh, you might want to bring your blasters—some of those mercs can get pretty antsy."
Ran nodded. "We'll be there."
Angela and Ran arrived at docking bay sixty-seven dressed in plain coats and trousers, blaster pistols at their hips. Their lightsabers were hidden in the sleeves of their coats; it would not do for the mercenaries to find out about their true identities.
Angela did not like the mercenaries at all. They were an uncouth lot, armed to the teeth with an assortment of heavy weaponry. There was a pair of Bothans, Rosh and Mosh Al'wa, twins with advanced cybernetic targeting eyes and itchy trigger fingers. They looked like the kind of people who would sell their mother for a credit. There was a grungy human fringer, Desh, who wore a flak jacket and hat. He had a vibrosword in hand, a carbine on his hip, and a cigar in his mouth. He reeked of smoke and ash. Leaning against the wall was an Aqualish named Ooroosh. He had the unkempt look of a deep-space pilot, and his flight suit was stained with all manner of food and drink. Finally, there was Kanig, a grim-looking Zabrak holding a polished force pike.
All in all, they were a duplicitous lot that Angela would not turn her back to at any time. They stood in silence in docking bay sixty-seven, waiting for their mutual employer to arrive. The docking bay was empty, with not even a maintenance fuel crate in sight. Angela felt Desh's sleazy eyes on her, and she loudly removed the safety from the pistol at her belt. He got the meaning and averted his gaze elsewhere.
Ran laid a calming hand on her shoulder. "Rest easy," he told her quietly. "These are our allies."
"I wouldn't trust them farther than I can throw them."
"Then don't, but that doesn't mean bite their heads off. Relax." His eyes perked. "Ah, our employer has come, it seems."
A lone astromech droid rolled into the docking bay, a holoimage of a cloaked man floating above its projector. "Greetings," the mysterious figure said. "You've all come for the reward of money, but first you have to do your job. In half an hour, a starship named the Epsilon will leave orbit. You are to rendezvous at coordinates X-thirty-seven, Y-ninety, Z-forty-four, where you will follow the Epsilon."
The image faded.
"What's all this cloak and blade poodoo?" Ooroosh grumbled.
The Al'wa twins murmured to each other in Bothese while Desh said, "Who cares? It's probably politics. Are you going to complain with a thousand credits looking you in the face?"
With that, the impromptu allies disbanded with each heading to their own ships. Angela and Ran were in hyperspace only minutes later aboard the Nebula Dancer, the starships of their mercenary companions floating in the empty void of the rendezvous point. They waited for only a few moments before the Epsilon lumbered into view, a finger-shaped science shuttle marked with the Rakarisian flag.
But there was something odd about it. Angela blinked in surprise. "Master," she said, "I recognize that ship. That's the Audhammer, a deep-space research vessel."
"Oh really, now? How can you tell?"
"They left the MarshTech serials on the engine mounts. See?" She pointed at a line of large code strips on the ship's hull, with each strip punctuated with a MT insignia. "My father knew about the Audhammer; most nobles at the time were investors in the project."
"Well, well," Ran mused. "Curioser and curioser. What's the history of the Epsilon/Audhammer?"
Angela thought back on what her father had told her. The details were sketchy in her memory, for she was only ten at the time and was not terribly interested in her parents' financial ventures. But bits and pieces did rise to the surface. "The Audhammer was an experimental science ship being developed by MarshTech Industries, but it ran out of funding for the project when the Galactic Civil War broke out. Father was quite angry about the loss of his investment, as you might imagine. As I recall, it was designed to run experiments that required zero- or low-gravity environments."
"Doesn't sound terribly useful as a treasure hunting ship."
"Actually, the equipment on board are probably ideal for such a mission. Military-grade fusion cutters, small-scale mining tools, radiation suits, chemsuits, preservation units, carbonite freezers—you can do a lot with that kind of gear."
"And LeFrein's planning on using it to unearth some great relic," Ran said. "The good Admiral has my undivided attention now. Ah, they're starting to move." Ran brought the Dancer into tight formation with the Epsilon and the mercenary ships. "Angela, get in one of the gunwells."
She blinked again, this time in confusion. "Why?"
"Do you really have to ask? I don't trust those mercs at all. Besides, I'm positive that there's a third party involved in all this—and they know we're Jedi by now. They might try something. In case something goes wrong, I want you targeting them. Use the ion cannons, though."
Angela nodded and left the cockpit, sliding into the ventral turret. The gunnery was cramped and stank of week-old sweat. "Damn it, Ran," she muttered, "I asked you clean this place out. Ew!" She gingerly picked up—and tossed aside—a moist sock that was hanging from the gun controls. "Quad lasers warming up, Master," she said into the intercom. "Switching to ion settings. Targeting computer on. And I'm going to kill you for leaving a mess in here."
"I just made it cozy, that's all," the Jedi Master returned over communications. "Sit tight, Angie, we're going to lightspeed." The brown-haired girl saw the stars stretch into white lines outside her viewport, and she settled back into her chair to wait out the trip. To pass the time, she switched on the stereo system she and Ran had installed months earlier. For whatever reason, stock model space transports simply did not come with decent speakers.
She was humming and tapping her foot to the beat of the Raging Acklays when a green light blinked above her head, following by a steady beep. They were dropping out of hyperspace. Her hands went to the gun controls, ready to fire if something untoward occurred.
"The Epsilon's hailing us," Ran said over the intercom. "I'm patching it through to you."
Angela switched her communications to a general channel and picked up on the broadcast. "This is Captain Pavel of the science ship Epsilon." Angela thought he sounded like a spineless, pompous, snot-nosed old man. "You might be wondering what this job entails. I'll be brief and to the point: You're here to protect my ground crew as they excavate a system of underground tunnels. We've had three teams sent here already, but all were wiped out by some manner of predator. Analysis of the predator indicates a relation to gundarks, and tactics against gundarks seem to have great effect against them.
"We are now orbiting a nameless world located near the Dagobah system. If you look to port, you can see that I've already sent down two shuttles: one with personnel and one with equipment. You will land at their coordinates and guard them diligently. That is all." The broadcast abruptly ended.
"What a smarmy little—" Her assessment of the captain was interrupted by her Master.
"Save it, Angie. I'm bringing us down."
Ten minutes later, the Dancer was nestled on flat rock at the base of a craggy mountain range beside the two shuttles the Epsilon had launched and four smaller transports. By the time Angela and Ran had stepped onto the hard earth, the excavation team already had most of their gear unpacked.
Angela looked around, but saw nothing worth her attention. The sky was a dull rust-red from the gritty sand. The air smelled like metal, and she suspected that there were some iron and magnesium deposits nearby, but none large enough to interfere with sensor arrays. Aside from the looming mountains, there were naught but empty red badlands before her gaze.
"Not much of a resort, is it?" the Aqualish, Ooroosh, gurgled in his native tongue. He had his blaster rifle held firmly in hand, his bulbous eyes peering left and right for danger that was nonexistent. "You're the tyke, Callisto Telemachus, right?"
The girl nodded and replied in Aqualish, "That's my name, but I'm no 'tyke,' sir."
"I doubt you would be, but you're certainly tiny enough to be."
"You're my height," she pointed out, finding the Aqualish's boldness more than a bit insulting.
The mercenary gurgled in what Angela assumed was laughter. "That I am, dear girl, that I am. Just trying to break the ice, you know. If we'll be working together, we may as well be friends, right?"
Angela smiled thinly. "You have an odd way of going about it."
"I might at that." He fished in one of the pockets on his filthy flight suit and produced a small fruit. He handed it to her. "Try one. It's good."
The proffered food was bruised in a dozen spots and had wriggling things occasionally peeking out of the skin. "Um, thank you, but no. I just ate." The Aqualish shrugged and messily devoured the fruit, worms and all. Angela suppressed a gag. When Ran joined them, she practically leapt into his arms, so glad was she of more civilized company.
"Oh, so you must be the hubby," the Aqualish bubbled in Basic. "Name's Ooroosh, it is! Marksman par excellence! You're Terrik, right?"
Ran nodded. "I am. So, what's the situation look like, Ooroosh?"
"Easy job. They say there're predators down here, but I don't how they'd get anywhere near us without our seeing them. Anyway, between my gun and those Al'wa brothers' telescoping eyeballs, we shouldn't have any problem with them."
"I will try to share your confidence," the green-eyed Jedi replied respectfully.
Angela spoke in Aqualish, "I take it you've worked with the Al'was before?"
"Aye, tyke, aye. They're good shooters, better since they got their eyes replaced. I worked with them out on the fringe, doing bodyguard and assassin jobs. Messy business, assassin jobs—never liked them myself—but those Al'was take to it like they were born for it. Maybe they were; you never know with Bothans."
"You make them sound untrustworthy," the brown-haired girl commented.
The Aqualish nodded emphatically. "I worked with them, but I didn't like them. They always got their hands in something deeper, bigger. Always felt like they were going to shoot me in the back or slide a knife between my ribs. No, girl, I wouldn't trust them for a million credits. They're bad news."
And possibly part of whatever third party is involved in this puzzle, Angela thought. What better way to destroy LeFrein's operations, she believed, than by putting saboteurs in it? She would have to pass her theory onto her Master once they had a moment alone.
But for now she resumed her conversation. "What about the others, Ooroosh? Heard anything about them?"
"Kanig's a newbie," the Aqualish answered readily. "Only a year into the business. But he had a busy year—killed Fender Morrow, a noted bounty hunter on the fringe. That earned him a name from Tatooine and on, it did. Bit of an edgy sort, I think. Seems to be real concerned about his reputation, especially after the Morrow kill. I would be too—all sorts of young bucks and old veterans wanting your hide since you killed one of the best in the game. Feel mighty sorry for the lad. He's one of those fighters who shouldn't be a fighter.
"Now Desh there, he's a rake at the gates of hell, he is. He's been around a long time. Some say he's part Mandalorian. Likes the women and the drinks."
Angela recalled the fringer's lecherous gaze. "Don't I know it," she grumbled acidly.
"Aye, he gets to you that way. Worked with him a bit, but not as closely as with the Al'was. Desh is one mean bad guy, you know? Real scumbag who'd kill a baby if he were paid enough. That vibrosword he's toting? Say its from his father—killed his old man in bed while he was sleeping around with another woman. Said it was avenging his mother's good name or some such. I think he just wanted the sword. But you look like nice people; you ought to stay away from scoundrels like him."
Ran suddenly wrapped an arm around Angela's waist. "Too late," he said with that insufferably handsome grin, "she already married me."
Ooroosh gurgled with laughter. "How cute. Been married long?"
"No, just recently," Angela answered, looking slyly at her lover.
"All right, people!" shouted one of the scientists across the way. He was waving his hands, getting everyone's attention. Droids and technicians were scurrying hither and thither, loading hoversleds with all manner of equipment and sending them on their way. "We're moving out! You mercenaries start earning your keep!"
Ooroosh clapped Ran on the shoulder and gave Angela a polite bow. "I'll talk to you two later. It was nice meeting you!" Then he ran off, heading for the front of the equipment caravan.
Angela stood on tiptoe and laid her chin on Ran's shoulder. "We better get moving, love. I don't want to miss out on our first semi-legitimate job together."
