The concourses and avenues of Telthek Nest were glitzy, crowded, and chaotic, filled with screens and holodisplays that advertised the place's amenities in eye-searing combinations of colored light. Repurposed protocol droids meandered about, bleating invitations, offers, and bargains from their vocoders. The air had the burned-oxygen tinge of a faulty air scrubbing system, and glowstrips in various levels of neglect cast the place in unwelcoming shades of tan, yellow, or orange.
Telthek Nest was not a place for soft beings. Its denizens had a rough, hard-edged quality to them, a readiness to draw a knife or a blaster that was not found on the streets of a respectable city. Even those who were not armed often had the smell of at least one kill on them. In one sense, this place was quite in tune with the nature of the universe, with avarice and competition everywhere. But it was all so petty, so trivial, so filthy that Giran Faselli could not muster any respect for its denizens. He was out of his element; he was a katarn among chitliks here.
Behind him trailed six of the Gran mercenaries who enforced order in this place, and at the head of the group went the so-called chief of security, Ryoo Jantk. Appropriately, he was the largest and thickest of them, and the mere sight of him and his confederates on the move was enough to open a path through the crowd, which rippled with unease and perplexity. But those feelings deepened with consternation as Telthek Nest's inhabitants perceived the two figures being led by the security chief—figures whose swift stride was trailed by the ripples of their black cloaks.
There was certainly a contrast between the motley band of mercenaries and the two Sith adepts, but even taken in isolation, the latter pair was an odd combination.
First there was Giran: a dark-skinned Human, a bit shorter than average but well-built and imposing. A close inspection of his facial features might have given away his homeworld of Savareen, but thanks to cradle-robbing Jedi, that was nothing more than a name to him—and it was just as well. Even surrounded by musclebound bovine aliens famous for their brutality, he moved with frank, unconcerned confidence that he could take any of them apart even without his lightsaber, should he see any need to make an example.
And then there was his unexpected partner on this little errand, Bevel Zanatsu, a Near-Human whose exact species Giran had not encountered before. He was tall and gaunt, with a nose, chin, and ears that all came to a point. Despite his apparent physical fragility, the man's ghost-white complexion was somewhat unnerving. The effect was further enhanced by a curious blood-red tattoo that dominated the right side of his hatchet face: an elaborate star, perhaps, with jagged, curving spurs reaching out from his eye. Where Giran kept his black hair in a modest widow's peak, Bevel's was an absurd ponytail that reached down his back to the waist. His movements were fluid, almost elegant in their restraint.
Just a standard week before, Giran had been among his peers, restlessly biding his time in the Sith Arts Academy on the Ancestral World of Thule. Though once a pillar of Darth Revan's Sith Order, infighting had nearly depopulated the academy and Revan's successor, Darth Traya, had allowed it to fall into obscurity, and finally her successor, the Exile, had kept it in that state.
But the destruction of Malachor V and Lord Silbus's death had knocked everything off-balance. Though previously a disgraced derelict on Thule, Headmaster Drevveka Hoctu was thunderstruck to find the surviving members of the Remnant Sith Order converging on her academy, looking to her for leadership.
And Giran had been one of them, one of hundreds of Sith adepts dutifully awaiting an assignment as the Headmaster convened with her fellows and with the Remnant military commanders. Lady Hoctu finally dispatched him to Korphir, on the Gordian's southeastern edge, where Republic spies were suspected to be operating. Giran was not pleased with the assignment, for not only did he fancy himself a warrior, but he was to carry it out with a partner: Bevel, whom he had never met before.
In any case, orders were orders, and it had happened that there was a spy on Korphir, and before managing to poison himself he had given up the time and place of a secret meeting between several other Republic pawns. One of them went by the name of Lannik Mai.
To reach their target in time, the two Sith had gone straight to Gulvitch with all haste, in the process sacrificing any hope of entering Telthek Nest unnoticed. And so the security chief and his hand-picked ruffians had met them in the docking bay, and begrudgingly agreed to guide them to Dono's Cantina.
Ryoo Jantk was silent as he led the way, but his fierce displeasure radiated into the Force, while the other thugs in the party kept trading comments in low, grumbling voices. With the Force, Giran could easily have sharpened his hearing so as to listen in, but even had he cared to, he couldn't understand the Gran's native language.
"How much farther?" he asked.
Ryoo's Basic was just as rough as his tone was cross. "Few minutes, few minutes. We go there, you get spies, you all go. Fast."
At that moment they were passing by a block of Telthek Nest's many storefronts. One had a flickering pink holosign, two meters tall, which read:
OLREB'S BODYWORKS
LIMBS, EYES, IMPLANTS, AND MORE!
SERVING ALL HUMANOID SPECIES
ABSOLUTELY NO REFUNDS
The next one said:
SARTORI'S FUN ROOMS
RENT BY THE DAY, NO QUESTIONS ASKED
Other establishments were not given to such euphemisms. Of the various beings loitering outside them, many were bold enough to openly gawk or glare at the two Sith.
"Believe me, we have no wish to linger in this wretched place," Giran sneered. "You may return to safeguarding the debauchery once we have what we want."
The crowd thinned somewhat as they caught sight of a wide doorway leading to the next concourse. At the same time, something penetrated the psychic haze of perversity which was the air of Telthek Nest, much as the crack of a blaster shot would cut through the background noise of the starport. Giran and Bevel traded a glance.
A moment later, Ryoo Jantk pulled a beeping comlink from his belt. "What is it?" he demanded in Huttese.
"Chief, it's Vak. I just got a ping from the alarm in Dono's. Blaster fire, and he's not answering the com."
The party came to a halt as Ryoo flicked a switch on the comlink. "Bosca? Bosca, are you there? Answer me!"
A troubling silence ensued. It was Bevel who chose to break it, his voice low and tempered, almost hypnotically calm. "We told you to have them watch for the fugitives in case they left the cantina. Not try to arrest them."
Ryoo whirled, switching back to his ponderous Basic. "I tell Bosca. I tell him! He not listen! He—"
Giran interrupted him. "Now they're spooked. They might escape us now, all because you vermin can't follow orders."
The Gran shook a huge, meaty fist at him. "Your problem, Sith! You go chase them. Telthek Nest not your place. Kolzaar's place. He have deal with Gulvitch governor, you not—"
"Not our place?"
Giran raised a fist, and at the same time Ryoo rose half a meter from the ground, gurgling and thrashing as he struggled to breathe. There was a flurry of movement and voices behind Giran, but he trusted Bevel to cover him while he made his point.
"Let me explain something to you. Telthek Nest exists because we Sith have chosen to tolerate it. Neither the governor nor this Kolzaar has any say in the matter. At one word from us, the Remnant garrison will descend on this place, take away all your precious credits and contraband, and ship every last one of you to the cordaxian mines of Kalishik III. If you would like to avoid that fate, then I suggest you try harder to please me. Now I hope we can reach an understanding."
He had a look over his shoulder as Ryoo's considerable bulk crumpled to the floor. The other six Gran were all frozen in place with their weapons half-drawn, while Bevel stood between them and his companion, displaying in one hand a lightsaber—as yet unignited—and in the other a custom blaster pistol. Giran didn't understand why a Sith adept would carry such clumsy armaments.
Meanwhile, more than half of the loiterers and bystanders had cleared away, but many of those who remained had their hands on blasters or blades, conversing in hushed tones as they observed the standoff.
"We're wasting time," Bevel snapped.
Giran turned back to the security chief, who was clambering back to his feet. "Tell these men to stand down."
Ryoo gave the order through grinding teeth, and the other Gran relaxed.
"Thank you. Now raise the rest of your men—all of them. I want every docking bay in this facility locked down. No one may return to their ships, and no ships may leave."
"You... You crazy," began Ryoo, but Giran stopped him with a warning wave of his hand. The alien frantically grabbed his comlink again.
"We can't lock down all the bays," Bevel hissed. "There'll be pandemonium, and we'll be caught in the middle of it."
"What choice do we have?" Giran countered. "Lannik Mai and his accomplices are on the move, and we don't know where they are or what direction they're heading in. Unless your droids have spotted them?"
Stone-faced, Bevel checked his wristcomp. "Not yet."
"Then let's go to the cantina and see if you can pick up the trail. One way or another, those spies aren't leaving here."
