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Chapter 21
What You Seek
Smoke and Jizz music filled the dirty bar. A Bith band cut loose while scoundrels consorted. The bar was off-limits to Axxila's police, bribed into negligence by the criminal upper-class.
The Boy sat in the back with a glass of Juma. It was a long, strange day. He made 200 credits picking pockets in the market. But he was sore from being chased.
He was halfway to drunk when a Bothan named Corren approached his table. Corren had an equine face and dirty fur mane. A well-worn light-whip hung from his belt. Human cronies stood in his shadow.
"You're in my chair," Corren snarled.
The Boy grinned. "Finders keepers. This is Axxila, after all." He touched his belt, confirming his blaster.
"You must have a death wish."
"Yeah, but whose death?" The Boy fired under the table. Corren screamed as a blaster bolt ripped through his side.
The Boy shot two thugs. He leapt from his seat, tackling the others. His blaster slid away. But he grabbed one of theirs. He shot one man dead—but the last one pounced.
The man punched him in the jaw. He kneed him in the stomach. The Boy cracked him with the blaster. He started to get up—but met Corren's whip. It cut through his pants, searing his leg, prompting a scream.
Corren whipped him again. The Boy's skin was sizzling. Corren raised it a third time, but someone caught his wrist.
Augustan Roth, a male Cathar, with striped yellow-brown skin and dark feline eyes, twitched his whiskers in disapproval. Corren and his minion made a hasty retreat.
The Boy looked up at Augustan. He knew his face from countless news vids. 'The Fist of Neecho,' they called him.
Augustan held out his hand. "What is your name?"
After a pregnant pause, The Boy took his palm.
"Solo," he said.
Crayton Manor was an elitist ghost town. Its dilapidated mansions were corpses of splendor. Rats roamed freely, eating rotted remnants.
At the center of the neighborhood was a grass labyrinth. Once this was for children. Now dark brown, overgrown in abandonment, it resembled the underworld. A lavish gazebo stood by the entrance. That's where Diablo's seller waited.
Miler instructed R2 to stay hidden. "I've got a bad feeling about this," he told Landon. "We should've radioed Obi-Wan."
"Relax, would you? It's all in your head."
"I don' aim t'die in this miserable place."
Landon sighed. "Kid, your existentialism is exhausting. Just pay attention, okay?"
They approached the gazebo. Diablo's seller was tan and middle-aged, with a slight paunch but imposing muscle. His skin was craggy but clean, a man come from nothing who now had it all.
"Howdy," drawled Landon.
Miler looked at his collar: general's bars. His inner voice screamed out a warning. Why would a general handle this personally?
"I trust you brought credits?" the General asked.
Landon smiled tightly. "First the regulator."
"Of course. A moment." He walked to the bench and retrieved a small box.
Miler's heart began to pound. The box was too small. There was no regulator. He drew his blaster and shot the General between the eyes. Blood and grist splashed on the pillars.
"Kid, what the hell—!"
The quiet night exploded with voices. Two-dozen soldiers appeared in the darkness. They swarmed the gazebo, screaming not to move.
Miler hopped the back railing, Landon following. They ran into the labyrinth, trailed by gunfire. At the first junction in the maze, Miler yelled to split up. He went left, Landon right. They had to reach the end before the maze was surrounded.
The overgrown bramble stabbed Miler at every turn. Half his face was scraped and bloody.
Miler hit a dead end. Dread coiled his stomach. He heard footsteps behind him. He whirled back and gunned down a soldier. More were coming. He set his blaster to scattershot and blew a hole in the maze wall. He squeezed himself through and took the next path.
Landon turned at a junction. Two soldiers were waiting. He caught one off-guard, blew him away. The other one lunged. Landon sidestepped him, mashing his face into the bramble. He silenced his scream with a point-blank blast. Landon wiped his eyes to clear the man's brains.
He took another turn, and he saw the exit! Landon rushed toward it. But suddenly the exit was darkened with soldiers. Shit shit shit!
He blew a hole in the maze wall. He moved to crawl through—but there were soldiers waiting. The maze was surrounded. No way out.
The soldiers took aim but held off firing.
Landon took it as a sign, dropping his blaster. There was only one reason not to kill him: he was worth more alive. Landon's heart pounded. He had only one chance. He tapped his comlink and screamed in a whisper: "Neecho!"
Across the maze, Miler grappled with a soldier. He blasted him with a punch. Then he put him in a choke-hold. He used him as a sponge when another soldier fired. When the body was used up, Miler tossed it away. Then he gunned down the other soldier.
Miler's pulse throbbed in his neck. Where was Landon? He took the next path. Another dead end. The whir of a jet pack sounded above him.
He looked up at a Bounty Hunter in Mandalorian armor. The Hunter fired his wrist rocket. Miler rolled clear, squeezing off a shot. The Hunter strafed, fired again. Miler dodged once more. The grass wall exploded, raining on his head.
Miler took aim through a pile of bramble. He fired at the jet pack. The tank exploded, engulfing the Hunter in flames. He fought with the straps, tearing himself free. He plummeted to the ground. The wind from his fall put out the fire.
The Hunter tried to stand. Miler kicked him in the helmet, throwing him to his back.
The Hunter swept his legs. He mounted Miler, threw an armor-backed punch. Miler's cheekbone shattered. The Hunter paused a split second to admire the damage.
Miler took a knife from the Hunter's belt. He jammed it in his shoulder through a gap in the armor. The Hunter screamed. Miler yanked the knife free, before he plunged it in his neck.
He staggered to his feet—facing another soldier. The butt of a rifle smashed his forehead. Miler fell to the ground, grasping futilely for a gun, until at last the world went black.
Obi-Wan found her seated on her bed. Padme looked up with a beaming smile that died on the vine. "Obi-Wan? Are you okay?"
"Our predicament may be worse than I realized."
"What's happened?"
He sat beside her, lowering his voice. "I believe our saboteur is in direct contact with the Sith. I think Sidious is aware of everything on the ship."
Padme's breath hitched. "How do you know?"
"I was speaking with Master Yoda. For a moment, a Sith appeared in his place. And someone deleted an unauthorized communication."
She couldn't imagine a worse danger. "If the Sith know about Mareth, they could already be there. We might've lost everything."
"We've lost something, but not everything," Obi-Wan said with determination. "I intend we'll lose nothing more. Everyone on this ship, except you and I, is a suspect."
Padme creased her forehead. "You can't mean that."
"There is too much at stake to let sentiment control us."
"Miler saved our lives," Padme reminded him.
"I believe, in my heart, that Miler is a good man. I want to believe that about everyone. But this is war, Padme. A war we're losing." He understood the disbelief that colored her countenance. He rose from the bed, beginning to pace. "Not all suspects are created equally. I don't think it's Miler."
Padme's shoulders relaxed. Emotion was supplanted by professional detachment. "Everything we know about Landon Solo says he'd betray us for profit."
"You're not wrong. But he seems genuinely terrified to be on this planet. I can't imagine him diverting here on purpose."
"You told me before that certain people, even people without the Force, can hide their true feelings. What if that's what he wants you to think?" Obi-Wan nodded. Padme pictured the cold eyes of their newest passenger: "What do you know about Palmer Trask?"
"Very little," replied Obi-Wan. "Supposedly, he left the Order over objections to the war. But he doesn't strike me as a humanitarian."
He turned away suddenly, hiding his expression, but Padme circled around him, waiting patiently without giving ground.
"There is another possibility," Obi-Wan said. His pained expression tugged at her heart. "Many Jedi have fallen in this war. Every Jedi is tempted by their baser urges, secret desires for power and inclusion."
Obi-Wan picked up a data pad. She watched him search the Jedi Archives.
If the Dark Side is a place you inhabit when you die, he was certain he'd burn there. Obi-Wan played a recording: "Session one, Quinn Pascal. Patient is uncooperative, refusing basic questions. This combative posture implies unresolved anger. Further sessions are recommended to continue my assessment."
Padme searched his face. She had her own doubts about the reptilian. "I don't know him. But he is reclusive. He is arrogant. Are these not traits of the Sith?"
"They can be, in abundant quantity. But even Yoda can be reclusive and arrogant. It's not enough to convince me."
"Then we're running out of options," Padme pointed out. "It's certainly not Aayla. So who does that—" She stopped cold when he wavered. "Obi-Wan..."
"I can't ignore the possibility," Obi-Wan said. "I can't let my association cloud my judgment."
"Your association? She's one of your best friends!"
Obi-Wan's eyes cast down. Immediately, she regretted her tone. She might have felt better if he'd screamed his reply. "Yes, she is," he said softly. He looked at the data pad. After a moment's hesitation, he played a recording: "Session four, Aayla Secura. Patient exhibits anger, frustration, and paranoia connected to her current master's health as well as the betrayal of her former one. I would call her likelihood to fall moderate and recommend that she be closely monitored."
Aayla fiercely debated her confiding in Padme. It was foolish, reckless, yet it made her feel better. There were competing voices in her: Jedi Knight and inner spirit. The former proved louder. "You shouldn't have done that" became her personal motto.
She was surprised to find Quinn outside Palmer's quarters. His eyes were closed in light meditation. Immediately, she knew he was spying with the Force.
He didn't move as she approached.
"He is an interesting man," Quinn said.
Aayla crossed her arms. "I only know him by reputation."
"He's the only Jedi to leave the Order without joining the Sith."
"Are we certain he hasn't?"
Quinn's eyes slipped open. The reptilian faced her with genuine curiosity. "I would hear your concerns."
"Would you now?" Aayla said flatly. "You've shown no interest in the past."
The hiss in his voice was sharper from aggravation. "A Jedi watches before speaking. I wanted to determine if your counsel was worthwhile."
"How flattering for me."
"Are your skills with a lightsaber in a league with your tongue?"
"Well, I'm not dead yet, Jedi."
Quinn's face twisted in a look that could have meant anything. He turned to the door as if it were Palmer. "There is darkness there. It's simply a matter of how much. We all have a tipping point. Including you, Knight Secura."
Aayla flinched back, but she didn't give way. "Temptation is a fallacy. Fallen Jedi are only Sith the Dark Side didn't want yet."
"How liberating that we do not have to choose."
She knew he was mocking her. Worse, she felt her annoyance edging toward anger.
Her response was preempted by the sound of the ship's ramp. They exchanged a look, rushing to the back of the ship. R2 rolled up the ramp, shrieking wildly.
Aayla ripped out her com-link. "Obi-Wan! We need you right now!"
There's nothing intuitive about fighting hand to hand. It's all repetition, the memory of pain.
"Get up!" yelled Augustan.
The Boy's trembling arms pushed him to his knees. Two bloody teeth lay in the dirt. He struggled to his feet.
"He has life yet! Let us see how much!"
The Boy subsisted on anger. At Augustan, his parents. At the universe for birth.
He threw a clumsy punch. Augustan blocked, landing a headbutt. The Boy fell on his back. August laid into him with the point of his boot. The Boy began to vomit. He curled on his side.
"That is enough," a throaty voice said. "Today's training is over."
A Duros man with luminous red eyes pulled him to his feet.
The Boy said between gulps of air, "I'm sorry. Neecho. I. Failed you. Again."
Neecho's bony fingers stroked the Boy's hair. "You have not failed me. You continue to get stronger." His voice was fatherly, soothing. "I have great plans for you."
Landon grimaced as he and Miler were thrown on metal slabs. The room was otherwise empty, except for a bright light.
Two thugs took his arms, placing them in restraints. "Hey! Not too tight!"
"Sorry. It's his first torture," Miler said.
Beneath his facade, Miler's mind raced. Where were they, and why? Had the Hutts joined the Sith? Or was Landon behind this? Was this just an act to maintain his cover?
The metal door whined open. Augustan Roth walked inside. He took off his work gloves, placing them in his pocket. His whiskered face was set in a scowl. "Landon Solo..."
"That's sweet," drawled Landon. "You remember me."
"It took some expense to bring you here. The Twi'leks were some of our best men. It's regrettable that you killed them."
"Add it to my bill."
Miler's mind flashed back to the cantina. The Twi'leks who killed Rondo. Only once they were gone did Landon appear. Suddenly everything made sense.
He whispered harshly, "What have you done?"
Red eyes sparkled in the shadowy hall. A black figure entered, slowly coalescing. His scarred-over face gleamed in the light. Over plated armor, he wore a long brown jacket that flapped in his wake. Beneath it, his belt was empty despite loops for a blaster. This man could not conceive he'd ever be in danger.
Neecho walked to the center of the room. There he met the eyes of a panicked Landon. "You led me on quite a chase, Mr. Solo." For once, the scoundrel said nothing. Neecho walked between the slabs, sinewy fingers skimming the metal. He could smell the sweat on Landon's neck. He stood behind them, becoming a disembodied voice. "Have you ever heard the Neiomodian myth of creation?"
"I wouldn't think so," he said after a silence. "They're so obsessed with wealth and power, they've forgotten how to tell it. Perhaps, in time, I'll forget it myself. So carry it with you, for however long you live."
He scratched the metal by Landon's head. The sound was a counterweight to Neecho's calm voice. "Once, there was only darkness. No ground beneath us. No stars in the sky. We existed, but we did not know. For what is life without light? Thus we drifted, never dead but never waking. Until, one day, the Bringer of Darkness realized his error. He had wrongly assumed our understanding. We—people—failed in our mandate to make holes in the blackness, that we might see what lay beyond."
Neecho circled them, standing before Landon. His raging red eyes belied his warm voice. "The Bringer of Darkness showed us how to make holes. Thus we glimpsed the other side. But were we grateful? Did we reward him? Certainly not." He leaned toward Landon so the scoundrel felt his breath. "Because we fashion ourselves Bringers. We seldom remember that life was given to us."
Landon refused to look away. He wouldn't be mocked—not at the end.
"What do you want?" Miler demanded. "Whatever he owes ya, we can reach an understanding."
'Shut up, kid!' Landon screamed inside. Every memory of the dead, those who came in the fog of sleep to remind him what he was, crashed into his brain. He was as good as dead; he'd known it in the maze. But Miler had a chance.
"What I want is not yours to offer," said Neecho. "I've waited years for restitution. And it's finally here. Tell me, Mister Solo: were those million credits worth your life?"
Landon forced a grin. "No. But knowing I conned you? Yeah, that felt pretty good."
Neecho straightened, eyes squinting with pleasure. "I hope it was worth this moment. The pain I'm about to bring you." He gestured to Augustan. "Show our guest in."
Obi-Wan released his fear into the Force. "The coolant regulator is still our priority."
Aayla gasped. "You're going to leave them?"
"No, I'm not giving up on them. But the mission is paramount. You and I will ascertain their location. Everyone else is to find this 'Diablo.' He's still our best chance of getting the regulator."
A spectral smile crossed Palmer's face. "Perhaps I should lead the interrogation. Jedi morals are cumbersome."
"I won't submit to false choices," Obi-Wan said. "He's a common thug. Fear of your power will quite suffice."
Julian didn't appreciate their singular focus. "How do we find Miler?"
"Landon gave R2 a name," Padme reminded him. "Neecho."
Obi-Wan said, "I heard it on Sarna. He's some kind of crime lord. We'll found out where he is. Once the ship's repaired, we can launch a rescue."
Perhaps moved by Aayla's pain, or merely impatient, Quinn grabbed his saber and made a beeline for the ramp. Palmer followed languidly.
Obi-Wan took Julian's arm. "Stay focused. We'll get them back, Doctor. But you need to do your part."
"Tear him apart!" a voice screamed.
His rib was broken. Its newly pointed end was piercing his lung. Angry tears pricked at his eyes.
The crowd reveled in his plight. He heard approving howls, jeers of laughter.
In a moment of perfect clarity, he suddenly realized that fate didn't matter. Everything in the universe, all that existed, could be stolen. If his destiny was to die, he'd take someone else's.
The Barabel stood over him, wielding a blade. The fight was long over. Now she was having fun.
She nudged him with her boot. His murky vision fell on the throne chair above the arena. He saw two of Neecho, completely expressionless. What was he thinking? Would he let this happen?
The Barabel grabbed him, dragging him to his feet. The crowd cried in unison: "Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!"
The Boy blinked away everything.
With a rush of adrenaline, he grabbed her claw with both hands, thrusting upwards, the Barabel's own blade jamming in her throat, green blood spouting out, pouring through the cracks between the Boy's fingers, more and more, faster and faster, and the crowd knew not what to do, knew not what it wished for, and as the Boy slid down her body, crumpling on the ground, he thought it might've been the best he ever felt.
Twelve hours later, when he awoke from his surgeries, a familiar Duros sat by his bed. Neecho's cold blue fingers rested on his arm. The Boy rolled his head, groggy but painless. His lips twitched into a smile.
"Han Solo," Neecho whispered, "you are ready for what you seek."