The ship soared over a frozen wasteland, making a sharp turn in the air. It dipped lower and cut across the horizon like a blade. Wavering in the sky, it struggled against gravity and something gave out. Reflecting the knife-glitter of cold sunlight, the ship fell, spinning as it plummeted, a long tail of smoke streaming behind it to mark the descent. It shattered against the icy ground, strewing metal shrapnel across a snow-bound landscape.
Atton glanced down at the toy ship broken at his feet. Just when he was starting to feel comfortable in the pilot's seat again, he had to run smack into another bad omen. It was terrible luck all around. He needed a drink.
He looked up at the small blue-skinned boy who had been flying the little ship via remote control. The brat stared back at him with unnerving red eyes.
"Hey, kid, watch it! You could hurt somebody with that thing."
The boy opened his mouth, his lips shaping words, and out came sounds weirder than a Hutt hacking up a hairball.
Atton narrowed his eyes, then crouched down and examined the wrecked toy. He tried to wipe the look of irritation off his face. If he was going to get any information out of the little ankle-biter, he knew he was going to have to play nice.
He spoke real slow, over-enunciated his words and tried feverishly to look like a responsible adult instead of a spacer half-crazed from a three-month stint flying through the Big Black.
"You…speak…BA-SIC? You…know…what…CAN –TINA…is?"
The kid screeched something in his own language and scurried back towards the settlement doors.
"Wait!" Atton shouted at the boy's back. "Damn it! What did I do?"
"[Indignant Commentary:] How very inhospitable. [Inquiry:] Would you like me to teach the small one a lesson?"
Atton reeled around and found himself looking down the wide barrel of HK-47's blaster carbine.
"No, you idiotic tin can! I thought I told you to stay on the damn ship! You think anyone is going to talk to us when you're running around offering to blast their heads off?"
"[Patient Explanation:] Aside from my superior firepower and obvious targeting precision, I thought you might also benefit from my expertise as a translator and facilitator of interplanetary relations."
"Yeah, well you did a great job with that kid. Maybe now we can go give an old lady a heart attack or something."
HK lowered his weapon and shook his metal head with a disconsolate air.
"[Statement:] Ah, how I wish you meant it, but once again, my tonal receptors indicate you are being facetious. [Commentary:] I will never understand organics' irrational concern for the welfare of their smaller replacement models."
Atton sighed. "When we get inside, tell me if you hear a language you recognize. Otherwise, keep your vocabulator on mute and let me do the talking."
He paused, examining HK's menacing golden visor and his burning amber eyes.
"And for Force sake, try to look friendly. Or at least as inconspicuous as a big clanking heap of junk can be."
"[Patronizing Affirmation:] Very well, Meatbag. Since you ask so nicely, I will attempt to downplay my prowess in deference to your inferior and unthreatening sentient qualities."
"Great. Thanks a million."
They walked through the snow towards the broad double doors of the settlement station. Atton led the way while HK walked at a measured distance behind him like a kath hound on a leash.
Atton pushed through the gates and found himself in a vast climate-controlled courtyard. He'd expected to see a lot more of those blue-skinned types around. Instead, there were at least a dozen even more bizarre-looking species roaming the settlement. One alien shuffled by, creamy white skin and fishy black eyes set off by a mouth full of squirming, sucking tentacles. Gas-masked aliens with elongated skulls conversed in a small cluster, trying to ignore the yammering of a stubby-legged, two-mouthed humanoid gesturing at a rag-tag menagerie of caged creatures. Two giants with faces like leering skulls cast suspicious glances at him and the ever-insufferable HK, who creaked around mumbling threats under his breath and generally making a spectacle of himself.
And then, amidst the endless babble, the restless jostling of the crowds, the stream of incomprehensible chatter punctuated by slurps, snorts, belchs, guffaws and canned music playing from overhead speakers, Atton heard a single word he could understand. "Help!"
He spun around, scanning the crowd for the sole Basic speaker. In a shadowed corner, he saw a flash of a pinkish-beige, distinctly human face, a man lifting his hand out of the crowd the way a drowning victim reaches above the lapping waves before sinking. Five spiky-haired punks seemed pretty intent on shaking him down, dealing out blows with fists clad in studded black leather.
Atton reached for his lightsaber and switched it on. Time to play hero, he mused. Subtlety was overrated anyway.
"Hey HK! You in the mood to do some blasting?"
"[Enthusiastic Confirmation:] Oh, goody. Why, dear Meatbag, do you even need to inquire?"
"That's what I thought."
Atton stepped over and tapped the nearest thug on the shoulder.
The black-haired assailant turned around, his grey face contorted into a menacing grin.
"I'm guessing you're not going to understand this, but nevertheless, I will humbly suggest that you let that man go." Atton gestured with his lightsaber, tracing a figure-eight in the air. "Pretty scary, huh?"
The whole pack of slate-faced thugs stared at the golden beam. One of them snickered. Noticeably undeterred by this light-show, the punk lunged at Atton with a switchblade.
"Okay, have it your way," Atton muttered.
The lightsaber diced off one grey-fingered, black-gloved hand still clutching a switchblade.
HK took this as his cue to open fire on the remaining company. Suddenly, everything went crazier than a flurry of one-winged shyracks, with everybody shouting, ducking, stampeding through doors, shoving and trampling each other in their desperate bids to get out of the way.
Well, so much for flying under the radar, Atton thought.
When the smoke cleared, there were five thugs sprawled on the ground.
"[Satisfied Evaluation:] Ah, yes. Most efficient," HK purred.
The thugs' victim climbed to his feet and dusted off the back of his tunic. He surveyed the bodies of his former assailants with unmitigated delight, scraping a hand through tawny hair. Atton guessed the guy to be in his late fifties, with the leathery skin and the shifty eyes of a life-long spacer. These types always came shambling into Nar Shaddaa, hanging around the Ref District looking for a few games of pazaak, a cantina meal and good night's sleep after a long haul through space.
"I'm right thankful for your assistance," the man said. "When I saw you in the crowd, I figured you for a fellow Republic man. Wasn't expecting a Jedi though."
Atton tucked the lightsaber back under his jacket. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm not a Jedi. I just like to borrow their equipment sometimes."
"Hey, Jedi or not, it's good enough for me!" the old spacer laughed, offering a handshake. "The name's Konrad Nalo."
Atton shook the dry old hand, surprised by the firmness of Nalo's grip. "Atton Rand." Ah, his first lie of the day. It was always important to make a good first impression.
"Well, now, I don't suppose you're from Corellia, are you? You've got a bit of the look about you. 'Rocket fuel for blood', they say."
"Nope. Sorry. Nar Shaddaa, born and bred," Atton lied again. It felt good after months' of excruciating honesty. "The Smuggler's Moon. You heard of it?"
"Now, what kind of question is that?" Konrad chuckled. "Of course I done heard of it. I was just hoping to do some conspirin' with a fellow son of Corellia in this damned miserable place. This your first time on Csilla?"
"Yeah, and if things keep on the way they're going, it'll be my last time too."
"[Polite Suggestion:] Perhaps you'd like to introduce me to our latest non-target? Ahem, I mean, 'acquaintance'?"
Atton threw an exasperated glance at HK. It was just like the crazed can-opener to turn a room into his own personal shooting gallery and then insist on a proper etiquette.
"Meet HK-47, the most obnoxious killing machine in Galactic Space. He's looking to find out if he's got any competition in the Unknown Regions, but I sincerely doubt it."
"Damn droids. Don't have any toleration for 'em myself," the grizzled old spacer replied. "Now I don't imagine you'd be interested in a drink of something, my way of saying 'thank-you' and all? The Foreign Quarter lounge is a bit of a walk, but it's a hell of a lot better than facing this place stone-cold sober."
Atton grinned and slapped Konrad on the shoulder. "You and me, I think we're going to get along just fine."
Revan moved quickly through the long grass, his eyes fixed on the ship almost concealed behind a scanty row of trees. If he was smart, if he was lucky, he might be able to use it to trace the Sith marauders back to their encampments.
These new Sith still baffled him. They were certainly uglier and more spiteful than the usually crop of dark-siders, but frankly, he had expected more from the 'True Sith'. He knew that he should feel grateful that it was a case of false advertising, but somehow it just didn't sit right. It made Revan wonder if he was missing something, something important.
Of course, he'd always suffered from these jabs of paranoia, an insatiable desire for more knowledge, more control, another edge on the game. They were what had kept him alive for so long. In the days when his face had been a metal mask, his mind had always been churning, churning, simmering with the schemes of his underlings, their ambitions, their seething frustrations, their whispered conspiracies in narrow corridors. He wasn't that man anymore, but the instincts were still there, gliding beneath the surface like the silhouettes of firaxans in deep water.
The Sith ship was small but well-built, one of those tiny wonders of design that he'd seen so frequently in the Unknown Regions. The crafts out here made Republic technology look big, clumsy and hopelessly extravagant.
The gangplank was still down, which made him think there was probably at least one guard remaining. Revan turned on his stealth field generator. There was no reason to take any unnecessary risks.
He crept into the ship, checking rooms for sentinels as he passed. He glanced into a room of holding cells, but they were all empty. The cargo bay contained a few boxes that he would want to investigate, but he didn't see any Sith lurking about.
It was only when he reached the cockpit that he saw the last member of the Sith raiding party, a heavy-limbed creature examining a navigation panel with narrow, piggish eyes. His skin was mottled, a mix of cloudy gray and a raw pink like uncooked meat. Revan stepped forward slowly, poised for a quick kill.
From the sudden shift of the Sith pilot's beady eyes, Revan could tell the creature sensed a presence in the room with him. The Sith stumbled back from the panel, scanning the room wildly, a faint hiss coming from between gapped teeth. His flabby cheeks puffed out, wheezing out frantic breaths.
Revan stuck him with the lightsaber, shoving the blade right up between the ribs.
The pilot gave a choking gasp, his face registering the searing heat of the blade. His little piggy eyes were fixed on Revan with a strange mix of horror and recognition.
He didn't die as quickly as Revan had hoped. No, he staggered away a few steps as though he might get away, hacking up blood as he went. Revan struck again, this time at the back of his neck. The beam severed most of the neck, causing the head to droop down like a wilted flower on a sickly stem.
The creature died. It was a bloody execution, ignoble as anything, the worst kill Revan had experienced in recent memory. He almost felt ashamed, but then he remembered that he had work to do. He sat down in the pilot's seat and started scanning the navigation logs.
The Foreign Quarter lounge was a surprisingly efficient little venture. The tables were narrow and clean, the clientele sedately went about the business of getting themselves drunk and the soles of one's boots didn't stick to the pristine marble floors. It was like a Coruscanti bureaucrat's office, but with dimmer lighting and more booze. Atton disliked it on sight, but he was the first to admit that it was better than nothing.
Konrad ordered drinks in the local language he called 'Cheun'. The cyborg bartender was another one of those blue-skinned humanoids, but in addition to arms, he had two extensible metal tentacles attached to his sides. These mechanical coils would stretch out and grab glasses or tips from across the restaurant or seize strange concoctions from distant shelves. Atton watched the process with a combination of revulsion and curiosity, unsure of whether he found the sight abominable or considered it the most entertaining thing he'd ever seen. He glanced over to see how HK was taking it.
The droid's yellow eyes glowed with unusual fervor. "[Indignant Declaration:] It is most undignified to see the blue ones supplementing their frail meatbag bodies with parts belonging to advanced droid models."
"Those Chiss cyborgs are somethin' alright," Konrad said. "I'm just not rightly sure what that something is."
"Why do they get those implants? It's interesting to look at, but it seems kind of unnecessary."
Konrad frowned, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "Some of those nutsy Chiss get them 'cause they think it's going to get them a job serving with their stuck-up aristocrats. This is a real strange place, my friend. You see some mighty unusual things on this side of the galaxy."
The bartender's lengthy arms stretched out towards them, plunking two carbonated purple drinks on their table.
Atton sniffed his glass and then took an experimental sip.
It took him a few agonizing seconds before he managed to gag the swill down. In all his frantic, clawing years in the Shad, he'd never chugged down something that tasted like so much like bad-tasting poison or worse-tasting medicine. As thirsty and desperate as he was, he wasn't sure he could manage another drink without spewing his guts across the well-polished floors.
He pushed his glass aside and tried to ignore the aftertaste still burning on his tongue. "They got any juma in this Force-forsaken place?"
Konrad chuckled, leathery skin crinkling at the corners of his eyes and mouth. "Welcome to the Unknown Regions, kid. It's Purple Paxa or nothing around here. If you're looking for blue-skin cyborgs, Vagaari freaks and hives full o' Killik bugs bent on turning you into a joiner, this is the place to be. If you want juma, good-lookin' dancers, decent music or palatable food, well, you took at wrong turn back at Aduba-5."
"So tell me a little about this crazy, mixed-up side of the galaxy," Atton said. "I like to know what odds I'm facing." He sloshed the Purple Paxa around in his glass. He regarded the liquid grimly, hopelessly. No relief in sight.
"Okay, well, you asked for it. You want to hear an old man ramble about his travels, you came to the right place too," Konrad's unkempt brows lifted emphatically, watery grey eyes widening. "You ever hear tell of a ghost planet? A lot of people say it's a load of bunk, but I've seen it with my own two eyes. I stopped on this little space rock once, just to do repairs, and ended up getting into a squabble with the shade of my ex-wife! It put a few grey hairs on my head, I can tell you."
Atton smirked. "Heh, yeah, and I've seen a moon full of three-breasted twi'leks. C'mon, I'm not some wide-eyed kid fresh out of Deralia or something. I've seen enough to know when I'm being sold a gizka."
"Well, Rand, you obviously ain't drank Purple Paxa before and I'm guessing that fight back there was the first time you'd ever seen a Nagai gang," Konrad replied, kicking back a long draught of the purple liquid. "That ghost planet is as real as the droid sitting next to you and heck of a lot more frightening, if you don't mind me saying so."
HK cut in. "[Logical Correction:] It is relatively simple to frighten sentients. My primary system objective is the far more rousing undertaking of blasting squishy organic bodies with maximum speed and efficiency."
Atton rolled his eyes. If HK spent as much time slaughtering people as he did yakking about it, the galaxy would be much emptier place.
"Look, Konrad, buddy, I'll try to keep an open mind. But a planet full of ghosts? You've got to admit, that's pretty out there."
"I've seen stranger business yet, I'll tell you that!" the old man said. "About six months back, my buddy and I, we set about exploring this big black asteroid way out in this place we called The Murk Way. It was a chunk of pure onyx, you see, and we go figuring it could be mined. The prospecting is good, the only problem is somebody done got there first and turned it into some kind of ritual place. Just circles of bones going round and round all over the surface. It made me real antsy just looking at it. I told Meerska not to go poking around, but he never listened to sense."
"And?"
"Something went wrong in that boy's head, after he went messing around with those bones. I can't say what done it, but he came back with a head full of crazy plans, like something out there been whispering notions in his ear. He told me stories, stories like you don't want to never hear."
Konrad shook his head, his hands tugging at graying tufts of his shaggy hair. He wet his lips with a long drink of Paxa before he continued.
"Poor kid had got the blood fever in his brain. I couldn't keep him around for being afeard he was going to take a knife and slit a big ol' ear-to-ear grin 'cross my throat. Left Meerska marooned way out in Farschi and I don't know what became of him since. To my way of thinking, it was probably something no good. It's none of my business, anyway. It ain't nothing to me anymore. But you watch out for it."
Atton's eyes narrowed. "Interesting. So you ever hear anybody mention something called 'True Sith'? I've got…a friend…she's looking for them and I'm looking for her."
"So you figure that you find what she's after and maybe you'll find her?" Konrad's eyes caught a strange glint of light. "I don't know anything about no 'True Sith' but you hear stories roundabouts. The closest I ever been to evil that deep was that black ritual place I told you about. I never seen one of those Sith creatures in my life and I'm damned thankful for it. Now, no offense intended, but your lady friend sounds a little - "
Atton laughed. "A little what? Reckless? Crazy? Yep. And believe me, those are just the beginning of her charms."
"Eh, well, you got your reasons. Hell, back in the day, I would have chased my Gerta into a rancor's nest, no doubt about it," Konrad replied. He slurped down the last of his drink. "Then I went and married her. After that, she got to be the rancor and I couldn't run away fast enough."
The old man stared at his empty glass with a look of barely concealed disgust. "You know, I've been looking for somebody I can trust to help me out with a little business venture. You're a Republic man and you're good in a fight. Heck, if it weren't for the 'saber, you'd remind me a little of myself when I was first starting out in explorations. Think you might be up for the job?"
"Depends what you had in mind."
"I can't talk about it here. Not with all these folks around, listening in and such. Come out to my ship, I'll explain my way of thinking and we can speak plain."
Atton slouched back in his chair. "I don't know. I'm not looking for any sort of smuggling work right now."
"This ain't smuggling, no sir. This is explorations, my friend, and it could make us both richer than Hutts if it's done right. I'm looking to retire in luxury one of these days with a couple of pretty Echani housemaids and a storeroom full of credits. You help me out and you might be able to do the same."
Atton sighed. Why not? After all, the guy was pretty ancient. If it came down to an ambush, he could take him. Besides if his new friend tried to roll him, he was pretty sure HK would enjoy blasting the old coot into space dust.
"What the hell? I'll hear you out."
"That's the spirit, sonny. Just let me go on over yonder and pay the tab and we'll get out of this joint. I think you're going be very interested in what I got to offer."
Revan had walked back to Kan's office in Aartdil with news to report. This time he walked the streets with a hood drawn up over his face, his lightsaber carefully concealed. On this occasion, nobody looked at him twice. There were other things to see.
A crowd had gathered around the colonial administration building, listening as a Chiss man ranted on the evils of House Csalpa from his perch on bloodied white steps.
"[They call us children, my friends. They say that they take care of us, even as they let us suffer and starve and die! They call themselves our family house, but they have lived on the backs of our real fathers, on the blood and milk of our true mothers.]"
The speaker paused for dramatic effect, his crimson eyes wide in a narrow blue face.
"[What will we do, my friends, my fellows? We will crush the tyrants' heads under our heels!]"
The mob cheered wildly.
"[We will sprinkle the crops with their blood! And when we are done, we will declare Farschi a free world!]"
The crowd convulsed with restless delight, howling, and pumping fists in the thick air.
"[Tell it, Meerska! Meerska Freem!]" a voice shouted and others chimed in, echoing the name or chanting the lyrics to the Ascendancy anthem in a crude sing-song.
Revan watched in horror and fascination, all too familiar with the beast of the crowd, at once so generous and so terrible, so flattering and so fickle. Put a good orator in front of them or a man mad enough to have a vision, and it was like throwing a spark onto a woodpile. It was too late. The reinforcements he needed to fight the Sith threat would not come, not now.
He looked again at the yellow Csalpa banner, torn and defaced, the ugly splotch of graffiti like a wound on white-washed walls. He stared up at the balcony, at the building's most terrible new addition: Astraroth Kan's battered body, hung by the heels