Shades of Gray
Chapter 3
Tera Sinube's tail swept over the smooth inlaid marble with a subtly mesmerizing rhythm. The aging Jedi master leaned heavily on his tall cane as he shuffled his way along the Archives stacks, and found an empty research station. "Ah, here we are, here we are," he muttered, painstakingly settling his aching joints in the single chair.
Obi Wan knew better than to offer assistance. He waited patiently as the elderly Cosian coughed and muttered and called the database into life, his knobbled fingers dancing over the touch-pad with a deftness born of long practice.
"Now," Master Sinube rasped. "I don't know what the Council is thinking, sending a green Padawan like you down into the underlevels."
The younger Jedi his smile behind one hand, stroking his chin out of habit. "I sit on the Council now, Master Sinube, did you know?"
The Cosian Jedi craned his head round and peered at him, golden orb-shaped eyes wide with surprise. "Eh? Oh! Stars above….yes, yes, that's right now isn't it?" He broke into a long, self-deprecating chuckle. "It all blends together, Master Kenobi, it does indeed. Time….the older you get, the more you will come to realize that it is nothing but an illusion." His ridged brows quirked into an amused line. "You know I volunteered for this assignment myself when they told me."
"Yes, master, I know; it was I who contacted you, remember?"
Tera Sinube snorted and turned back to the datapad. "Master Yoda seems to think I'm too senile for active missions. What do you think of that, eh?"
"It is a bit ironic, I must admit."
"Yes!" the Cosian agreed, his reedy, fluting voice attracting the pointed stares of a few other Jedi trying to study in the hushed main library hall. "But it's also true," he grunted, wistfully. "I can't keep my mind on anything but the Force, not for long. What were we talking about?"
"My mission, master. I need to know as much as you can tell me about Hojo Lenn, and his contacts. How do I ingratiate myself with him? Does he have a weakness or a favorite obsession? What are his customary haunts?" Master Sinube was the Order's foremost expert on the seedy enclaves and criminal organizations of Coruscant's Underlevels.
The Cosian waved an impatient hand at him. "Yes, yes, I remember that," he muttered. "Lenn controls a huge drug empire, mainly spice, but he's been breaking into the deathstick market lately, subcontracting with offworld manufacturers and distributors. He lives in a palatial penthouse suite in the Beltuu district here on Corucant- not too far away. If you want to get in close, you'll have to indulge in his favorite pastime."
"Which is?"
Tera Sinube's beak-shaped mouth pursed into a disapproving pucker. "Hallucinogens."
"Ah." Obi Wan straightened and released a long calming breath. Maybe he was getting too old for this sort of thing, too. "I see."
The Cosian shrugged. "You can fake it, to a certain extent. But I hope you are more than competent at purging your system. If you really want to go undercover in that crowd, you're going to have to participate in drug abuse. It's their version of an initiation ceremony."
"Lovely." Still, he was fairly certain he could handle the ill effects – if he were careful and stayed centered in the Force. Sacrifices had to be made. His treacherous memory flickered back to that one occasion, in Qui Gon's company, on – but no. He would rather not think about that.
"Now," the elderly Jedi continued brightly. "If you want to get in with the elite crowd quickly, I recommend happy hour at the Outlander tonight. Lenn never misses one of Yarbel Bassho's performances, and he's playing this evening. A good number of his cronies and bodyguards will be there, too, mixing in the crowd. You'll want to make contact with one of them – don't approach Lenn directly."
A series of mugshots flashed across the datascreen- known and suspected associates of the infamous drug lord. Obi Wan leaned forward, carefully memorizing the long parade of multi-species faces. "But you don't know who among these is on planet at present?"
"Alas, no. However," the Cosian chuckled, a wheezing shudder of amusement deep in his long throat, "Since Lenn always has three or four concubines in tow, you shouldn't have any trouble attracting the right kind of attention."
"Master Sinube."
Senility- or the convenient affectation of the same – seemed to erode the foundations of tact. Tera Sinube pointed one long, gnarled finger at him. "I may not be human, but I can see that Hojo Lenn is an ugly slob. His retinue will certainly be looking for pleasant distractions. If you are wise, you'll use that fact to your advantage."
Obi Wan stifled a groan. He already hated this mission. "I'll remember that advice," he said flatly.
"Now." The ancient master pushed himself up, with painful slowness, and seized his cane. "Let's get down to the quartermaster and see about your clothes. Jedi tunics won't get you far in the underlevels." He led the way out, ambling along the sun-drenched floor at a determined crawl, cane tapping emphatically with each step. Obi Wan strolled slowly along beside him. "And let me do all the choosing. You don't have the proper sense of style."
As they left the Archives and made their way –slowly- through the Temple's halls, Obi Wan wondered what other essential skills he was lacking, and whether he would be able to improvise effectively. This assignment could not possibly be less appealing, his feelings about it more ambivalent. For a moment, he entertained a dark suspicion that the Chancellor had somehow maneuvered him into it out of inexplicable spite …but such emotional reactions were nothing but psychic dross. The Republic needed Lenn alive, and so he needed to do this. That's all there was to it.
And when he was old and white-haired and forgetful, like Tera Sinube, this mission, this war, everything he had done and been forced to do, would blur into the illusion of passing time. He could look forward to that, he supposed. They continued on their way, in silence.
"Meditative retreat?" Master Windu repeated, his brows rising in surprise. "That's an unusual request for you…but you have certainly earned it. I don't see why not, so long as you continue to follow the healer's instructions."
Anakin nodded. "Thank you, Master Windu. I'll be back within a standard week."
The tall Korun Jedi continued to study him speculatively, as though unsure what to make of this sudden manifestation of new maturity in his younger associate. Anakin met his gaze levelly, shielding his thoughts, emotions, intentions, doubts, desires, and anger behind a fortress woven of the Force itself.
It seemed to work. And it was somehow satisfying to think that this skill which Obi Wan had spent so many painstaking years teaching him was now useful in deceiving Mace Windu. Long gone were the days when, as Yoda had so bluntly told him the first time he stood before the Council as a terrified nine year old, that the Council could "see right through" him. Nobody could see through Anakin Skywalker now, not even the Force itself. He was the Chosen One, and the unknown one. He did not look into his own interiority much himself, for strange shadows dwelt there, cast by weird flames of longing and hurt.
"You had better take military transport," Mace said at last. "I do not think it would be advisable for you to travel by any other means. You're too high profile."
He hadn't thought of that. Grudgingly, he admitted that Mace's insight served him well, and that the senior Councillor's suspicious nature might be a good thing in time of war.
"Yes, master – I'll make the arrangements discreetly."
Mace looked as though he doubted Anakin could do anything discreetly, but he refrained from comment.
"Report back to the Council when you return, " the tall master ordered brusquely. "By that time, I am sure there will be much to be accomplished."
"Of course." He bowed, black cloak sweeping the floor before him. In a moment, he was alone again.
That had been too easy. And arranging transport for his expedition to the Mid Rim would be even easier. Captain Rex, the ever faithful and reliable commander of the 501st legion, would hook his admired and respected General up with the next troop transport shipping out of Coruscant. And Anakin had enough weight – enough intimidating reputation – in the Grand Army to guarantee him swift and silent compliance in any other request he might make. A few hopscotch style transfers from transport to transport, and he would be at his destination, without anyone really taking note.
He caught an aircar heading to the barracks and shipyards which sprawled over the greater part of Coruscant's once-disused industrial sectors. War had brought new life to the abandoned stretches of duracrete, imbued the rotting corpses of the city's earlier days with a grisly undead existence as a staging area for the galaxy-wide war.
The cool air whipped at his face and hair as the pilot threaded the craft through latticed air traffic lanes, far too slowly for Anakin's liking. He felt a momentary pang of guilt for having abandoned his Padawan to the dreary routine of the Temple for this upcoming stretch of days …but then he reflected that although Ahsoka Tano shared his restless temperament and ferocious spirit, she was still infinitely different. As close as they had grown in such a short time, she still stood on the opposite side of an abyss- that which separated Anakin from all the other Jedi. She had been Temple-raised, bred and reared and nurtured and taught in that singular sanctuary since the days of her earliest memory. To her, the Temple was home. To him, home was a woman – either his mother, or more recently, his wife. Home was not a place. It was certainly not the Order. It was not even the Force itself, whatever lecture to the contrary Obi Wan might offer on the subject.
Ahsoka did not know what it felt like to be a stranger in a strange land. She liked the quiet and the serenity of the Temple, the sense of aloneness even within community, the perpetual hushed atmosphere of interiority. To be home in the Temple was to be inward, rooted, deepened. He did not trust those dimensions of himself. Action was much, much safer. And the deadlier the better. Mortal peril was a sure protection against self-knowledge.
Hopefully this little investigation would offer some mortal peril along the way. With a twisted smile, he chuckled at his own dark desire. The war and the madness it brought: would they ever really leave his soul?
The aircar settled against a hover platform near the military security checkpoint, and he disembarked. There, overlooking the dull expanse of the Republic's war machine, he realized that it was the other way around: it was his soul that would never leave the war behind, for here….in his darkest moments…..he found his home.
Pulling the cowl of his black cloak over his head, he strode forward across the smooth deck of the platform. He had work to do.
The sun had set; twilight's dingy mantle had been discarded in favor of more glittering apparel; the city was now decked out in the finery of neon signs and flashing holo-boards. The roar and hum of traffic was now accented with the raucous noise and drifting music of Coruscant's night life. The inevitable could not be delayed any longer – he must make the plunge into seediness and filth, into the utter dregs of life's overflowing cup.
Obi Wan sighed softly and climbed over the side of the battered but fashionable speeder he had used to come this far. The Outlander Club, he was sorry to say, was familiar enough to him. He headed down the lower level pedestrian arcade, senses extended into the plenum, a small part of his mind annoyed by the feel of his new attire. He had wisely permitted Tera Sinube to select garments which would blend in seamlessly with his new environment and project the correct degree of rakish disregard for law and propriety. But he, for his part, would prefer rather looser- fitting trousers and a shirt which actually closed properly over his chest and did not slide against his skin with such an oily, silken texture. At least the tyrannical elderly Cosian had permitted him to add a short vest to the outfit, on the grounds that he needed a place to conceal his 'saber; but the suggestion had backfired in some degree, ultimately landing him with a completely uncivilized blaster which slapped uncomfortably in its heavy holster against his thigh with every step he took. Even the boots, though correctly sized, were not to his taste. The only thing he had been permitted to keep of his own was his face. And for that he was indeed grateful. One learned to be thankful for small blessings in times such as these.
He reached the doors to the Club, where he was accosted by a hulking bouncer of indeterminate species and gender. "I –D," this person demanded, holding out a hand for the required idenitchip.
"You don't need mine," he grumbled, with a subtle hand motion.
"I don't need yours," the burly individual grunted in reply, and jerked his horned head toward the open doors.
The reek of bacci smoke and other more potent inhalants was a slap in the face; the Outlander's dim lighting created weird floating illlusions in the coiling tendrils of blue and white and pink. On one end of the huge first floor, sports holos blared from the ceiling. A dance floor with performers' stage graced the central area, and down a short step to the left the main bar was situated. The jostle of bodies and the titter of conversation smeared into a blurry incoherence in the Force.
He drifted toward the bar, searching through the crowded rooms of the Club without using his eyes. Lenn was here, somewhere, but finding him in this concentrated froth of villainy and vice was like looking for a needle in a…well, in a pile of needles.
"What's yer poison?" the barkeep drawled.
"Comet-tail, no ice," he decided. It was safe enough for a human metabolism, and matched his saber's blade in color, which secretly amused him. The glass was perfunctorily slammed down in front of him, and he slid a credit chit large enough to pay for several more drinks across the bar's polished surface.
A sallow-faced humanoid with tell-tale red rimmed eyes and pronounced hollows under his cheekbones sidled up to him where he perched on one of the club's narrow barstools.
"Wanna buy a deathstick?" this individual offered in a low tone.
His automatic reaction – a blunt, possibly Force-laden, refusal – had to be suppressed. He was one of these people now. He couldn't afford to forget that. "How do I know those aren't tainted?" he demanded, keeping his eyes facing indifferently forward.
"They're pure! These are from the best supplier," the dealer whined.
"Really?" He took a cautious sip of the Comet-tail, feeling the sticky-sweet liqueur burn its way down his throat. "How do I know you're not a liar?"
The nervous pusher gripped the edge of the bar. "These are from Lenn, all right? I'm no liar. You want one or not?"
Obi Wan placed his glass down deliberately. "I don't buy from liars."
"I'm not a liar!" the unfortunate humanoid shouted at him, earning a disapproving glower from the bartender. He shoved his wares back inside a pocket and curled his hands into angry fists. "You want me to prove it to ya, huh?" He took a swing, which missed its mark, and then found himself pinned face-first against the bartop by the scruff of his neck. "Heeshhh! Leshhhmeee goooshhh yousssh chchchcsssssskshha.." he slurred awkwardly into the greasy permaglass.
"Is there a problem?" another voice inquired from behind them.
Obi Wan released the would be deathstick vendor and turned to regard the newcomer. A thin, almond-eyed humanoid with silverfish skin and severe black hair tied behind her head, she pushed the stumbling dealer out of her way and slipped onto the adjacent stool. "I haven't seen you here before," she purred, dark eyes making a slow appraisal of him from head to foot and then back again. "Looks like my evening just got a lot more interesting." She seized his half-finished drink and downed its remainder in one long go.
The Force eddied and swirled around her, like the mirage rising off super-heated pavement. Interesting, indeed. "He's not a liar, by the way," she continued. "That stuff does come form the best warehouse."
"So you say," he observed, feigning indifference. There was something acutely off-kilter about her Force presence…he couldn't quite place it, but he felt as though he should recognize it at once, especially in this setting…
"You calling me a liar, too?' she smiled, scooting closer. "He's legit – I've seen him around Lenn's place."
Ah. Progress. "You work for Lenn?" he inquired, registering faint interest.
"Yeah," she answered, one hand reaching down –
He snapped his own hand over the blaster before she could attempt anything imprudent and fixed her with a steely glare. To his chagrin, the silver-complected woman was merely amused by the sharp warning. "Oh, chooba- buki, you aren't nearly drunk enough yet," she laughed, signaling the barkeep to bring two more Comet-tails. "Let's fix that right away."
The Force shimmered about her like a reflection trembling in water. She was somehow not right, and she worked for Lenn. This was his lead, then. The key to Lenn's inner circle. "That's…why I'm here," he improvised, with a tiny grimace.
It was true…from a certain point of view.