Shades of Gray
Chapter 4
Anakin avoided the bridge; Admiral Vassilus, a stolid and respectable, newly promoted commander within the ranks of the Republic Navy, had little to offer by way of conversation; moreover, he had only grudgingly consented to transport the unannounced passenger as far as his next fleet rendezvous because he was clearly unsure whether his new prerogatives included the power to refuse a Jedi request. Had it been Yularen, who never failed to remind the Generals of the Grand Army that he outranked them on board his own ship, the story might have been different. There might have been a scene, and a dry remark to the effect that the Republic's battle fleet was not a taxi service.
It didn't matter. Anakin preferred the company of the clone troopers anyway. Standing in a corner of the mess hall, listening to the 439th and 466th legions' mealtime chatter, he felt oddly at home. Beneath their garishly dyed and decoratively shaved and tattooed heads, the clones shared a grim and brutal honesty. Born to fight and die early, they didn't prettify what glimpse of life they were granted. They didn't have time to indulge in deception, of self or others. With a clone, what you saw was what you got. They were the least two-faced human beings Anakin had ever met….in every sense. All million some odd of them had the same exact visage, after all.
"Ah..hope to hell we don't end up deployed on that new protection gig out in the Mid Rim," one of the men seated nearby observed.
"Yeah, kriff that," one of his companions agreed, munching on the bland shipboard rations spattered gloppily in his tray. "Babysittin' some drug lord's spice mines. Thought this was a vapin' war, not corporate security."
His near neighbor chuckled darkly. "Yeah, corporate prob'ly pays better." He stuck a warning finger out at the disgruntled trooper. "But you better keep yer trap shut if that's the orders we get. Nobody in this squadron is goin' insubordinate on my watch. You try it an' you'll wish you were in those spice mines."
"Relax, Sarge, I'm just sayin'," the complainer muttered, moodily jamming his utensil into his own shapeless pile of food.
Anakin snorted. These men weren't the enthusiastic hotheads who comprised the greater part of his own 501st. Leadership was everything, he mused. And not only in the Army. What would the republic be without Palpatine at its head? Would it even exist at all, or would it have long ago crumbled beneath the weight of its own corruption and Dooku's predations? For that matter, what would the Jedi Order be without the Council, or the Council without Yoda…or Mace Windu? In the final analysis, most the problems in the galaxy, both small and large, stemmed from the wrong people being in charge. If the right leadership could be established, then peace and justice would follow like a tame gorshakk on a string. And if you thought about it too long, if you looked at the implications that everyone else ignored, democracy was a regime designed specifically and cunningly to keep the right people from ever gaining power and influence. In the name of common liberty, it ate at the foundations of order.
Salvation would come from power and order, not turmoil and compromise. Isn't that what the Jedi had taught him, too? A Jedi draws his strength form the Force – through singular focus. A Jedi keeps his soul in strict, disciplined order. He does not listen to the jumbled voices of emotion, passion, desire, longing, fear, doubt, memory. Why did the Jedi serve a political system that so starkly contrasted with their own personal ideals and Code? It was a study in contradiction, in existential hypocrisy.
Someday, he – Anakin, the Chosen One – was going to make people be good. Padme could call it a tyranny if she wished. There were those who called love a tyranny also – and how deluded were they?
None of the troops here knew him well enough to feel comfortable in his presence; soon enough, his somber and shadowed figure drew attention, and an unwonted hush fell over the boisterous crew. He drew his hood over his face and left. These clones might not want anything to do with Lenn's spice mine holdings – but he was more than interested. And when he reported back to the Chacellor, then perhaps, just perhaps, the Republic would get a taste of what real leadership could effect.
A wise ruler and a strong right hand… that's what the galaxy needed, after all.
Six double Comet-tails later – the majority of which Obi Wan managed to convince his rather forward companion to consume herself – and the silver-skinned woman finally seemed to judge that he was sufficiently inebriated to meet her standards. Her own unsteady gait and salacious demeanor openly declared her own intoxification; but in this place, nobody seemed to notice or mind. He allowed her to draw him through the crowds to a back table in a sequestered private alcove near the musicians' stage. Performers toting grotesquely shaped gourd-based instruments arranged the audio enhancers and lights to their liking while a hirsute singer with prominent cranial horns barked terse orders.
"So," the dark haired woman said," seating herself on the table's edge and arching backward suggestively. "Let's make the proper introductions. I go by Shree Uun hereabouts. You?"
"Ben," he supplied.
"Ben what?"
"Just Ben." He focused on burning away the lingering and unwelcome effects of alcohol, breathing deep to allow the Force to flood through him, beneath the onslaught of light and sounds and stinking smoke. The world appeared both in and out of focus; a blurred and strangely enticing sensory veil overlaid on a bright and luminous etching in the numinous realm. He perceived this strange individual's duplicity as clearly as though it were written in large aurebesh script before him, while at the same time he felt a certain piqued curiosity about her intentions. Friend or foe? Potential ally, or useful tool? He contemplated the possibilities detachedly as she walked the fingers of one pale hand down his chest and toward his navel.
He stepped back, to afford himself a bit of personal space. "Won't your employer be unhappy to discover you …ah… subcontracting?" he inquired.
Her thin brows rose. "I don't work for Lenn in that capacity," she retorted sharply. "I'm in the protection business."
"I see." Unusual, to hire a female assassin for personal bodyguard duties - but not unheard of. The Force still shimmered uneasily about her, as though she did not quite occupy her own space. And there was undoubtedly more here than met the eye.
"Actually," she continued, leaning forward again, "A little subcontracting is exactly what I had in mind. I could use some help on this job. Lenn's signing an important agreement with the government stiff-asses in a few days. Someone might try to hit him before he can do it – might be trouble. What's your line of work?"
He shrugged evasively. "I've done protection before," he said.
"What else?" she demanded.
"Some soldiering, piloting, sabotage, smuggling, that sort of thing," he replied, truthfully. "And I can read minds, too."
She grinned at him. "Then I don't have to tell you what I'm thinking."
Unfortunately, she did not. Still, greed could be a powerful ally, and her so-called thoughts would be classified as greed, at least by Master Chakors Seva or one of the other classical commentators on the Code. "Perhaps we can come to an arrangement," he agreed, after an appropriate hesitation. "I'm flexible about means of payment."
Shree Uun liked that answer. The Force rippled around her like hot flame… and for a moment she was strangely fractured, her presence and her appearance melding and separating, like the molten beads of a kaleidoscope. Intuition and memory met in an instantaneous conjunction of certitude.
Clawdite. Shape-shifter.
But no sooner had the realization hit than their tête-à-tête was interrupted by the arrival of a fabulously corpulent humanoid who could be no other than Hojo Lenn himself. Several TwiLek and human courtesans hung on his arms and flittered nervously in the background as the reminder of his makeshift court filed into the alcove alongside him, wedging themselves into the limited seating and calling for table service in coarse voices. Lenn himself sailed into the midst of the enclosed space like massive freighter coming in to dock, and lighted upon the central cushioned bench.
"Who's this, Uun?" he demanded, waving a pudgy hand at the newcomer.
"Ben," the Clawdite answered. "He's going to help me with security tonight."
Hojo Lenn's multiple chins waggled as he snorted dubiously. "Security- ha! He looks more like a namby-pamby holo-flick star to me."
The subject of this insult folded his arms across his chest. Really…
Shree Uun scowled at her employer. I'll vouch for him," she snapped. It's my business who I find to subcontract for work."
Lenn's oddly squashed features rumpled into an expression of distaste. "I bet you would," he sneered. "But it's my life that's on the line, Uun." He raised two fingers in some kind of silent signal to a sour-faced Zabrak standing in the corner. A moment later, this person had launched himself at Uun's new security partner in a vicious attack. A thin blade flashed in the dim lighting.
Obi Wan stepped forward, met the aggressive lunge head on, grabbed the Zabrak's knife arm, twisted, snapped the elbow out of joint and brought his knee up into his gasping opponent's midriff. The thin blade clattered out of the attacker's slackening fingers, and his forehead hit the table with a resounding thunk as his opponent slammed him down face-first for good measure.
There was a moment of stunned silence, except for the labored groans of the stunned Zabrak now curled on the floor.
Lenn looked on the scene with calculating dispassion. "All right, you're qualified," he grudgingly admitted. "But I've never heard of you before."
"Good," Ben replied. "I'm glad I haven't left any loose ends lying about."
The musicians on the stage began to play, eliciting a round of enthusiastic applause from all present; Lenn's attention was instantly riveted by the entertainment spectacle. His retainers and flatterers settled into their seats and happily accepted drinks and food delivered by a roving droid waiter. 'Ben' found an unoccupied corner of bench in one corner, only to regret his choice to sit down a moment later, when Shree Uun sidled her way over and planted herself firmly on his lap. One silver arm snaked possessively around his neck.
"Well," she murmured, "I think we'll get on just fine. I like a little rough-housing."
None of Lenn's other companions took the least notice of her tasteless overtures. He wondered idly how many other subcontractors Uun had offered jobs during her tenure as Lenn's private bodyguard. Clawdites were not known for their moderation and restraint, as a general rule. Then he wondered – with a small pang of regret at their shattered harmony – what Anakin would say, had he been here to see his former master in such uncivilized surroundings.
Another part of him didn't want to know.
"Lighten up, chooba-buki," Uun purred into his ear, her long fingers imperiously smoothing over the deepening crease in his forehead. "The music isn't that bad…and you have to admit the company is good."
He summoned up an insincere smile. It was going to be a very long night indeed.
Anakin grinned and pushed the starfighter a bit harder. It had not been difficult to persuade the Admiral to let him take the vehicle; Vassilus obviously deemed the loss of one fighter a fair price to pay for ridding the ship of an unannounced Jedi guest. The new officers were all a bit like that; the natural command position of the Jedi seemed to sit uneasily with them, as though it didn't fit their learned and deeply engrained paradigm. The old hands accepted Jedi supervision grudgingly, true; but they accepted it. Anakin wasn't sure what he thought about this newest crop, and the few old school curmudgeons who seemed to cultivate the skepticism about Force-users. Take Captain Tarkin, whom he had met not so long ago…there was a troublesome character. The man was a hardened pragmatist, and worse yet: a materialist. It had been tempting to show the arrogant son of a Sith exactly how real and powerful the Force was… but that would probably be against the Code.
He streaked past the outlying planets in the Meddrishi system, the gas giants and a few empty rocks floating in elliptic orbits at the far reaches of the star's pull. Vassilus hadn't gone so far as to lend him an astromech, but he didn't need one. Here, inside a cockpit barely bigger than his body, he felt as though he were melded with the ship. In some ways, he could surpass a droid pilot. Even Artoo, tweaked and upgraded to his personal exacting standards, would have to work hard in a flying contest against him.
There: his first destination lay directly ahead. From this distance, he could see the glint of huge shipping freighters hovering in orbit around the equator and tropics. Particles of dust – shiping crates or tug barges – drifted between the surface and these waiting transports. Looked like business was booming. A Republic cruiser was already stationed just outside the system, monitoring the known hyperlanes in this sector; once Lenn signed his agreement with the Senate, more extensive protection would be provided.
For now, however, nobody noticed or challenged the lonely starfighter plunging down into the upper atmosphere and diving through thick cloud cover to skim across the dull oceans below. He followed a straight course until he sighted land, and then headed along the near coastline, steadily decreasing altitude and speed. There didn't appear to be any significant settlements at all…at least above ground. He headed inland, crossed a low sweep of mountains which divided high barren plains form the lower coastal region, and dropped again, until he was flying low enough to scan the surface with his naked eye.
And then he saw the first jagged gaps in the planet's surface – the pimples thrusting out of the hard earth, oozing a detritus of waste and discarded minerals. Generator stations were situated on their periphery – huge blocks of duracrete, industrial sized power cores capable of powering a small city each. He descended further. Where was all that power being diverted? The rim of the nearest hole was just ahead; gravsleds trickled in and out of its dark maw, and power lines encased in massive durasteel tubing extended into the open pit. As he skimmed across the opening, he caught a glimpse of bottomless depths, countless tiers of mining platforms and lighting banks, descending into the planet's bowels n rank upon rank. The Force darkened about it; and he felt the plunging sensation of despair and terror clawing in his own belly.
These were spice mines, places often described as living incarnations of the legendary nine hells. Here, one of the galaxy's most valuable commodities was wrested from its reluctant subterranean birthplace. This one mine alone might produce enough wealth to keep a Hutt lord in style for his entire natural life span. And Hojo Lenn owned a whole world of them. No wonder he wanted protection, and was willing to pay a staggering sum to procure it. Even handing a third of his profits over to the Republic would be better than suffering the loss of his entire operation at the hands of a Separatist raid.
Anakin soared high into the purple sky again, and tried counting the dark wounds in the planet's surface – the scars left by active or abandoned mines. They spread to the current horizon, pox marks on the smooth skin of the dust plains. His mind reeled at the immensity of the operation; his gut clenched at the thought of its orgin.
Spice was not strictly illegal on all Republic systems; while often smuggled or sold on the black market, it also made appearances in courts and elite markets all over the known galaxy. The galactic legislature soothed its own conscience by imposing ridiculous taxes on tariffs on the highly desirable narcotic, increasing the criminal activity engendered by its tacit approval. It was one of the grey zones in the complicated legal system which united ten thousand disparate systems under one federal rule. Nobody liked the spice trade, or the crime it inevitably festered wherever it went; and yet nobody seemed willing to push a universal ban. The Galactic Senate chose to simply…look the other way.
Until now, when one of the richest spice lords in the Mid Rim and the Core had offered them a cut of the profits. That had their attention, sure enough. With diffculty, he banished the irksome memory of Obi Wan's many lectures on the "economics of politics."
He made a decision and dove down again, skirting the foothills and heading for the first mine he had seen. The Chancellor wanted him to investigate. And that's what he would do. It was time to have a closer look at Lenn's investments. Anakin, at least, would not look the other way.