Lineage IV
7.
"If you can spare me, I should like to find a new home for our friend," Obi Wan said, tamping down the earth around the last of the seedlings.
Alepo Sator rested his soil-begrimed hands upon his hips, surveying the expanse of freshly planted hillside. "Fine," he agreed. "I've got to catalogue this area for the geosurvey and set up the security sensors. You've got half a standard."
"Thank you, sir."
The thing seemed to know what he was about; no sooner had he lifted it from the protective shelter of the hovertractor's cab, grunting as he heaved its massive form into his arms, than it proceeded to wrap several extremities about his neck and shoulders, as though unwilling to let him go.
"Attachment is… forbidden," he gasped, toting the enormous wriggling creature to the edge of the preserve. Here, taller trees planted in earlier seasons raised their green boughs to the clear sky. His breath came in puffs of white cloud; though there was no snow here on the hills, the temperature was still bitter.
He managed to extricate himself and dig a deep hole in the earth, turning over the soil several times as Alepo had instructed him. He crumbled some potent vitamin additives into the ground, and then turned his attention back to his acquaintance. It required a veritable wrestling match to upend the thing's pot and extract the rootball. Once he had subdued his opponent, he had to drag it, kicking and figuratively screaming, to its new – and hopefully permanent – location. In it went; and if it pulled his hair and threw chunks of sod at his face as he secured it in place, carefully tamping down the dirt on every side of its central stalk, he chose to endure the onslaught with patience.
Even when he was finished, and had stepped back to admire his handiwork, the plant still expressed its displeasure by thrusting angry tendrils in every direction, a chorus of condemnatory gesticulation.
"This is where you belong," he informed it, tugging his rumpled tunics back into place. "Though if Qui Gon had his way, you would be enrolled as an initiate at the Temple." It was an amusing image; and he indulged in a small smile. This was one stray they would leave behind. "Don't die on me, though," he warned it, by way of parting.
The sun was quickly descending, the far horizon already deepening to purple, and the temperature uncomfortably low. He pulled the duster closer about his shoulders and tramped away to the newly seeded section, 'saber slapping against his leg as he hurried down the slope.
"Done?" the horticulturalist asked, when he reappeared. "Good. The ride home should be faster – no weight to slow us down."
Obi Wan grimaced as he climbed into the cab… and then sucked in a sharp breath. The Force flared with strident warning.
"What the blazing chizzsk!" Alepo exclaimed, pointing skyward.
The evening sky was marred by a dark speck trailing a gash of smoke and flame, a howling projectile streaking downward at an alarming angle, setting the Force into an awful cacophony of alarm. Obi Wan gritted his teeth, feeling the panic of at least a hundred sentients warp the plenum, even at this distance. "It's a crash," he said, leaping back down to the hard earth, screening his eyes with one hand.
The plummeting spacecraft's hull glinted against the dying sun.
"Passenger liner," Alepo hissed, scrambling back into the cab. "I'll call the spaceport to send an emergency team – get the Corps up here, too – there might be survivors –"
Obi Wan cried out when the massive ship hit the first hilltop and tumbled down a jagged slope, trailing fire and a confetti spray of shielding and metal scraps. The Force was rent asunder with the violence of its impact, with screams and cries. But the angle of impact hadn't been too bad… the ship was still sliding, cutting a swath through Alepo's restored forest, screeching to a slow stop amid a hurricane of dust and reeking columns of smoke. There was pain and screaming and panic, rising in a black tide…. There must be many survivors.
He did not wait for further prompting; instead, he ran.
The moon of Yarbel was a seedy den of moral flotsam, at best. At worst, it was a cesspool where the worst filth in the galaxy festered in undisturbed repose.
Adi and Qui Gon raised hoods well over their faces and wandered through the milling concourse of the main spaceport.
"He would have landed nearby and destroyed his original escape vehicle," Adi murmured, as they jostled their way through a crowd of disreputable commuters and shady businessmen. "No doubt his accomplice had pre-arranged transport from this point."
Qui Gon nodded, his senses unfurled into the Force, seeking for an echo of their quarry's presence. As a Force user, especially a mentally unstable one, Carthag would leave a peculiar trace in the Force… although here, where scum and villainy oozed and puddled in every nook and cranny, the subtle currents were universally disturbed, tainted with ubiquitous greed and low-grade malice. "This may prove difficult," he sighed. What they needed was a Jedi skilled in telemetry… but such gifts were extremely rare, and time was short.
They hesitated outside the last terminal. "He was here," Adi declared, suddenly. "I can feel it."
She was right; there was a shuddering disturbance in the Living Force, the signature left by some fetid presence. It was dim, and indistinct, a mere sour aftertaste in their minds, a staleness felt as a lingering ripple in the universal energy. "And here is Virmma the Hutt's private docking hangar," Qui Gon observed.
They shouldered past the Whiphid security guards, pressing against the simpletons' minds with the power of the Force. Inside the hangar, a large freighter sat on landing prongs, its cargo slowly unloaded by a troupe of boxy droids designed for such endless drudgery. The ships' captain stood nearby, a long Corellian cheroot between his wide lips.
"Jedi," he grunted when the pair of dark-robed figures approached him. "I didn't do it."
"We know you didn't do it," Adi told him. "But unless you can help us find the one who did, we'll have to search your ship."
The man exhaled a pink cloud in one long stream. "You'll never get clearance for that," he sniffed, contemptuously.
"I didn't say it would be an authorized search," Adi retorted.
The captain shifted. "Look, I didn't do it."
Qui Gon lowered his hood and closed the space between them, causally. The ship's captain stepped back a pace. "Some illegal goods were shipped out of this spaceport two days ago," he informed the man placidly.
"What else is new?" the fellow snorted, taking another drag.
"These were very unique goods," the Jedi master continued, moving closer again.
The captain's mouth thinned in displeasure. He let the next stream of rosy-hued smoke out through his nostrils, giving him the appearance of a Chandrilan incense burner. "I wasn't here two days ago."
"But you can tell us who was. Which ship departed from this hangar ? You must know which of your colleagues was scheduled to make a run here. You all work for the same piece of slime," Adi pointed out.
The unfortunate captain held up his hands. "All right, all right. The Privateer. Dropped off a shipment here, went back to Virmma's place. The usual run, and Klepp To don't know when to keep his hands in his own pockets, you know what I mean? I'm not involved in smuggling."
"And where is he now?" Adi inquired in a low growl.
"I told ya, I don't know! Proabably drunk off his gourd in some watering hole on Shagra. That's how he spends his downtime. Or I can give you the name of his mistress on Beliflor. Just lemme be."
Adi pressed her lips together, assesingly.
Qui Gon waved one hand before the man's face. "We weren't here," he said softly.
"You weren't here…" the captain muttered, raising the cheroot to his lips again and seeming to look through them , as though they were invisible.
The two Jedi withdrew a cautious distance. "Shagra or this Klepp To character?" Adi asked. "Or shall we split up and track down both leads?"
Qui Gon tilted his head to one side. "In this circumstance, I do not think we should divide our resources." When the Tholothian nodded her reluctant agreement, he added, "Carthag will need funds. Equipment. My instincts tell me that the Privateer was simply a pre-arranged transport – he must have planned to use Virmma's connections to obtain much-needed credits."
"He might have taken a bounty contract," Adi supplied. "Or Virmma may owe him a favor. In either case, he would need the Hutt's recommendation to integrate into the underworld with any facility."
Qui Gon's hand gripped his saber's hilt. "I think we should speak with Virmma personally," he decided. "And possibly one of his underlings can be convinced to provide more information."
They strode back through the crowded concourse, heading for their own transport. Shagra was in Hutt controlled space, outside Republic jurisdiction; it was also possible that Carthag was holed up in the Hutt's protection. A pitched confrontation in such hostile territory did not appeal to either of them, but they were equally well aware that the only kind of negotiations in which the escaped convict would particpate would be the aggressive variety.
"This should be pleasant," Adi remarked as they ascended the lightweight shuttle's ramp.
Obi Wan pelted toward the disaster site , leaping over obstacles and sprinting flat out among the trees, the Force carrying him forward on a crest of urgency. He cast an arm over his face as he drew near; the intense heat and the stinking smoke issuing from the mangled hull were a double edged assault on his senses. . His saber sprang into life, and he plunged forward, holding his breath. Toxic clouds shrouded him, clung to his clothes and hair. The hull was superheated from its descent; the metal seemed to ripple in the shuddering air. He thrust the blue blade through the nearest bit of metal, and carved a circle. The insulation dripped, molten, about his boots; the makeshift hatchway fell to the earth.
He leapt inside. Screams, shouts, a jumble of bodies, sparking panels, and everywhere toxic smoke. His saber was a beacon. "This way!" he shouted, choking in the next instant. His boots hit a body; he grabbed the inert form and half-threw it out the opening. In an instant, the panicked crowd followed, trampling one another in their haste to escape. There were children; Obi Wan pressed further inside the passenger hold, stepping on bodies, seeking for the living. He pushed, shoved, thrust people into the central aisle, herded them along its length. One or two were unconscious; he carried them out. The press thinned; the Force tightened into a shrill wail of imminent danger. He dashed back along the tilted corridor, toward the cockpit, wrenching the doors open with a wave of his hand.
Inside, poison seeped in thick pillows of vapor. The pilots were dead. He reeled, hands and boots slipping in gore, stomach heaving. Something exploded behind him, cutting off escape. The Force drove him forward, guided his hand. He slashed two long lines into the viewport, and hurled his will against it, smashing through the shatterproof transparisteel with a strangled shout, leaping through the jagged opening just as the vessel went up in a bright inferno, spitting harsh chemicals and spinning shards sky high, shaking the earth beneath their feet.
He rolled, and rolled, and then ran, choking and gasping. The crowd was well ahead of him, safe in the cover of the trees, their distress a dizzying lurch in the Force. Sirens and the thrum of hovercraft punctuated their wails and cries: the emergency team, responding in record time.
He stumbled and fell to the ground, head throbbing, his throat and chest burning. He had inhaled a good deal of the poisonous smoke. He coughed, and vomited, and then coughed again, clutching at his chest, eyes streaming. A second explosion rocked the evening air; burning debris fell like fireworks. He pressed his face into the soft earth and groaned.
And people screamed and cried and wept on every side.