Atton dropped the Hawk out of hyperspace when the indicator ran to zero. Nal Hutta filled most of the view screen, with the pale grey ball of Nar Shadaa partially hidden from their current position. No customs ships were waiting, this was Hutt space. Getting in was easy. Getting out with your credits and cargo was a completely different matter.
Atton cut in the sublight drives and brought the Hawk's engines to about eighty percent, making the deck plates vibrate with the throaty growl.
"You feel that?" Choy asked from the co-pilot's seat, frowning.
"Yeah. One of the stabilizers is out of alignment," Atton said, distractedly.
"Not surprising, given what happened in the Peragus field," Choy said, checking the readouts that were powered.
"It's not bad though, or else we'd be shaking a lot worse right now," Atton shrugged. The problem with high performance engines was how easy they fell out of alignment. Still, it was a nice little ship, even after years of Jolee's maintenance.
"Why isn't traffic control challenging us?" Choy asked, as Nar Shadaa began to fill the view screen.
"Well… it's a Hutt port, so nothing is illegal here. The Hutt's take their cut of profits off the top, which means they let the middle men do the leg work of robbing you blind. Mostly the landing pad operators," Atton explained.
"We don't have any cargo for them to skim," Choy pointed out.
"Not their problem. They'll just charge some astronomical docking fees," Atton chuckled.
"How much?" Choy asked tightly.
"Well, let's not find out," Atton said, grinning slyly at Choy. The Ebon Hawk pierced the weak magnetic shield that held in the artificial atmosphere of Nar Shadaa with a shudder, and Atton dropped them down among the canyons of grubby looking skyscrapers, weaving through the sky lanes filled with speeders and ships of almost every make and model, spanning almost a hundred years.
"What are you doing?" Choy asked, concerned. Atton had slowed to a quite respectable crawl, studying various landing pads as they passed, clearly looking for something.
"I'm looking for a pad that doesn't have an active transponder, and doesn't look too abandoned," Atton replied.
"I see. And you can measure load tolerances by eye. Impressive," Choy said sarcastically.
"One of my many talents," Atton agreed, letting his eyes linger a little too long for comfort on Choy.
"At least keep the drives primed, incase we have to escape free fall," Choy grunted, ignoring the pilot.
"Your trust is an inspiration," Atton snipped, carefully throttling the speed down a little more, as he edged onto a likely looking platform. The support struts looked good, and the building didn't have any missing sections.
Still, he was ready to blast out though if he felt even the slightest buckle.
Atton and Choy waited tensely, as the ship swayed slightly in the wind on the unknown platform.
"Well, if it was going to fall, it would have happened by now," Atton decided, about ten minutes later, letting his hand slide off the thrusters toggle.
"Probably," Choy agreed, unbuckling her restraints.
"So if memory serves, we're just inside the Refugee Sector, so probably no one will come looking for us," Atton said, walking next to Choy towards the main hold. The others drifted into the hold from the other three corridors.
"Now… what are we here for?" Atton asked.
"Jolee Bindo was captured, probably by a bounty hunter, and taken to Nar Shadaa. Also, I need to find Master Zez-Kai Ell, who is probably on Nar Shadaa, or was, a year ago," Choy answered.
Atton's face pinched, as he glanced doubtfully at Bao-Dur, who shrugged.
"Can you, uh… sense him?" Atton asked awkwardly.
"Finding a Jedi or anyone else touched by the Force here will be difficult... the mass of people, the rush of their emotions... it makes detection difficult," Kreia murmured unhappily from a corner of the hold. Meetra hadn't noticed her materialize.
"No. I'm sorry," Choy sighed, looking down.
"Well, if we're going to search a moon of a few billion inhabitants for one invisible Jedi, might as well start as soon as possible," Atton said with false cheer, "I'll make flyers."
The Handmaiden bristled at Atton, but said nothing.
"I may know some people who might have information we could use, but most of them are willing to talk to anybody, so we'll have to be careful. And they might be dead by now," Atton offered uncomfortably.
"I should stay with the ship. With the systems powered down, I can make the repairs faster, and I can… deter… thieves," Bao-Dur observed quietly to Choy.
3C-FD chirped worriedly at the word thieves.
"Yes, Three-see. You should stay here and help Bao-Dur," Choy agreed. The little droid bumped his head tentatively against the Iridonian's knee. Bao-Dur glanced down at the utility droid, but didn't scowl this time at the irregular behavior, simply nodded.
"An information broker might know who collected on Jolee," Atton pointed out.
"Perhaps… perhaps we could use the criminals to our advantage?" Handmaiden asked.
"What do you mean?" Mical asked.
"If they hunt the Jedi, could we not use them to flush our quarry from hiding? Criminals with blasters are no match for a Jedi, but could perhaps spread word of us to Master Ell?" Handmaiden asked slowly.
"Idiots with blasters only need to be lucky once," Mical observed bleakly, "And then our search is over."
"If a Jedi is here, he will notice the effect you have on the Force. If he recognizes it, he will know you are near… though if that will let him find you remains to be seen," Kreia counseled.
((()))
A dead world hung within a tempest of the Dark side. A perpetual wound in the Force, where the normal rules of reality could be bent.
A creature with thousands of lifeless eyes lurked, scattered among the debris that ringed the dead world.
It was a place of silence.
A place where Hunger roamed, biding its time, subsisting like a leech upon the bloated corpse of a ruined world, endlessly circling.
Hunger vaguely remembered times when its belly had burst with life. Brief moments of glorious lethargy.
But so long ago. There was always less and less to eat. The banquets had become meals, which had since become scraps, before leaving only the dry ash of this world, where Hunger had been born.
Always to this womb Hunger returned between meals… waiting in the darkness, watching eagerly for any flicker of light.
Something had changed. Hunger sensed this. Pain had long since departed the womb, and Hunger only barely recalled its brother. Pain was not something that could be eaten, so Hunger ignored it, except to recoil if he intruded too closely upon Pain.
There was a stillness, a silence.
Hunger sensed… something. Something was wrong. There was a spreading stillness among the stars, a muffling fog.
It was not of Hunger, nor of Pain.
Life persisted beneath the fog, but Hunger could not perceive it.
The lights were veiled.
Protected in some fashion.
Cheated.
Hunger's anger shook the womb.
The Tongue was dispatched, to find the source.
To see if it could be eaten.
Betrayal watched from the heart of the dead womb, unnoticed by Hunger and laughed at her son.
((()))
Atton was the first off the ship, and onto the landing pad.
"Ah... the beautiful stench of decay and desperate living," he said with mock enthusiasm.
Meetra stared at the landing pad, worried. Some of the metal ribbing was showing on the pad… she resisted the sudden urge to jump up and down, to test the stability of the platform. It had held so far but…
"We'll need to either buy, or rent a speeder," Atton said, remembering how big the Refugee sector was.
An old speeder-truck banked over head, and came to a halt fifty meters away on the causeway ahead of them.
"Taxi?" Meetra asked hopefully, looking at Atton.
"I doubt it," the pilot said slowly, hand drifting down to rest on his blaster as several lightly armored men climbed out, armed with blaster rifles… and looking ready to use them.
"This is Serroco territory. Get out of here before we space you - got it?" the man in the lead barked.
"Serroco?" Meetra asked, startled.
"Republic veterans from Serroco, after the Mandalorian wars they came home to a radioactive planet, and no government relief. They're a tad bitter," Atton whispered hastily to Meetra… but she remembered that battle… it had been a slaughter for the Republic.
"I thought your turf was a few more kilometers east though," Atton called to the armed men.
"Yeah, four years ago. Now get out of here before I blast you," the man in charge said sharply, halting ten meters away.
"We can't," Meetra said calmly.
"Look, lady, I'm not going to argue. Pack it in, and get the hell out of our territory," the man in charge said crossly.
A comlink on his belt chirped, and he yanked it out, trusting to his cohorts to keep the group covered, "This is unit twenty-seven," he said. He listened to the voice for a few seconds, growing more agitated. Meetra caught the words: slaver, and raid.
The man lifted his blaster rifle, and the Echani darted forward, catching the man behind his knees with her leg, which somehow flowed into her hand thrust to the second man's throat, which left him choking and gasping. Mical shot the third man in the face, a stun blast, which dropped him in a clatter of plastoid and his rifle.
"Handmaiden?" Meetra asked, her blaster covering the choking leader.
"His stance was one of killing," the echani explained.
"Good job," Atton said, warily, covering the third man, still armed with his blaster.
Meetra stood over the leader with her own blaster pointed at his face,
"Now, let's try this again," she said pleasantly.
The man glared up at her hatefully.
"What's going on?" she said.
"Slavers are attacking one of our outlying apartment complexes," the man said angrily.
"Slavers?" Handmaiden asked, her lip curling with disgust.
"Probably Red Eclipse again," the man Atton was covering said desperately.
"So you're like… police?" Atton asked in disbelief. The Serroco he remembered where thugs…
"No. They're going after our noncombatants," the man corrected.
"Need any help?" Meetra asked, offering her free hand to the man on the ground. Reluctantly he took it, and Meetra pulled him to his feet.
"This is unit twenty-seven, we're en route, with visitors in tow," the man grunted.
"Try anything cute again, and you're dead, you hear?" the man snarled, pointing at the unconscious man.
"Clear," Meetra said calmly, pointedly shoving her blaster into the holster on her belt.
Atton didn't like this plan. At all. The back of the vehicle smelled like stale sweat, rust, and partially rotten produce. Mostly, he didn't like the lack of windows. Based on the looks he caught from Mical, the other man felt the same.
The hover-truck jolted to a landing, and the leader shoved the rear loading doors open, taking a quick peek outside. "Clear," he said, dropping to the duracrete heavily.
"This happen often?" Meetra asked softly, dropping beside the Serroco leader. Men and women were moving amid the destruction, some weeping, or crying out the names of people now lost… or worse, numbly silent.
"Three times a month, usually they know better than to hit this way. Usually they go after the refugees," the Serroco veteran said grimly.
"I'm sorry," Meetra said quietly.
"Don't be. We bloodied the bastards," the man said. There were a lot of dead bodies that didn't seem to belong to the refugees, considering how casually the searchers were stepping on them.
"I don't remember the slavers being this bad," Atton said, confused.
"About three years ago, the Exchange started putting the squeeze on the Refugee Sector," the veteran said, "No one knows why…"
"Isn't this bad business though? Why don't the Hutts do something?" Meetra asked, trying to understand.
The veteran laughed harshly, "The Hutts don't care about us. We don't contribute cargo or credits to them. We don't serve them as mercs. About all we're good for is a conveniently close corral to haul slaves out of."
"So the rest of the Refugee sector is pretty bad, huh?" Atton prodded. If it was, he'd have to really scour for any of his old contacts.
"It's open season out there. We have blasters and discipline. They've got rocks and pipes," the veteran shook his head, tired, "They got pushed out, building by building over the last three years, mostly by the Exchange, and are clustered now. This hydroponics farm used to be theirs until we moved in," the vet explained.
"You stole it?" Meetra asked harshly.
"The building was empty. We took it before other squatters could," the vet shot back.
Atton leaned in close to Meetra,
"Look, Choy, I doubt the guy we're looking for is here, and any of my surviving contacts are normal refugees, not Serocco vets. We need to get over to the normal refugees," Atton whispered.
Meetra nodded, "I agree, but that's a six kilometer walk, not counting foot path detours, and I don't think they're going to let us walk out as easy as we walked in,"
"Can't you wave your hand at mister soldier, make him give us a lift?" Atton asked.
"I don't influence people," Meetra said stiffly.
"Oh. I thought you did," Atton said, startled, "So him not shooting us was his idea?"
"Yes," Meetra growled.
"Well… shit," Atton said with feeling.
They were stuck.
Mical stared at the hydroponics facility. It was an impressive sight. Nearly ten levels with rows of lighting over growing trays. He couldn't identify the tuber, but it seemed… productive?
"How many does this feed?" he asked, genuinely curious. One of the soldiers shrugged, "Dunno, but enough to feed us, and trade the surplus. Mostly to the refugees, for labor parties."
Oh?
"How do you transport it?" Mical asked innocently.
"Hover trucks," the soldier replied.
"Any shipments happening soon?" Mical pressed.
At that moment, there was a stir from the other end of the facility. It looked like the man in charge had arrived. He even had a plastoid helmet.
"Choy," Mical said, pointing.
"I'll let the captain decide what to do with you," the Serroco vet growled.
((()))
The woman was twenty-three years old, with fiery red hair held from her face by a metal headband. She had a bust and hips in just the right proportion that almost any twi'lek dancer would kill for, beneath a dark green body suit that had very good ballistic weave, almost as good as medium armor without the weight, or bulkiness to hide her figure. A wide belt festooned with pouches hung from her perfect hips.
Pieces of metal armor that had long since lost their original coating of paint guarded her shoulders, left knee, and right forearm.
A reinforced jacket that could unzip from the throat to expose enough cleavage and bare abdomen to leave men drooling right before the stun baton shorted out what was left of their brains completed her outfit.
She was a hunter of men. Usually for business, but sometimes for pleasure.
Her name was Mira, and she was hunting.
His name was Geredi. A male Duros with a gambling problem. He was too good at it, and had beaten the wrong kind of people. They had put out a bounty of one thousand credits, which was very good money on Nar Shadaa.
Geredi had not left the pazaak den he'd holed up in for three days. No one had been crazy enough to go in after him for three reasons.
First, it was owned by the Exchange. Going in shooting was bad for business and would result in the Exchange explaining it in small words and big knives in the middle of the night.
Second, the door guards were all retired mercs or bully boys that had gotten too old for the trade. Too old to run, but time hadn't dulled the speed or aim of their blasters significantly.
Third, Geredi had to come out eventually, and most bounty hunters of opportunity were lazy.
Mira double checked the knife strapped to her left boot, loosened the modified Watchman holdout blaster on her hip (it had similar power to a heavy blaster, but crammed into the tiny watchman's casing). She'd even managed to surprise a few gammoreans with the intensity of the stun setting. Various grenades and rockets were briefly touched, scattered about her jacket and pouches, just to double check.
Pre-hunt ritual complete, the bounty hunter swung her leg off her swoop bike, engaged the anti-theft explosive mounted over the engine block (with sufficiently blinky lights for the really stupid thieves to notice), and stalked towards the pazaak den. It didn't even have a name. It was just a repurposed warehouse, not too far from the docks.
It had no creature comforts beyond safety. Here, you could gamble, and win, without getting shot in the face for winning. True, you had to make a mad run out the door with your winnings… but that was still a good deal.
The gran on duty's three eyes and goatish face turned to lock on to Mira as she approached boldly.
She was pretty sure it was See-Rees.
"Password?" he asked, finger tightening on the chopped off carbine clutched in his thick digits. At this range her jacket and jumpsuit would hardly slow the bolt. Unless it hit one of her beskar plates first.
"Hi, See-Rees. How are you?" Mira asked warmly. Off-world Gran were crazy.
Crazy lonely. It made them unpredictable.
"Mira. I'm working," the Gran replied. Gotcha. It is See-Rees.
"Well, that's good. Nice to see you back on your feet," Mira said.
"Yes. Yes it is," the Gran acknowledged carefully, middle eye twitching.
"I'm working too, but I promise not to make a scene," Mira smiled, reaching out slowly to touch See-Rees wrist carefully. The carbine wasn't quite pointed at Mira. At her touch the gran visible trembled.
It wasn't sexual. Humans were as ugly to Gran, as Gran were to humans. Gran were intensely social creatures. Isolated Gran usually went crazy or killed themselves from the lack of social interaction.
Interaction was better than sex, or drugs. If you were a Gran.
"Ah… Mira. I shouldn't. I really shouldn't," the bouncer said wistfully, carefully (and very reluctantly) pulled his wrist away from her touch.
"You know the rules. No password means you have to check your weapons," See-Rees said firmly.
"I know, but you see, I'm going to need my weapons once I get back outside, and it's going to take a while to get it all back on," Mira sighed wistfully.
"Not really. Belt, knife, wrist launcher, jacket," See-Rees observed.
"What if I give you the knife and the blaster? Could you hold those for me?" Mira asked.
See-Rees trembled.
"I promise not to use anything inside. Really. You know I'm good for it, and no one will see anything either," Mira cajoled.
"I need this job, Mira," See-Rees whispered. Not for the credits. He needed it for the interaction.
"I heard Lootra's Cafe needs a waiter. The last one had an accident yesterday, and so far, no one wants to fill the gap," Mira offered.
She could see the sudden greed in the Gran's eyes. A waiter talked to people more than a bouncer, there was more back and forth. More interaction.
"What cantina owner would hire a Gran for a waiter? See-Rees demanded suspiciously.
"One that owes me a favor," Mira replied levelly. She'd located the owner's lost wife.
See-Rees struggled for several seconds with the decision, before nodding sharply.
"Blaster and knife," he agreed. Mira smiled and handed over the blaster and her mother's knife. They looked too small in the Gran's oversized hands, but the alien carefully placed them in large pockets on his black jumpsuit.
"It was good to see you, Mira," the Gran smiled, revealing his mouthful of blocky teeth.
"Be back in a moment," Mira laughed, sauntering into the pazaak den.
Mira was packing enough discrete grenades, wrist rockets, and wrist darts to leave the entire den lifeless, three times over.
But Mira didn't play that way. Live bounties always paid more, you had fewer angry relatives to contend with, and if you had a reputation for live capture, once the target understood it was over, they usually accepted it with fewer last minute hysterics.
Unless it was a Hutt bounty… better to die quick than whatever those slugs had in mind for you…
Plus, the males usually thought they could sweet talk her later. The most amusing had been the Faleen, Vizen. Poor bastard had come along so meekly, talking the whole way on the swoop bike, not realizing that his pheromones weren't working, that she wasn't being driven into tighter and tighter circles of sexual desire for him… since she had olfactory blockers. The look of dumbfounded horror when she'd handed him over to Vogga the Hutt's majordomo had been priceless.
Mira stopped in the entryway and scanned the cramped room. Dozens of tables were filled with huddled shapes, bent over cards, with flickering lights in the center of each table to fitfully illuminate the players. Not from a desire to make the room moody, you understand. The proprietor was just cheap.
Mira felt her eyes tighten uncomfortably, as the retinal combat implants activated in the low light. As she looked around, she only saw eight Duros in the room, letting the implants compare visual scans against the profile loaded in her datapad. Finally, one of the duros blinked red, confirming a positive ID.
Mira passed through the crowded tables, before stopping next to Geredi. His gray skin looked grayer than normal health, probably from stress, and the rheumy orange eyes darted nervously from his cards, back to Mira.
"Hello Geredi. It's time to fold," Mira said pleasantly. Bounty time. His eyes darted over her, to the empty holster and lack of obvious weapons.
"Searching for a game, hu-man, hmmmn? Must be willing to lose if you play, no time for great human upsets and accusations, very troubling, very upsetting," the gambler replied, irritated.
Most of the credit chips were stacked in front of Geredi, but there was several hundred in the center of the table too. The other four players were glaring at Geredi. Two quarren, a sullustan, and a devaronian.
"Geredi. Time is money. The bounty to deliver you to Oonder is not significant, and I may be tempted to take Twik-gar's bounty instead," Mira threatened softly.
"Ah. Human, I feel my luck slipping away. Time to fold, I think," the duros mumbled, tossing his cards onto the table and raking up the winnings he'd made so far, shoving them into a pouch at his belt. The other gamblers seemed both relieved at his exodus from the round, but also bitter with how much money had just vanished from the table. It's not like they were going to win it back from Geredi.
Mira carefully took Geredi by the upper arm, and walked him through the tables.
The Duros proudly kept his head up as other patrons jeered his misfortune.
"Real popular guy," Mira observed.
"Fools and their money are easiest to part," Geredi sniffed.
"Alright, now, we're going to walk out. Across the walkway my swoop bike is in an alley, ready to go. Get on, and if anything happens, stay low, alright?" Mira said, speaking quickly as they neared the entrance.
"You keep me safe, right human?" Geredi demanded.
"You're no good to me dead," Mira pointed out.
"Except for Twik-gar's bounty!" Geredi retorted.
"No, he wants you alive too. But probably not for your safety," Mira shrugged. She stopped at the door and See-Rees quickly handed over the blaster and knife.
"I see no one suspicious, Mira," the Gran whispered softly.
Which wasn't to say there wasn't anyone there, but it would be quite a feat to avoid a Gran's vision.
"Thanks See-Rees. Just tell Ralik that Mira recommended you," Mira replied, keeping her blaster in hand, but held loosely at her side, casual-like.
She glanced around quickly, but didn't see any obvious watchers, and most of the people stumbling by weren't stopping to gawk either. Naturally though everyone was armed. This was Nar Shadaa.
"Okay. Go," Mira snapped, pulling the nervous Duros along.
They almost made it to the swoop bike too.
"Mira!"
The bounty hunter spun, yanking Geredi down into cover beside a waste receptacle at See-Rees' shout of alarm.
A blaster bolt skipped off the duracrete at her feet, and the huntress quickly spotted the rodian in the crowd. Everyone not involved immediately crouched and scurried to cover, leaving the idiot exposed. Mira fired almost instinctively, aided by the retinal implants, and her shot destroyed most of the Rodian's right hand, forcing him to drop the blaster.
Three shots from See-Rees's carbine didn't leave much of the Rodian's ribcage behind.
Really overclocked capacitor, Mira observed. It was probably hell on power packs though.
A forth shot that was so bright it nearly blinded Mira though took a human in the throat who had just risen up next to Mira from his cowering crouch with a vibro-blade, incidentally decapitating the man. Sort of. There wasn't sign of anything above the neck at least.
Mira spun to look behind her. A looming shape was hunched next to her swoop bike, slowly lowering the monstrously sized plasma projector. The weapon was quite illegal everywhere. It could kill hovertanks.
"Mira," the Trandoshan hissed. He was big, even for his kind, nearly 2.5 meters tall, whenever he bothered to straighten his back.
"Vossk. I didn't know you were hunting here," Mira said respectfully.
Her guildmaster shrugged one massive shoulder.
"A minor bounty only," he hissed, gesturing carelessly with a claw at Geredi's cowering form.
"Just trying to keep your claws sharp?" Mira asked. Vossk didn't usually hunt. He was old by Trandoshan standards, nearly sixty-years of age. She'd seen his trophy room before. It was filled with the bones of things that had died at the old Trando's hands.
But sometimes the old ones liked to feel the rush of youth.
"Impertinent. But accurate," the Trandoshan hissed with possible amusement.
Mira could never tell if the old reptile liked her or if she was just an amusing diversion of boredom. On one hand, he showed up at inopportune times a lot, but on the other hand, he could have been a lot nastier about things too.
"Sorry, I bagged Geredi first. I'm taking him in to the client now," Mira said, jutting her chin out.
"I concur. I am feeling quite captured," Geredi's voice drifted out of the pile of garbage he was currently face down within. Probably best Duros didn't have noses.
"I see. So your mark did not escape?" Vossk purred dangerously.
"No," Mira said, lowering her blaster, but stepping closer to Vossk.
Trandoshans cared more about eye contact and posture, than words. Problem was, they could also smell fear, so you had to actually also not be afraid.
Mira wasn't an idiot. She kept her gaze focused on his snout.
She was trying for respectful of skill, but disagreement with intent.
Vossk stepped closer, bending down to look at her, his teeth and carrion breath only centimeters away. Most human instincts screamed predator! Run or Fight!
Mira ignored those, and instead waited patiently. If he made a move, she was dead, but she'd make sure he felt it. Besides, the Hunter Code was on her side. Hunters weren't supposed to poach from each other.
The Trandoshan snorted, pulling back.
"I acknowledge your claim, per the code."
He watched them pass with inscrutable slotted eyes, on the way to the swoop bike.
((()))
"So you lot wiped the floor with my response team?" the Captain asked, faintly amused.
"The pale one's fast," the vet complained.
"Of course she is, corporal. She's Echani," the captain chuckled. His rifle was held loosely, and he was five meters away. Outside of easy melee range.
He'd obviously noticed that Meetra's party was still armed.
"Do your teams frequently attack without provocation?" Choy asked sharply.
"They are encouraged to, yes. Not attacking gets them attacked," the captain replied.
"Because we are clearly struggling under the weight of all our weaponry, slaving collars, and shock cuffs," Choy retorted.
"You might be spotters, or spies, for the slavers," the captain said coolly, "We've had that happen sometimes."
"Caution, my student. I believe this man might have recognized you," Kreia said, standing close beside the captain, hooded face peering intently at the helmeted man.
"I feel… that he might have respected you in the past. This could prove to our advantage…" Kreia murmured.
"Ah… and there it is. This is Captain Ulani. He served with you at Serocco, and Duros," Kreia crooned, her fingers pulling free of the captain's head.
Meetra drew her blaster slowly between two fingers and laid it on the deck. The Serroco veterans covered her carefully with their blasters as she did so. Then she slowly walked towards the captain, hands clearly held away from her sides.
She stopped, two meters away from the captain.
"Do you think I'm a slaver, Captain Ulani?" Choy asked quietly.
The man studied her for several long seconds, before lowering his rifle, and hooked his helmet off with his free hand.
The face beneath matched the battered helmet. He'd lost an eye which had been replaced with a prosthetic. His black hair was still shaved close to the head per regulation, and Choy remembered his high cheek bones.
"I wasn't quite sure. You look different with short hair and coveralls," Ulani said quietly.
"We all turned our hands to different things after the war," Meetra observed softly.
"So we did," Ulani agreed. He turned to the other ex-soldiers.
"Fall out. I know this one," he hooked his thumb at Meetra.
Reluctantly the other soldiers drifted away, to attend to other duties.
"I heard you died at Malachor," Captain Ulani said, curious.
"Not completely," Choy said, shrugging.
"So… what brings General Surik here, to the heart of the Exchange? I assume you know about the bounty?" Ulani asked, incredulous.
"I may have heard mention of it, yes," Choy smiled.
Ulani's scarred face broke slightly into an almost smile.
"If not for you, our company wouldn't have made it off Serroco… and our families wouldn't have been in the storm shelters. So… I'm guessing you aren't here by chance. Is it time to call the favor due?"
((()))
Vossk walked through his trophy room restlessly. He could feel the arthritis sneaking up on him like an irritating kinrath spider. The old trando ignored its bite, and instead stopped beside a pedestal that held the remains of a gundark. The skull had a massive hole in it, but mingled with the skeleton was another's bones. The trandoshan skull was half crushed, and only vaguely identifiable as such because Vossk's claw tips knew it intimately.
Trisok. His youngest son. It should have been a joyous time, but his son had made the greatest mistake any hunter could make. He'd not respected his prey, and had died on the eve of his transition to adulthood.
Vossk continued to wander, sadly running his claws across older bones, from other hunts. Other sons. Some had not fallen to arrogance, but simple misfortune, or had been bested honestly by the prey.
He had no heirs left to him. None to pass on his wisdom and experience earned with a lifetime of hunting.
But perhaps… perhaps Mira could be groomed to assume his mantle. She was among the greatest in his guild, perhaps surpassed in pure ability by the Twin Suns, but their love for killing often interfered with their hunting.
Mira was born for the hunt, but she would not kill. Maim certainly, but not kill, much like certain tracking hounds.
It frustrated Vossk greatly, because with just a little more work, she would be extraordinary. He just needed to shape her a little more, to be worthy. Although it was the hunt, and not the kill that gave glory, a hunter still needed to be able to kill.
The Scorekeeper might respect such skill, but still only awarded points for kills.
Tired, the Trandoshan slumped from his trophy room and the painful memories, the failure of his line, seeking his sleep pallet, to dream of better times… when he could look forward to the day one of his son's would kill him… rather than the slow stalk of age.
((()))
"Pleasure doing business with you," Mira said brightly, taking the credits from the grumbling Oondar. The duros shop keeper glared at his brother, Geredi, before shoving him towards the waiting tramp freighter. It was only three hundred credits, but with a call to her bookie, that sum tripled. Some idiots had been willing to put odds that Geredi would get slagged during his escape to the space port.
Mira had taken those odds, two to one, against. It hadn't been significant odds, because Mira had a reputation… but hey, credits were credits. She'd made almost as much money as Twik-gar's bounty. Plus, she only owed a five percent guild fee on the bounty from Geredi. Not the wager.
((()))
Bao-Dur struggled to maintain his focus, as he hunted through the ship's wiring harness. He was accumulating a pile of wiring from bypass shunts he had removed, after repairing the actual faulty circuits and power distribution problems the bypass had "repaired." Bypass shunts were supposed to be a temporary measure, for use during emergencies, until the problem could be fixed, since they caused excessive strain. Some showed signs of being in place for years. In effect, the Ebon Hawk was a stonerat nest just waiting to catch fire. Without using a microspectrometer over each and every command, power pathway, junction, and circuit, Bao-Dur wouldn't know which components were still in prime condition, or so degraded on a structural level that the next power fluctuation would knock them off-line, burn out, or explode.
Bao-Dur felt something nudge his knee timidly. The technican glared down, to see 3C-FD holding out an energy distribution cap in it's crude grasper arm. Bao-Dur shook his head, he already had one—
The Iridonian growled in annoyance though as bits of crushed plastic and circuits spilled from the clenched fist of his mechanical hand.
"Thank you," Bao-Dur grunted, accepting the cap from the General's droid. It continued to watch him intently, and the open access panel.
Clearly it was capable of diagnosing at least moderately complex repair problems and anticipating needed tools or components without being asked.
Bao-Dur considered the temptation of loosing the droid on any of the smaller repairs at knee height, with panels it could access… but decided against it. He was having enough trouble keeping track on his schematic which areas and systems he'd already fixed among the myriad of cross ship and even cross system bypasses. 3C-FD was increasing the repair rate…
Bao-Dur sighed, and wiped the remaining bits of the crushed distributer cap off on the leg of his coveralls, reaching back inside the open junction panel.
T3-M4 unobtrusively watched the Iridonian continue to repair the Ebon Hawk's power distribution systems with the aid of the stock utility droid. T3-M4 had done its best over the years to rectify the most egregious of Jolee's maintenance attempts, but there were many access panels and junction boxes T3-M4 couldn't access with it's model configuration… mostly panels at two meters or higher, or overhead.
As such, due to the observed hostility of the Iridonian towards T3-M4, and the sheer bulk of necessary repairs, the droid decided it was unlikely the technician would notice T3-M4's absence. The droid ran a quick diagnostic on the concealed blaster pistol in its dorsal compartment, rating it at 93.2% of optimal efficiency, and with sufficient blaster gas and charge for defensive… or offensive actions.
After all, Nar Shadaa could not be worse than Taris's lower city… or the depths of Manaan… or the Starforge… or even the jungles of Dxun… Even if HK-47 wasn't present to kill things or insult T3-M4's perceived inadequacies.
Cheered by the comparative threat analysis, the small droid keyed the Ebon Hawk's main ramp to cycle itself, and close behind T3-M4 once safely outside.
It was time to locate T3-M4's real master.
((()))
"You want a ride into that hell hole?" Captain Ulani asked, incredulous.
"They're desperate. They'll pull you down and rob you. The Exchange has them penned in so tight, they're practically eating each other. The boys have to shoot them off half the time when we drop off food, and pick up work detail volunteers," Ulani protested.
"Uh, Choy, starting to have some bad feelings about this idea," Atton said, glancing nervously at Ulani.
"Why didn't you try to help them?" Choy asked.
"Because there's about two thousand of us including dependents, and almost a million of them," Ulani said tightly, "Besides, we drop off some of the extra food to them. If we hadn't taken this facility, the refugees would be getting none of the food."
"Can we borrow a speeder?" Choy asked stubbornly.
"No. It'll be stripped to a husk within minutes of walking away from it," Ulani said flatly.
"Then drop us off. If we call, will you pick us up?" Choy asked.
Captain Ulani was clearly unhappy about the entire idea…
"Yes. But split into two speeders. I want enough riflemen to deter speeder jacking," the man growled.
The women and men split up for the ride. Atton sat uncomfortably next to Mical, eying the medic.
"You did bring your blaster, right?" Atton asked suddenly.
"Of course," Mical said, his hand lightly touching his tunic.
"When we get there, keep it in your hand. And don't let anyone touch you, otherwise your pocket's will be empty," Atton said darkly. The medic screamed I'm an easy mark!
The medic's perfect eyebrows crinkled with worry, "Thank you, any other advice?"
Yeah, stop being so nice.
"Stay close, don't get separated, and assume everyone wants to kill you for your boots, or sell you to a rape-gang," Atton grumbled, fingers dancing lightly over his blaster and vibro-blade.
Mical pulled out his blaster, checking the fire selector, but Atton noted that it was set to stun.
"Look, pretty boy, you start shooting stun blasts and they will mob you, not much fear of stunning," Atton sighed.
"I'm not going to shoot to kill," Mical said stiffly.
"Don't. A crippling injury is much more terrifying. Not much medical care here. Aim for legs and arms, or genitals if it's a species that has 'em. Dead is dead, and not much worse than living in this shit hole, crippled though and you might become anyone's rape-pallet," Atton shrugged.
Mical stared at Atton, shocked.
Atton glanced over to the other speeder that was ahead of them, and eyed the echani's short cropped white hair, since the slipstream made her hood impossible to wear.
"Is the echani going to be a liability?" Atton asked.
Mical shrugged, his open face disturbed, "Her ribs are well along the path to recovery, and should withstand light blows, but still… as long as she is careful she should be fine."
"Hasn't been careful so far," Atton grumbled under his breath, too quiet for Mical to hear above the rushing air. The speeders banked towards a grouping of six larger complexes linked by plastiboard / cable walkways. The buildings were clustered into a rough hexagon, with several conjoined plazas made of duracete on multiple levels in the fifty-meter space, each with a hole in the center that took up a third of the space. The buildings themselves ranged in height, but all were roughly a hundred meters in diameter, Atton guessed by eyeball.
For a heart stopping second, Atton thought the Serroco were going to land them in one of the plazas that was packed with people, but they were just angling for a better low deflection angle on the lowest of the six building's roof. There were still a lot of refugees on that roof, but it was more akin to a tent city, and not a seething wall of bodies. People scattered at the whine of the speeder repulsors, clearly air speeders were not a frequent, nor welcome sight here.
"Go!" the trooper tapped Atton on the shoulder, rifle raised to cover the port side of the speeder. The third trooper in the air car wrestled a case of food over the side, letting the sturdy container fall with a clack to the grimy permacrete roof.
"Come on," Atton growled, sliding out of the speeder, blaster in hand. Mical was only a half-second behind him, and tucked close.
Maybe he was a medic. Something military, Atton mused, as the second crate hit the ground at the same time as him.
Choy felt the backwash ruffle her lengthening hair as the speeders lifted away, leaving the four of them alone on the roof. Choy looked around at the dirty faces that peered out from the warren of plastic and canvas tents. Choy glanced at the four crates that Ulani had let them take beside her. Each held about a cubic meter of packed tubers.
"I'm trying to find a friend!" Choy called out to the watching crowd, "I think he may have come here in the last few years. This food is a gift!" she waved to the crates.
Choy signaled the others, and backed away from the crates of food, about ten meters, her hands clearly empty, even if Atton and Mical's were not.
Cautiously the largest, or most desperate among the tent tribe emerged, most clutching clubs made from pipes with weights attached to one end, or wired sharp bits. A few also carried shivvs or blades made from wire wrapped handles and sharpened pieces of metal siding.
"Bow, at eighty-three degrees," Atton muttered, his shoulder edging protectively in front of Choy, keeping his face locked on the projectile weapon wielder. Choy noticed for the first time that Atton's jacket felt reinforced.
"I see her," Choy said.
"Three also carry slings, at twenty-three, forty-seven, and one hundred twelve degrees," Handmaiden observed tersely, shock staff in hand but not deployed nor active.
The armed refugees crept up to the crates, and a large man with a scraggly gray beard used his machete to smash the locking mechanism of the top crate.
"It's not locked. Just hit the release," Choy observed. The big man ignored her, smashing the other three crate latches as well. He reached inside, studying the tubers. He handed one of the tubers to the Kubaz next to him. The long snouted alien let its prehensile nose quest over the surface of the tuber, multiple nostril flaps flaring noisily.
The alien nodded, making an affirmative gobble/honk with its nose, handing the tuber back to the big man. The man's shoulders relaxed slightly, and he gestured above his head. The others swarmed over the crates, snatching out handfuls of tubers. The big man kept his wary eyes on Choy and her companions. Within minutes the contents of the crates, as well as the crates themselves, had vanished into the refugee camp. Only the big man and six other refugees remained, facing off at about ten meters.
Choy stepped forward, her hands empty, aside from the clank of tools on her harness, although one of the hyperspanners on her belt was actually her old lightsaber after a few concealing additions. Various weapons shifted in hand, but the group of refugees held their ground. The big man's machete was held loosely at his side.
"May I speak with you?" Choy asked.
The big man studied her, eyes especially lingering on her bulging equipment harness, as if searching it for concealed weapons, a futile attempt.
He nodded slowly, but also took two measured steps forward, away from his probable guards.
The two met in the space between, stopping with three meters of separation.
"What do you want?" the big man asked, his voice was higher pitched than Choy expected. Not ridiculously so, but it didn't seem to fit his broad shoulders or thick neck.
"My name is Choy Verdan. I'm looking for a man I knew from before the Jedi Civil War. He may have been forced to come here in the last two years. If he did, he would have had to change his name," Choy said evenly.
"Good luck then. Even with a real name, people are hard to find here. Especially in the last year," the man observed neutrally. Choy couldn't tell the color of his eyes, beyond not brown, possibly green or blue, in the low light.
"I was hoping I could ask around. I promise not to harm anyone unless attacked," Choy proposed.
The man studied her warily, "Those speeders looked like Serroco was driving them… but this isn't the right time for a food delivery."
"Captain Ulani owed me a favor. He was generous enough to help try and… smooth our introductions," Choy said, smiling slightly.
"If that is the leader of Serroco, I've never met him," the man replied gruffly.
"Please. It's vital that I find my friend," Choy said softly, her hands held helplessly.
The man stared at her for several minutes, chewing on his lip.
"You know how to use those tools?" he asked finally, glancing at the varied group behind her.
"I'm a ship mechanic by trade," Choy shrugged, "But I've turned my hand to other things before."
The man nodded slowly, tapping his knee with the flat of his machete. Finally he came to a decision.
"My name is Hussef. I lead the refugees here, and on the two floors below us. I can ask around, spread word, but you'll have to talk to the other camp leaders. Not all of them are… civil… to newcomers," Hussef shrugged.
"Thank you," Choy said warmly, holding out her hand. Hussef glanced at her relatively clean hand, but Choy did not lower it, and after a shrug, he placed his own begrimed hand with blackened fingernails in her smaller hand, accepting the hand shake.
"I have some two-dee pictures on flimsi, of my friend from a few years ago. Can I give some of them to you?" Choy asked. Hussef nodded, "A picture's more help than an old name."
It had been a bit of a trick to crop the holo picture to eliminate the impression of Jedi robes, and imply a simple tunic, but Choy still appreciated Atton's contribution. Choy had wanted to just show the picture on her datapad but Atton had laughed her out of the security blister, explaining that was the best way to get her datapad snatched.
Atton had also smudged a few bits of the picture, distorting a jaw and brow line here and there, so that an automated facial scan wouldn't immediately ping the picture as belonging to Zez-Kai Ell, Jedi Master. It was still close enough for a person to recognize, but should fall outside the percentage required for an automated match. The trick, Atton had said, was not to do just one thing. Mess a little with everything.
To Choy's eye, it looked more like a fraternal brother of Zez, especially when side by side with the original picture for comparison.
Hussef squinted at the picture in the light from the nearby holo-ad board.
"I'll ask around, if we do find him, who should I tell is looking for him?" Hussef asked.
"An old friend named Meetra," Choy answered promptly. Meetra was a fairly common name.
Hussef raised an eyebrow, "Any last name?"
"No. If it is him, he'll know my last name. I don't want any con artists answering," Choy shrugged. "Also, I wrote a com frequency account number on the back of the picture."
Hussef nodded, pocketing the picture.
((()))
T3-M4 took the skywalk over two buildings, then used a drop shaft to go down fifteen levels, trusting to its downloaded area map. Several creatures of various sentience had shadowed the lone droid's passage, but usually singeing the most curious of them would scatter the remainder to seek out weaker targets. The ability to rotate and fire the concealed blaster in any direction without slowing had also been helpful.
An hour later, T3-M4 reached a data transfer node. It was of course protected by a 2 cm thick duratanium casing, but T3-M4 made significant progress with careful application of its plasma cutter and crude grasping arm. T3-M4 killed two silicon-based mynocks that landed nearby to investigate the light of the plasma cutter with pinpoint blaster shots to the compound eyes above the sucker mouths.
The droid carefully threaded a computer probe into the narrow opening, sifting among the data cables in the conduit until finding its target. Fifteen minutes later, the droid had successfully ingratiated itself into the planetary traffic control mainframe.
The tramp freighter Star of Ganar had arrived 13 days ago, before taking on new passengers and departing for Corellia. T3-M4 was glad that the archived holocam footage for the landing pad hadn't been erased even though it was poor quality and clearly meant to watch the bay for security, not identify passengers. T3-M4 located the unknown droid disembarking from the freighter but saw no sign of Jolee, although the droid was pushing a two meter long case fitted with anti-gravs that was easily large enough to hold a body. T3-M4 discarded the possibility that the abduction droid had trusted accomplices to deliver Jolee, and was acting as decoy. Instead the droid began tracking the case using various traffic holocams, (and guessing when the droid moved through an area that had nonfunctional cams, to pick up the trail again). T3-M4 finally lost the droid and the case after the droid entered a warehouse district fifteen kilometers from the spaceport. After spending three hours scanning heavily accelerated holocams within a four kilometer radius, T3-M4 still had not seen the droid or case emerge, and the time stamp on the video had advanced to the present time.
Presumably the Master was still in that area… or had been moved in such a way to avoid suspicion. Regardless, T3-M4 would have to explore the area for clues to the Master's whereabouts. The droid detached, and began its new journey. T3-M4 was making progress.
((()))
Mira crouched on the lip of the abandoned warehouse, manually adjusting the macrobinoculars. The target was still hiding in the same apartment complex. She appraised the different angles of approach, double-checking a set of suspended power conduits, that she might be able to climb across on… or she could skip it, and just use her wrist piton. It had a thirty meter range, though she wouldn't appreciate the jerk on her shoulder at the bottom, and wasn't sure five hundred credits was worth the shoulder pain she'd have in the morning.
"Mira," a voice said behind her, causing the bounty hunter to almost drop the macrobinoculars. She spun angrily, but the rebuke died on her lips. He was here.
"What do you want?" Mira asked, annoyed. Good macrobinoculars were expensive to replace.
"A… friend of mine has come to Nar Shaddaa. I need you to watch her," the man named Kaille said. His beard hid most of his face, falling down on his rough tunic. He looked like any other refugee, even down to the dirt in his fingernails.
"So hire a private investigator," Mira said, turning back to the job she had.
"You owe me several favors, Mira, and you know I have no money," the man reminded her softly.
"Yeah…" she sighed. Let a man save your life by accident, and it could get inconvenient real quick.
Mira remained silent for nearly a minute, struggling with her annoyance.
"Tell me more," Mira said reluctantly.
((()))
Atton split off from Choy, Mical close at his heels, mingling with the half-starved refugees, fishing for anyone who knew where any of his old contacts might be. Most people didn't recognize the names, or descriptions, a few people did, but only to tell him that they'd died, been captured by slavers, or hadn't been seen in months. Atton greased a few of the more capable looking palms with a credit or two, and a promise of more credits if a meeting could be arranged.
Mical watched Atton ply his trade with silent though frank eyes. A couple of male twi'leks recognized Atton, but the rogue couldn't place them. Not one of his people, but the older of the pair did know one of his old people, Borna Lys, and was even able to give him the name of an employer only a year old. To them, Atton gave a whole five credits, and the promise to return with either another five credits, or a blaster to the face, depending on the truthfulness of the information. Neither man flinched, not even their lekku, but greed did light up their eyes at the thought of more credits.
Atton canvassed the cramped two floors below the roof for good measure, losing another thirty credits total, but he didn't get any better leads. It was probably still a good investment though.
"So… we should look for this Borna Lys?" Mical asked.
"No. I'll look for her, it's not in the Refugee quarter, and I don't want to leave Choy with just the Ice-princess as back-up, or else she'll try and help everyone in the Refugee Sector," Atton said sharply.
"Ah, you may have a point," Mical allowed gently.
They reached the roof again, and after a few minutes scanning above the hedges of tents, Atton spotted the echani's white hood, and angled through the maze.
"Please be careful," Mical said quietly, as he left Atton's side to join Choy, who was tinkering obliviously with the strewn guts of something mechanical, inside a ring of hopeful eyes. The ice-schutta was outside the ring, but watching everyone with the same intensity as a nikto eyed his Hutt master's guests.
"Relax. I'm always careful," Atton lied, pulling out his comlink to signal for a pick up, ignoring the damned soulfully sincere pretty-boy eyes. Not because it might actually ingratiate Mical to Atton; he just didn't want to risk nausea.
((()))
Atton double checked the coordinates on his data pad, but it still took him several minutes to spot which of the doors leading from the tangled walkway belonged to "Lupo's Swoop Gallery." Mostly because the only parts of the sign still legible from blaster fire was **P*** S*oop G******. The aspiring artist had even tried to make the blasts into some kind of lopsided face.
The rogue thought he'd picked the wrong door though, because the gallery was dead. The cheap plastic chairs were empty, aside from the remnants of old meals, a ripped carry bag, and regret. There should have been people in those chairs, placing bets while watching the holoprojectors of the races.
The holoprojectors were still there, and had not yet been pilfered by any enterprising street urchins, but were powered down.
So where's the money coming from?
"Hello?" Atton called, a little off put. Seemed like a good place to get murdered and dragged into the back room.
"Ah!" a woman popped up off her arms, her head appearing above the partition that shielded the kiosk from view.
"A patron?" she asked blearily. Orange (probably) hued female twi'lek. Check.
"Borna Lys?" Atton asked cautiously. He couldn't really see her in the low light, but the reverse would not be true. It had been years since he'd last seen her, and faces tended to blur after a while. Slurred from recent sleep was also not the best way to identify a voice not heard in over five years either.
"Who's asking?" the woman asked, and Atton noticed furtive movements that said blaster to his lizard brain, but he recognized the voice.
"I'm hurt, Borna, that you've forgotten me already," Atton said coyly, hands clearly empty, at shoulder level.
"Jaq?" the woman whispered.
"Been a while, eh Borna?" Atton smiled.
"You dirty little core-slime. I should shoot you," the twi'lek woman hissed.
"Sorry, I owed Red Eclipse credits I didn't have, and I had a chance to run. You know they would have gone after people I cared about if I stayed," Atton said softly.
A safety catch engaged, and Borna hissed, letting whatever hidden weapon she had rest upon the kiosk desk with an annoyed clunk. She also reluctantly turned on a few sullen illumi-strips. Borna Lys wasn't a classic twi'lek beauty, but she was certainly not a trial to stare at… although there were more lines on her forehead and around her mouth in the slightly brighter lighting.
"I guess you bought a new identity?" Borna asked tightly.
"Atton. Atton Rand," Atton shrugged helplessly.
"You don't look like an Atton," Borna sniffed.
"That's kind of the point," Atton noted.
Borna's shoulders stiffened, "You had reasons for leaving. Fine. I'm not letting you back into my bed, or my life."
Atton nodded slowly, "That's fair. I need to find some people, and I can pay."
"A lot of the old informants are gone. Most of them died," Borna noted archly.
"I've noticed," Atton sighed.
"I got out of that trade a year ago, and the Refugee Sector, but I may know some people," Borna said quietly.
"Yeah. I'm helping some people that saved my life look for a friend, but he's probably in the Refugee Sector," Atton said, holding out one of the doctored pictures of Zez-Kai Ell. Borna took the picture dismissively.
"Friends?" she asked cynically. Not bounty hunters or Exchange collectors?
"Yes, Borna, friends. They're good people. Stupidly so, and it's going to get them hurt, but good people," Not like me hung in the air between them, unspoken, but equally acknowledged.
"They're not trying to hurt him, but it is important they speak. I can't say more, it's not my place," Atton said levelly, not looking away from Borna.
Borna took a second, slower look at the picture, frowning, "I… I'll ask around."
It sounded like she might actually do it too.
Atton looked around the empty swoop gallery, "So… just out of curiosity, what kind of front business is this?"
Borna scowled, "I wish it was a front… but no. It's a legitimate swoop gallery. The owner is an idiot though."
That was a surprise. He'd been guessing this was a front for money laundering, with fictitious patrons placing bets on fictitious racers, to be received by real bookies. "Taxable" of course, but untraceable and as clean as credits got this close to Nal Hutta.
"It's a shame too. I liked working here at first, before Lupo commissioned his racing droid."
"Wait, a racing droid?" Atton scoffed.
"It was cheap, little more than an advanced auto-pilot with excellent collision avoidance subroutines and a complete lack of self-preservation. Very light-weight too," Borna shrugged.
"So how did a droid do this? Kill all the other racers?" Atton asked darkly.
"What? No. It doesn't have any combat programming. It just couldn't be beaten. What's the point of betting when the outcome is certain?" Borna scowled.
"Oh."
Yeah, that would do it.
"Why'd he build the droid then? What's wrong with racers taking a cut to dive?" Atton asked, genuinely curious.
"We're in Exchange territory. They take a cut from the profits of fixed races. But if you don't fix the races… no cut."
"I'm surprised the Exchange didn't accidentally firebomb the gallery," Atton muttered.
"Oh, they might have, but the Hutts have been looking for reasons to squeeze the Exchange, and Lupo was still paying his fees to the Hutts. Besides, within a month of having an unbeatable pilot, there weren't any idiots left to bet against the droid. Price of admission is nothing compared to revenue from betting. Didn't take long for all of the pilots to find other places to race... and the Exchange probably laughed at us and walked away," Borna said sourly.
"So… if there's no money, how are you still here?" Atton asked.
Borna smiled nastily, "I'm the only one who didn't run away. Besides, I own thirty-percent of this business. Sold my hole-in-the-wall apartment, I live out of the back room now. Just food expenses. Still better than the Refugee Sector though."
"And you'll die before you go back to dancing," Atton nodded sagely. Dancing was the polite term.
"Exactly," Borna snapped.
"Is Geeda still around?" Atton asked casually. The rodian female had a hard on for humans… something of a perversion to her brethren. At the time, Atton had been somewhat inebriated, and quite pliable to suggestive fingers. Even fingers with sucker tips. The marks had eventually faded, and hadn't been anywhere noticeable when clothed. Compound eyes aside, she had breasts, and hips in roughly the right proportions, with a boarding ramp in roughly the right spot… especially when unable to see straight from alcohol poisoning… and randyness.
"Geeda… wait, the really friendly rodian? The friendship ambassador one?" Borna asked suspiciously.
"I need to thank her. She helped sneak me onto an outbound freighter," Atton said, truthfully. He'd been completely sober for that encounter, although highly motivated to escape Red Eclipse with all of his parts attached…
"Oh," the suspicious glint faded from Borna's eyes.
You have no idea…
"I think… I think she might own a store, or a stall, or something. I know she's not in the Refugee sector anymore…"
"Thanks Borna. You can contact us at the account number on the back of the flimsi," Atton said. He stood awkwardly for a moment.
"I'm sorry this didn't work out for you," Atton said lamely, if truthfully, his hand gesturing to encompass the gallery. Then he turned to leave.
"You aren't even going to ask about her are you?" Borna growled.
Atton knew exactly who "her" was.
"Leaving was the best thing I ever did for her," Atton said coldly, shouldering his way out, and up the entrywell stairs.
Atton had learned that one the hard way. It was also one of the few reasons he could still look himself in the mirror without chewing a blaster bolt.
Atton's comlink started chirping, but Atton ignored it. He was in no mood to talk to anyone. It wouldn't stop chirping though, and Atton yanked it out of his jacket.
"Yes?" he asked sharply.
"Why, handsome, I'm hurt. You don't call, you don't write… I've missed you," a husky voice purred into his ear.
Atton felt ice in his stomach. Luxa.
"Yeah… well, some things came up," Atton hedged, worried.
"A different woman might be jealous. But I know you, Jaq… and I've learned some interesting information about your friend," Luxa purred.
"What's it going to cost me?" Atton asked flatly.
"My dear, nothing. I just need… a favor," Luxa laughed, "which is much cheaper than two million credits."
Well…
Shit.