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Chapter 21
What You Seek
Smoke and Jizz music filled the dirty bar. A Bith band cut loose. Criminals moved freely, Axxila's police bribed into negligence.
The Boy sat tiredly, nursing a Juma. He'd made 200 credits picking pockets in the market. But he was sore from being chased.
He was halfway to drunk, when a Bothan named Corren approached, light-whip on his belt. Human cronies stood in shadow.
"You're in my chair," Corren snarled.
The Boy grinned. "Finders keepers. This is Axxila, after all." He touched his belt, confirming his blaster.
"You must have a death wish."
"Yeah, but whose death?" The Boy fired under the table. Corren screamed as a blaster bolt ripped through his side.
The Boy shot two thugs. He leapt from his seat, tackling the others. His blaster slid away. But he grabbed one of theirs. He shot one man dead—but the last one pounced.
The man punched him in the jaw. He kneed him in the stomach. The Boy cracked him with the blaster. He started to get up—but met Corren's whip, prompting a scream.
Corren whipped him again. The Boy's skin sizzled. A hand caught Corren's wrist before a third blow.
Augustan Roth was a Cathar, with striped yellow-brown skin and dark feline eyes. A mere twitch of his whiskers sent Corren scurrying.
The Boy looked up, shocked to find 'The Fist of Neecho.'
Augustan held out his hand. "What is your name?"
After a pregnant pause, The Boy took his palm.
"Solo," he said.
Crayton Manor was an elitist ghost town. Its dilapidated mansions were corpses of splendor. Rats roamed freely, eating rotted remnants.
At the center of the neighborhood was a grass labyrinth. Once this was for children. Now dark brown, overgrown in abandonment, it resembled the underworld. A lavish gazebo stood by the entrance. That's where Diablo's seller waited.
Miler instructed R2 to stay hidden. "I've got a bad feeling about this," he told Landon. "We should've radioed Obi-Wan."
"Relax, would you? It's all in your head."
"I don' aim t'die in this miserable place."
Landon sighed. "Kid, your existentialism is exhausting. Just pay attention, okay?"
They approached the gazebo. Diablo's seller was tan, middle-aged, with a slight paunch but imposing muscle. His skin was craggy but clean, a man come from nothing who now had it all.
"Howdy," drawled Landon.
Miler looked at his collar: general's bars. His inner voice screamed out a warning. Why would a general handle this personally?
"I trust you brought credits?" the General asked.
"First the regulator," Landon said.
"Of course. A moment." He walked to the bench and retrieved a small box.
Miler's heart began to pound. The box was too small. There was no regulator. He drew his blaster and shot the General between the eyes. Blood and grist splashed on the pillars.
"Kid, what the hell—!"
The quiet night exploded with voices. Two-dozen soldiers appeared in the darkness. They swarmed the gazebo, screaming not to move.
Miler hopped the back railing, Landon following. They ran into the labyrinth, trailed by gunfire. At the first junction in the maze, Miler yelled to split up. He went left, Landon right. They had to reach the end before the maze was surrounded.
The overgrown bramble stabbed Miler at every turn. Half his face was scraped and bloody.
Miler hit a dead end. He heard footsteps behind him. He whirled back and gunned down a soldier. More were coming. He set his blaster to scattershot and blew a hole in the maze wall. He squeezed himself through and took the next path.
Landon turned at a junction. Two soldiers were waiting. He caught one off-guard, blew him away. The other one lunged. Landon sidestepped him. Mashed his face into the bramble. He silenced his scream with a point-blank blast. Landon wiped his eyes to clear the man's brains.
He took another turn, and he saw the exit! Landon rushed toward it. But suddenly the exit was darkened with soldiers. Shit shit shit!
He blew a hole in the maze wall. He moved to crawl through—but there were soldiers waiting. The maze was surrounded.
The soldiers took aim but held off firing.
Landon took it as a sign, dropping his blaster. There was only one reason not to kill him: he was worth more alive.
Landon's heart pounded. He had only one chance. He tapped his comlink and screamed in a whisper: "Neecho!"
Across the maze, Miler grappled with a soldier. He blasted him with a punch. Then he put him in a choke-hold. He used him as a sponge when another man fired. Miler shot the other man and dropped the used body.
His pulse throbbed in his neck. Where was Landon? He took the next path. Another dead end. The whir of a jet pack sounded above.
A Bounty Hunter. In Mandalorian armor. His wrist rocket fired. Miler rolled clear, squeezing off a shot. The Hunter strafed, fired again. Miler dodged once more. The grass wall exploded, raining on his head.
Miler took aim through a pile of bramble. He fired at the jet pack. The tank exploded, engulfing the Hunter in flames. He fought with the straps, tearing himself free. He plummeted to the ground. The wind from his fall put out the fire.
The Hunter tried to stand. Miler kicked him in the helmet, throwing him to his back.
The Hunter swept his legs. He mounted Miler, threw an armor-backed punch. Miler's cheekbone shattered.
His vision swam. He pulled a knife from the Hunter's belt. He jammed it in his shoulder through a gap in the armor.
The Hunter screamed. Miler yanked the knife free, before he plunged it in his neck.
He staggered to his feet—facing another soldier. The butt of a rifle smashed his forehead. Miler fell to the ground, grasping for a gun, until at last the world went black.
Obi-Wan found her seated on her bed. Her beaming smile died on the vine. "Obi-Wan? Are you okay?"
"Things are worse than I realized."
"What's happened?"
He sat beside her, lowering his voice. "Our saboteur is in contact with the Sith. I think Sidious is aware of everything on the ship."
Padme's breath hitched. "How do you know?"
"I was speaking with Master Yoda. For a moment, a Sith appeared in his place. Then I found a deleted communication."
She couldn't imagine a worse danger. "If the Sith know about Mareth, they could already be there. We might've lost everything."
"We've lost something, but not everything," Obi-Wan said with determination. "I intend we'll lose no more. Everyone on this ship, except you and I, is a suspect."
"You can't mean that."
"I won't be sentimental. There's too much at stake."
"Miler saved our lives," Padme reminded him.
"I believe, in my heart, that Miler's a good man. But this is war, Padme. A war we're losing." He rose from the bed, beginning to pace. "That said, I don't think it's him."
Padme's shoulders relaxed. She forced a professional demeanor. "By his own admission, Landon has no loyalty. Put some money in his pocket..."
"You're not wrong. But he's genuinely terrified to be on this planet. I can't imagine him diverting on purpose."
"You told me before that certain people can hide their true feelings. What if that's what he wants you to think?" Obi-Wan nodded. Padme pictured the cold eyes of their newest passenger: "What do you know about Palmer Trask?"
"Very little," replied Obi-Wan. "Supposedly, he left the Order over objections to the war. But he doesn't strike me as principled."
He turned away suddenly, hiding his expression, but Padme circled him, patiently waiting without giving ground.
"Many Jedi have fallen in this war," Obi-Wan said. He picked up a data pad, searching the Archives.
If Chaos takes Jedi, he was certain he'd burn there. Obi-Wan played a recording: "Session one, Quinn Pascal. Patient is uncooperative, refusing basic questions. There's clearly unresolved anger. Further sessions are recommended to continue my assessment."
Padme searched his face. She had her own doubts about Quinn. "I don't know him. But he's reclusive. Arrogant. Traits of the Sith."
"Perhaps. But that could also describe Yoda. It doesn't convince me."
"Then we're running out of options," Padme said. "It's not Aayla. So who does that—" She stopped cold when he wavered. "Obi-Wan..."
"I can't let my association cloud my judgment."
"Your association? She's one of your best friends!"
Obi-Wan's eyes cast down. Immediately, she regretted her tone. She might have felt better if he'd screamed a reply. But the Jedi said nothing.
He only played a recording: "Session four, Aayla Secura. Patient exhibits anger and paranoia connected to her current master's health and the betrayal of her former one. I would call her likelihood to fall moderate and recommend that she be closely monitored."
Aayla fiercely debated her confiding in Padme. There were competing voices in her: Jedi Knight and inner spirit. The former proved louder. You shouldn't have done that.
She was surprised to find Quinn outside Palmer's quarters. His eyes were closed in light meditation. Immediately, she knew he was spying with the Force.
"He is an interesting man," Quinn said.
Aayla crossed her arms. "I only know him by reputation."
"He's the only Jedi to leave the Order without joining the Sith."
"Are we certain he hasn't?"
Quinn's eyes slipped open. "I would hear your concerns."
"Would you? You've shown no interest in the past."
The hiss in his voice was sharp from aggravation. "After observing your conduct, I've elected to entertain you."
"How flattering."
"Which cuts harder—your tongue or your saber?"
"Well, I'm not dead yet."
Quinn grunted. He turned to the door as if it were Palmer. "There is darkness there. It's simply a matter of how much. We all have a tipping point. Including you, Knight Secura."
Aayla flinched back, but she didn't give way. "Temptation is a fallacy. Fallen Jedi are only Sith the Dark Side didn't want yet."
"How liberating that we do not have to choose."
She knew he was mocking her. Worse, she felt her annoyance edging toward anger.
Her response was preempted by the sound of the ship's ramp. They exchanged a look, rushing to the back of the ship. R2 entered shrieking.
"Obi-Wan!" Aayla cried into her comlink.
There's nothing intuitive about bare-knuckled fighting. It's all repetition, the memory of pain.
"Get up!" yelled Augustan.
The Boy's trembling arms pushed him to his knees. Two bloody teeth lay in the dirt. He struggled to his feet.
"He has life yet! Let us see how much!"
The Boy subsisted on anger. At Augustan, his parents. At the universe for birth.
He threw a clumsy punch. Augustan blocked, landing a headbutt. The Boy fell on his back. August laid into him with the point of his boot. The Boy began to vomit. He curled on his side.
"That is enough," a throaty voice said. "Today's training is over."
A Duros man with luminous red eyes pulled him to his feet.
The Boy said between gulps of air, "I'm sorry. Neecho. I. Failed you. Again."
Neecho's bony fingers stroked the Boy's hair. "You have not failed me. You continue to get stronger." His voice was fatherly, soothing. "I have great plans for you."
Landon grimaced as he and Miler were thrown on metal slabs. The room was otherwise empty, except for a bright light.
Two thugs took his arms, placing them in restraints. "Hey! Not too tight!"
"Sorry. It's his first torture," Miler said.
Beneath his facade, Miler's mind raced. Where were they, and why? Had the Hutts joined the Sith? Or was Landon behind this? Was this just an act to maintain his cover?
The metal door whined open. Augustan Roth walked inside. He took off his work gloves, placing them in his pocket. His whiskered face was set in a scowl. "Landon Solo..."
"That's sweet," drawled Landon. "You remember me."
"It was expensive to bring you here. The Twi'leks were our best men. It's regrettable you killed them."
"Add it to my bill."
Miler's mind flashed back to the cantina. The Twi'leks who killed Rondo. Only once they were gone did Landon appear.
He whispered harshly, "What have you done?"
Red eyes sparkled in the shadowy hall. A black figure entered, slowly coalescing. His scarred-over face gleamed in the light. Over plated armor, he wore a long brown jacket that flapped in his wake. Beneath it, his belt was empty despite loops for a blaster. He couldn't conceive of being in danger.
Neecho walked to the center of the room. There he met the eyes of a panicked Landon. "You led me on quite a chase, Mr. Solo." For once, the scoundrel said nothing. Neecho walked between the slabs, sinewy fingers skimming the metal. He could smell the sweat on Landon's neck. He stood behind them, becoming a disembodied voice. "Have you ever heard the Neiomodian myth of creation?"
"I wouldn't think so," he said after a silence. "They're so obsessed with wealth and power, they've forgotten how to tell it. Perhaps, in time, I'll forget it myself. So carry it with you, for however long you live."
"Once, there was only darkness," Neecho said. "No ground beneath us. No stars in the sky. We existed, but we did not know. For what is life without light? Thus we drifted, never dead but never waking. Until, one day, the Bringer of Darkness realized his error. He had wrongly assumed our understanding. We—people—failed in our mandate to make holes in the blackness, that we might see what lay beyond."
Neecho circled them, standing before Landon. His raging red eyes belied his warm voice. "The Bringer of Darkness showed us how to make holes. Thus we glimpsed the other side. But were we grateful? Did we reward him? Certainly not." He leaned toward Landon so the scoundrel felt his breath. "Because we fashion ourselves Bringers. We seldom remember that life was given to us."
Landon refused to look away. He wouldn't be mocked—not at the end.
"What do you want?" Miler demanded. "Whatever he owes ya, we can reach an understanding."
'Shut up, kid!' Landon screamed inside. Every memory of the dead, those who came in the fog of sleep to remind him what he was, crashed into his brain. He was as good as dead; he'd known it in the maze. But Miler had a chance.
"What I want is not yours to offer," said Neecho. "I've waited years for restitution. Tell me, Mister Solo: were those million credits worth your life?"
Landon forced a grin. "No. But knowing I conned you? Yeah, that felt pretty good."
Neecho straightened, eyes squinting with pleasure. "I hope it was worth this moment. The pain I'm about to bring you." He gestured to Augustan. "Show our guest in."
"The coolant regulator is still our priority," Obi-Wan said.
Aayla gasped. "You're going to leave them?"
"I'm not giving up on them. I'll even help you look. But the mission is paramount. The rest of you are to find 'Diablo.' He's still our best chance of getting the regulator."
Palmer smiled. "Perhaps I should lead the interrogation. Jedi morals are cumbersome."
"I won't submit to false choices," Obi-Wan said. "He's a common thug. Fear of your power will quite suffice."
Julian didn't appreciate their singular focus. "How do we find Miler?"
"Landon gave R2 a name," Padme reminded him. "Neecho."
Obi-Wan said, "I heard it on Sarna. He's some kind of crime lord. We'll found out where he is. Once the ship's repaired, we can launch a rescue."
Perhaps moved by Aayla's pain, or merely impatient, Quinn grabbed his saber and made a beeline for the ramp. Palmer followed languidly.
Obi-Wan took Julian's arm. "Stay focused. We'll get them back, Doctor. But you need to do your part."
"Tear him apart!" a voice screamed.
His rib was broken. Its newly pointed end was piercing his lung. Angry tears pricked at his eyes.
The crowd reveled in his plight. He heard approving howls, jeers of laughter.
In a moment of perfect clarity, he suddenly realized that fate didn't matter. Everything in the universe, all that existed, could be stolen. If his destiny was to die, he'd take someone else's.
The Barabel stood over him, wielding a blade. The fight was long over. Now she was having fun.
She nudged him with her boot. His murky vision fell on the throne chair above the arena. He saw two of Neecho, completely expressionless. What was he thinking? Would he let this happen?
The Barabel grabbed him, dragging him to his feet. The crowd cried in unison: "Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!"
The Boy blinked away everything.
With a rush of adrenaline, he grabbed her claw with both hands, thrusting upwards, the Barabel's own blade jamming in her throat, green blood spouting out, pouring through the cracks between the Boy's fingers, more and more, faster and faster, and the crowd knew not what to do, knew not what it wished for, and as the Boy slid down her body, crumpling on the ground, he thought it might've been the best he ever felt.
Twelve hours later, when he awoke from his surgeries, a familiar Duros sat by his bed. Neecho's cold blue fingers rested on his arm. The Boy rolled his head, groggy but painless. His lips twitched into a smile.
"Han Solo," Neecho whispered, "you are ready for what you seek."