Tash's screams were cut off by the sharp report of a blaster. Two shots, three. Four. Her ears rang with the Talz's screech as it stumbled away, dragging one leg. As Tash watched, gaping, she saw a black cleft had been carved into the creature's knee, ringed by an oval of smoking fur. The was the work of one blaster bolt, she realized as the wounded alien disappeared into the crowd. The others had been warning shots, fired into the air, by—
She yelped as a powerful grip spun her around, bringing her face to face with Kentamine Farwanderer. His free hand held a DH-17 blaster pistol, cocked and ready, the barrel still red-hot. His lips were drawn back, showing gritted teeth. "What are you doing out here?!" he snarled.
Tash's mouth worked, emitting a great many sounds, but all of them were gibberish. As her heart started to slow down, she felt tears welling up and wanted nothing more than to throw her arms around the pilot, serenade him with apologies, and cajole him into carrying her back to the ships like she was a little girl again. She couldn't believe herself, taking such a stupid risk like this, worrying everyone sick...
Kentamine stared at her, his blue eyes as tight as Taanabian torque-nuts, and his worry could be felt as much as seen. After a painful moment Tash freed her tongue, but another voice—dry, creaking, raspy, decrepit—unexpectedly spoke over her.
"Masters! Miss! Yes, if please you would, bless an old woman with your presence—yes, bless poor old Vima!"
Tash instinctively slid to the pilot's side as they turned in the direction of the voice. It was the old woman whom the Talz had been dragging from the alley when Tash came along. During the altercation, she had rolled or crawled over to the nearest wall, safely away from the stomping alien, and now knelt in a posture of supplication.
"Won't you bless her—bless poor Vima for her troubles?" she repeated creakily.
Shrewdly, Kentamine checked the vicinity. Not only was the Talz long gone, but the incident hadn't even made a ripple, and pedestrians were smoothly flowing about them in both directions. Elsewhere, the rowdy gangs of Zabrak and Zygerrians were still making their way down the thoroughfare; they seemed to be drawing more attention than anyone else in sight.
Barely satisfied, the pilot took a step away toward the old woman—toward the wall, rather—keeping Tash close beside him. He lowered his blaster pistol, but kept it in hand. "Um...I'm sorry, ma'am," he began, "but I don't carry credits on me most of the—"
The hag interrupted, her voice hitching. "Oh no—no! This is the blessing for Vima: the dream fulfilled! So many dreams...no, masters. Not at all. Not gifts for Vima; Vima has gifts for you!"
Kentamine stared with confusion and perhaps a bit of disgust. Tash, on the other hand, was stock-still. Because she knew, instantly, that this was where the Force had meant to bring her: this dirty, dangerous street where she would meet this dirty, insignificant old woman.
Dirty she might be, but this old woman, Vima, couldn't be insignificant. The rough-worn cloak, the wisps of silver hair falling over her wrinkled face, the grating and unpleasant voice...none of it mattered. Tash had seen enough on her adventures to know that there was always more to beings than met the eye—and here again was proof of that. Because she felt it. Felt that connection, like a warm, tingling, energizing electric current.
"Who are you again?" she asked.
"Vima...is Vima Da-Boda. Vima was Jedi." With the utterance of that mystical word, Tash saw the old woman's eyes, was almost stunned by how sharp and clear they seemed. Not the eyes of a castaway or madwoman, of whom the Arrandas had met more than a few in their travels. "Jedi no more. Disgraced, cursed...hidden in the time of the great scourge...but she still carries a bit of the fire, yes she does...and gifts! She carries gifts, she does!"
With this outburst, the old woman yanked a patched-up sack that had been hanging from her shoulders, opened it with haste, and spilled its contents onto the pavement. A collection of knickknacks mixed in with supplies and various oddities. A bashed-open medkit clattered, scattering synthcotton swabs and scraps of bandage like confetti. Ration cubes clinked with edible touchstones as well as actual rocks of various kinds. The moist, rancid-looking wad with teeth marks might have been a Kiffarbeef sandwich with extra Caamasi cheese. There were a few power cells and credit chips, tiny pouches tied up with string, a half-crushed comlink, a knotted-up ball of fur or hair, and a small, elongated wooden box...
"Hrm, gifts for you...gifts for you," mumbled the old woman, clawing through her spilled possessions with long, bony hands. "Now where is it, the gift..."
"Wait, what? What do you mean, Jedi? What are you talking about?" asked Kentamine, sounding entirely astonished now.
The old woman answered him, or perhaps continued her rambling, in a singsong voice. "Last night Vima dreamed. The Force sent her a dream, yes it did. Said the useless old woman was being selfish, holding onto her gifts...that there would be a young girl here who needed some of them. Whose friends needed them. So Vima waited in the alley—waited, but the snowman found her..." She exhaled from her throat and shuddered. "Terrible snowman, but you blessed Vima. Saved her. Accept a crazy old woman's gratitude.
"Vima Da-Boda was Jedi, before she lost her mind...but it is no matter. She's not gone—no one is ever really gone, for the Force takes care of us. The Force watches out for the old like me and the young like you—" Still pawing at the junk, she nodded at Tash, then at Kentamine. "—for the boy who wandered far from the dunes, for the graveyard's castaway, for the son of the knight who never was—oh, the gift, where is the gift?!"
Her scrabbling turned frantic, but Tash's bulging eyes were locked to the wooden box, which lay on its side. In her haste, Vima had jostled it open, revealing a cylindrical device with a rubber grip, several switches near the head, and a gap in one end. Tash was too excited to breathe, too amazed to verbalize her hope, even internally.
But Kentamine said it out loud. "Hey, that looks like, some kind of a laser sword," he said, pointing. "Doesn't Wade Vox have one of those?"
"It's called a lightsaber," said Tash dreamily. "The weapon of the Jedi Knights..."
She couldn't go on. Only a few times in her life had she ever seen such a weapon. Luke Skywalker carried one. So did Darth Vader.
"Not for you! Not for you!" the craggy old chirped, snapping the box shut. "Gift for another! Vima must keep safe for great Jedi, keep the fire alive. Not your destiny, nor mine—the dreams were clear...but where are they...ah!"
Tash's heart, fallen in ruins, reformed itself quickly enough as curiosity overtook disappointment. With a few sweeps of one arm, Vima Da-Boda gathered the whole disgusting mess back into the sack—except for a small cloth pouch, which she held reverently in her other hand.
"Listen carefully, girl." Tash stepped closer, though she had not been bidden to. The old woman's eyes were reaching into her soul, and the pulse of the Force around them was unmistakable. "The gift, three gifts, not for you! Entrusted, so that you gives them to your friends in need. Yes, the dream was clear, the Force wills. One is for him!" She suddenly gave a sharp glance toward Kentamine, who almost recoiled in surprise. "The boy who wandered far from the dunes," Vima said, cackling. "The other two friends, Vima doesn't know, she doesn't. You must know, you must give the gifts. The Force touches them, but they cannot receive, not yet. But the gifts may help, maybe. The future is clouded, in motion always..."
As Kentamine glanced about to make sure they hadn't caught anyone's attention, Tash gingerly opened the pouch and looked inside.
"What are those?" the pilot asked over her shoulder.
"I...they're Lorrdian gemstones, I think," said Tash. "We went to Lorrd once. I had to write a paper about their history. There was also a monster there."
"Oh, really."
"Hurry on home now—the dream is fulfilled!" squawked a voice. As they looked, Vima Da-Boda was already on her feet, slinging the bag back over her shoulders. "Thank you masters, for blessing old Vima. Remember her words: you must give the gifts, yes you must!" With no further ado she hobbled away, down the dark alley from which the Talz had dragged her.
"What—Vima, wait!" Tash cried. "Come back! I don't understand! If you were a Jedi, you can—I mean, we need..."
But the old woman did not look back and was soon lost in the gloom. Without thinking, Tash took a step after her, but she was stopped by a strong grip on the back of her shirt.
"I think this is enough adventuring for one night," said Kentamine Farwanderer.
Tash could barely take her eyes from the alley, but went along as the pilot ushered her up the street, weaving through the bustle of seedy characters, hurrying back toward Jorble's Star Stable. She no longer felt anything strong in the Force; clearly she'd done what it wanted. Still, she felt more than a little embarrassed.
"Oh, everyone's gonna be really mad at me now, aren't they?" she said, mostly to herself.
"Probably—if they find out about this stunt. As far as I know, I'm the only one who noticed you were gone, and it's only been a few standard minutes." Her escort paused for a beat. "Listen, I don't know too much about the Force, but I can tell when something's too...strange...to be a coincidence. Assuming this this little adventure was just a one-off...what say we keep it to ourselves?" Looking down at her, he pursed his mouth and raised an eyebrow.
"I..." Tash swallowed. "I'd appreciate that a lot, Kentamine."
"Okay, then."
"And I'm really sorry to make you worry."
"No worries. Forget about it."
They had finally reached the door to the Star Stable. After checking the area, Kent flipped the door panel open—Tash hadn't realized it even did that—and started typing in a code.
He looked sideways at her. "Why do you call me that?"
"What do you mean?" Tash asked. "It's your name."
There was a twinkle in the pilot's eye. "Nothing. I appreciate it."
Then the door opened and they hurried inside.
Things changed quickly on the Smuggler's Moon, but Kyle was grateful to find that the Rimmer's Rest cantina was about the same as he remembered it. Even at peak business hour—about 22:00, local time—the clientele was remarkably relaxed. No shouting, no carrying on, nobody bringing their own music players. It was one of those places that attracted a well-armed customer base, which naturally fostered a social atmosphere of mutual respect and courtesy. Something you wouldn't find in most tapcafs.
Kyle Katarn smoothly detoured around a walking arsenal of a Trandoshan as he made his way past the main bar. Across the counter, Timmy—a burly, fat-nosed human wearing a dark sweat tunic and matching hood in the local style—was watching stonily while cleaning a glass. Behind him, a long, decorative neon frame showed a bright green Dathomiri rock dragon, spitting fire.
Kyle gave the bartender a relaxed salute and kept moving. As homesteaders on Sulon liked to say, Good boundary coordinates make good neighbors.
Tucked away in a corner of the main room, he spied the only booth that was not occupied by a group—and that it was still occupied told Kyle that, after several days of waiting on Nar Shaddaa, there would at last be some results. That is to say, the Bryar Force would learn if they had a move to make, or if they were stone-broke.
After glancing over the crowd, discreetly checking things out, Kyle took a seat and introduced himself to the informant. "Must be tough, not being able to enjoy the local brew."
"Hardly." The voice that answered was flat, synthesized...and yet, he thought, unmistakably smug. "Even were it an option, though, your abstinence would give me doubts as to its quality."
"I'm only on Nar Shaddaa for business, 8t88. Not pleasure."
"Hm. For me, they are one and the same."
Although most organics liked not to think of it, the galaxy (civilized and otherwise) was in fact crawling with independent droids. Some were bounty hunters and mercenaries, while others were tailors and architects. Still others were civil administrators and engineers. One had even ruled for some years as a Grand Moff. Naturally a few would be information brokers.
Kyle had neither met nor even 8t88 before, but his remaining contacts agreed that he was a rising star in Nar Shaddaa's underbelly. He was tall and antiquated-looking, probably designed for clerical duties. Whatever his original model, he'd probably undergone some creative reconstruction in his time; his flat-fronted head looked a little too small for the rest of his body.
8t88's blank metallic "face" was bordered by an asymmetrical mismatch of photoreceptors and vocabulators. Two of the latter subtly moved as he said, "I thought we had agreed you would be coming alone, Kyle Katarn."
Which he hadn't, of course. Jan and Wade were sitting at opposite ends of the bar, pretending to be relaxed, while Payvees had claimed a very small table closer on the left flank. Mirroring him on the right was MIMIC, disguised as a Klatooinian artisan.
"I did come alone," Kyle said, batting an eye. "If I just so happen to be friends with a few of the other patrons here tonight, then that's only a coincidence. The same goes for your Gran friends in the next booth, and that Echani slag over by the jukebox."
His contacts had emphasized 88's reputation as an informant—as well as his penchant for treachery capricious nature. Given this was their first time doing business together (and the fortune in Imperial credits that had changed hands), they'd assured Kyle that he could count on the accuracy of whatever information he was given. Because they valued his health, however, they'd also warned about the droid's hired muscle.
Kyle had not brought his teammates in here with him because he expected or wanted a fight. He simply needed to show the informant that he was ready for one, and was nobody's goozer.
Another saying from Sulon: Good blasters make good neighbors.
He learned forward slightly, picking the largest photoreceptor to stare into. "Now why don't you stop wasting my time," he growled, "and show what you've got. Assuming you got anything at all for my credits."
"Impugning my skills as a professional? Really, Katarn, you wound me. Very well, then—on to business." Saying this, the droid produced a data disk and, and after hovering it across the table with exaggerated caution, simply dropped it. "My findings, such as they are, are contained on this disk. My sources were pushed to their limits to find the answers you seek. I can assure you that my fee was very reasonable."
Kyle took the data disk between his thumb and forefinger, giving the device a careful look before pocketing it. "Would you care to summarize things for me?"
"Nothing would give me greater pleasure," drawled 8t88. "First: this freighter you're chasing, the Gravestone—it has been sighted a number of times along a number of official trade routes in the Outer Rim, most often in the vicinity of Hutt Space. According to IS&S records, its last known owner was none other than the Imperial Lord Overseer of Kessel—the Supreme Slavelord—who sold it to an, ahem, unspecified private entity."
Kessel was an inhospitable rock. One of the greatest blights on the face of the Outer Rim Territories, it was best known for two things: one being the galaxy's largest and most lucrative source of spice, the other being the enormous population of slaves who spent their lives mining the stuff for the Empire.
88 went on. "Second: morpheon spice. A much-coveted and lucrative commodity. Extremely regulated, of course, but I have managed to discover its source."
"Source?" echoed Kyle.
"Indeed; as far as anyone knows, the only mine known to produce morpheon is on Kessel, under the private ownership of the Supreme Slavelord." 88 sat back. "So you were right: the two leads you supplied me with correlate."
That was it, then. Kessel's Imperial overseer had sold both the Gravestone and morpheon spice to the Transcendent. He may also have been regularly supplying them with the latter. All the Bryar Force had to do now was pay him a visit—and learn from him where that ship and his product had gone.
As usual, they'd only gotten scraps of information, but they added layers of disturbing implications to what they already knew. It now seemed that the Transcendent had influence in the Empire as well as the Rebellion. Maybe Black Sun too, come to think of it; their ships had covered the Gravestone at Far Qasqi, after all.
Yet after all this work, everything the Bryar Force had learned, their enemy remained behind a powerful shroud of secrecy. This beast had many tentacles...but where was the head?
"Sounds like it," Kyle said, collecting himself. He pushed back his chair. "Then I think we're done here. Pleasure to do business with you, 88."
The droid gazed up at him. "Indeed, Katarn. I hope to hear from you again soon."
He smiled back. "You won't."
CHAPTER COMPLETE
PASSWORD: BRAKISS