by James Luceno
Jadak hadn't liked running out on Aurora the way he did. He owed Sompa and the rest for at least prolonging his life, if not precisely saving it. But he couldn't forgive the fact that they had tried to toy with him. Tracing him wouldn't likely pose a problem for anyone with a speck of know-how, but Jadak thought there might be some advantage to getting a running start. With any luck he'd be able to hold on to the lead until he could be fitted with a new identity, which on Nar Shaddaa used to mean only a couple of hours. Now he wasn't so sure.
At Balmorra Spaceport, feigning interest in seeing how his new legs looked on the display screen, he had bribed a Bothan security agent to allow him a peek at his scanner image. The everyday identity chip Aurora had implanted in his wrist showed clear as day, but nothing else leapt off the screen. If the Smugglers' Moon was still the criminal paradise he remembered, he would have himself scanned for locator chips, as well.
Provided that his credits held out.
The galactic jump had eaten deeply into the ten thousand he had received from Core Life. If he kept spending at the same rate, he'd be looking for a job long before he caught up with the Stellar Envoy— assuming it was still in one piece somewhere, under someone's command.
In Aurora's library he had read that Nar Shaddaa, much like Obroa-skai, had suffered greatly during the war with Yuuzhan Vong. Obroa-skai had even hosted a war coordinator. But Jadak was encouraged by what he saw and heard on passing from customs into Nar Shaddaa Spaceport's main terminal. Beyond the terminal's floor-to-ceiling window panes rose the ancient, kilometers-high refueling spires and loading docks he remembered from a lifetime ago. The reek of widespread pollution was beyond the capacity of the terminal's air scrubbers. And if nothing else, Vertical City was still the loudest place in the galaxy. The moon's residents were so accustomed to outyelling the decibel racket of construction droids, deliberately loud skimmers, blasting radios, and blasterfire that whenever or wherever a Nar Shaddaan was encountered, you could be assured of a high-volume conversation.
Angling for the exits, Jadak waded deeper into the mixed-species crowd. Short of the automatic doors, he stopped to gaze at a bewildering splash of advertising holodata that crowned them—images of hotels and restaurants, come-ons for transport to different sectors of the ecumenopolis, and other local services. Only weeks into his new life and he was already wondering if he would ever be able to keep in step with those around him. Or if he wanted to. But his sense of having unfinished business compelled him to forge ahead. Something needed to be put to rest before he could even hope to move on.
Flitcher Poste spotted his mark on the arrivals level of the spaceport: a lanky human of forty-five or fifty years, blond hair worn long, a short beard and mustache. He was gazing out on Nar Shaddaa's skyline like he'd just arrived from some backrocket world in the Cron drift. Studying the holoadverts above the exit doors, trying to figure out if he should ride a hovercab, a mag-lev, a shuttle, or maybe risk renting an airspeeder.
Just a rube from a faraway planet.
Poste kept him in his sights as he rode a turbolift down to the arrivals level. He walked out the tall doors and moved toward the hovercab stations, carrying a small black attaché case. That struck Poste as curious. Only beings who had business on Nar Shaddaa arrived with attaché cases. Tourists, gamblers, players, visiting dignitaries or criminals usually arrived with luggage, sometimes a full pallet of bags. Clearly the guy wasn't a resident—not with that lost look on his face. So maybe he had arrived from a low-tech world and was carrying all his worldly possessions in that one case. But then why would anyone with so little come to Nar Shaddaa? Well, okay, the moon was often a final stop for folks who had nothing more to lose, but this human didn't give that impression. Maybe he had family or friends here. But friends or family wouldn't leave someone to the mercy of people like Poste, who made a living prowling the spaceport for innocent travelers, getting to them before they could be fleeced or set upon by the currency changers, holdup artists, and scammers who worked the rest of the urban sprawl.
Hurrying after the human, Poste noted that he walked like someone who was still getting used to his legs, or maybe someone who had had ill-fitting prosthetics installed. That meant he could be a veteran who had lost his legs to blasterfire in one war or another. Though the human didn't meet anyone's gaze, Poste could tell that he was taking stock of his surroundings, aware of everything that was going on around him. How else would he be able to steer through the spaceport throng with such an easy grace?
That was it.
New legs or no, there was something inherently nimble about his movements. Something capable, one might say. Self-possessed.
Poste drew nearer. The stranger didn't appear to be armed. No weapon strapped to his ankle or wedged into the rear of his trousers that might create a telltale bulge beneath the thin material of his jacket. Poste began to wonder if the lost look and awkward gait might be for show. Maybe the newcomer was looking for marks. Worse, maybe he was trying to lure petty criminals like Poste by baiting, then entrapping them. But the idea of a plainclothes cop on Nar Shaddaa was even crazier than the idea of arriving onworld with no more than an attaché case.
Poste was intrigued. He made up his mind not to pickpocket the mark or entice him into buying a bogus nightlife tour, but he hadn't given up on the idea of seeing what that attaché contained. Perhaps the newcomer would set it down carelessly, or become distracted just long enough for Poste to move in and move on. It was simply a matter of waiting for the right place and the right moment …
Poste studied the newcomer's clothing more closely as the two of them edged into the public transport area. The wrinkled jacket and drab trousers had the look of clothes you might be given if you'd just been released from stir, or from a psychiatric ward. Even the lower-level panhandlers and canyon kids dressed better. So there went the cop theory. Or did it reinforce it?
Poste came to a halt and turned to one side, pretending sudden interest in the display window items of a tech store. In the window's reflection, he could see the newcomer standing in a HoloNet booth, running a search of some sort. If he was looking for a hotel, it meant he wasn't sure where he wanted to go. If he was looking for a name, it meant he didn't know where the being was. Whichever, he was focused on what he was doing. On the hunt. The newcomer pulled a disposable comlink from the upper pocket of his cheap jacket and sent something to it from the HoloNet. Then he set off in the direction of the mag-lev express to the Corellian sector.
Poste sighed in disappointment. That ended it for him. He wasn't about to follow the guy all the way into Vertical City—not with his air-speeder parked in the lot across from the hovercab station and already costing him credits. Reluctantly he fell back, and he was on the brink of heading for the pedestrian walkway that accessed the lot when his trained eye settled on two beings who were plainly up to no good and beginning to converge on the newcomer as he stepped from the people mover onto the mag-lev platform. One was human, the other Nautolan, and both were heavyweights.
The interesting thing was that the newcomer had also spotted them. In what could have been interpreted as an abrupt change of mind, he made a sharp turn. Infiltrating the crowd waiting for the mag-lev, he slipped effortlessly into and out of spaces beings often claimed as their own, then hastened for one of the platforms accessed by hovercabs and air shuttles.
The two goons had also picked up speed, the human touching his left ear in a way that suggested he was in communication with his partner, or others as yet unseen. Without displaying any of the finesse the newcomer had shown, the pair circled the edge of the crowd using their bulk to shoulder or shove stragglers aside. Instead of making for free space, the newcomer was staying well inside the crowd. If his pursuers were going to get to him, they were going to have to plow their way through.
Ultimately, that was exactly what they did, prompting Poste to do something anyone who knew him would have described as uncharacteristic.
Fast as his legs could carry
him he ran for the pedestrian walkway, then for his roofless airspeeder, which was parked only a level up and close to the lot exit. Hurling himself over the vehicle's door—which didn't work in any case—he settled at the controls and hit the ignition button. A short line of similar repulsorlifts was queued at the exit, so he shot for the entrance, ignoring the synthvoices of two security droids and the strobing flashes of recording cams. The speeder's virttags were counterfeit, so who cared?
By the time he had sped around the lot and maneuvered into the restricted air traffic lanes that accessed the hovercab platform, it was obvious that a melee was in progress. Beings were scattering in all directions, security droids were rolling in, and the sirens of police vehicles were wailing in the distance. When the crowd parted briefly, Poste caught a glimpse of the newcomer leaping over the spread-eagled body of one of the goons, the other one down on all fours and scrambling for a blaster he had apparently lost hold of, blood streaming from his nose. But the newcomer's handiwork or footwork or whatever he had used to incapacitate his assailants hadn't left him in the clear. A showy SoroSuub airspeeder whipped past Poste, then cut him off and came to a sudden stop at the edge of the platform. Two humanoids—one an Iktotchi—clambered out of the passenger nacelle, gleaming weapons in hand. Spotting them, the newcomer whirled and dashed for the far side of the hovercab payment booth. The black attaché case was gone.
Poste saw his chance and made the most of it. Swerving around the idling SoroSuub, he pulled up past the booth just as the newcomer was emerging from the crowd, scarcely winded and professionally alert.
“Get in!” Poste shouted. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You've got more coming!”
The newcomer hesitated but only for a moment. Hurdling the door, he landed adroitly on the speeder's bench seat. “You have a blaster?”
Poste lifted the front of his shirt to reveal a Frohard Galactic F-7 tucked into the waistband of his trousers. In a lightning-fast motion the newcomer snatched and activated the small weapon and raised it to Poste's temple.
“You'd better not be part of this!”
“I'm your way out!” Poste said, wide-eyed.
The newcomer squinted. “What's this, your good-deed day?”
Behind them, three of the assailants were hurrying toward the landspeeder, leaving their unconscious comrade to fend for himself. Farther away, two police vehicles were attempting to maneuver through a logjam of skimmers and hovercabs.
“What are you waiting for?”
Still trying to get past the newcomer's initial remarks, Poste froze for an instant. But it didn't matter. The newcomer shoved the throttle forward, snapping Poste's head back against the rest and almost yanking his hands from the steering yoke. Rebounding, Poste saw that the newcomer had his bloody-knuckled left hand clamped on the yoke and that he was already steering them into the thick of traffic.
Speeders to both sides veered and collided. Air traffic on Nar Shaddaa was often compared to that on Coruscant, but with one major difference: where on the capital world rude driving earned you a few curses or filthy gestures, on the Smugglers' Moon drivers frequently replied with blaster bolts and joined the chase.
Berating himself for having gotten involved, Poste tried to wrestle the controls back. “I'm still making payments on this thing!”
The newcomer refused to remove his hand. “Whatever you're paying's too much.”
“Who's rescuing who?”
“That remains to be seen.”
The first of the pursuers' blaster bolts crackled past Poste's head, and he slumped deeper into the seat.
“Drive!” the newcomer said, hauling him upright. “Don't let yourself get distracted.”
Poste glanced at him in disbelief. “They're firing at us, in case you didn't notice!”
“If they wanted me dead they would have killed me on the platform.”
“Then maybe you should talk to them.”
“Only on my own terms.”
The newcomer pivoted on the seat and took aim on the SoroSuub. The vehicle swung out of the line of fire, slammed into a smaller air-speeder, and bounced back into the traffic lane.
“Turn here!” the newcomer said, motioning with his free hand.
“It's one-way.”
The newcomer laughed. “You've already broken ten laws and you're worried about a traffic violation?”
Poste threw the speeder into the turn, weaving through approaching traffic five hundred meters above the floor of the city canyon.
“That's it. Stay focused.”
“Like I have a choice.”
“You had a choice about inviting me in.”
“I still don't know what I was thinking.”
“Yes, you do,” the newcomer said. “You're a chiseler.”
Poste's eyebrows arched. “Chiseler?”
“You're hoping there'll be something in this for you.”
Poste swallowed what he had in mind to say and began again. “Who'd you cross?”
The newcomer shook his head. “I'm not sure yet.”
“What was in the attaché case?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing important, you mean?”
“No, I mean it was empty.” The newcomer raised himself up over the retractable windscreen. “Turn into the second chasm.”
“You know your way around?”
“Not like I used to.” He used his hand to shield his eyes from Y'Toub's harsh light. “Pull up in front of that truck and switch places with me.”
Poste gaped at him. “My first impression of you was right. You did escape from a psych ward.”
“I've piloted swoops, speeders, skyhoppers, and just about everything else that flies.” The newcomer gestured with the blaster. “Now shove over.”
Poste clenched his jaw and traded places on the bench seat. The newcomer slammed the speeder back into motion and shot into traffic, finding space between vehicles where there shouldn't have been any, and creating spaces when he had to. Fifty meters behind them the pilot of the SoroSuub was trying hard to narrow the lead, or at least line up a shot.
The newcomer glanced at Poste. “You actually know how to use a blaster or you just carry it for adornment?”
“Adornment?” Poste laughed at the word. “Where've you been hiding for the past fifty years?”
“Can you use it or not?”
“I can use it.”
The newcomer slapped the weapon into Poste's hand. “I'm going to put us behind the SoroSuub. When I do, you put a bolt into the ride side of the repulsorlift compartment. That'll end this little chase.”
Poste looked over his left shoulder at the SoroSuub. “You're going to have to increase our lead.”
“What are you talking about?”
“To get behind them. Cut around the TransBormea Building. If you can get them to follow us—”
Hitting the booster, the newcomer threw the speeder vertical, then into a loop perfectly timed to drop them almost directly behind the pursuit vehicle.
“Fire!”
Poste tried to swallow his stomach and force his eyes to focus.
“Fire!”
Taking unsteady aim, Poste triggered three bolts, the last of which connected, burning through the repulsorlift compartment and conjuring flames from within. Black smoke puffed from the blunt rear end and the SoroSuub began to veer wildly, then lose altitude. Poste leaned over the passenger's-side door to watch the speeder spiral down into Nar Shaddaa's lower depths.
“Nice move,” he said when he could. “Fripping brilliant.”
The newcomer pulled up to a crowded landing platform, shut down the speeder, and hopped out. Sliding behind the controls, Poste looked up to find a wad of credit bills centimeters from his face.
“Will this do?”
Poste thought about accepting it, then shook his head. “Keep it. You taught me a valuable lesson about picking up strangers.”
The newcomer almost grinned. “Suit yourself.” Shoving the wad into h
is jacket pocket, he stepped away from the speeder to regard it front to back. “Who's responsible for the paint job?”
Poste touched himself in the chest. “Me.”
The newcomer laughed through his nose. “Looks like a piece of candy.”
Poste exhaled wearily. “First you're a swoop pilot, now you're an art critic?”
“Expunge the flames.”
“Ex—”
“And it needs a tune-up.”
“I'm sure it does after your showboating.”
“Have the turbine overdrive relay replaced.”
Poste put his tongue in his cheek. “Okay, so maybe you're not a total psych case.” He hit the ignition button. “Still, I hope I don't see you around.”
“Hold on,” the newcomer said.
Poste turned slightly in the seat.
“I need some information.”
“Yeah, what a surprise.”
“I'll compensate you well.”
Poste laughed. “What world are you from where they use words like compensate and expunge?”
The newcomer ignored the question. “I'm looking for ship salvagers who would have been working Nar Shaddaa's envelope sixty or so standard years ago.”
“Sixty …” Poste gestured dismissively. “Go to the library.”
“I plan to. But I need someone to ask around in the depths while I'm doing that. Do you know of any starship mechanics or engineers who might have been working back then?”
“Old-timers.”
“They'd have to be.”
Poste considered it. “There are a couple of beings …” He tilted his head to the side. “In the event I'm sick enough to be interested, how do I find you?”
“You've got a comlink?”
Poste dug into the pouch pocket of his pants and set the comlink down on the bench seat. The newcomer set his comlink down alongside it.
“Mate them.”
Poste enabled his comlink's pairing function. “You want to tell me your name?” he said, handing back the newcomer's comlink.
“Not yet.”
