Before she could explain this latest reversal to Oolth, the windshield in front of her suddenly cracked in a starburst. Simultaneously she heard the muffled re-port of a projectile weapon. Someone, most likely one of the Raptors, was shooting at them.
Darsha made a quick decision. They would have to abandon the skyhopper. They had to get uplevels as quickly as possible. She glanced about them and real-ized that such an action was easier said than done. Most of the buildings were blocked off above levels ten or twelve; the inhabitants of the upper stories didn't even acknowledge the existence of those lower floors. But they couldn't stay here. As if to underscore that fact, another bolt from the hidden sniper whistled past her ear. They couldn't even take the risk of trying to get back to the safe house.
The last light of day was fading fast; soon it would be full night. Darsha stood up. "Out of the ship- fast!" She jumped to the pavement, pulling her ascen-sion gun from her utility belt. She fired the grappling hook straight up at maximum length, hoping to strike a ledge or projection above the fog layer.
Another blast struck the windshield. Oolth screeched in fear and leapt out of the skyhopper. "What are you doing? We have to get out of here!" "That's exactly what we're doing," Darsha said as she felt the vibration down the length of the cable, which meant the hook had found purchase. "Hang on to me!" She grabbed the Fondorian around his waist and thumbed the winding mechanism.
The liquid cable reservoir was good for a maximum of two hundred meters, and the tensile strength of the monofilament line would easily support them both. Darsha knew that if they could make it up to the first traffic skylane-around level twenty-they could find an air taxi and get back to the Temple, or at least find a working comm station from which to call for help.
Another bolt caromed off the wall directly beneath them as they rose quickly up past the first level, then the second, then the third. Darsha's arm felt like it was being pulled from its socket. She looked up and esti-mated that the fog was hovering at around level ten. Once they were enveloped, they would be safe enough from the sniper.
A massive shadow flitted past her, followed by sev-eral more. In the dimming light she wasn't sure what they were at first. Then she saw one clearly, and recog-nition sent a chill of fear through her.
Hawk-bats.
She had never seen one this close before. Their eggs were considered a delicacy; she'd eaten them more than once for the morning meal in the Temple. Ordi-narily hawk-bats weren't considered dangerous, but she had heard stories of people occasionally being at-tacked by flocks of the creatures. Evidently they were very territorial, and danger fell to anyone who ven-tured too close to one of their rookeries.
Which, apparently, was just what she had done.
Suddenly they were enveloped in a shrieking, flap-ping nightmare of wings, beaks, and talons. Distracted, Darsha buried her head in her shoulder as best she could to protect her eyes.
She tried to summon the Force, to use it as a shield against the creatures, but the fierce buffeting of their wings made holding on to the ascension gun the best she could manage.
She kept her thumb pressed on the winding control-their best hope now was to get past the hawk-bats' territory.
Oolth tightened his grip around her chest until she felt in danger of suffocating. He shouted with pain and fear as the winged furies strafed the two of them. The claws on the edges of their leathery wings tore at Darsha's clothes; her vision was full of beaks and angry ruby eyes.
Oolth screamed again, louder this time. She glanced down and saw that one of the hawk-bats had landed on his shoulder and was savagely pecking at his face. The beak scored his cheek, drawing a line of dark blood across his skin.
Darsha felt his grip lessen. She saw another hawk-bat clinging to Oolth's arm, stabbing at his hand with its beak.
"Hang on!" she shouted. "We're almost through this!" Oolth cried out again, louder than all his previous cries. Darsha looked down at him, saw that one of the hawk-bats had hooked its cruel beak into his right eye.
Mad with pain, the Fondorian let go of her, raising both hands to push away his winged tormentor.
"No!" Darsha shouted, trying to hang on to him with her free hand. But his weight was too much; his shirt tore, leaving a swatch of it in her grip as he dropped with a trailing cry down into the darkness.
Darsha knew there was no point in trying to go after him, even if there was any way it could be ac-complished; she was seven or eight levels up now, and the fall had undoubtedly been fatal. A moment later she entered the fog level, but the hawk-bats showed no sign of lessening their attack. Already her skin was cut and torn in a score of wounds. At this rate she wouldn't survive to reach the upper levels.
Only one course of action promised even a faint hope of survival. Each level that slipped by her had a line of dark windows. Darsha released the winding control and drew her lightsaber. As her ascent slowed and then stopped, she swung the energy blade, melting a large hole through the transparisteel of the window next to her. She got a foot on the ledge beneath it and tumbled through, releasing the ascension gun as she fell forward into darkness.
She turned the fall into a shoulder roll, holding the lightsaber away from her as she had been taught to avoid self-inflicted injury. She came to her feet, the weapon held ready to defend herself against the hawk-bats.
But apparently there was no need; none of them pursued her into the building.
Slowly Darsha aban-doned her fighting stance. She looked around, trying to take stock of her surroundings.
It was fully dark outside now; the broken window was merely a patch of lesser darkness. The lightsaber's coherent light beam didn't vouchsafe much in the way of illumination. Darsha listened, both with her ears
and with the Force. No sound, and no sense of danger. For the moment she seemed to be safe.
Of course, that depended on one's definition of safe. She was trapped in the abandoned lower levels of a building in the infamous Crimson Corridor. She had no comlink and no transportation. Worse still, she had failed in her mission.
The man she had been sent to save now lay dead in the street far below.
If this was "safe," Darsha thought grimly, maybe she ought to consider another line of work.
Assuming she made it back alive.
CHAPTER 8
Lorn awoke feeling like a herd of banthas had stampeded over him.
He risked opening one eye. The light in the cubicle was very dim, but even so it felt like a blaster beam had fired straight into his eye and up the optic nerve to his brain. He groaned, hastily shut the eye, and wrapped both arms around his head for good measure.
Somewhere in the darkness he heard I-Five say, "Ah, the beast awakes." "Stop shouting," he mumbled.
"My vocabulator is modulated at a median level of sixty decibels, which is standard for normal human conversation. Of course, your hearing might be a trifle oversensitive, given the amount of alcohol still in your bloodstream." Lorn groaned and tried, unsuccessfully, to burrow into the sleeping pad.
"If you're going to continue such behavior," I-Five went on remorselessly, " I suggest having a few healthy liver cells removed-if indeed you have any left- and cryogenically stored, since you may need that particular organ cloned in the near future. I can recommend a very good MD-5 medical droid of my acquaintance-" "All right, all right!" Lorn sat up, cradling his aching head in his hands, and glared at the droid. "You've had your fun. Now make it go away." The droid feigned polite incomprehension. "Make it go away? I'm just a lowly droid, how could I possibly-" "Do it-or I'll reprogram your cognitive module with Bilk's blaster." I-Five gave a remarkably humanlike sigh. "Of course. I live to serve." The droid paused for a moment; then there issued from his vocabulator a low trilling tone.
It warbled up and down the scale, seeming to resonate in the small cubicle.
Lorn sat on the bed and let the sound wash over him, let it reverberate in his head. After a few minutes the headache began to lessen its iron grip, as di
d his nausea and general malaise. He wasn't sure exactly how the wordless song of the droid accomplished it, but something about the vibrations made it the best hangover cure he had ever come across. But no cure comes without a price, and Lorn knew that the price of this one would be having to put up with I-Five's smug superiority for most of the day.
It was still worth it. When I-Five finally let the sound trail off, Lorn felt remarkably better. He wouldn't be doing any zero-g calisthenics at the null-grav spa over at Trantor Center today, but at least he could think of doing them someday soon without feeling like throw-ing up.
He looked at I-Five and found himself wondering once again how a droid with only one fixed facial ex-pression and limited body language could manage to look so disapproving.
"And are we all better now?" I-Five inquired with mock solicitousness.
"Let's just say I'm willing to hold off on that reprogramming-for today at least." Lorn stood up, somewhat carefully, as his head still felt like it might topple off his neck if he moved too quickly.
"Your gratitude overwhelms me." "And your sarcasm underwhelms me." Lorn went into the refresher, splashed cold water on his face, and ran an ultrasound cleaner over his teeth. " I might actu-ally be able to be in the same room with some food," he said as he came out.
"Time enough for that. First I think you should have a look at these messages that came in while you were comatose." "What messages?" It was too much to hope that Zippa had decided to sell him the Holocron after all. Nevertheless, he knew I-Five wouldn't have bothered keeping the communication unless it was important.
"These messages," the droid replied patiently, and activated the message unit.
A flickering image of an enormous, blubbery body formed in midair over the unit.
Lorn recognized Yanth the Hutt.
.^Lorn," the image said in a deep voice, "I thought we were going to meet sometime today, to discuss a certain Holocron you wished me to look at. It's not polite to keep buyers waiting, you know." The image dissolved. "Thanks," Lorn said to I-Five. "If you're not too busy later, I've got a scraped knuckle you could rub some salt into." " I think your attitude may change when you see the next message." The second image materialized above the projector. It wasn't Zippa or Yanth; that much was immediately evident. After a moment Lorn recognized the species- a Neimoidian. That in itself was surprising; the mas-ters of the Trade Federation were rarely seen on Coruscant, given the current strained relationship be-tween their organization and the Republic Senate.
The Neimoidian glanced around furtively before leaning in close and speaking softly. "Lorn Pavan- your name was mentioned to me as someone who can be. discreet in handling sensitive information," he said in the gurgling tones of his kind. "I wish to dis-cuss a matter that could be very profitable to both of us. If you are interested, meet me at the Dewback Inn at 0900. Tell no one of this." The three-dimensional image winked out.
"Play it again," Lorn said.
I-Five complied, and Lorn watched the message a second time, paying more attention to the Neimoidian's body language than to what he was saying. He wasn't all that familiar with Neimoidian mannerisms, but it didn't take an interplanetary psychoanalyst to see that the alien was as nervous as a H'nemthe groom. Which could mean trouble, but which could also mean profit. In his present line of work Lorn seldom saw the second happen without having to wade through the first.
He pressed a button that deleted the second mes-sage, and glanced at I-Five.
"What do you think?" "I think we have seventeen Republic decicreds in the bank, and whatever change might have fallen under the sleeping pad. I think the rent is due in a week. I think," I-Five said, "that we should talk to this Neimoidian." "I think so, too," Lorn said.
The time of the evening meal was almost over. Mahwi Lihnn had by now investigated four restau-rants whose menus included Neimoidian cuisine. Only one of them was occupied by a Neimoidian at table-a female. Lihnn had questioned her, but she had professed no knowledge of a countryman named Hath Monchar. She had, however, told Lihnn of an-other eatery in the area that her kind had been known to frequent. It was a small tavern called the Dewback Inn, one of the few drinking establishments in the sector that featured agaric ale, a beverage most Neimoidians were extremely fond of.
Lihnn decided to check it out.
It had not been terribly difficult to find Lorn Pavan's dwelling cubicle. As Darth Maul approached it, he saw the door open. A human and a droid-the latter one of the protocol series-emerged. Maul quickly faded back into the shadows of the underground thorough- fare and watched them pass. Both matched the descrip-tions he had been given by the Baragwin bartender.
Excellent. With any luck, they would lead him to his prey.
He followed them at a safe distance, making use of shadows and concealment when it was available and trusting to the cloaking power of the Force when it was not. The human and his droid had no idea they were being followed. He would tail them until they con-tacted the Neimoidian, and then he would take what ac-tion was appropriate.
Maul could feel the dark side surging within him, filling him with impatience, urging him to complete this assignment as quickly as possible. This is not what you were trained for, he thought. These are not prey worthy of your abilities, He tried to dismiss these thoughts, for they were heretical. His master had given him this assignment; that was all that mattered. But he could not help chafing at this duty. There was no real challenge to his abilities in it. He had been bred and trained to fight and kill Jedi, after all, not rank-and-file beings like these.
The Jedi-how he hated them! How he loathed their hollow sanctimoniousness, their pretense of piety, their hypocrisy. How he longed for the day when their Temple would be a ruin of smoking rubble, littered with their crushed corpses. If he closed his eyes, he could see the apocalypse of the order as vividly as if it were reality. It was reality, after all-a future reality, but nonetheless valid.
It was destined, ordained, predetermined. And he would be instru-mental in bringing it about. It was what his entire life had been designed for.
Not tracking some pathetic failure through the slums of Coruscant.
Maul shook his head and snarled silently. His pur-pose was to serve his master, no matter what the as-signment was. If Darth Sidious knew he was having such doubts, the Sith Lord would severely punish him, such as he had not been punished since he was a child. And Maul would not resist, even though he was now a grown man. Because Sidious would be right to do so.
The human and his droid emerged from the under-ground thoroughfare and proceeded along the narrow surface streets. It was late at night, but the planetary city never slept. The streets were crowded no matter what time of day or night it was. This was fortunate, in that it made it easier for Maul to keep his quarry in sight without being noticed.
It would not be much longer, Maul told himself. He would bring this job to a successful conclusion-and then, perhaps, Darth Sidious would reward him with a task more worthy of his abilities. Something like the Black Sun assignment. That had been a challenge he had enjoyed.
Pavan and his droid turned down another street, this one so narrow and bounded by tall structures that there was barely room for two lanes of foot traf-fic.
They entered a doorway under a hanging sign decorated with a rampant dewback.
This was their destination, then. Despite his near- perfect control of his nervous system, Maul felt his pulse quicken slightly in anticipation. If all went as planned, soon this onerous chore would be over. He entered the tavern.
CHAPTER 9 Lorn looked around the dingy, ill-lit interior. The Dewback Inn was even less reputable looking than the Glowstone, and that was saying something. There weren't many customers, but each one that he noticed looked like he or she or it had seen their share of combat. Lorn noticed a Devaronian with one horn missing, a piebald Wookiee-half of whose hair had apparently been singed off-and a Sakiyan whose bald head was stitched with ridged keloid tissue, among others.
I-Five surveyed the room, as well. "It just keeps get-ting better," the droid said.
Lorn noticed a sign above the bar that read NO droids allowed in Basic. He also noticed several of the patrons looking suspiciously at I-Five. "I think you'd better wait outside," he told the droid. "Sorry." "I think I can deal with the rejection." I-Five went back outside.
Lorn saw a Neimoidian sitting alone at a corner table, looking very uncomfortable. As he started to make his way through the tables he heard the door open behind him, and out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed a cloaked and hooded form entering. The newcomer had a sinister aspect about him-but then, with the possible exception of the Neimoidian, so did everyone else in the room, so Lorn didn't give the new arrival much thought.
Star Wars - Darth Maul - Shadow Hunter Page 6
