Star Wars: The Perfect Weapon is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Del Rey Ebook Original
Copyright © 2015 by Lucasfilm Ltd. & ® or TM where indicated. All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
DEL REY and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
eBook ISBN 9780399177934
Cover design: Scott Biel
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chronology
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
By Delilah S. Dawson
About the Author
A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away….
Chapter 1
The night was young, and Bazine Netal was hunting. Curled up on a stool in formfitting black that matched her eyes, lips, and hair, she scanned the room for her contact and found only fools. Clumsy admirers frequently took her cold stare for an invitation. In her line of work, being beautiful was often a boon. But it was also an inconvenience.
“Good evening, my lady.”
She looked up and frowned. She’d noted this witless Devaronian earlier, when he’d suffered a spectacular loss at sabacc. Now, reeking of liquor and overconfidence, he reached for her knee, slurring something about the heat of the desert sands and the curves of her bountiful dunes. Before his filthy fingers could touch her, she snapped his wrist like a twig. He screamed and fell to the sand-dusted floor, calling her all manner of names, but she only yawned and looked away. He clearly was not the man she was looking for. His friends hurried up to him, took one look at Bazine, and muttered dark promises as they carried him out, the man squealing like a Huttlet the entire time. She eased farther into the shadowy corner, swirling the drink in her glass with fastidious, black-tipped fingers.
She hadn’t tasted the drink, of course. She never did.
Drinks could be poisoned at any moment. She’d already poisoned one tonight. The effects wouldn’t be obvious until her mark was safely back home, contentedly sleeping. He wouldn’t wake up again. And then her comlink would bing softly, letting her know her unknown employer was pleased and had deposited creds in her account.
What Bazine needed now was a new job to keep her occupied. She’d been waiting for this new contact for hours and was already bored, and the men could smell it on her. Another one appeared at the edge of her table, fingers stroking his blaster.
“You lonely, sweetness?” he asked, flipping a toothpick with his tongue.
She looked him up and down. The slight human junker presented neither threat nor enticement. Definitely not her man. He looked her up and down in return. High-heeled wedge boots, black leather leggings clinging to shapely legs, tight-fitting jacket that concealed armor and weapons, not that he could’ve known that, nor could he know that the severe black bob was a wig. When his eyes reached her stark, chiseled face again, he leered. “Because you look…lonely.”
“And you look like a diseased mynock. Move along.” She waved a hand at him and scooted farther back in her booth, kicking her legs up onto the table to discourage further disturbances.
“You think you’re too good for me?” he sputtered, reaching for his blaster with a shaking hand.
“Of course not. I know I’m too good for you.”
With one simple but elegant kick, she struck a nerve cluster in his thigh that sent him sprawling onto the rough floor. This man had no friends to pick him back up. He had no choice but to crawl away on hands and knees, cursing her.
That, at least, made her smile a little.
A waitress appeared, wiping a wet rag across the table as she watched the junker’s retreat.
“You keep openly maiming the customers and Suli won’t let you in the door,” the orange-eyed Duros girl said. “They can’t tip with broken bones.”
Bazine tossed a few credit chips on the table. “It’s not my fault Suli’s establishment attracts scoundrels, Ooda.” It was as close as she’d come to an apology, and Ooda nodded and scooped up the creds, which was as close as she’d come to forgiveness. They had an unspoken agreement, these two, even though they’d been in the same orbit for years. It was the same arrangement Bazine had with all her acquaintances: no asking questions and no getting friendly.
“Oh, and Suli said to tell you he’d be here soon.”
Ooda turned to go, and Bazine called after her, “Who?”
The Duros shrugged as she walked away. “Didn’t ask, don’t want to know.”
Bazine had an agreement with Suli, too. He’d send jobs her way, and in return she acted as unofficial bouncer, quietly removing anyone who caused trouble. Even the most violent drunks would follow her outside for the promise of a kiss. Technically speaking, she had told the cantina owner that she’d wait to maim the customers until they were out back in a private alley. She scanned the bar for Suli, made eye contact, and gave the barest nod to indicate understanding.
The night wore on, and her contact didn’t show. She’d gently rebuffed seven more scoundrels and watched twice as many bad hands at sabacc when something clattered in her glass, splashing amber liquid onto the stained table. Her head jerked up, hunting for the source of the interruption. The scenery had not changed. Not a single new pair of eyes watched her; nor were any strangers circling her table as they practiced bad pickup lines under their breath. She knew this bar, and she knew all the other mercs, and she recognized most of these lowlifes, even if they didn’t recognize her, thanks to a rotating gallery of disguises. But she had never before had any suitors attempt to gain her attention by dropping a room key in her glass.
Her eyes cut left and right before her elbow shot out, knocking the drink over.
“Oops.”
She hooked a finger through the key ring, doing her best not to smudge the matte-black rishi eel ink she wore painted on her forefingers to cloak her fingerprints. ROOM 3, the tag read. Could be an invitation. Could be the job. Either way, she was going to find out. Sliding off her stool, she stood and stretched, readjusting her severe but exquisite outfit as she subtly checked her weapons. Snub-nosed blaster: check. Slender blade: check. Small thermal detonators hidden in the wedges of her boots: check. Seven throwing knives sewn into her jacket: check. Whatever the hotel guest hoped to pay her for, he was going to be surprised by her bag of tricks.
She headed for the long hallway that housed the beyond-loathsome toilet and the door to the stairs. She’d never visited the bar’s second-floor lodging area, knowing it was used only by the dancing girls and high rollers, whether together or separately. The stairway was narrow and stank of sweat and worse, and she drew her blaster as she edged upward, careful not to touch the filthy banisters.
Aiming her blaster down each side of the hallway, she found nothing worth shooting. Identical numbered doors marched down the sand-colored paneling, various sounds whispering or thumping rhythmically behind them. She paused beside door number three. Her back to the wall, she leaned an ear against the plasteel and heard nothing within. She knocked twice, quick, and slowed her breathing as she waited, bl
aster held aloft, for a response. None came.
How inhospitable.
Blaster in one hand, old-fashioned key in the other, ready to run or shoot, she unlocked the door and nudged it open with one boot. She had expected blasterfire, an enemy’s cackle, or the smooth sounds of a jatz band and a fool’s compliments, but what she got was utter silence. Slipping a small mirror from one of her pockets, she used it to scout the room through the open door.
A lone figure sat on the disheveled bed, utterly still. Even in the low light, she could tell it was a protocol droid, and not one of the new, fancy ones. This one was skeletal and missing an arm, the barest sketch of a sentient being. The rest of the room was slightly off, towels on the floor and chairs askew, as if the person who’d left her the key had done so on his or her way out.
“Hello?” she called, voice pitched low to sound inviting.
There was no answer. She didn’t know if she was more intrigued or annoyed. Sure, she’d been bored in the bar and waiting for a mission, but she preferred her work like she preferred her clothes: tidy, no nonsense, a good fit, and ready to burn if she had to run.
She slipped the mirror back in its pocket and took up her blade. Both weapons drawn, she stepped into the room, ready for the worst.
The rusty protocol droid’s head slowly ratcheted up to scan her face.
“Greetings, Bazine Netal,” it said in a dull, heartless monotone. “I have a job for you. Do you accept?”
Chapter 2
Bazine didn’t answer immediately. She was waiting for further details. What she got was a countdown.
“Ten. Nine. Eight.”
She moved closer to the droid and waved her blaster. “Stop. Tell me more.”
The droid stood, a painful, squealing affair.
“Accept or reject. Seven. Six.”
In Bazine’s experience, any countdown that began at ten and ended with zero involved an explosion. She had exactly six seconds to decide which was more dangerous: taking an unknown job from an unidentified source delivered in a singular manner, or waiting to see how much an exploding rustbucket droid could damage the cantina—and just how much of a hit her armor could take.
“Five. Four. Three.”
“Fine. I’ll take the job. I accept. Just shut up with the counting.”
The droid went silent and sat down heavily on the bed as if the act of formulating an answer were exhausting. “Your acceptance has been recorded. Stand by.” With a whir and a shudder, the droid projected a shaky hologram to hover a meter in front of Bazine’s face. The figure was cloaked, naturally, and its voice was so well modulated that Bazine couldn’t guess at its species, age, or gender.
“Bazine Netal. You will retrieve a steel case last possessed by Imperial stormtrooper TK-1472. Human name: Jor Tribulus. Tribulus was most recently documented as a patient at Vashka City Medcenter One. His records are stored in the facility’s data banks under the highest level of encryption. Current whereabouts unknown, but we suspect he remains on Vashka, possibly suffering from psychological instability. Retrieve the case and send an encrypted message on this device using the provided main planetary booster.”
The droid’s arm swung out, rusted fingers creaking open to reveal a comm so slender and high-tech, it would’ve more than paid for the average job, even one that took her offworld. Bazine’s eyes narrowed.
“What’s the pay?”
The holographic figure paused as if it could hear her, even though it was obviously a recording. “You’ll be curious about the payout. Deliver this case, and you won’t have to work again.” She frowned, and the figure chuckled darkly. “But you will anyway, won’t you? Old habits die hard. You may keep the comm.” The hologram ended, and the figure disappeared.
Bazine took the comm, sliding it into place behind her ear.
“One more thing, Ms. Netal,” the voice whispered, sharp and clear through the speaker. “There is another faction hunting for the case. Your adversary will be cunning and likewise well appointed, known only by the code name Narglatch. Remain undetected, and get rid of anyone who opposes you. We’ll cover your tracks. Good luck.” She was about to tell the voice where it could shove its Narglatch, but it added, almost too low to hear, “Oh, yes. And the droid will self-destruct in thirty seconds.”
Considering that Suli’s cantina was the basis of her current operations on Chaaktil, she wasn’t willing to assume that the droid’s self-destruct mechanism would be a small, self-limited affair via EM grenade. Grabbing it by the remaining arm, she spun in a circle, lobbing the pile of rusted metal toward the window with all her strength. The cheap glass shattered as the droid plunged to the dark, empty street. Bazine followed it out the window, scuttled down a drainpipe, and took off.
By the time the explosion lit up the night, she was running full-tilt on her way to the spaceport, leaving nothing behind but a discarded black wig.
Whoever her new employer was, they were very…dramatic.
—
It was easy enough to hop the late-night shuttle to Chaako City, Chaaktil’s biggest cosmopolitan area. The buildings sprawled like a disease spreading ever farther over the planet’s light-colored sands. She hadn’t set foot on those dusty streets in six standard years, and for good reason. Desert heat and city filth made for an uncomfortable combination, and the moment she stepped off the shuttle, she could already feel Chaako settling into her pores despite the night’s chill. She was already sweating beneath her black leather skullcap and neck piece.
Bazine had a talent for sneaking in the shadows, and she slipped through dark, familiar alleys on silent feet. The rag-bundled bum who rushed her from a doorway took a boot to the temple, and the gang that had hoped to corner her behind a trash container found that she’d disappeared like smoke. The city hadn’t changed much, but Bazine had added to her own skill set considerably since she’d been gone.
Soon she stood before a door that had seemed so much bigger when she’d first seen it as a small child. It had terrified her, then: a scarred metal monolith barely masking the sounds of steel slashing against steel and flesh beating flesh to a pulp. KEEP OUT was spray-painted diagonally across it in what looked like dried blood. She had to smile. It was just a regular-sized door, now, and the noises behind it were welcoming. In a way, a small way, she was home.
The door slid open before she could knock.
“Welcome back, Chaakrabbit,” a voice growled from within.
“Nice to see you, too, old man.”
This door, Kloda’s door, was one of the few entrances through which she could comfortably walk without a ready weapon in each hand. Kloda’s school was safe. Even this late at night, fighters were in the cage and working in the gym, grunting and dripping sweat onto the mats and heavy bags. If you wanted to learn combat on Chaaktil, you came to Delphi Kloda, once Tasu Leech’s number two and the most terrifying slab of muscle ever to lead the Kanjiklub raids. After losing his leg and eye, Kloda couldn’t prowl the space lanes anymore with the dignity he demanded, so he taught new kids how to break bones instead.
Underneath the gym, in secret, his real students lived and worked, studying the finer points of espionage under his tutelage. That’s where Bazine had grown up—she was his first success. The day he’d plucked her out of a Chaako City orphanage was the day her real life had begun. She’d hurled a stone at him as he’d walked by, smacking him right in the eye patch, and he’d told her that, in that moment, he’d never been so enraged or amused. For years, he called her his little Chaakrabbit, sending her on errands to fetch this or listen in on that. Now she recognized that he’d been training her all along for the mercenary she would one day become.
Bazine recognized the clomp of his metal leg before she saw him, huge arms outstretched for the hug she didn’t know she needed. The old pirate smelled like sand and sweat and blood and his favorite fat cigarras, and she pounded his back before pulling away to look him in the good eye.
“How’s tricks?” she asked. “Still c
arving fat into marble?”
“Cut the crap, kid. You don’t visit for six years, and now you’re making small talk? What’s your game?”
Underneath the menace, she could tell the old man’s feelings were hurt, and she gave him a slight, rare smile. “For a half-blind graybeard, nothing escapes you.”
In response, he punched her in the shoulder, or tried to. Quick as he was, she was quicker now, and she knew his tells. By the time his fist hit the place she’d been, she was out of range.
“Shouldn’t have taught you a damn thing,” he muttered. He turned to clomp back toward his office. “Come on. Caf’s hot. Old, but it’s still got some kick.”
She smirked. “Lot of that going around.”
“Know what your problem is? You got no respect for authority.” He shook his grizzled head in mock sadness. “Never did.”
She followed him to the dank closet he called an office and lounged in the same decrepit chair where she’d sat on her first day here. Her feet had dangled off the seat, then. Nothing in this room, this place, had changed. Which is why she’d left in the first place. Kloda slammed the door shut and handed her a hot cup before sitting down in his battered leather chair, leaning back and crossing his enormous arms.
“Out with it, Chaakrabbit.”
“Fine. I need a ship.”
“And you want to borrow the Sparrowhawk.”
Bazine nodded. “You’re not using it.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s available.”
“Name your price, old man.”
One wild gray eyebrow arched. “Well, look who thinks she’s the queen of Naboo. I don’t want your money, kid. But I’ll trade you.”
“I want a clean deal. No questions.”
Kloda laughed until he had to wipe tears from under his eye patch. “You wouldn’t know a clean deal if it bit you in the rump, I bet. Money I’ve got. What I need is a favor. See, I got this student in the basement—Orri Tenro’s his name, or so he says. Nice Pantoran kid. Great slicer. A whiz with tech, can hack into any system. Decent enough in the fight cage, once I busted his nose a few times to break him in. I need him to go on a mission offworld. I got too much going on here to take him myself. He needs to feel hyperspace, survive on ship food, live through a job. You take him with you, you can use the Sparrowhawk. You treat her good, though.” He sipped his caf. “Don’t really care if you treat him good. Kid’s too green.”
The Perfect Weapon (Short Story) Page 1
