“Yes, sir.” Like anyone with any political savvy, Ula knew that “protection” was something many worlds simply did not want, for fear of the so-called protectors pillaging natural resources and talent. Also, the mere presence of a Republic cruiser, let alone a Jedi, was likely to draw the wrath of the Sith, who could be even worse. “What if it’s nothing?”
“Then we’ve lost nothing, and you get to keep your promotion.” Stantorrs stood and held out his hand. “I’m elevating you to senior aide, effective immediately, and appointing you as acting envoy to the Bareesh Cartel. Congratulations, Ula.”
Ula shook the Supreme Commander’s hand but barely registered the soldierly crush of the strong Duros fingers. Numb from head to foot, he could barely accept what had just happened. The best he could manage was to find ways to profit from it.
As his former colleagues pressed in to offer their congratulations, he realized that this put him in an ideal position to make sure that the Republic didn’t gain from the Hutts’ offer. He could downplay the importance of any information he discovered—even actively interfere with the auction, if it came to that. Whatever the Hutts had, the Republic wouldn’t get access to it.
And then there was the Republic fleet that awaited the outcome of his investigation. If he could send them on a fruitless quest to an empty sector of the galaxy, that could help the Empire in a dozen tangible ways. That the Supreme Commander of the Republic’s military forces and parts of the Senate were absorbed in this unfolding drama was also useful. What had started as a minor curiosity could end up playing a deciding role in the conflict, if he was careful.
“When do you want me to leave, sir?”
“Immediately. Your security detail is waiting.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Ula swallowed his nervousness, made his farewells, and exited the room.
HE DIDN’T GET very far. In the hallway outside the Supreme Commander’s suite of offices, a squad of six soldiers awaited him. They wore smart service dress uniforms and saluted on sight of him.
“Sergeant Robann Potannin,” the lead soldier introduced himself. “We are your escort, Envoy Vii.”
Potannin was swarthy and muscular, and though he was as tall as Ula, he loomed as though from a great height.
“Thank you, Sergeant Potannin. I’ll be grateful for your protection on Hutta. What’s the arrangement? Shall we rendezvous at the appropriate spaceport when the shuttle is ready?”
“Shuttle departs in one hour, sir.”
“Then I’d better get moving, hadn’t I?”
He moved off along the corridor, and the squad fell into formation around him. He stopped, and they stopped, too.
“Where are you going?” he asked Potannin.
“Escorting you to Diplomatic Supplies, sir.”
“That’s not where I’m going. I need to swing by my apartment to pack my bag, and I’m sure I can manage that on my own.”
“Negative, sir. All offworld necessities are provided by Diplomatic Supplies.”
“But my clothes—”
“Not required, sir. Ceremonial attire is being tailored to your measurements as we speak.”
Ula had never seen this side of the Republic administration at work. It was surprisingly, and irritatingly, efficient.
“I have a pet voorpak,” he said, improvising wildly. “If I leave it alone, it’ll die.”
“Not to worry, sir. Provide us with your key and I’ll have it cared for.”
“No, no. That’s not necessary.” Ula ran a hand through his hair. Both packing a bag and his imaginary pet were covers for his real intention. He wanted to send a message from his apartment to his Imperial masters, informing them of this sudden development. Otherwise they might worry at his silence.
Luckily, he had prepared for every contingency.
Pulling his comlink out of his pocket, he said, “I’ll call a neighbor. She’ll look after it. Give me a moment.”
He walked a short distance from Potannin and placed a quick call. The neighbor was imaginary, too, but the number was real. It led to an automated message service that was regularly checked by Watcher Three’s network of agents on Coruscant. After the tone, he recorded his name and ordered two innocuous dishes from a nonexistent menu. The name of the first dish contained nine syllables, the second thirteen, and those numbers allowed Ula’s real message to be decoded from stock phrases every Imperial operative knew by heart: he had experienced an unplanned interruption and would reestablish contact as soon as possible.
At least via the voice-drop his abbreviated message would get through. Who knew when he would find an opportunity to send another?
That thought triggered a whole new wave of trepidation. Bad enough to be in the spotlight, but to be completely cut off from his chain of command was even worse. He could feel his hands beginning to tremble, and to hide that he stuffed them with his comlink into his pockets.
“All right,” he said, turning back to the attentive Sergeant Potannin and beaming the brightest smile he could manage. “I’m all yours.”
Smoothly falling into formation around him, they marched him off to be outfitted for his new role.
THE GLORIOUS JEWEL of the Y’Toub system rose like a bloated corpse from the bottomless sea of space. Shigar squinted out at it, glad for the first time that they hadn’t found more opulent transport. The passenger lounge of the Red Silk Chances was filthy, and its viewports barely counted as translucent, but the squalor matched the view. Hutta looked every bit as foul as its reputation suggested, moldy green and brown like a fruit left to ripen too long, bursting with rot from within.
Larin sat next to him, and their shoulders jostled together every time the freighter rattled beneath them. Her face was hidden by the helmet of her increasingly nonregulation armor, but he could tell from the straightness of her spine that she was paying close attention to everyone around them. The droids and lowlifes taking the trip with them warranted it. Thus far there had been two knife fights, several games of rigged dejarik, numerous arguments over the outcome of the latest Great Hunt, and a vigorous sing-along—in a dialect Shigar had never heard before—that had felt as though it might last forever.
Seeking to calm his nerves, he closed his eyes and concentrated on an oddly shaped shard of plastoid in his right hand that he had picked up in the streets of Coruscant as they had waited to board their shuttle. Nothing about it was familiar, so there was no way his conscious mind could guess its origins or purpose. Determining either or both of those was where his psychometric ability was supposed to come in.
About one in a hundred Kiffar were born with this particular Force talent, deciphering the origin and history of objects by touch alone. Shigar’s came and went despite his every effort, and it was this lack of control that had at least partly put off the Jedi Council when it came to allowing his trials. Plenty of Jedi Knights had no psychometric ability whatsoever, but all were supposed to intimately know their own strengths and weaknesses. A wild talent of any kind was not acceptable.
Shigar focused on his breathing and let the Force flow strongly through him. The shaking of the freighter and the chattering of its passengers receded. He felt only the complex shape of the object in his palm, and examined the way it sat in the universe without recourse to his usual senses. Was it old or new? Did it come from nearby or far away? Was it precious or disposable? Had it been dropped deliberately or without care? Was it manufactured or handmade? Were there thousands of such things in the galaxy, or was this the only one that had ever existed?
Half-felt impressions came and went. He saw a woman’s face—a human woman, with wide-set brown eyes and a distinctive scar across her chin. He pursued that mental scent as far as it went, but nothing more came to him. He let it go, and realized then that he had seen this woman in the old districts, while walking off his anger at the Council’s decision. She had been selling roasted spider-roaches to an Abyssin with one eye. His mind had thrown up her face in desperation. She had noth
ing at all to do with the scrap of plastoid.
A Jedi Knight is a Jedi Knight in all respects, Master Nobil had said. Until he controlled this talent, he could hardly be said to have control over himself. On that point he had no defense.
Frustrated, he opened his eyes and put the scrap back into his pocket. He had a few pockets now, mainly down his chest and the front of his thighs. They added several kilograms to his body mass and jingled when he walked. The unfamiliar textures and cut of his disguise came courtesy of a market on Klatooine, where he and Larin had boarded the Red Silk Chances for Hutta. He was still getting used to it.
Through the grimy viewport, the foul world’s fifth moon, Nar Shaddaa, was slinking by.
Almost there, Shigar told himself.
“You’re a little small for a bounty hunter, aren’t you?” a six-fingered smuggler asked Larin.
She turned her head the tiniest fraction. “So what? You’re a little too ugly to be human.” Her voice was artificially harshened by the vocoder added to enhance her disguise.
The smuggler only laughed. “You don’t intimidate me, girl. I lost my ship playing pazaak in a den owned by Fa’athra. I’m going to ask him for it back, out of the goodness of his heart. What do you think of that?”
The Hutt called Fa’athra was widely known as the cruelest, most sadistic of all.
“I think that makes you stupid as well as ugly.”
The smuggler laughed again, his face opening like a wound to expose a bewildering variety of snaggled teeth. Shigar was ready to intervene if the exchange became violent, but the smuggler seemed satisfied by Larin’s response.
“Tell your friend here,” the smuggler said, leaning close, “that if he really wants to pass himself off as a rancor racer, he’ll have to roughen his hide up some. Those guys have a life expectancy of less than five minutes. You don’t last longer than that without some kind of damage.”
He turned away to butt heads with someone else, leaving Shigar and Larin to exchange a quick glance.
“I’ll put on the mask when we land,” Shigar whispered to her. He hadn’t wanted to on Klatooine, disliking the grotesque appearance it lent him and the stench of poorly cured leather. “You can say I told you so then.”
She just nodded. He was glad he couldn’t see her expression.
BILBOUSA SPACEPORT WAS crowded with every kind of sentient species and droid model that Larin had ever heard of. The air was thick with spices and a dense mélange of language. As the Red Silk Chances disgorged its passengers with nary a pretense of courtesy, they blended into the muddy stream of life as character befit: pushing, shoving, appealing for passage, or simply standing still and waiting for an opening.
Shigar, now clad in the snarling visage of a rancor racer, blended in perfectly.
They negotiated the press as gracefully as possible and chartered a hopper to take them to Gebroila, the city closest to Tassaa Bareesh’s palace. There was no need to pass through security or to change currencies. All forms of credits were accepted on Hutta. After checking that Shigar’s chip wasn’t counterfeit, the Evocii driver swept them recklessly into the never-ending stream of traffic, provoking a dozen potentially fatal near-misses. Larin kept her eyes and attention on the interior of the cab. Their mission was dangerous enough without worrying about everyday threats.
The journey to Gebroila was a long one, and it felt even longer. Hutta’s damp biosphere was poisoned by millennia of industrial abuse, making it hazardous even to breathe there. Those few species to survive the Hutts’ takeover of the world had mutated beyond recognition. Some, like the hardy chemilizard, had evolved the ability to take sustenance from compounds that might kill an ordinary animal. Others perfected elaborate and expensive chemical defenses, or occupied those few niches that weren’t sodden with pollutants. Such niches were vigorously contested, making their inhabitants some of the most vicious in the galaxy.
The Hutts themselves were a prime example of evolution in action. Corpulent and slug-like, their ancestors must have made easy prey on their original homeworld. But environmental catastrophe had forced them to become hardier in several ways at once, developing surprisingly powerful muscles beneath all their flab, and minds to match. They were the original niche dwellers and now formed the summit of the food chain.
Larin rode in silence, very familiar from her time in special forces with long periods during which nothing happened. She would have liked to make plans for their arrival in Gebroila, but Shigar was silent, caught up in his own thoughts. She let him be and pondered the matter herself. Security around the palace was bound to be tight, and they had been unable to purchase the right IDs to get in. In a culture of fakes and lies, demonstrating appropriate authenticity was going to be difficult—unless they found a back entrance that wasn’t watched from a dozen angles at once. Somehow, she didn’t think it was going to be that easy.
THE PALACE WAS as large as the neighboring city. Shigar was both intimidated and reassured by its sprawling vastness. It would be easier to hide behind those ornate walls, among the thousands of servants, penitents, and other enemies that converged wherever money concentrated. At the same time, there would be eyes everywhere. They couldn’t afford to slip up once.
Shigar paid their hopper driver and added a substantial tip. The driver was a slave, bound by chains to the vehicle he commanded. Evocii had once been the owners of Hutta, but they were now on the very lowest rung of its opportunistic society. Countless generations of inbreeding had reduced them to a pallid, sickly species. Only outside the cities did their fighting spirit remain, in the form of rebel tribes whose vigor caused the Hutts no end of trouble.
The driver’s permanently pained but placid expression didn’t change as he pulled the hopper away from the palace forecourt and sped off.
“Now what?” asked Larin.
“We go in.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
He led the way up a long flight of steps—their first taste of Tassaa Bareesh’s imposition on her guests. She would never climb such an obstacle herself. No doubt she had teams of litter-bearers or repulsorsleds to take her wherever she willed. By forcing visitors to do what she would not, before they even entered her domain, and to suffer for it, she automatically placed them at a lower social level.
Larin was fit. She didn’t break stride as they climbed briskly to the guard level, overtaking several other parties along the way. There were three entrances with weapons emplacements mounted over each. Shigar picked the leftmost at random. Four armored Gamorrean guards awaited them, two outside and two inside. Their deep-set eyes regarded every being who approached with equal amounts of suspicion. Behind them, one of the parties they’d overtaken was forcibly pushed back down the stairs, screaming plaintively.
“Are you sure you want to do it this way?” she asked him.
“This is the easy part,” he told her. “Watch.”
The guards crossed vibro-axes as they approached. Shigar stopped obediently and addressed them in a calm voice.
“You don’t need to see our documents. We have the required authorization.”
The axes parted, allowing them through.
“Two down,” Larin’s vocoder crackled.
Shigar repeated the mind trick on the other side of the entrance. Again the axes parted and they walked through. One door up, a loud party of Ortolans did the same, but with official IDs.
“Don’t look so smug,” Larin said to him. “I can see it even through your mask.”
A silver protocol droid stepped out in front of them, backed up by a pair of bug-eyed TT-2G guard droids. “This way, please. Purser Droog will assign you quarters sufficient to your needs.”
“That’s okay,” said Larin. “We know our way around.”
“If you’ll only allow us to verify your IDs,” said the droid more insistently, “Purser Droog will ensure that you are accommodated appropriately.”
“Really, you don’t need to worry.”
/>
“No worry at all, honored guests. You must allow us to show you the proper hospitality.”
Heavy emphasis on the word must prompted Shigar to look up. Weapons emplacements on the interior side of the wall had tracked to target them. The Gamorreans clearly weren’t the only barriers to entry to Tassaa Bareesh’s castle.
“Of course,” Shigar told the droid, suppressing the slightest sign of concern in his voice. “We don’t want to make a fuss.”
The droid bowed and led them to a desk, behind which sat an ill-looking Hutt with deep pouches under his eyes. He was busy with the noisy Ortolans, who appeared to have mislaid one of their passports. This was another setback. Hutts were immune to all forms of Jedi persuasion, so that wasn’t going to work this time. Shigar thought frantically. Fighting his way in wasn’t an option, given the emplacements and the need for secrecy. Neither was fighting his way out, since there were just as many weapons that way. If he didn’t think of something else fast, they would be trapped.
Finally, the purser waved the Peripleens on and gestured for Shigar and Larin to approach.
“Kimwil Kinz and Mer Corrucle,” he said, giving the Hutt the fake names they had settled on during the journey to Hutta. Cupping his hand over his credit chip, he slid it across the desk as though it were some kind of official documentation. Indicating the backs of the Ortolans, disappearing in a huddle into the palace proper, he added, “We’re with them.”
The jaded eyes of the Hutt regarded him with a mixture of hostility and disdain. There was no way of telling which way he would fall. Was he automatically loyal to Tassaa Bareesh, who had placed him in this position of responsibility, or was he bored or drunk enough on his own small power to take up the opportunity Shigar presented? The contents of the credit chip were considerable; they represented everything he had been given to fulfill his mission. If he took it, that would be money well spent.
The purser swept up the chip and tucked it into the folds of his body.
The Old Republic Series Page 7
