The Old Republic Series

by Sean Williams

  Ax made it her business to be elsewhere. Confusing her Houk escort with a well-placed mind trick, she slipped away from the group and vanished into the shadows.

  ULA ENDURED TASSAA Bareesh’s welcoming spiel with ill-disguised contempt. Cordiality and profitability made untrustworthy bed partners, particularly when honesty and ethics weren’t invited, too. When his host promised him an array of amenities including chemical enhancements and even more dubious forms of entertainment, it was all he could do not to spit to get the bad taste out of his mouth.

  “I think we can dispense with all that,” he said. “Why don’t we just get down to business?”

  Tassaa Bareesh’s slit-like grin widened even farther, if that were possible.

  Her pointy-headed protocol droid assured Ula that Tassaa Bareesh understood completely.

  She waved forward an underling, a salacious-looking Twi’lek, who took over negotiations from that point. The Twi’lek promised that they would soon see the legacy of the Cinzia. As Ula was led from the throne room, he glimpsed a scruffy-looking man leaning up against the rear wall with a blank look on his face and a battered orange droid close at his shoulder. The man’s ennui had a manufactured air, and it was this that caught Ula’s eye.

  “Who was that fellow back there?” he asked his guide.

  “Which fellow?” Yeama didn’t even glance over his shoulder.

  Ula described him, not yet willing to give the matter up. Being a good informer meant taking nothing for granted and noticing all the details.

  “Grayish hair, prominent nose, brown eyes—with an old droid.”

  “Oh, no one in particular,” the Twi’lek assured him. “A pilot whose ship is currently berthed here. He has the favor of my mistress, and therefore the run of the palace.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Jet Nebula, Envoy Vii. You won’t have heard of him.”

  That was true. It didn’t even sound like a real name. But he wasn’t fool enough to take Yeama at his word. The Hutts and their servants were natural liars. Like him.

  He filed the name away in his memory.

  YEAMA TOOK HIM through several ridiculous security measures in order to introduce him to the cause of all this fuss. A navicomp and a battered bit of space junk—it all seemed an utter beat-up as far as he could tell, although that in itself was something of a relief. If the charade amounted to nothing, it would soon therefore be over. Nonetheless, he attended carefully to the details and asked the questions expected of him.

  “No survivors, you say?” he asked after hearing the last transmissions from the Cinzia. “How can I be sure your affiliate didn’t murder them and concoct this mad story to cover the deed?”

  “The fate of the passengers is irrelevant to us,” Yeama answered. “We would not lie to spare your sensibilities.”

  That Ula believed completely, and it revived the moral outrage he had felt at being in the court of a Hutt. Tassaa Bareesh’s venal tactics only confirmed his low opinion of her kind and his hopes that they would be undone, somehow. The Hutts were walking a very fine line. The more valuable the items they were auctioning, the more they could obviously charge—but how long until one or another party simply walked in and took them?

  He wondered if either side had just such contingencies in place. Supreme Commander Stantorrs obviously suspected so, with respect to the Jedi, and there had been no chance to ask Watcher Three if the Emperor had sent someone other than an official envoy. A Cipher Agent, perhaps, capable of far greater feats than a mere informer such as himself. Ula had glimpsed an Imperial shuttle in the dock at the rear of the palace, so he knew he wasn’t the only envoy Bareesh had entertained that day.

  It had occurred to him on the way that the Imperial envoy wouldn’t know that the Republic envoy was actually a traitor with no intention of winning the auction for his so-called masters. If he could only find some way to communicate that message, it might save the Emperor a great deal of trouble and expense …

  Yeama was speaking again. “The auction will be held tomorrow, with all parties present. You will be bidding for the combination to this vault. The safety of all parties is our primary concern, so the process will be anonymous. I will take you to your secure accommodation now, and you may examine the data there overnight.”

  “If the bidders are anonymous,” said Ula, seeing his chance of getting a message to the Imperial envoy slipping away from him, “how will we know that the bids are genuine?”

  “How indeed?” said Yeama, with a knowing smile. “I advise you to bid fairly, so you can be sure that the winning bid reflects the prize’s true worth.”

  Thieves and liars and economic rationalists, thought Ula as Yeama led him to the embarrassingly lush hospitality center. To chaos with the lot of them.

  ANALYZING THE DATA took the better part of an hour. The Cinzia shown in recordings taken by Bareesh’s pirate had been a light star cruiser of unfamiliar design, but Ula’s sharp eye detected hints of an Imperial chassis under a refurbished hull. It could have been an old S-class model, stripped down and rebuilt from the inside out. The drives had a similar signature, although their emissions had been baffled somehow. Fragments of the hull collected after the explosion showed high proportions of rare metals—similar to those of the object sitting in Tassaa Bareesh’s vault. Nothing about the ship gave any hint as to its origins.

  A world rich in exotic metals would be a prize indeed, Ula thought as he scoured the data for clues. Perhaps his trip hadn’t been for nothing after all. Such rare substances were the backbone of many industries, from communications to war. Shortages had delayed many projects crucial to the Empire’s expansion already, including some so secret that he heard of them only through reports issued to Supreme Commander Stantorrs by Republic spies. His own side didn’t trust him to know.

  “It’s all a game,” he muttered to himself, pushing the holovid away from him in frustration.

  “Is anything the matter, Envoy?” asked Potannin, standing to attention by the entrance to their suite.

  “Oh, nothing, Sergeant,” he said. “I’m just tired.”

  “Would you like to retire? You have a choice of beds—”

  “I don’t think I’ll sleep tonight.”

  “You have received several invitations from other parties in the palace, sir. If any interest you, I could make arrangements.”

  “Would that be safe?”

  Potannin’s angular face displayed confident assurance. “I would hazard a guess, sir, that so long as the Hutts propose to profit from us, we’re in the safest place in the galaxy.”

  “True.” Ula thought for a moment. “All right, then. Let me see the list.”

  He scanned it quickly, glossing over minor ambassadors, ambitious crime bosses, and several beings whose intentions were even less honorable. One name caught his attention.

  “Jet Nebula, that pilot with the ridiculous name who has free run of the palace. What does he want from me?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir. But he’s invited you for a drink in a cantina called the Poison Pit.”

  “Sounds unpleasant.”

  “Shall I turn them all down, sir?”

  “Yes. No, wait.” There had been something odd in Jet Nebula’s disaffected stance, and in his placement in the welcoming hall. If he was truly so bored, why had he put himself in a position from which he could study everyone in the room?

  “Tell Nebula I’ll meet him in half an hour.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ula picked a refresher at random and changed his robes for something more sensible. The ones Diplomatic Supplies had provided him with made him feel like a clown. And besides, he didn’t want to stand out. If he was going to discover who this Jet Nebula really was—or at the very least, what he knew—he would do it dressed properly.

  Before he left the refresher, he took the compact hold-out blaster he’d packed and slipped it into his breast pocket. Just in case.

  THE CANTINA WAS as bad as he had antic
ipated, with alien and human lowlifes clustered in twos and threes over pots of dense-looking brown beverages. A complex roar of ever-changing frequencies blasted the space, performed by a quintet of Bith; Ula could only assume they considered the noise they made to be music.

  He exchanged a glance with Potannin, who stationed watches at both entrances and put the three remaining soldiers at strategic points around the cantina. Their presence alone caused some patrons to pick up their drinks and stagger elsewhere.

  Jet Nebula occupied a dark corner, sprawled across a low padded lounge with his head tipped back and his battered droid standing protectively at his feet. The glass in front of him was empty. As Ula approached, Jet’s head came up and fixed him with the same stare he had been using earlier that day.

  “Nice duds,” he said.

  Ula felt his face turning red. Diplomatic Supplies’ idea of “sensible” amounted to a mock-military uniform in purple, with meaningless epaulets and insignias on every available surface. He had taken off the baubles, but there was nothing he could do about the color except drape a gray cloak across his shoulders and hope for the best.

  “You wanted to talk with me,” he said, cutting right to the chase.

  “That depends, mate. Are you buying?”

  “Is that all you’re after—a free drink?”

  “So what if I am? A man’s got to take it where he finds it, in my line of work.”

  “Which is?”

  “Can’t you guess? It takes a faker to know a faker.”

  A cold chill ran down Ula’s spine. What was Jet saying? That he knew Ula was an informer? Was he going to blackmail him for money—or worse?

  Jet smiled and scratched lazily at his chin. “All these questions are making me thirsty. How about you send your man to buy us a round of Reactor Cores and we’ll talk like proper gentlemen.”

  Ula had no choice but to agree. On the off-chance Jet did know something, he didn’t want it revealed in front of his security detail.

  Ula gave the orders, and the droid tottered off after Potannin. He sat down, ignoring the sudden weakness in his knees. “What do you want?”

  “I’ve already told you, and you’re already providing.”

  “I’m not talking about alcohol. Be more explicit.”

  “If you can’t figure it out, then you’re no use to me.”

  “What do you mean?” Ula felt his indignation rising, but before he could lash out in return, something occurred to him. “Wait a minute. Yeama said you had the favor of Tassaa Bareesh. What are you doing down here cadging drinks off me?”

  Jet said nothing.

  Ula examined everything he knew about Jet, and found a clutch of previously disconnected facts taking a surprising new configuration in his mind.

  “That’s your ship in the dock,” he said, “the one with the blast damage. You ordered a smuggler’s drink. You said faker because of what you do, not me.”

  “ ‘All politicians are liars,’ ” he said, “to quote Chancellor Janarus.”

  Ula didn’t laugh at the paradox. “You’re the pirate who found the Cinzia.”

  “I prefer freight captain,” said Jet, “but I am that fellow.” He executed a mock-bow from his slouched position on the lounge. “The Hutts don’t forget who their friends are.”

  “You don’t look like you’re enjoying yourself.”

  “What’s not to like? My ship’s impounded, and I can’t leave the palace. I’m in paradise.”

  Ula leaned in closer and whispered over the table, “Is that what you want to talk to me about? If so, I don’t have the authority to—”

  Jet waved him silent. Potannin had returned with the drinks. They were large, murky, and dangerous looking. Jet raised his, blew off the scintillating foam, and toasted the Republic.

  Ula echoed the toast and took a sip. Electric fire burned a skylane down his throat and caused a slow detonation in his stomach.

  “Are you all right, sir?” asked Potannin.

  “Yes, Sergeant,” he managed. “Leave us for the moment. But stay close.” In case I need a medic …

  “Yes, sir.”

  The security detail moved respectfully out of earshot.

  “Not your usual?” said Jet with a sly smile.

  Ula normally didn’t drink at all, but he wasn’t about to admit that. “I can get word to my superior, if you want to arrange an extraction, but—”

  “That’s not why I invited you here. I just think someone should know what really happened to the Cinzia in Wild Space that day.”

  Ula’s curiosity was roused by that. “I’ve already heard the recording and seen the data. Are you telling me there’s more?”

  “Much more. Drink up and listen.”

  So began a long and rambling tale about rivalry and betrayals among smugglers. Ula paid close attention at first. Jet had been worse than a smuggler: he had been a privateer hired by the Republic to scour the fringes of the inner galaxy for theft-worthy matériel to assist the Republic cause. That was interesting for two reasons. It confirmed reports suggesting that the Republic did indeed engage in this inglorious tactic. It also showed how easily the objects up for auction could have fallen right into the Republic’s possession. The intervention of the Hutts had, for once, worked to the Empire’s advantage.

  Ula felt a little discomfited by that. He believed that civilized society should never allow such decadence and corruption to thrive. That the Republic traded with the likes of Tassaa Bareesh was evidence, if he needed it, of his enemy’s invalidity to rule—but what did it say about the Empire if he allowed it to profit by similar means?

  As Jet talked on, Ula’s attention began to drift. Who cared about the invidious Shinqo and whether he had been allowed to leave the palace or not? What did it matter if Jet Nebula felt poorly used by his new masters, who had no intention of sharing the massive profit they were bound to make from the auction with anyone else? Why was he wasting his time on such a self-absorbed, self-pitying display?

  Sip by sip, Ula worked his way through the drink. Jet didn’t appear to be touching his much, and that puzzled him, distantly. By the time the smuggler finished describing the sad end of the Cinzia, Ula’s eyesight was beginning to get a little fuzzy.

  “Say that again,” he said, finding it strangely hard to keep his elbow planted on the table. “Something about diplomomo—ah, diplomats.”

  “They were on a diplomatic mission. I asked them who to, and they didn’t answer. Doesn’t it make you wonder? Both the Republic and the Empire are bidding for information on where these people came from and what they were carrying. If the crew of the Cinzia weren’t coming to talk to either of you, who were they coming to talk to?”

  That was an interesting point. Ula filed it away to think about later, when the floor stopped wobbling.

  “Then there’s the explosion.”

  “What about the explosion?”

  “Well, it was a bit overdramatic, wasn’t it? But at the same time, it wasn’t very effective. You’d think if they really wanted to make the point, if they’d cared enough to kill themselves, they’d have gone out of their way to do it right.”

  “You would think so. You would,” Ula agreed. “But what if they argued? What if not everyone wanted to be blown up? I wouldn’t want to be.”

  “That’s a good point, Envoy Vii,” Jet said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Ula was developing a strong liking for Jet Nebula, despite the fact that he appeared to have grown an extra head. “Another round?”

  “Wait,” said the smuggler, sitting up straight all of a sudden. “Something’s not right.”

  Ula looked around. It had become very quiet without him noticing. The Zelosian band was making no noise anymore. The cantina’s patrons had all slumped over their tables. Some of them were actually snoring into their drinks. Even the bartender was sprawled across the counter, twitching slightly.

  As he watched, Sergeant Potannin sagged forward and fell bonelessly to the floor
.

  That couldn’t be right, Ula thought. Since when did anyone in a security detail get drunk?

  “Obah gas!” Jet was on his feet with a blaster in his hand. “Clunker!”

  The battered droid came instantly to the smuggler’s side, its photoreceptors glowing bright.

  “Good. Keep an eye on the door. I’m going to—”

  A sharp crack came from behind them. The droid tottered, enveloped in bright blue bolts of energy. A whining noise came from its innards. It froze, a restraining bolt projecting from the side of its head.

  “Don’t move, Nebula,” called a vocoder-enhanced voice from Ula’s right.

  Ula turned in time to see a section of the ceiling fall away. The head and shoulders of a Mandalorian projected from the hole. The rifle he held was aimed squarely at Jet’s chest.

  “Stay where you are, Envoy Vii. This doesn’t involve you. Put the blaster down, Nebula—now.”

  The smuggler obeyed. “If you wanted to cut in, all you had to do was ask.”

  With an elegantly muscular flip, the Mandalorian landed feetfirst on the floor below him. “Your droid will recover. So will the bystanders. I used enough gas to knock them out, no more.”

  “Lucky we were drinking Reactor Cores,” Jet said. “Why do you think smugglers order them so much? They taste awful, but they grant immunity to all sorts—”

  “Enough talk,” said the Mandalorian, indicating with the rifle’s business end that Jet should step out from behind the table.

  “Are you at least going to tell us who you are?” asked the smuggler.

  “I know,” said Ula, although he was still struggling to think through the narcotic drink. “You’re Dao Stryver. What is it you want with Lema Xandret, exactly?”

  The Mandalorian’s attention turned squarely to him, and suddenly Ula felt completely sober.

  “You, too,” said Stryver, swinging the rifle. “You’re both coming with me.”

  “Or what?” Jet asked.