Star Wars: Darth Maul: Shadow Hunter

by Michael Reaves

  Two down, two to go.

  Chain charged, its weapon whirling over its head like the propeller of a gyrocraft. The heavy links lashed toward him. Maul spun on his right foot and shot his left leg out in a powerful side kick, slamming his boot into the droid’s armored chest, stopping it cold. He dropped into a squat, spun the lightsaber like a scythe, and sickled the droid cleanly at the knees. Lower legs gone, it collapsed as Maul again twisted himself and his weapon, flowing into the form known as Rancor Rising. He brought the right blade up between Chain’s mechanical thighs, hard, using his leg muscles to augment the strike as he pushed up from the squat to a standing position.

  The force of his strike bisected Chain from its crotch right through the top of its head. There was a hard metallic screech as the droid came apart in two halves. Its feet and lower legs hit the floor slightly before the upper halves landed atop them.

  The acrid smell of burned lubricating fluid and circuitry washed over Maul. What was, seconds ago, a functional piece of high-tech equipment was now a barely recognizable pile of scrap metal.

  Three down, one to go.

  Hachete moved to Maul’s left, whirling its razor-edged blades in defensive movements—high, low, left, right, a blinding pattern of edged death waiting to blind the unwary and cut him down.

  Maul allowed himself a twitch of his lips. He pressed the lightsaber’s controls. The humming died as the energy beams blinked out. He bent, keeping his eyes on the droid as he put the weapon on the floor and shoved it away with his boot.

  He settled himself into a low defensive stance, angled toward the droid at forty-five degrees, left foot forward. He watched the flickering arabesque of death as Hachete edged toward him. A droid like this knew no fear, but Darth Maul knew that to put his weapon down and face a live opponent bare-handed would certainly terrify anybody brighter than a dueling droid. Fear was as potent a weapon as a lightsaber or a blaster.

  The dark side raged inside him, sought to blind him with hatred, but he held it at bay. He held one open hand high, by his ear, the other by his hip, then reversed the positions, watching. Waiting.

  Hachete stole forward another half step, crossing and recrossing the blades, looking for an opening.

  Maul gave the droid what it was looking for. He moved his left arm wide, away from his body, exposing his side to a thrust or a cut.

  Hachete saw the opening and moved in, fast, very fast, snapping one of the blades out to cut while bringing the other blade over for backup.

  Maul dropped, hooked his left foot around the back of the droid’s ankle, and pulled as he kicked hard at the droid’s thigh with the other foot.

  The droid fell backwards, unable to maintain its balance, and hit the floor. Maul sprang up, did a front flip, and came down with both boot heels driving into the droid’s head. The metal skull crunched and collapsed inward. Lights flashed and the hard-shell photoreceptors shattered.

  Maul dived again, rolled up in a half twist into the förräderi stance, ready to spring in any direction.

  But there was no need—these four were done. It would take a technician days to repair Hachete, Cudgel, and Rapier. Chain was beyond repair, useful only for parts.

  Darth Maul exhaled, relaxed his stance, and nodded. His heart rate had accelerated perhaps five beats above normal at most. There was the faintest sheen of perspiration on his forehead; otherwise his skin was dry. Perhaps sixty seconds had elapsed from start to finish. Maul frowned slightly. Not his personal best, by any means. It was one thing to face and defeat droids. Jedi were a different matter.

  He would have to do better.

  He picked up his lightsaber, hung it from his belt. Then, his muscles warmed up now, he went to practice his fighting exercises.

  He had barely gotten more than a few meters, however, when a familiar shimmering in the air in front of him brought him to a stop. Before the hooded figure’s image had time to solidify, Maul dropped to one knee and bowed his head.

  “Master,” he said, “what do you wish of your servant?”

  The Sith Lord regarded his apprentice. “I am pleased with the way you dealt with the Black Sun assignment. The organization will be in disarray for years.”

  Maul nodded slightly in acknowledgment. Such offhanded praise was the most he ever got in recognition of his work, and that only rarely. But praise, even from Sidious, did not matter. All that mattered was serving his master.

  “Now I have another task for you.”

  “Whatever my master wishes shall be done.”

  “Hath Monchar, one of the four Neimoidians I am dealing with, has disappeared. I suspect treachery. Find him. Make sure he has spoken to no one of the impending embargo. If he has—kill him, and everyone he has spoken to.”

  The holographic image faded away. Maul straightened and headed for the door. His step was firm, his manner confident. Anyone else, even a Jedi, might have protested that such an assignment was impossible. It was a big galaxy, after all. But failure was not an option to Darth Maul. It was not even a concept.

  Coruscant.

  The name evoked the same image in the mind of nearly every civilized being in the galaxy. Coruscant: bright center of the universe, cynosure of all inhabited worlds, crown jewel of the Core systems. Coruscant, seat of government for the myriad worlds of an entire galaxy. Coruscant, the epitome of culture and learning, synthesis of a million different civilizations.

  Coruscant.

  Seeing the planet from orbit was the only way to fully appreciate the enormity of the construction. Practically all of Coruscant’s landmass—which comprised almost all of its surface area, its oceans and seas having been drained or rerouted through huge subterranean caverns more than a thousand generations ago—was covered with a multitiered metropolis composed of towers, monads, ziggurats, palazzi, domes, and minarets. By day the many crosshatched levels of skycar traffic and the thousands of spaceships that entered and left its atmosphere almost blotted out views of the endless cityscape, but at night Coruscant revealed its full splendor, outshining at close range even the spectacular nebulae and globular clusters of the nearby Galactic Core. The planet radiated so much heat energy that, were it not for thousands of strategically placed CO2 reactive dampers in the upper atmosphere, it would long ago have been transformed into a lifeless rock by a rampant atmospheric degeneration.

  An endless ring of titanic skyscrapers girded Coruscant around its equator, some of them tall enough to pierce the upper fringes of atmosphere. Similar, if shorter structures could be found almost anyplace on the globe. It was those rarefied upper levels, spacious and clean, that constituted most peoples’ conception of the galactic capital.

  But all visions of soaring beauty and wealth, no matter how stately, must be grounded somewhere, somehow. Along the equatorial strip, below the lowest stratum of air traffic, beneath the illuminated skywalks and the glittering facades, lay another view of Coruscant. There, sunlight never penetrated; the endless city night was lit only by flickering neon holoprojections advertising sleazy attractions and shady businesses. Spider-roaches and huge armored rats infested the shadows, and hawk-bats with wingspans of up to one and a half meters roosted in the rafters of deserted structures. This was the underbelly of Coruscant, unseen and unacknowledged by the wealthy, belonging solely to the disenfranchised and the damned.

  This was the part of Coruscant that Lorn Pavan called home.

  The meeting place had been suggested by the Toydarian; it was a dingy building at the back of a dead-end street. Lorn and his droid, I-Five, had to step over a Rodian sleeping in a pile of rags near the recessed entrance.

  “I’ve often wondered,” the protocol droid said as they entered, “if your clientele all subscribe to the same service—the one listing the most disgusting and disreputable places in the galaxy to meet.”

  Lorn made no reply. He had wondered the same thing on occasion himself.

  Inside was a small lobby, most of its space taken up by a ticket booth made of yellowing
plasteel. In the booth a balding human male lounged in a formfit chair. He looked up incuriously when they entered. “Booth five’s open,” he grunted, jerking his thumb at one of a series of doors lining the lobby’s circular wall. “One credit for a half hour.” He looked at I-Five, then said to Lorn, “If you’re taking the droid in, you gotta sign a release form.”

  “We’re here for Zippa,” Lorn told him.

  The proprietor glanced at them again, then shifted his bulk and pressed a button with a grimy finger. “Booth nine,” he said.

  The holobooth was even smaller than the lobby, which meant it was barely big enough to contain the four who were now crowded into it. Lorn and I-Five stood behind the single contour couch that faced the transmitter plate. Zippa hovered slightly above the plate, facing them, the sound of his rapidly beating wings providing a constant background buzz. The dim light darkened his mottled blue skin to an unhealthy shade of purplish-black.

  Behind the Toydarian stood another, bulkier form; Lorn could tell that it was nonhuman, but the light was too faint for him to guess its species. He wished that Zippa would stop hovering: Whatever the being behind the Toydarian was, it stank like a silage bin at high noon, and the breeze generated by Zippa’s wings wasn’t helping matters any. It was obvious that Zippa hadn’t been any too fastidious about bathing lately, as well, but fortunately the Toydarian’s body odor wasn’t offensive; in fact, it reminded Lorn of sweetspice.

  “Lorn Pavan,” Zippa said, his voice somehow sounding faintly of static, as if it were tuned just a hair off true. “Good to see you again, my friend. It has been too long.”

  “Good to see you again, too, Zippa,” Lorn replied. Thinking, you really had to hand it to the old crook. Nobody could fake sincerity like he could. In reality, the best thing that could be said about Zippa was that he would never stab you in the back unless it was absolutely … expedient.

  Zippa changed the angle of his wings slightly, rotating to one side as he gestured to the shadowy mass in the corner. “This is Bilk, an … associate of mine.”

  Bilk stepped forward slightly, and Lorn could now see him well enough to recognize him as a Gamorrean. That explained the stench.

  “Pleased to meet you, Bilk.” He gestured at I-Five. “This is my associate, I-FiveYQ. I-Five, for short.”

  “Charmed,” I-Five said dryly. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll shut off my olfactory sensor before it overloads.”

  Zippa turned his bulbous gaze toward the droid. “Chut-chut! A droid with a sense of humor! This I like. You want to sell him?” The Toydarian drifted closer and slightly higher, the better to evaluate I-Five’s worth. “Looks pretty cobbled together. Are those Cybot G7 powerbus cables? Haven’t seen them used in years. Still, he might be worth something as a curiosity. I’ll give you fifty creds for him.”

  Lorn kicked the droid in his lower left servomotor coupling before I-Five could voice an indignant protest. “Thanks for the offer, but I-Five’s not mine to sell. We’re business partners.”

  Zippa stared at Lorn for a moment, then broke into a wheezing laugh. “You got a weird sense of humor, Lorn. I never know when you’re kidding. Still, I like you.”

  Bilk suddenly narrowed his beady eyes and rumbled deep in his throat, leaning truculently toward I-Five. Probably only just now realizing that the droid’s earlier remark had been an insult, Lorn surmised. Gamorreans weren’t the brightest species in the galaxy, not by several decimal places.

  Zippa drifted in front of his hulking bodyguard. “Relax, Bilk. We’re all good friends here.” He turned back toward Lorn. “My friend, this is your lucky day.” The Toydarian dug knobby fingers into a pouch and pulled out a palm-sized crystal cube, which glowed a dull red in the semidarkness of the booth. “What I have here is an authentic Jedi Holocron, reliably chronon-dated to be five thousand years old. This cube contains secrets of the ancient Jedi Knights.” He held the cube at Lorn’s eye level. “For an artifact such as this, you must agree that no price is too great. Nevertheless, all I am asking is a measly twenty thousand credits.”

  Lorn made no attempt to touch the object that the fence held before him. “Most interesting, and certainly a fair price,” he said. “If it is what you claim it is.”

  Zippa looked affronted. “Nifft! You doubt my word?”

  Bilk growled and cracked one set of knuckles against the horny palm of his other hand. They sounded like bones snapping.

  “No, of course not. I’m sure you believe what you say is true. But there are many unscrupulous vendors out there, and even someone with your discerning eye might conceivably be taken in. All I’m asking for is a little empirical proof.”

  Zippa twisted his snout into a grin, exposing teeth scrimshawed with the remnants of his last meal. “And how do you propose we get this proof? A Jedi Holocron can be activated only by someone who can use the Force. Is there something you’re not telling me, Lorn? Are you perhaps a closet Jedi?”

  Lorn felt himself go cold. He stepped forward and grabbed Zippa by his fleekskin vest, jerking the surprised Toydarian toward him. Bilk growled and lunged at Lorn, then stopped cold as a hair-thin laser beam scorched his scalp between his horns.

  “Settle down,” I-Five said pleasantly, lowering the index finger from which the beam had fired, “and I won’t have to show you the other special modifications I’ve had installed.”

  Ignoring the face-off between the droid and the Gamorrean, Lorn spoke in a low voice to Zippa. “I know that was intended as a joke—which is why I’m letting you live. But don’t ever—ever—say anything like that to me again.” He glared into the Toydarian’s protruding watery eyes for a moment longer, then released him.

  Zippa quickly assumed a position just behind Bilk, wings beating harder than ever. Lorn could see him swallow the surprise and anger he was undoubtedly feeling as he smoothed away the wrinkles in his vest. Inwardly, Lorn cursed himself; he knew it was a mistake to let his temper get the best of him. He needed this deal; he couldn’t afford to antagonize the Toydarian fence. But Zippa’s remark had taken him by surprise.

  “Touched a nerve, looks like,” Zippa said. During the altercation he had held on to the Holocron; now he stuffed it back into his belt pouch. “I didn’t know I was dealing with someone so … temperamental. Maybe I should find another buyer.”

  “Maybe,” Lorn replied. “And maybe I should just take the cube and pay you what it’s worth—which I figure is about five thousand creds.”

  He saw Zippa’s cavernous nostrils flare. The Toydarian couldn’t resist bargaining, even with someone who had laid hands on him. “Five thousand? Pfah! First you assault me, then you insult me! Twenty thousand is a fair price. However,” he continued, stroking his stubbly, practically nonexistent chin, “it’s obvious that you’ve had some sort of bad experience with the Jedi. I am not without compassion. In recognition of your past tragedy I might be persuaded to lower my price to eighteen thousand—but not a decicred lower.”

  “And I am not without some remorse for my behavior. As a gesture of apology, I’ll raise my offer to eight thousand. Take it or leave it.”

  “Fifteen thousand. I’m cutting my own throat here.”

  “Ten thousand.”

  “Twelve.” Zippa leaned back in midair, folding his spindly arms in a gesture of finality.

  “Done,” Lorn said. He had been ready to go as high as fifteen, but of course there was no reason for Zippa to know that. He pulled a thick wad of Republic credits from a belt compartment and began counting them. Most transactions uplevels were handled by electronic credit chips, but few people used the chips down here. Zippa brought the Holocron back into view and handed it to Lorn simultaneously with Lorn handing him the bills.

  Lorn accepted the cube. “Well,” he said, “it’s been a pleasure doing—” He left the sentence unfinished when he saw that Bilk was now pointing a blaster directly at I-Five’s recharge coupling. Zippa, his smile now decidedly unpleasant, floated forward and plucked the Holocron and the remain
der of the credits from Lorn’s hand.

  “I’m afraid in this case the pleasure is all mine,” the Toydarian said as both Lorn and I-Five raised their hands. Then Zippa’s smile vanished, and the next words came out in a sinister hiss. “No one ever threatens me and lives to tell about it.” One three-fingered hand made a pass before a sensor plate, and the booth door slid open. “I’ll tell the proprietor that booth nine will be needing some extra cleaning,” he said as he exited. “Hurry up, Bilk—I want to find another buyer for this item.”

  The booth door closed after Zippa’s departure. It was impossible to tell if the piglike snout of the Gamorrean was smiling, but Lorn was pretty sure it was. “What’s the galaxy coming to when you can’t trust a Toydarian fence,” he said to I-Five.

  “Disgraceful,” the droid agreed. “It just makes me want to … scream.”

  Lorn still had his hands raised, and now he quickly jammed his two index fingers into his ears as deeply as he could as a deafening high-pitched screech came from I-Five’s vocabulator. Even with his ears plugged, the volume was excruciatingly painful. Bilk, caught with no defense, reacted exactly as they had hoped he would: He howled in pain and reflexively clapped both hands over his ears, dropping the blaster in the process.

  I-Five stopped the scream, caught the weapon before it could hit the floor, and in another second was aiming it at Bilk. The Gamorrean either didn’t notice this fact or was too enraged to care. Snarling, he lunged at Lorn and the droid.

  The particle beam punched through Bilk’s armored chest plate, seared its way through various internal organs, and exited between the shoulder blades. The beam’s intense heat instantly cauterized the wound, stopping any visible bleeding—not that that mattered much to Bilk. He dropped to the floor like a sack of meat, which was essentially what he had become.