Jax had to admit its light and implied warmth beckoned, but he had business to transact and no time for creature comforts.
He looked up. Overhead—far overhead—sunlight filtered in through skylights in the sloped roof, falling in dusty splendor onto the age-rich wood of the bars. Broad galleries marked the third and second floors. Tyno Fabris was far more likely to be up there in one of the more private areas than down here in the noisy main room.
Jax settled on an approach and strode up to the beverage bar. “Spiced caf,” he told the bartender when he’d finally gotten his attention. “Hot. A tankard.”
“You’re new here,” said a female voice practically in his ear. It somehow managed to be sharp enough to cut through the ambient noise in the room and yet give the impression of velvet.
He turned. The source of the sultry voice was a Balosar woman who was nearly as tall as he was. That, in itself, was remarkable—natives of the planet Balosar were often small and frail. This woman was sapling-slender but hardly frail. Her long hair was artistically braided and fell in a twilight cascade over one pale shoulder. She wore a hair ornament that almost, but not quite, disguised her antennaepalps—both of which were homed in on Jax.
A frisson of wariness tingled at the back of his neck. Those antennaepalps, he knew, gave the Balosar a form of empathy that would make her a most observant spy for some corporate, underworld, or Imperial entity.
“New to Mandalore, no,” he said. “To Keldabe, yes. I usually make planetfall on Concordia. But things are a bit … unsettled there of late.”
She smiled. There was a gem embedded in one of her upper front teeth—a pale lavender crystal that echoed the color of her hair and eyes. “What brings you into the Oyu? Not that I’m complaining.”
“Business.”
“Of course. Look, why don’t you go find yourself a seat and I’ll bring you your caf.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“That’s my job.” She picked up a tray from the bar. “The bar guys get snippy when patrons clog up the serving area.”
Jax acquiesced with a curt nod and moved to a table from which he could see the entire room, except for a small section behind the food bar. He watched the female server collect his spiced caf, pop it onto a tray, and begin her walk toward his table. She was flirting with him during the entire passage, exaggerating the sway in her steps and clearly desiring his attention and admiration.
He wondered why she found him of particular interest. Though he suspected that she flirted with all her customers in the hope of a large gratuity, he sensed something beyond that in the way she looked at him. He muzzled his wariness, channeled it into impatience.
She set the tankard of caf down on the table and he snatched it up.
She tilted her head to one side, eyebrow raised, and rested the tray on the curve of one hip. “Can I get you anything else?” she asked. “Food … some other stimulant, perhaps?”
No subtext there. “I’m not hungry. And I don’t care to be stimulated. I need to keep a clear head for business.”
She made a face. “Business. Good-looking man like you is going to waste your time on business?”
“Better than wasting my time flirting with you. There’s no profit in that.”
Ignoring the spark of anger that leapt to her eye, Jax reached into an inner pocket and pulled out a couple of small cabochons of aurodium. He held them out on his palm where the ambient light caught them, sparking a rainbow shimmer of color.
“Unless you can help me do business.”
She eyed the gleaming nuggets, then glanced back at the bar. “What do you need?”
“I’m looking for a man named Tyno Fabris. An Arkanian.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You know him? Or you’d only like to know him?”
“I’d like to do business with him. I hear he’s … a force in this sector.”
She smiled wryly. “He is that. Why Tyno?”
“Why not Tyno?”
She regarded him a moment longer, her antennaepalps at attention—assessing him. She frowned and shook her head. “No reason. In fact, I suspect maybe instead of warning you about him, I should warn him about you.”
“Why don’t you?” He set the aurodium on the table in front of her and met her gaze. “Tell him we have a mutual acquaintance who recommended him to me.”
She nodded, scooped up the aurodium, and pocketed it before returning to the bar. When Jax looked up a moment later, she’d disappeared. He took a deep breath and a long sip of the hot spiced liquid.
Would she or wouldn’t she? He leaned back in his chair to wait.
Den stared up at the address on the building—displayed in meter-tall numerals above the entrance—then glanced down at his datapad.
“I think this is the place.”
I-Five made an impatient scraping sound. “A physical address—how quaint. I often forget exactly how backward these Outer Rim worlds can be. I suppose I should despair of finding any parts worth purchasing.”
“The advertisement said they had a plethora of parts to meet special needs.”
“Hm. Probably special if one is planning an act of piracy.”
Den pocketed the datapad. “Isn’t that what we’re planning, more or less?”
I-Five’s head swiveled on its gimbal. “You have a point.”
Den looked back at the droid uneasily, wondering if he should divulge what had been burning a hole in his head since before they’d landed. He wanted to give Jax time to make it right, though, he told himself. Wanted to be disabused of the idea that their Jedi friend was keeping secrets from his two closest companions.
He opened his mouth to say something, but words wouldn’t come. If he told I-Five what he’d overheard of Jax’s conversation with Sal, he knew what that would mean. It would mean he didn’t believe Jax would come clean. That he didn’t trust him.
He’d wait, he decided. Tonight when they rendezvoused aboard the ship, Jax would tell them he’d asked Tuden Sal for his Black Sun contacts. He’d tell them he hadn’t found any. Or that he had, but that he couldn’t work with them.
I’ll give it today, Den told himself. Just today.
He and Five had little to report with regard to recent Imperial activity on Mandalore. If anything, Den’s journalistic credentials had caused people to be less forthcoming than ever. He hoped they’d have better luck filling their parts manifest than they had squeezing intel out of the closemouthed citizens of Keldabe.
They entered the building and found themselves in a sparsely furnished lobby. A protocol droid of many recognizable parts—none of them from the same type—sat behind a counter next to the door. It looked up and regarded them with optics that glowed a rather sinister red-orange.
“You need?” it asked curtly.
“Parts,” said Den, “for an I-5YQ protocol droid if you’ve got ’em. Though we are interested in other … uh … peripherals.”
“We?” repeated the droid with a look at the DUM unit.
“I … mean me and my captain. I’m mech-tech aboard the freighter Corsair.”
“Your captain being?”
“Corran Vigil.”
“I am unfamiliar with your captain. Which means nothing. What sort of peripherals were you seeking?”
“Armaments,” Den said. “Shielding. That sort of thing.”
The droid seemed to blink—its optics going dark for a split second. “You wish to arm an I-5YQ protocol unit? That is unusual.”
Den saw an opportunity to bolster Jax’s reputation as a menacing individual. “My captain’s idea of protocol is sometimes … dangerous.”
There was a soft hiss as an old-fashioned hydraulic blast door opened at the rear of the lobby and a tall, dark-skinned human woman, dressed from head to toe in black synthskin, stepped into the room.
“Then I’d say you’ve come to the right place,” she said. “We can weaponize just about anything here. Even that.” She gestured at I-Five with her head. A lock of shoc
kingly red hair fell over one eye.
The droid responded by turning his head toward her and uttering a shrill chirrup that could have taken the paint off the walls. Den cringed and the woman covered her ears with both hands.
“I already have weaponized him,” Den said. His voice sounded muffled and wobbly even from inside. “Down, boy,” he told I-Five.
The droid made a muted rattling sound, causing the proprietress to eye him warily.
“I’m actually hoping to build the protocol droid from hell,” Den told her. “Something that seems benign and inoffensive … but isn’t.”
The woman rubbed at her ears. “I’d say your little buddy there is plenty offensive. Come on through. I’ll show you what we’ve got.”
What they had was a warehouse full of machine parts that were nowhere near as well organized as Geri’s store of droid mechanisms back at Mountain Home. The inside of the building had been all but gutted, and bits and pieces of robotic gear hung from racks and netting or sat on shelves that went up several floors. A quartet of powered staircases—one for each wall—gave access to the collection.
The woman waved toward a rear corner of the warehouse. “Protocol droids,” she announced. “Or what’s left of ’em. The ones on the lowest levels are the closest to complete. Some of them actually still work … after a fashion. Armaments and other specialized enhancements are on the eastern wall.” She gestured in that direction. “And in a private area through the door to your left. That area has rather a heightened security presence, as you might imagine. I’m sure we have what you want.”
“I dunno,” Den said, frowning. “Looks like a lot of junk from where I’m standing. You actually sell much of this?”
If she was offended, she didn’t show it. “We have the biggest collection of droid parts between here and the desert rim. In fact, I just sold a bunch of this junk to the Empire.”
Score. “The Empire. Really. What the heck would they want with this stuff?”
“I don’t know, exactly. Stormtroopers aren’t known for being chatty.”
“But they found what they needed here?” Den gestured at the room.
She shifted. Glanced away at the walls with their clutter of metallic debris. “Sure. Why not? I mean, most of it … Some of it. But, I mean, who stocks blast cages, really?” She frowned at her collection of droid bits, then turned to glare at Den. “You don’t need a blast cage, do you? ’Cause I don’t have ’em.”
“We don’t need a blast cage. I would be interested in knowing what the Imperials bought, though. Captain Vigil likes to keep the ship up to standard.” He gave the proprietress a meaningful look.
“Yeah? He willing to pay to know what the standard is?”
“He’ll pay. Especially if we find what we need.”
The woman smiled. Her teeth, Den realized, had been filed to points.
Charming.
He smiled back and followed I-Five to the wall of droids.
Sixteen
Jax was at the point of going in search of Tyno Fabris himself when the Balosar woman reappeared. She didn’t say a word to him; she only caught his eye and beckoned. He picked up his half-finished tankard of caf and followed her between the two service bars toward the back of the room. He was surprised when she went right past the staircase that led to the second-floor gallery.
She caught him peering up the steep flight of steps. “Looking for somebody?”
“Just noticing that I don’t see much of an Imperial presence here. That’s a bit odd. You can’t go anywhere these days without tripping over stormtroopers.”
“They leave us alone, pretty much.”
“When’s the last time you saw any of them?”
She gave him a look over her shoulder. “A while.”
“A while. Days? Weeks? Months?”
“Months. Years. Decades.”
“Don’t anger me, Balosar,” he said softly.
That earned him a smile. “Tlinetha. My name is Tlinetha. And I like your anger. It has a pleasant heat.”
He pulled the Force more tightly around his thoughts. “So you’re saying there haven’t been Imperials in Keldabe for a very long time.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
She was lying. Why was she lying? If Vader’s troops had come to Mandalore, they would almost certainly have come to Keldabe. This was where business began, where intel flowed like wine.
They were making their way toward the giant fireplace now. Jax saw, to his surprise, that the clutter of patrons who had been there earlier were gone. In their place was a quartet of people who were obviously security goons of some sort. They didn’t dress like security goons, but they felt like them.
There were three men—two humans and a Devaronian—and a female Zabrak. The Zabrak and one of the human men lounged in a seating group before the massive hearth, trying to look romantic; the Devaronian and second human were at separate tables. The four of them offered more than enough protection for the individual who sat in the hearth alcove, sipping caf.
He had pale, almost translucent skin, high cheekbones, and white hair that flowed like silk over his shoulders. Most Arkanians had pure white eyes; Tyno Fabris had either had his altered or wore lenses—his eyes were black.
“This is the man,” Tlinetha told Fabris. “The one who was looking for you—to do business, he says.”
“Corellian,” the Arkanian said without preamble. “Am I right?”
Jax nodded curtly.
“Business. What sort of business?”
“Mutually beneficial business …” Jax glanced around at the bodyguards, his gaze lingering pointedly on the Balosar server. “… which I’d rather discuss in private.”
“This is as private as you get for a first meeting,” said Fabris. “A man in my position can’t be too careful. Tlinetha says we have a mutual acquaintance. Who?”
“Tuden Sal.”
Jax caught the other’s surprise. And hesitation. Both were good.
Fabris nodded and flicked a glance at the Zabrak woman. She rose and moved to face Jax.
“Your weapons.” She held out her hands.
Jax hesitated, then gave them over to her. The hesitation was for show alone. There wasn’t a weapon the Jedi wore on his person that could equal the weapon he was.
She took his blaster and vibroblade, held up one hand. A small, round device nestled in her palm—a weapons sensor of some sort. She waved it up and down the length of his body, even passing it over his head.
“Can’t be too careful,” she told him, then glanced at her boss. “He’s clean.”
Fabris responded with the lifting of one pale brow, then indicated the seat across from him in the alcove.
Jax slid onto the padded stone bench, his gaze following the other man’s hand. Interesting. Four digits—an indication of ancient Arkanian stock—but something about the shape of the hand told Jax it had been surgically altered. The pinkie had been removed and the hand reshaped. There was a tiny amount of residual scarring. Tyno Fabris was a genetically modified Arkanian then, but clearly a man who took enough pride in his heritage that he wanted to minimize the appearance of that modification.
Looking up across the leaping flames, Jax noticed that Fabris wore his hair pushed back from his ears, which were elegantly curved and pointed, seemingly without artifice. The dark eyes, then, must be lenses, Jax suspected: filters against the harsh brilliance of sun and ambient light. The Arkanian homeworld was a dismal snowball, and its inhabitants’ eyes were calibrated to see infrared. In short—Tyno Fabris protected himself, but showed his ears to make clear there would be no doubt that he was Arkanian to the soul.
Interesting the subtle ways in which people revealed character.
“You’ve seen Tuden Sal, have you?” Fabris asked.
“I spoke to him only days ago.”
“On Klatooine?”
Jax smiled tightly. “Where I spoke to him is irrelevant.”
“And what is Sal doing thes
e days?”
“Recovering from his reverses. And doing a decent job of it, too, to all appearances.”
“Really? In what pursuit?” Fabris knew, of course. He’d supplied arms to Whiplash—possibly without knowing or caring about that.
“He’s in … transportation, you might say. He tells me you’ve helped him … move things from time to time.”
Fabris turned to Tlinetha. “You can go.”
She nodded in a way that suggested her obedience was a form of mockery, and returned to the bar. The bodyguards had gone back to their watchful pretense that they were not watching at all.
“What do you seek?” asked the Arkanian.
“Information, perhaps more. It depends.”
“And on what does it depend?”
“On whether you can account for your serving woman’s lies.”
One snowy eyebrow rose over its pool of darkness. “Lies? About what?”
“About the presence of Imperials on Mandalore recently. I’m curious about what they did here and where they went after the fact.”
Fabris leaned back against the stone wall of the alcove. “Curious? Why would you be curious about that?”
“I was recently on Coruscant and heard that Darth Vader was enlisting mercs for a ‘special project.’ I heard he was also looking for—but failed to find—a very special substance intended to aid in the interrogation of particularly resistant minds.”
After a beat or two of silence, Fabris asked, “And?”
“And I just happen to know of such a substance. I’m certain Vader would make it worth my while if I were to get it for him. Problem is, he left Coruscant before I could make certain of my intel and I don’t know where he’s gone.”
The Last Jedi Page 15
