“So why hasn’t Jax taken the bota?”
Gazing down into the Zeltron woman’s avid face, Haninum Tyk Rhinann had an epiphany: if something was missing, the more people you had looking for it, the better.
He frowned and tapped his thin lips with one flat fingertip. “Perhaps because he doesn’t know where it is. I begin to suspect that the droid has not yet given it to him. That perhaps he has hidden it instead.”
“Why would he do that?”
Rhinann shrugged. “Who knows? Were he a normal droid, the answer would have to be because someone instructed him to do it. But I-Five is not a normal droid, so that opens up a score of possibilities. Perhaps he wants to be the hero, instead of Jax. Perhaps he wishes to exact vengeance on the Emperor and Darth Vader himself.”
Dejah looked thoughtful. “No. That’s not like him. More likely he’s trying to protect Jax.”
Feign innocence, Rhinann instructed himself. Project guilelessness. It, along with his natural immunity to the Zeltron’s wiles, seemed to be working. “Protect him from what?”
“From making himself a tool of vengeance. To do that would be to give in to the dark side, wouldn’t it? Or maybe he’s afraid of side effects. Are there side effects?” She glanced up at him askance.
“I don’t know,” he said, irritated by the digression. “I do know—or understand from the little I’ve learned—that the extract would make the Jedi who takes it … well, very nearly god-like in power and abilities.”
“But for how long?” she murmured, her eyes going to the static view of the dead world projected into the niche above her “window” seat. “And at what cost?”
“Cost?” repeated Rhinann.
She gave him a gamine look from beneath her long, blood-red lashes. “Nothing is without cost, Rhinann. Nothing.” Her eyes moved back to the image of the world that no longer was. “It’s all a matter of trade-offs. Of knowing what something is worth.”
“Different things are of varying worth to different people,” he observed neutrally.
“Yes,” Dejah murmured. “They are.” She reached over and tapped a small touch pad next to the image niche. The view of the once verdant surface of Caamas disappeared, to be replaced by a panorama of a junglescape in which the dominant color was red. Rhinann assumed it was an image of Dejah’s homeworld, Zeltros. Sitting before the landscape, she all but disappeared into it.
She turned her gaze back to Rhinann. “Do you think I-Five is wrong to keep Jax from the bota—if that’s what he’s about?”
“Wrong?” Rhinann splayed a thin, spidery hand over his heart. “I can’t judge the wrong or right of the situation, my dear. I only know that it exists as a possibility. And as for what the droid is about, look at the evidence: Jax wants nothing more than to destroy the Emperor and Darth Vader and to restore not only the Jedi, but the fortunes of the Republic. The bota could give him the means to do it, but he hasn’t used it, or even suggested that he use it. The only logical reason I can think of for that is that the droid has hidden it from him. If the droid were a biological life-form, Jax could influence his thinking. But he isn’t, and he follows orders poorly or not at all. Therefore, he is impervious even to Jax.”
“Yet I detect no strain between Jax and I-Five,” Dejah observed. “At least, Jax doesn’t seem to have any negative feelings for the droid.”
“Perhaps because our mechanical friend has done a good job of convincing him that withholding the bota is for the best. I-Five can be quite persuasive when the need arises. After all, he is—or was—a protocol unit.”
Dejah shrugged. “Perhaps he’s right. Perhaps it is for the best.”
Rhinann’s smile was so brittle, he feared it might crack his lips. “I’m sure of it, Dejah,” he said. “After all, who knows the Jedi better than I-Five?”
Dejah Duare merely smiled.
“My, look at the time,” Rhinann said, glancing at his chrono. He left quickly, on the pretext that he was expecting a data dump from one of the Imperial intel links he was monitoring, and went away unsure of what, if anything, he had accomplished. Clearly Dejah Duare had known nothing of the bota until he had mentioned it. Had that mention fueled a further sense of betrayal? Had it intrigued her? Amused her? Frightened her?
He gave up his maundering. Who knew what a creature like that was likely to do? She was, as Pavan was wont to note, an atypical Zeltron. In some ways that made her as hard to read—and as frustrating—as Pavan’s metal guardian.
He exhaled gustily, then winced. His nose tusks were vibrating so much lately from sighing that the anchoring flesh was getting sore.
“The prefect removed our tracking devices within minutes of returning to his headquarters.”
Darth Vader’s gloved hand moved in a dismissive gesture. “That was to be expected.”
“He’s a traitor then. He’s chosen his side.”
“Has he?” The Dark Lord turned, and Probus Tesla saw his distorted reflection in the curved black surfaces of the Dark Lord’s optic panels. His image was warped, but the marks of his brush with death were still clearly visible on his face, notwithstanding the hours spent in a bacta tank. No matter. The scars served their purpose: they reminded him that hubris was a failing he could not afford and that false assumptions based on hubris could be deadly. He would not forget that hard-learned lesson.
“Or,” Vader continued, “is he just being a prudent and cautious officer of the prefecture? Do you imagine that those we seek would not check for tracking devices? If they found them, Pol Haus would become useless to us. They’d never trust him.”
“Then we still don’t know where he stands.”
“No.”
“How will we know?”
“If he continues to evade our attempts to track him, we’ll know he’s Thi Xon Yimmon’s man. But if one day he is less than vigilant about such things …”
Tesla smiled. The gesture hurt, tugging at the new flesh on his barely healed face. The pain, like the scars, was also good. It was a reminder of his personal goal: with or without the help of Prefect Pol Haus, he would track down the Force prodigy who had done this to him—be he Jedi or not—and either bring him as a prize to his master, or destroy him utterly.
ten
“I don’t get it,” Den said. “Why are you asking me this?”
“Obviously,” Rhinann replied, his face, his posture, his entire person saying that he thought the question idiotic, “because I thought that perhaps you knew.”
Den gestured at the virtual SEND icon on the holodisplay and watched his message to Eyar Marath soar away on wings of … well, whatever such messages soared away on. “I don’t know,” he said. “I suppose I assumed that Five had it or had done whatever he thought appropriate with it. Maybe he gave it to Jax.”
“Doubtful.”
“Why doubtful?”
Rhinann shrugged. “Jax has said nothing about it. And he obviously hasn’t used it.”
“Well, yeah. I kind of think we’d know if he had … considering what it’s supposed to do. But he wouldn’t just use it without warning us.”
“What makes you say that?”
Den gave the Elomin a withering glance. “I know Jax Pavan.” He got up from his workstation. “I just remembered it’s my turn to do the shopping. Gotta run. I’ll see you later.”
“You must realize what could happen if that substance should fall into the wrong hands.”
The words turned Den around in the doorway of the workroom. “Yeah, Rhinann. I’m not a total milking moron. I do get it. But frankly, there’s not a whole lot I can do about it … other than trying to talk my good friend the droid out of doing something abysmally dangerous.”
“So you’re not even curious?”
Den shook his head. “No. Not even.”
“An odd state of mind for a journalist, don’t you think?”
Heat flashed up the back of Den’s neck and around the rims of his ears. “Now, that was just plain low.”
&nbs
p; “I only meant—”
“You only meant that you don’t think I’m much of a journalist. Well, maybe I’m not. And maybe I don’t want to be anymore.” Oh, now that was a mature comeback.
Rhinann’s eyes narrowed. “You have it, don’t you?” he murmured. “You’ve got the bota.”
“And you’ve got a loose sanity chip, big guy. There’s no way that I-Five would trust me with that stuff.”
“Nonsense. I can think of no one else he’d trust more.”
Den shook his head. “Well, then you’ve been into the dreamspice, Rhinann. Because I don’t have it, and I don’t much care who does.”
The Elomin didn’t try to stop him again. Den managed to get out of the conapt and make his way down several levels to a little café on the fringes of the Ploughtekal that he frequented. There he ordered himself a hot caf and a steamed bun stuffed with vegetables and meat—the provenance of which it was wisest not to inquire about—and sat at a metal table under an arbor covered with plants that were no more real than the “meat” in the bun.
He had finished his meal and was working on his third cup of caf when he felt watched. He looked up nervously, his eyes drawn to a hooded figure at a booth across the way. The cowled head was turned partially away from him, and he was beset with the sudden fear that he was looking at an Inquisitor. The noise of the market seemed to suddenly grow in volume, and his face felt flushed and hot.
That’s ridiculous. Why should I be afraid of the Inquisitorius? I’m not a Jedi.
Maybe not, said a snarky voice from the back of his head. But you know where one lives.
What should he do? Get up and leave? Order another cup of caf?
The figure turned, presenting a comely profile, and Den slumped in relief. Then again, he could just invite her to join him. I-Five had suggested he make nice with Dejah Duare. Why not start now? She turned away from the booth, and he waved.
Seeing Den sitting in front of the café, Dejah seemed to hesitate; then, at his beckoning gesture, she came to take the seat opposite him.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he suggested, feeling utterly foolish.
“All right,” she said graciously. “A caf?”
He got up to place the order, returning to the table with a steaming beverage and a possible, though utterly lame, way of starting the conversation: Hey, what do you think of our new boy wonder? He set the cup of caf in front of Dejah, slid back onto his chair, and opened his mouth.
Dejah preempted him. “I’m worried about Jax,” she said.
“Why is that?”
Dejah folded her hands around the thermo-cup, making it appear as if the steam rose from her fingertips, and looked at him earnestly. “I’m terrified that I-Five is going to convince Jax to opt into Tuden Sal’s ridiculous … scheme. Do you have any idea of what that could mean?”
Didn’t I already have this conversation? Den asked himself. Aloud, he said, “Well, it could put both I-Five and Jax in harm’s way. And us, by extension.”
Dejah took a sip of her drink and glanced up at Den through her lashes, which he could swear were getting longer by the minute. “Yes, by extension. But I was thinking more of Jax himself, the thing he holds most dear.” She leaned forward over the table and lowered her voice nearly to a whisper. “The continuation of his kind.”
“You mean the—” Den glanced around, then made a surreptitious gesture with one hand imitating someone wielding a lightsaber.
She nodded.
“What makes you think he’ll go for the scheme? I mean, there’s every reason not to do it—don’t you think?”
“Of course. Apart from the danger to himself, there’s the risk to the Whiplash, the others of his kind, and the boy. The fact that failure would even more deeply enslave us all. And failure,” she added, “is the most likely result.”
Den blanched. “I-Five seems to think it would work.”
“I-Five is thinking like a biological life-form, not a droid. It’s wishful thinking. The odds against him succeeding are astronomical. If there were only some way to make certain of his success, and of Jax’s survival.” She shook her head.
“I’m sure Five has a plan …,” Den said weakly.
She frowned. “Rhinann said the same thing. He talked about something called … um … bota—is that right? Yes, bota. He said it would make Jax invincible.”
Startled, Den snorkeled hot caf up his nose and went into a fit of sneezing and choking.
“Wind spirits bless you,” Dejah murmured after Zeltron custom, bowing her head almost into her cup.
“Thanks,” Den said when he could talk again. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Rhinann said that? He told you about the bota? I wasn’t sure he knew.”
“Yes, poor thing. He’s worried, too. He said the bota is the only real chance that Jax has to survive if I-Five and Sal go through with this ridiculous plan. If he’s able to take it at the appropriate time, he’ll be able to blow our enemy away.”
Den tried not to look stupefied. “Really? He said that?”
She nodded again. “So I asked him if he was sure the bota was where Jax could get to it easily, and he said he didn’t know. He had to trust that I-Five had done something with it to keep it safe.”
Den shrugged. “Well, sure. I trust I-Five, don’t you?”
She fixed him with a look that all but curled the rims of his ears.
Den exhaled explosively, feeling as if she’d gut-punched him. “Point taken. So you think I-Five’s not firing on all thrusters?” A delusional droid—was that even possible?
He remembered how Dejah’s partner had been murdered, and felt more blood drain out of his head.
“I think that as much as I-Five loves Jax Pavan,” she said, “he loves his father’s memory more. Remember, Den—I-Fivewhycue doesn’t have the same sense of time that we have. He doesn’t forget anything—no matter how unpleasant the memory is or how long ago it was made. Organic sentients can count on the passage of the days, the months, and the years to create a comforting buffer zone that softens the reality for us, makes it bearable. Time heals all wounds—except those of droids. Ordinarily, this wouldn’t be a problem, since a droid has no emotional ties to the past. But once again, I-Five’s sentience makes him unique. Lorn Pavan’s betrayal is as fresh to him today as it was twenty-odd years ago—or as fresh, anyway, as it was the moment he recovered that particular memory and realized what it meant.”
There were tears sparkling in the Zeltron’s eyes as she finished. Den realized his own eyes had grown moist and his breath had all but stopped in his throat. It had never occurred to him that there had to have been a singular moment in which that particular memory, as Dejah put it, had resurfaced for his friend, never to be put aside again. Nor had it occurred to him that the one way in which I-Five was all droid was in his capacity to relive his past in vivid, perfect detail. Combined with his ability to imagine and theorize like an organic, well …
He couldn’t even begin to imagine how much pain I-Five must be in.
Den drew in a long breath. I-Five may not have seen Lorn Pavan’s death in real time, but Den was willing to bet he’d imagined it time and time again. And because he was a droid he could not escape it, even in sleep, since droids didn’t sleep. The only other respite was temporary deactivation, which was not a real respite at all, since no subjective time was lost.
I-Five could not forget his loss, or gain perspective on it through the balm of years. Ever.
Which left only one course of action open to him.
“You think I-Five wants to avenge Lorn Pavan.”
“If someone destroyed I-Five, or killed Jax, wouldn’t you contemplate revenge?”
Would he? He liked to think that he’d only contemplate justice, but who knew? He considered the idea now and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I might, at that. Okay, so we may have a vengeful droid on our hands. What can we do?”
Dejah shrugged. “I don’t know that we can do anything before the fact, though
I suppose we can try.”
“You bet we can.” Impulsively, the Sullustan reached across the table and put his hand over the Zeltron’s. “If the two of us, along with Rhinann, keep up a united front, and if we all vote down this mad idea, Jax has to listen, doesn’t he? Especially if you—you know—help out a little with that seductive sweat of yours?”
She cocked her head to one side and smiled in bemusement. “You want me to influence Jax?”
“In this case, yeah. And I’m perfectly willing to admit it’s a slimy, hypocritical thing to say, but I’m willing to say it: do your best. If it’ll keep Jax and I-Five out of deep ronto poodoo, I’m all for it.”
Dejah’s eyes twinkled at him, and she laughed, the sound trilling lightly in his ears before cascading down into a sultry purr. “You’re an odd one, Den Dhur,” she told him. Then her tone became serious again. “I suppose there’s a chance we could fail, even united, but … there’s always the bota.”
He nodded. Truth to tell, he didn’t like even thinking about bota—the very word conjured memories of Drongar and his time served on that plaguey world in vivid detail. The recollections might not be as realistic as I-Five’s, but they were more than enough for him.
“Rhinann thinks you have it,” Dejah said bluntly.
What—was she eavesdropping on private conversations now? He didn’t ask her that; instead he fell back on his usual refrain. “He said that?”
She tilted her head. A nod? A semi-nod? A maybe? Den wasn’t sure. The Zeltron was humanoid enough to share a great deal of body language with most hominid species, but there was always a chance of misreading something.
“Well, Rhinann is wrong,” he replied. “I don’t have it and I don’t know who does. For all I know Five still has it.”
Dejah gave him another ear-curling look. “Our would-be assassin? That hardly seems wise.”
“Look, if that bota represents what you think it represents—the survival of the—” He made the lightsaber gesture again. “—then I-Five will hide it where it will come to no harm and do the most good—if he hasn’t done so already. Our job is to try to talk him out of Plan A so he doesn’t need a Plan B … agreed?”
Star Wars: Coruscant Nights III: Patterns of Force Page 12
