The green-skinned Twi'lek was standing by the partly opaqued window, looking down at the street below, as she spoke. She was dressed mostly in gray: 14 Star Wars: Coruscant Nights II: Street of Shadows leggings, tunic, and vest. This wasn't surprising, since Laranth Tarak was one of the few surviving members of the Gray Paladins, a splinter group of Jedi who had believed, even before the overthrow of the Republic, that the Order relied entirely too much on the Force as a metaphysical panacea. Since the lightsaber's use was nearly always augmented with the Force, they advocated proficiency in other weaponry as well. To an amazing degree, Laranth had honed her skill with the pair of DL-44 blasters she wore; Den had never seen her miss. If she shot at something, that something either vaporized, blew up, or fell over; it was a surer bet than a perfect twenty in sabacc.
Of course, Den mused, she obviously used the Force to warn her of lasers or particle beam blasts that were about to be fired at her. No one was fast enough to block something traveling at or near light-speed. But Den was pretty sure that, if one could somehow turn off Laranth's access to the Force, it wouldn't affect her speed and accuracy all that much.
The Twi'lek turned her head slightly, and Den could see light reflect off the shiny scar tissue on her right cheek. That and the burned stub of her left lekku were souvenirs of the atrocity known as Flame Night. As a reporter, he hadn't been able to stop himself from asking once about her part in it. "And don't tell me I should see the other guy," he'd cautioned.
"You can't," she'd replied, "unless you dig up his grave."
She didn't smile as she said it, but then, neither Den nor anyone else in the small group could recall seeing Laranth ever smile. There was no question in Den's mind but that the Twi'lek's nerves were wound Michael Reaves 15
tighter than the carbonite nanofibers that tethered skyhooks to the surface of Coruscant. He was glad she was on their side. He hoped she'd stay there. He'd hate to be facing the business end of her blaster.
There was only one other member of the group who could probably match the Paladin's deadly accuracy: I-Five. As others remarked more than once, the erstwhile protocol droid, who had been Den's friend and companion since the Battle of Drongar—and who had dragged him halfway across the galaxy to Coruscant and this current thrill-a-minute existence, he reminded himself wryly—was a rather singular droid. The word unique had even been applied. The reason for this was as simple as it was complicated: I-Five was more self-aware than any other droid that Den had ever encountered, not to mention a sizable chunk of sentients it had been the reporter's misfor-tune to come across over the years. This could be partly explained by some of the modifications that Jax's father, Lorn, had made in the droid's synaptic grid and creativity dampeners. But Den and the others couldn't help but feel that the droid was somehow journeying beyond even that, toward a consciousness that couldn't be entirely the result of programming. If he wasn't already there.
Den shook his head. He'd been slipping more and more into such esoteric reveries these days. It wasn't a good frame of mind to stay in, especially since a large part of his current existence consisted of trying to smuggle various contraband and fugitives from the streets to the spaceports and eventually offworld.
One had to be alert; one had to live in the moment 16 Star Wars: Coruscant Nights II: Street of Shadows and take care of business in such an environment.
Philosophical musings could rarely be indulged.
Not that he was given overly much to such things anyway. In his former life—which was how he often found himself thinking of it these days; it seemed as misty and faraway as a half-remembered dream—he'd been a reporter. A newsbeing who had worked on some hot stories in his time, covered some dangerous fronts, been more than once in "humpty deep poodoo," as some of the Ugnaughts who'd been his source for juicy newsbits back on Drongar had so colorfully put it. Drongar had by no means been the best of them, but it hadn't been the worst, either. He'd covered the Clone Wars from Eredenn Prime to Jabiim. He'd won awards, citations, and scrolls of merit for his stories from the front. It had been hard work, dangerous work, exciting work.
These days, the memories of those times seemed like a pleasant walk in Oa Park.
Den was jarred out of his reverie by Jax's voice.
The former Jedi was saying, "—may be right. Still, given that there are more beings on Coruscant than on any other fifty inhabited worlds, I think the chances of being noticed with a lightsaber are thin, especially downlevel. And I'd rather have it and not need it than the other way around." Jax turned and addressed another being standing in the shadows of the conapt's foyer. "How about it, Rhinann? Can you find me a lightsaber?"
Den watched as the Elomin stepped into the lighted room. Haninum Tyk Rhinann was typical of his species: tall, angular, and bipedal. He wasn't quite as hirsute as a Wookiee, but he came close. His nose Michael Reaves 17
tusks, stubby horns, and wide-set eyes al protruded from a fleshy lump that could only be recognized as a head because it sat on top of his short neck. He was depressed. This came as no particular surprise to Den or any of the others; Rhinann was always depressed.
Formerly Darth Vader's personal aide, he had fled the Dark Lord's service, finding sanctuary at the last moment aboard the freighter Far Ranger with Jax and the others, just before the droid factory had been destroyed by the exploding reactor.
Rhinann, like the majority of his species, was a scrupulous, fastidious, meticulous, and punctilious being. For the Elomin, the reason and joy of life truly was in the details, and it had been that passion for order and precision that had convinced Vader to designate Rhinann his aide-de-camp. Unfortunately, along with that painstaking attention to minutiae came an outlook of extreme suspicion upon his life in general and his employer in particular. Den remembered reading somewhere that expatriated Elomin were prone to psychoses of various sorts—including, it seemed, paranoia. Rhinann had become convinced that Vader would sooner or later have him kil ed for some minor infraction or dereliction of duty, and it had been that fear as much as the very sensible desire to avoid imminent de-atomization that had driven him to jump ship. Since then, Rhinann had been an unwiling fugitive. He yearned to return to his homeworld of Elom, but his share of the credits bequeathed by Kaird wasn't nearly enough to persuade a merchant ship's captain to carry one passenger all the way to a world on the Outer Rim, far from the trade lanes. And so 18 Star Wars: Coruscant Nights II: Street of Shadows he'd stayed with those who had rescued him. His exacting nature and near-fanatical attention to detail had easily dictated his job within the group; Rhinann was the go-to being, the procurer. Whatever was needed—from delicacies such as Geniserian sand monkey flambeed in foyve oil to please a client's epi-curean palate to an outmoded widget essential for repairing an aging holoproj unit—Rhinann could put his hands on it.
Except, it seemed, a lightsaber.
"It's not possible," he said dolefully, in response to Jax's query. "The weapons of the Jedi were destroyed along with the Jedi. There are rumors that some lightsabers remain in private collections of the extremely wealthy. But the only one that I am certain truly exists belongs to Darth Vader, and I doubt he'd part with it willingly."
"Good call," Den said.
"A crystal, then. I'll build my own. It'll be more in tune with my—"
"Adegan crystals, as well as Corusca, Hum, and others, are all under strict trade and commerce interdiction, per the orders of Emperor Palpatine."
"I'll grow one, then." But Jax didn't sound quite as determined as he had a moment before, and Den was pretty sure he knew why. Although as recently as a couple of standard years ago, what he'd known about lightsaber technology and Jedi tradition would have rattled around in a green flea's ear, he'd learned a lot since then from listening to Jax and Laranth, as well as from Barriss Offee, back in their days on Drongar.
He knew that the use of naturally occurring crystals, as opposed to synthetic ones, was one of the ways Michael Reaves 19
Jedi had distinguis
hed themselves from the Sith. The ostensible reason was that the synthetics weren't quite as pure as the crystals mined from the caves of various worlds, and there was always the chance that one could fail at a critical moment. And, since practically every moment a lightsaber was activated was perforce a critical one, Den could see the merit of the argument. He wondered, however, how much of that was based on experience and how much on doctrine.
It was well known that the Jedi had, by the time of the Republic's
downfall, effectively hobbled them-
selves with their dependence on rote and cant. As nasty as the Sith had been in ages past, Den had to admit that they'd been more practical by far in many areas.
"That may be possible," Rhinann said, in answer to Jax's last statement. "It will take some time, however, to assemble all the necessary equipment and materials. In the meantime, I suggest this." He withdrew from beneath his robes what appeared to Den at first to be an antique sword. The blade was slightly longer than a meter in length and pale silver, almost white, in color. The metal was not chased, although, Den realized, there did appear to be delicate whorls and patterns woven through it. They almost seemed to move, like oil on water.
The hilt was ornate but functional. It looked like it was made of electrum, a rare fusion of silver and gold. Mounted in the guard were two small faceted crystals that scintillated even in the relatively dim interior light.
20 Star Wars: Coruscant Nights II: Street of Shadows All in all, very pretty, Den had to concede. Even impressive. But insofar as being able to block a blaster bolt, it seemed about as effective as a pointed stick.
Jax seemed somewhat nonplussed as well. Both I-Five and Laranth stepped forward for a closer look.
There was wonder in the Paladin's normally grim face.
"A Velmorian energy sword." She looked at Rhinann incredulously. "You couldn't find a lightsaber, but you could find this?"
The Elomin shrugged. "Things are tough all over. I was able to obtain this in an online auction from a member of the Velmorian royal family who had fallen upon hard times."
Laranth shook her head and took the sword from Rhinann. Den watched as she extended it. He didn't see her do anything to activate it, but the length of the blade suddenly blazed with a cold and crackling silver flame.
"There's something you don't see every day," Den murmured.
The Paladin carefully handed the energy sword to Jax. He held the weapon up, admiring the coruscating shifting waves of power. It was quite different from a lightsaber, and it lacked the latter's purity of design. Still, it was obviously a weapon to be reckoned with. It seemed much more akin, as far as the mechanics of it went, to the lightwhip.
"It's activated by a pressure pad in the hilt,"
Laranth explained. "The generator feeds plasmatic energy through the crystals and along the blade. A magnetic feedback loop contains it."
Michael Reaves 21
Jax relaxed his grip experimentally, watching the superheated gas retreat, leaving the blade as it was before. He held his other hand close to the metal.
"No heat," he murmured.
"The containment loop keeps the plasma from direct contact with the blade. Otherwise it would melt."
Jax squeezed the hilt, triggering the plasmatic coating once more. He swung the weapon a few times, testing its weight and balance. "Easy there, big fella,"
Den said, backing up quickly.
Jax moved through a few steps of one of the seven forms. There was more weight to the energy sword than there was to the lance of pure energy that was a lightsaber, of course, but nothing that he couldn't compensate for easily enough. Since it was a sheath of energy surrounding a solid blade, it obviously did not have the same frictionless edge that a saber had. He wondered how it measured up against a vibrosword.
Well, he thought grimly, if life continues to be as interesting as it has been, I've no doubt I'll find out.
Sooner, probably, than later.
22 Star Wars: Coruscant Nights II: Street of Shadows three
"It's only a rumor," Dejah said nervously. "Put it out of your mind. Your only obsession must be your work—now, especially."
Ves Volette shook his head, the short, golden fur covering his shoulders and neck rippling in reaction to the tense muscles beneath the skin. "Normally, I would agree with you," he said. "But I can't ignore this. I must ascertain the truth."
His partner looked at him with an expression difficult to read, even for Ves, who had been with her for the last seven years. "Tonight," Dejah said, "will be the crowning achievement of your life and your art—thus far, at least. You can't allow anything to distract you."
"Not even genocide, Deej? Not even the extermination of a species? My species?"
"You don't know if it's true. It's just a rumor.
You—"
"I can find out," Ves said, "easily enough." He turned to the uplink terminal next to the workbench; it was only a few steps away, like everything in the small studio behind the gallery. The gallery itself was large enough to hold six of his latest pieces; any more would Michael Reaves 23
seem cramped. Each piece needed its own area within which to radiate.
Ves called up a holoproj of the 'Net and entered his query. It didn't take long to find the news item he sought.
MYSTERIOUS DISASTER STRIKES CAAMAS
Scans have confirmed that the population of the Core world Caamas has been decimated in a planetary apocalypse of unknown origin.
Orbital investigation teams say the most probable cause is a cluster of high-yield ac-tinium bombs, no doubt of Separatist origin, that had been drifting through the Core systems since the end of the Clone Wars. It is estimated that 70 to 85 percent of the population has died from the explosions and subsequent firestorms . . .
Accompanying the news story were holos of the devastation. Ves could see the charred remnants of cities. Entire forests, encompassing thousands of square kilometers, were still ablaze, the obscuring smoke visible from high orbit.
My world is gone, he thought. Not literally; the globe was still there, orbiting around its sun, but the Caamasi civilization would likely never recover. The Empire could try to spin the disaster as a result of left-over munitions from the war, as if any sentient with even a Level Three education couldn't realize how slim the odds of a bomb cluster just happening to hit a planet, even in the Outer Core, were. The truth was there, for anyone who could read between the data lines.
24 Star Wars: Coruscant Nights II: Street of Shadows Amazing, how calmly he was accepting it. That, of course, was due to shock. He hadn't accepted it, not at all. Not yet. He wondered clinically if, when his brain finally let it in, he would go mad.
Caamas. His world. His people. Reduced from shining civilization to near barbarism—the few that were still alive—in less than a day.
And the Emperor had given the order.
Of that Ves Volette was certain. He was apolitical, but he wasn't stupid. Only a ruler as paranoid and ruthless as Palpatine would be threatened by a planet of pacifists. His people had done nothing wrong; they had merely exercised their right, under the Galactic Constitution, to protest the extreme restrictions and tax hikes the Empire was levying on art, science, philosophy, and other modes of consilience.
His people. Quiet, reserved, knowledgeable, com-passionate ... it had been said that the Jedi, when attempting to formulate the consistent ethos that eventually became the Jedi Code, had gone to the Caamasi for guidance. No more. No one would visit his once-beautiful homeworld now, save possibly to stare in outraged shock at the devastation of a planet that once had been a beacon of rationality.
Ves gasped and staggered, suddenly beset by a memnis, a sense-memory so intense that, for a moment, the small and cozy surroundings of his work-shop vanished, to be replaced by his home in Jualya Village, the picturesque hamlet in which he'd grown up, nestled in the rolling hills of Kanupian. He was standing in his den, looking out at the tartapple or-chard, admiring the opalescent ti
nts the rising sun was striking off the glossy leaves and silver skins of Michael Reaves 25
the ripe fruits. He could hear songfish piping in the nearby stream.
He remembered the actuality, when it had taken place: three standard months before he had left Caamas and came to Coruscant to light sculpt, to capture in controlled photons universal emotions, feelings common to nearly every sentient being of the galaxy, to display and, he'd hoped, to sell his work. Although Caamasi were overall nonmaterialistic, they weren't foolish. As the philosopher Hyoca Lans once put it,
"The problem in galactic society at large is not that there are too many poor sentients—it's that there are too few rich ones." There was nothing wrong with capitalism—as long as it was accompanied by some form of egalitarian ethos.
The memnis ability was a primordial, ingrained ap-titude coded in the Caamasi genome, unique to the species. They typically occurred at times of great stress, and were nearly always linked somehow to the stressor. He'd only had one before, as a child, when a beloved nest uncle had died. Ves frowned in puzzlement. This memnis, this recollection of a pastoral moment not long before he'd left Caamas—how could it possibly be linked to the mundicidal horror of which he'd just learned?
He soon found out.
Ves felt a sudden ... disturbance. A soundless roar, a lightless flash, a vibrationless tremor, not moving, yet somehow propagating nevertheless at terrifying speed toward him. The memnis shattered, fragmenting into sharp shards like the psionic equivalent of brittle duralumin, hurtling toward him, accompanied 26 Star Wars: Coruscant Nights II: Street of Shadows by the silent screams and cries of an entire world dying.
He understood at last what was happening. Caamasi typically shared these grief memories with others of their kind, in an attempt to spread, and so dissipate, the sorrow. What he was feeling right now were the memnii of millions of others of his kind, a wave front of agony, confusion, despair, and disbelief that transcended time and space. His individual sense-memory had been symbolic, an expression of the population's peace and tranquillity that had been so suddenly and horrifyingly decimated.
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