Star Wars - Coruscant Nights 02 - Street of Shadows

by Michael Reaves

  Intrigued, he investigated further. Careful probing revealed what likely had been an obvious attempt to scour the item from the data banks, because it existed now only as an endstate echo, a digital reverberation of the original. Twenty years of quantum flux had resulted in considerable degradation. But Rhinann was 92 Star Wars: Coruscant Nights II: Street of Shadows an excellent slicer. With patience and skill he extracted what data he could from the various shells.

  Interesting...

  What he had found appeared to be a report from the world of Drongar, composed by the Jedi Padawan Barriss Offee to her Master Luminara Unduli concerning a native adaptogenic plant called bota. The Jedi Offee had apparently—whether by accident or design was not clear—taken an injection of the plant's distillate. The result apparently was a considerable increase in the Force's potency within her.

  Offee went on to say that she was sending a vial of bota serum to the Temple for further research. How this was to be accomplished was too corrupted for Rhinann to decipher. Her report went on to note that the plant's effects were opportunistic and varied widely from species to species. Given the potential ramifications of her discovery she strongly recommended that...

  Rhinann's frustration knew no bounds: despite his best efforts, the rest of the message proved unreadable.

  He felt his ear hairs quivering with excitement.

  While by no means certain, could this forgotten discovery by a now deceased Jedi be the "magic slug"

  that might enable him to experience the Force?

  He had, of course, heard of Bariss Offee and Drongar. Den Dhur and I-Five had spoken often of their sojourn on that pestiferous jungle world, as well as of their comrades in arms there. He could not recall Michael Reaves 93

  hearing them mention anything about plant deriva-tives, much less bota distillate, but surely there should be a way to find out more about it.

  He would have to be circumspect in his seeking, he knew. He had observed that Jedi were protective of their connection to the Force. If Offee's finding was authentic, and if Pavan and Tarak were at all familiar with it, they would no doubt be reluctant to share such information, especially with someone not of their clique. Haninum Tyk Rhinann was not a foolish or reckless being. Proof of this lay in his continued survival despite the often threatening circumstances in which he found himself. He would proceed cautiously.

  And if it was true—if this reputed botanical enhancement could still be found, and if it could somehow facilitate a connection between him and the Force—well then, those who had taken advantage of his new miserable station in life would have ample cause to regret it.

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  Night had overtaken much of Imperial Center by the time Typho came to the reluctant conclusion that his search through the ruins of the Jedi Temple had been futile. The vast repositories of the library had been stripped of most archival material, electronic as well as physical. No matter how skillful and experienced a slicer he was, what remained was still far too much for one being to sift through. The library wing had once been the repository for a thousand worlds'

  histories, cultures, bestiaries, and countless other data. What was left had been thoroughly disrupted by wave after wave of barbaric vandalism and looting. Entire files, together with their multiple backups, had been defaced or deleted, seemingly for the sheer pleasure of the destruction. He realized he would find nothing here to aid him in his quest.

  He was standing in what had once been a long curving corridor lined with different forms of information storage: datasticks, memory chips, holoproj activators, and even a few ancient records created by layering dark images on dried plant pulp. He was holding a datastick in his hand. Its contents had been scrambled so that anyone attempting to read the contents would find themselves presented with gibberish.

  Angry, he hurled it to the tessellated floor. It shattered with a flash of light as the residual electron stor-

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  age lattice disintegrated, sounding in the stillness like a glass globe being crunched underfoot.

  Pointless. Hopeless. He could easily spend a year or more searching the remnants of this one ruined library. It would take him the rest of his life to investigate the cubic kilometer of buildings, streets, stores, and various other institutions that surrounded him and had been associated with the Order. Was it really worth it?

  Unbidden, the image of Padmé's face rose before him.

  Soft, sensual, intelligent, and caring.

  Yes, he told himself. Yes, it was worth it. He was prepared to sacrifice his life. He could certainly sacrifice his time.

  He knew what his next step had to be, the next question that had to be answered. Had Anakin Skywalker, who had been the last person to see Padmé alive and thus topped his suspect list, really died on Mustafar? Or had he somehow escaped?

  He was uncertain where to go to find the answer.

  But it was clear now that it was unlikely to be here.

  He turned to go—and froze as his ears registered a sound.

  The interminable cityscape was rarely silent, even in these huge and deserted ruins. There was the Dopplering buzz of the traffic, both above and below, the distant whine of repulsors lifting larger vessels into orbit from the nearby spaceport, and the thousands of small seismic creaks and groans of contraction and settling as the huge structures all about him reluctantly gave up the day's heat. These were noises so omnipresent that they had long ago faded into the background. They were the soundscape of the city-

  96 Star Wars: Coruscant Nights II: Street of Shadows But this was different. It was the stealthy crunch of footsteps upon the debris that coated the floor. A sound that instantly alerted the soldier within Typho.

  Before he knew it his blaster was in his hand and he was pressing his back against the end of a storage bin.

  He didn't have to wait long. From around one of the huge shattered columns appeared a female humanoid of most striking appearance. Her skin was as white as alabaster. It gleamed coldly in the starlight that poured down through the shattered ceiling. She was bald save for a hank of dark red hair that rose from the top of her head like a magmatic eruption.

  The tight-fitting jumpsuit she wore was tinted a similar shade. He was able to make out the stub of some kind of biocomputer device protruding from her skull as well.

  Even in the dim light Typho could see that she was heavily armed. A long-bore slugthrower was sheathed across her back, and twin holstered blasters rode low on her hips. But it was the weapon she held in her right hand that he found most intriguing. Unless he was greatly mistaken, it was the dormant hilt of a lightsaber.

  It took a moment longer for him to realize who she was. He blinked in silent surprise. He had pegged her occupation almost immediately; few save bounty hunters went about in public so well protected. Some had acquired reputations that extended beyond their immediate and specialized field of work, and were recognizable on multiple worlds. Certainly none was better known than the woman he was now staring at: the mysterious Nar Shaddaan called Aurra Sing.

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  As a military professional it was part of Typho's job to familiarize himself with the most dangerous outlaws and renegades, on the off-chance that he might one day be required to confront such repro-bates. None qualified more than Sing. Born into unknown circumstances in the benighted urban jungles of the Smugglers' Moon and eventually raised by Jedi who had sought to develop her nascent Force potential as an instrument of good, she had been kidnapped by pirates who had turned her against her benefactors. Aurra Sing was notorious the length and breadth of the Empire. He had heard that she had the death mark on her in more than a dozen systems. It was also rumored that she had been working for Count Dooku during the Clone Wars but had disappeared shortly after his death.

  And now here she was, rooting around in the ruins of the Jedi Temple even as he was, looking for—what?

  He decided that unless ther
e was evidence to the contrary, the notorious Aurra Sing's preoccupations were none of his business. He was not on Imperial Center in any official capacity, far less that of a military officer. He had come here on a purely personal matter. To assume that the doings of the outlaw Sing had anything to do with his work was too fan-tastic to contemplate. Best, then, that he simply slip away, unnoticed, into the night to resume his own quest, and leave the fabled and feared bounty hunter to hers.

  There was a problem with doing that, however.

  The floor all about him and Sing was littered with the debris and impedimenta of the library that before the 98 Star Wars: Coruscant Nights II: Street of Shadows Jedi Purge had been arranged in a neat and orderly fashion. It was impossible to make the slightest move without disturbing this technological regolith. Typho had no doubt that any resulting noise would immediately alert Sing to his presence. He had been exceptionally fortunate to have heard her before she had taken notice of him.

  Given their mutual isolation and unpopulated nocturnal surroundings, he doubted she was likely to stop and listen to an explanation of his presence, however brief he might try to make it. Based on her reputation, she was far more likely to shoot first and ask questions later.

  Typho was by no means a coward, but one did not pursue a successful military career without learning caution. It would serve no useful purpose to engage the bounty hunter in combat, and could very well prove catastrophic. Glancing warily about while keeping Sing in view, he noticed another datastick located at eye level on a shelf opposite. Careful not to make the slightest noise as he moved, he reached for it. Hefting it firmly, he prepared to toss it far across the open floor, hoping that the flash and bang it would make on impact would give him time to...

  She moved almost too fast for him to see; in an instant her lightsaber was activated. Part of him noted almost academically that the ignited shaft was almost the same color as her hair and jumpsuit. He had ample opportunity to appraise its exact hue because the incandescent tip now hovered entirely too close to his throat as it backed him up against the shelves behind him.

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  Typho realized he had made a foolish and possibly fatal mistake. He had neglected to take into account Sing's storied connection with the Force. Unrefined and untrained though it might be, it had obviously been strong enough to alert her to his presence.

  "Who are you?" Her voice was as cold and hard as the alabaster her skin resembled. The lightsaber that threatened his throat was as steady as if held by a droid. "More importantly," she continued, "who sent you?"

  "No one sent me." Typho did his best to stay calm.

  His tone was as unthreatening as possible. "I am Captain Typho of Naboo, formerly of the Senate Security Council. I am here on my own. No agency or individual has sanctioned my undertaking."

  Sing's eyes were red with the light of the shifting, scarlet shaft, as if they could suck up its energy through the sheer force of will that was contained behind them. "Why don't I believe you?"

  Typho realized that he had only moments left in which to save himself. If the gleam that danced in the bounty hunter's eyes wasn't madness, it was still borderline homicidal. This was not someone who would choose to engage in extended conversation in the ruins of a dark and deserted building in the middle of the night. Rather than spend the time to establish whether or not he posed any threat, she would simply kill him and be done with it.

  Unless ...

  He still held the damaged datastick in his gloved hand. Without thinking and trying not to give any mental foreshadowing of his intention, he closed his 100 Star Wars: Coruscant Nights II: Street of Shadows eyes and squeezed his hand into a fist. As the storage device shattered, it released a burst of eye-smiting light and a sound like the bass thump! of heavy ar-tillery being fired.

  His glove was sufficient to protect him from the burst of heat that resulted from the globe's destruction. And his action had the desired effect. With a surprised cry Sing staggered back, momentarily blinded. Typho moved quickly, knowing he had only one chance. He kicked upward, the toe of his boot slamming into Sing's wrist. The lightsaber fell from her stunned fingers, its shaft shutting down automatically. Typho caught it.

  In the course of his tour of duty on Coruscant, Typho had handled lightsabers under the supervision of Qui-Gon Jinn and Mace Windu. As a result, he was far more familiar with them and their capabilities than was the average Naboo officer. Even though all lightsabers were slightly different, the construction of each having been finalized by the Jedi who owned it, there were certain design characteristics that were of necessity common to all. Most crucially, given his present situation, the activator stud was nearly always positioned so that it would fall under the thumb of a gripping right hand.

  Typho thumbed the stud and felt the vibration surge up his arm as the unit powered up. The deep hum changed pitch as he moved the blade. If Sing pulled a blaster on him, he was as good as cooked, since he didn't have access to the Force to warn him of incoming fire.

  Instead she did something entirely unexpected; reaching down to her waist, she pulled another Michael Reaves 101

  lightsaber from her belt and activated it. A second shaft of deadly energy, this one emerald in hue, sizzled into being.

  "This is wonderful!" Sing declared. Her eyes were shining, her expression alive with cruel delight—and Typho decided, more than a touch of madness. "It's been ages since I've had a decent lightsaber work-out." Stepping back, she assumed a defensive stance.

  The glow from her weapon bathed her white skin and pitiless smile in an unholy viridian light. "You know how to activate one. I hope you can handle it well enough to put up something of a fight."

  And so saying she leapt forward, the glowing length of lethal energy upraised to strike.

  Typho had no choice but to fall back, swinging wildly in the hope of warding off his attacker. A few hours of desultory practice with the weapon had in no way taught him how to handle himself against a master of the art. Lightsaber combat was quite different from traditional sword fighting in a number of ways, not the least of which was that the lightsaber's weight was all in its hilt, yet a firm two-handed grip was still needed because of the gyroscopic precession effect that gave the weapon a sense of mass.

  He managed to block Sing's first two attacks. His success was due as much to luck and frantic energy as to any limited skill. He didn't fool himself into believing that his temporary reprieve was likely to last much longer. His fighting ability was further lessened by a lack of depth perception caused by the past loss of one eye. Not for the first time he found himself wishing that an accident of genetic programming had 102 Star Wars: Coruscant Nights II: Street of Shadows not rendered him immunodeficient to transplants cloned from his own organs.

  Despite all his energy and efforts, he was quickly driven back across the broken remnants of the library aisle. Another moment and he found himself with his back up against the base of a shattered column. Grinning humorlessly, Sing raised her blade.

  "On behalf of Lord Vader I was hoping to find evidence here of a Jedi named Jax Pavan," she said. "If you have any knowledge of his whereabouts, you may continue to live for a few more seconds. No?

  Pity. Well, then—"

  She was preparing to lunge, Typho knew. A surprise attack was his only chance. He hurled himself forward, under the humming shaft of her weapon but intentionally aiming his thrust high, as if still unfamiliar with the lightness of the bound arc wave. Her countering slash missed him by the thickness of a nexu's whisker. He felt the heat as the light wave whizzed by just above his back.

  Her following move was just what he expected—and had hoped for. She chose the easiest way to avoid the thrust, which was simply to duck and allow his clumsy attack to pass over her head and hair. An instant later her triumphant grin turned into a rictus of agony. Spasming once, she collapsed to the littered floor and lay there unmoving. She was either unconscious or dead; Typho couldn't tell which, and did not particula
rly care. Her weapon extinguished itself as her grip went slack. He staggered back, looking at the supine form. In the dim light he could barely see the tiny wisp of smoke that curled from the blackened tip of her biocomp antenna where he had grazed it with Michael Reaves 103

  the lightsaber. The resulting biofeedback shock had done the rest.

  Peering harder, he could make out the slight puffs of fog caused by her breath meeting the cold night air.

  Not dead then. Only unconscious. He had no desire to still be in her vicinity when she recovered from the shock. Already her lithe body was starting to twitch with the beginnings of a return to awareness. And, he told himself, it could all be a sham. She could be playing half dead, her intent being to lure him close.

  Of course, the sensible thing to do would have been to run her through while she was on the ground, but he could not bring himself to do it. His uncle Panaka, who had been Padmé's bodyguard when she was Queen, had taught him to show mercy whenever possible. To do less, Panaka had warned, was to risk becoming a monster like the ones often faced in the line of duty.

  Typho could not have that. His intent, his desire, his mission, was to avenge Padmé, but not at the expense of a blot on her memory. Criminal though she might be, slaughtering the woman now lying stunned would do his cause no honor. His probity was on shaky ground as it was. He was here in this place under false pretenses, had come with vigilante justice on his mind and dominating his thoughts. Under such circumstances, it could be argued that he had more in common with the bounty hunter than with the strict military code of Naboo. She sought money, he sought revenge. Who could say which, in the end, was the more honorable? Surely he, in his current state of mind, was not one to render such a judgment.