Star Wars - Coruscant Nights 02 - Street of Shadows

by Michael Reaves

  "I have been making inquiries. Although my reputation is widespread, I'm not personally known on Imperial Center to many of those of whose services I'd normally be making use. It takes time to satisfy underlings that one is who one says one is." She smiled. "I've had to break an assortment of bones and cartilage."

  "All in the service of the Empire," Vader observed.

  "Do what you must. Methodology does not concern me. I am only interested in results."

  She nodded. "That's as I was told."

  "Is there any access you require that is being denied you? A single word from me and—"

  She dared to interrupt him. "I know. I'm getting closer. It won't be long. I can feel it."

  "Through the Force? I didn't realize you were that close."

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  "Not the Force," she told him. "Instinct. Something different from the Force. Call it feedback from a lifetime of doing this."

  "I know that you live long. May you continue to Now she did bow slightly. "To serve you, Lord Vader."

  The helmeted head dipped a bit in return, then drew back. "The dog can learn after all, it would seem. Encouraging. Go now, dog, and return with the bone I sent you to find."

  For a second time she bowed. Then she grinned mirthlessly, turned, and stalked out of the room.

  It had not been a conventional meeting, but it had been a useful one. Leaving, she felt she had shown something of herself to the Dark Lord. And any encounter with Darth Vader that did not result in the death or maiming of the visitor could be accounted a successful one.

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  The Ploughtekal Market was probably not the biggest on Imperial Center, but then, it was hard to say for certain, since no one had ever measured its full extent. Furthermore, its physical boundaries and the density of merchants to whom it was home were constantly shifting. Those who did their business there, and often lived there as well, were reluctant to extend much cooperation to the authorities. If they could be censused, they could be taxed.

  It was said of Ploughtekal that you could find anything in the galaxy within its hive-like depths. Legal, illegal, unimaginable: it was all there for those who knew how to work the innumerable streets and multiple levels. A large number of shops were not even listed on the electronic registries. You had to find them the old-fashioned way: by walking and asking directions.

  Word moved almost as fast by mouth on the streets and avenues of Ploughtekal as it did via holocast.

  Intel would reach the sector police of an establishment engaged in especially antisocial dealings, and by the time the cools had arrived at the indicated location, the entire business would have pulled up stakes and

  vanished—only to reappear somewhere else, kilometers away and levels up or down, under a com-

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  pletely different name and appearance. It was a game with hundreds, thousands of continually moving pieces, like a stadium full of dejarik masters all playing on one another's games simultaneously.

  It was, in other words, a place that Den Dhur considered nothing less than designer hell.

  The street was narrow and crowded with merchant booths hawking everything from strips of roasted hawk-bat to risque holos, and

  made even more

  crowded by the heterogeneous assortment of sentients appraising these wares. The cacophony of shouts, squawks, hisses, moans, stridulations, and other means of communication made Den fearful of getting an earbleed. Add to that the heady, humid reek of open-air cooking, from Gungan bouillabaisse to Wookiee luau, spices, death sticks, stimsticks, other mind-altering vectors, and, as always, the staggeringly multi-phasic stench of unwashed bodies, and the result was a full-out synesthetic assault. It made his time on Drongar seem pale by comparison.

  As he walked Level H-26, Den studied the readout on the compact Multi-Tasking Assistant, or MTA, that he carried. It contained a list of all the components Jax required in order to put together a rudimen-tary lightsaber. They were the absolute minimum items necessary to construct the elegant and deadly instrument that identified a Jedi. A second list accommodated those components that would make the final construct not just functional, but also worthy of its owner.

  The cheap pack that jounced against his back was half full. Certain parts were innocuous enough—focusing lenses and an emitter; a superconductor and 156 Star Wars: Coruscant Nights II: Street of Shadows a power cell—and therefore comparatively easy to obtain. Despite Ploughtekal's resources, other components were proving either more difficult or prohib-itively expensive. Slowly, methodically, the latter constraint was yielding to the reporter's contacts or negotiating ability. Even so, Den realized glumly, without the CEC the rest of the components were pretty much useless.

  "Hey, watch it, floob!"

  The massive male Herglic who had nearly stepped on Den hastened to shift to one side. With a contrite hauum, he gestured his apology. He could easily have crushed the irritated Sullustan with one step, but Herglic tended, as a species, to be embarrassed by their size, which was why Den had felt secure in being rude. Had the near collision been with the pair of supple Cantrosians following immediately behind the Herglic, he would have been less blunt. A quick swipe of one of their paws could have left him with a bad case of Cantrosian-scratch fever.

  He sighed and looked at his MTA list again, elec-tronically checking off several more items. Personally, he thought, I think we've done pretty good to have gotten all that we have. Especially considering the limitations on time and funds. Between his efforts and the stuff Rhinann had assembled during his earlier quest, Jax should have enough now to at least get started. Den had to admit that, intolerable as the Elomin's company could often prove, the tusk-crowned humanoid knew his business.

  Moving from shop to shop, from contact to contact, he somehow managed to come up with part after part at prices they could afford. But the light-

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  saber's key component—the CEC—continued to elude him.

  "I'm not done yet," he muttered. There were still a few places deep within the market's center that he intended to try.

  Though it seemed impossible, the crowds actually grew denser as he worked his way ever deeper into the seething, frenetic complex. Typical of any such market, Den knew, but in one the size of Ploughtekal the constant crush could grow wearying, if not actually dangerous, especially for someone whose kind ranked at the lower end of the humanoid size scale.

  On the other hand, his comparatively diminutive height allowed him to squeeze into places that the representatives of bulkier species could not access.

  Unfortunately, none of these booths had anything even faintly resembling a CEC for sale. At last he was ready to admit defeat.

  With what we've managed to acquire and with what he's already got, Jax can assemble a lightsaber, he thought as he made his way toward the eastern borders of the great market. It just won't work. The Sullustan's step was plodding as he neared a market-place exit. He was worn out from being pushed around or ignored by larger, clumsier beings. Oh well—if he makes it heavy enough, he can always throw it at people.

  Just as he was about to exit, however, a flash of something caught his eye. He turned and beheld a kiosk that sold, among many other illegal things, replicas of sector police badges. Den stopped and 158 Star Wars: Coruscant Nights II: Street of Shadows looked at them thoughtfully. He'd seen phony ID before, and he had to admit the quality of these was quite good. The rank, picture, and shield number seemed to float, crisp and clear, a few millimeters above the badge itself.

  The kiosk's owner, an old and rheumy Toydarian, noticed his interest. Rummaging around beneath the counter, he brought forth another badge, the picture ID of which was a Sullustan. With a grin he held it up. "Eh? Eh? Perfect likeness, is it not? Only four credits—a bargain!"

  It wasn't a perfect likeness, as Den could plainly see. The person in the holo had thinner ears and lips; also, h
is skin was somewhat lighter in tone. But he also knew that such subtle differences didn't matter to anyone except another Sullustan. To most sentients, representatives from any species other than their own were all but impossible to tell apart.

  Abruptly, he reached for his pocketbook. He had an idea ...

  The teeming surface of Imperial Center was dotted with innumerable buildings that had been designed primarily to impress. For example, what made the Orvum Stadium unique was not its capability to seat hundreds of thousands of patrons, but the fact that every single seat could be adjusted to accommodate the individual needs of hundreds of different species.

  Clustered together a short distance away, the Proto-rian Polygon consisted of five towering spires linked by a completely transparent glassine bubble that contained three gourmet restaurants and a tourist pedway.

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  Its shape sustained by powerful tractor and pressor fields, the Aquala Tower rose only a modest distance into the sky—but it was composed entirely of water.

  Nonaquatic visitors could don underwater breathing gear at the top or bottom and swim through multiple levels of real sea life, while citizens from water-breathing worlds could relax and enjoy the scenery without being burdened by specialized hydrorespira-tory equipment.

  The greatest companies in the galaxy constantly competed to create corporate headquarters that were the most spectacular, the most innovative, and the most recognizable on Imperial Center. Mobolo Machines' office complex consisted of half a dozen skytowers in constant slow motion. Demonstrating the proficiency of its product line, Kiskar Repulsorlifts'

  headquarters floated exactly five meters off the ground. Anyone could walk underneath the enormous structure and marvel at the power and technology that kept it not only aloft but also in the same exact position, day after day.

  Captain Typho stepped out of an airtaxi on the fringe of a structural complex that was not as tall as certain cloudcutters, not as elaborate as most commercial centers, and not as eclectic as the majority of Coruscant's great entertainment venues. Notwithstanding a deliberate architectural modesty, the buildings that stretched out before him were in their way some of the most impressive on the planet, for they constituted the bureaucratic hives of the Imperial government.

  For the headquarters of his civil service divisions, the Emperor had chosen to adapt and modify an ex-

  160 Star Wars: Coruscant Nights II: Street of Shadows isting business complex. Ostensibly this was done to save time and money. The actual purpose was to divert attention from the many interior modifications installed, some of which would have appalled the few long-established citizens' rights groups still extant under the New Order.

  From the outside the group of office structures retained their original innocuous, unprepossessing appearance. Within, they had been customized out of all recognition. In addition to a highly secure and specialized prison designed to temporarily hold dangerous and politically sensitive detainees, there was a complete medcenter intended to provide the best available care to the Imperial staff. Living quarters boasted varying degrees of opulence; the most modern and efficient communications facilities kept the new government in touch with its vast, far-flung member worlds, colonies, and allies. As with the Imperial Palace itself, there were redundant life-support systems capable of sustaining a habitable environment indefinitely. If necessary, the extensive compound could function without any contact with the outside world, which meant that, should the rest of Imperial Center fall into chaos and collapse, the Imperial offices would continue to function.

  As he entered, Typho was impressed but not awed.

  The purpose that drove him, that had brought him here all the way from Naboo, was bigger than any building, more powerful than any threat, and exalted his spirits higher than the crown of any cloudcutter.

  Once inside, he slipped into a steady stream of visitors. While the flow was more or less orderly, representatives from a majority of the civilized worlds Michael Reaves 161

  occasionally jostled and pushed for position. No one came to this place for leisure; everyone was engaged in business of one form or another that required their personal, as opposed to holographic, presence. Typho understood this quite well. His own concern certainly warranted it. Revenge was not a matter best conducted from a distance.

  Though the complex was enormous, it was designed to allow visitors and employees to carry out their assignments or complete their work within a day. It had to be that efficient. It wouldn't do to have outworld supplicants camping out in corridors in the hope of resolving their problems sometime the following days or weeks.

  Typho was among the least likely to suffer such a theoretical delay. As an officer and bureaucrat himself back on Naboo, he understood the workings of government complexes. While this one was incompara-bly bigger than any counterpart on his homeworld, the guidelines by which it operated were similar. Despite the occasional setback or dead end, he had little serious difficulty filling out the required flimsiwork and navigating the facility.

  His persistence eventually found him a modest room occupied by a dozen beings seated at workstations. Half of them were human; the rest comprised various species. The middle-aged bureaucrat he eventually found himself before checked his vital data and acknowledged their validity with a squeal of approval.

  Typho had encountered Jenet in such positions before. Short and stocky, with rodent-like facial features, prominent teeth, and white hair and facial fur, they were not, from a humanoid perspective, the 162 Star Wars: Coruscant Nights II: Street of Shadows most attractive of bipeds. But they were hard workers and particularly famed for their near-infallible memories. While the Emperor was well known for his hu-manocentric policies, he was smart enough to hire the right species for the job. And who better, Typho reflected as he took a seat across from the smallish creature, to serve in a sensitive bureaucratic position where recall of detail was essential?

  The Jenet's low voice was interrupted by a good deal of ancillary huffing and puffing, but his command of Basic was all in all quite admirable.

  "So. You are called Typho, a captain of Royal Household security from Naboo."

  "Yes."

  "I am Losh. I have seen pictures of your homeworld. Unsightly, water-ridden place."

  Typho nodded. "Perhaps so, but for sheer global repulsiveness little can compare to Garban."

  At this insult to the planet that gave rise to his species, the Jenet's whiskers twitched. He was much pleased, and not a little surprised.

  "You are familiar with Jenet society?"

  "With the basics," Typho conceded modestly. "As a security officer I have to know galactic protocol. It wouldn't do to greet someone from the Tau Sakar system, much less Garban itself, with a flowery compliment."

  "Indeed it would not." The bureaucrat was impressed; visitors who knew and understood that the Jenet traditionally greeted one another with insults were few and far between.

  "It's clear you are who you say you are. Certainly your vitae check out clean." Caressing a whisker on Michael Reaves 163

  the left side of his bright pink face, the official studied the information floating in the air before him. "Ac-cording to the records, this is not your first visit to Imperial Center."

  Again Typho nodded. "I have had the pleasure before, yes."

  "I hardly need tell you there is much to see and do here."

  His sigh emerged as a series of short, soft squeaks. "Though as a midlevel functionary, I am fortunate if my family and I can spend more than a week or two each year availing ourselves of such pleasures.

  What is your purpose here, Captain Typho?"

  Affable and welcoming though the interviewer was being, Typho didn't relax his guard for a minute. The Jenet was merely doing his job in the most efficacious manner possible: Put your guest at ease, set his mind at rest, and then probe for the information you really want.

  "I'm no tourist," Typho told him straightforwardly.

  Whiskers
jerked. "I guessed as much. Coming to this place does not fit the profile of a sightseer. So, again: what is it you want?"

  "Information."

  "What else?" With a casual wave Losh indicated their surroundings. "The Emperor did not cause this complex to be compiled to provide entertainment.

  This section deals with government travel. You are a government official, albeit of a minor planetary system. Let me guess: you seek particulars regarding the travel of someone from Naboo. Someone who has used government funds to visit Imperial Center on nongovernmental business."

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  "No," Typho told him.

  "Ah. Then you are tracking someone who has violated Naboo security and has either fled here, or come seeking to avoid arraignment."

  "Not that, either." While the bureaucrat's second guess was much closer to the mark, the captain was still able to respond honestly.

  The Jenet's curiosity was piqued. Since this represented a break from the daily monotony, he engaged more than usual. "Something out of the ordinary, then. Captain, much as I enjoy conversing with you—even though the sight of your ugly face makes me bilious—I still have a daily administrative quota to meet. How can I help you? Be concise."

  "You can use those filthy scavenger's eyes of yours,"

  Typho replied politely, "to research the names of visitors to a certain world on a couple of specific dates."

  "Travel details." Whiskers bobbed. "Simple enough."

  Pink fingers hovered in the air, poised in front of the luminescent, insubstantial control images above the desk. "Go on."

  Typho tried not show his nervousness as he provided the parameters. "On the date in question Senator Padmé Amidala of Naboo suffered fatal injuries at a mining site on Mustafar. At the time she was under the protection of a Jedi named Anakin Skywalker." This was where his inquiry could get tricky—and dangerous. "I need to know if the Jedi in question survived and, if so, his possible whereabouts."