Star Wars - Coruscant Nights 02 - Street of Shadows

by Michael Reaves

  The Jenet's whiskers stiffened sharply as he dropped his hands away from the floating aura of in-

  Michael Reaves 165

  strumentation. "The Jedi are all dead. The Emperor has cleared that particular infestation from the galaxy.

  It is a violation of Imperial law to seek any data on them. As a security officer, you of all people should know that, Captain."

  Typho had anticipated this reaction. "The unexpected and apparently violent death of Senator Amidala, who was much beloved by her people, was a tragedy from which many on Naboo have not yet recovered. As the officer in charge of her personal security, I have a special interest in finalizing the events concerning her passing. Even though you are obviously an official who's failed his way upward into a position far too complicated for his feeble mind, I'm sure you can understand and sympathize with that."

  "As an official who has to deal daily with intrusive idiots like yourself, I suppose that I can. Sympathizing, however, is not a component of my job description."

  "I'll take information over sympathy any day,"

  Typho assured him.

  As the official hesitated, Typho tensed and did his best not to show it, knowing that the Jenet could terminate the visit at any moment and send his visitor packing. If that happened, Typho would have to start all over again elsewhere, in a different section with a different bureaucrat. And instant cross-referencing would reveal to a second interviewer that the captain had already been granted a previous session, which meant that he and his request would likely be dismissed out of hand, if he was lucky. If he wasn't—inwardly, Typho shuddered, although his concern 166 Star Wars: Coruscant Nights II: Street of Shadows was still about failing Padmé, rather than saving his own hide.

  After a long moment, Losh's fingers began moving again through the instrumentation display floating before him. "I'm not sure why I'm helping you. I'm not required to do so. Researching the travels of Jedi falls far outside my purview."

  "You're doing it because you're a lonely, frustrated, obnoxious excuse for an administrator,"

  Typho told him.

  The Jenet's pink head bobbed, the white hair streaming down his back shifting slightly with the movement. "Or perhaps I'm inspired to take a break from routine by the meaningless ravings of an obviously psychotic offworlder."

  Typho repressed a smile. "Could be."

  Typically, it took longer to input the request than to receive the desired information. "Somewhat surprisingly, there is data in the files relevant to that which you seek. So that the galactic populace may know what end justly befalls common criminals, the detailed fate of each Jedi is noted. Have a look for yourself." With the sweep of a finger, the Jenet caused a duplicate of the readout he was scanning to appear before the anxious Typho.

  His gaze traveled at high speed down the list. Opposite each Jedi's name were the details of that individual's passing. Occasionally the words unverified, unknown, or, even more rarely, possibly still extant appeared. To be certain of his conclusions, he made himself read through the entire list, though not all the pertinent details, until he reached the name he sought.

  Michael Reaves 167

  Interestingly, among those listed as extant and possibly on imperial center was a name he had encountered recently: Jax Pavan. That was the Jedi the bounty hunter Aurra Sing had been looking for.

  Well, that was Jax Pavan's problem. The captain's concerns lay elsewhere.

  He read the entry for SKYWALKER, ANAKIN. His heart pulsed as he noted that the Jedi in question had indeed perished on the volcanic world of Mustafar.

  Though he scanned carefully through every subsequent name, there was no mention of Padmé. Despite his disappointment, he knew that was to be expected.

  The list recorded the passing of Jedi, not "ordinary"

  galactic citizens. Such details of Padmé's death were widely available in the general media, especially on Naboo.

  He read through the listing again. There was no mention of what Skywalker had been doing on Mustafar at the time of his death, though Typho already knew that. He was supposed to have been guarding Padmé. More surprisingly, there was no description of his manner of passing: merely that he had met his end on that fiery, inhospitable world.

  Typho thought furiously. Skywalker had not been just any Jedi. He had been one of the best, personally driven to protect his ward and exceptionally skilled in the use of the Force. Try as he might, Typho could not imagine who else on Mustafar at the time could have killed Padmé in the strange fashion consistent with the official autopsy.

  168 Star Wars: Coruscant Nights II: Street of Shadows Suppose Skywalker had indeed killed Padmé, but had somehow subsequently made his escape? But then why would the official report show him as dead?

  Regardless of whether or not the Jedi had slain Padmé, the Emperor wanted all Jedi dead. No one in officialdom would protect him. If anything, knowing that he had killed Padmé would have made him a perfect example of a traitor for the Empire to hold up.

  Assume the opposite, then. Take the official record at face value. Anakin Skywalker was dead. Though his manner of passing was not described, Mustafar, after all, was a place where fiery death awaited at every step. If the Jedi had perished as a consequence of falling into boiling lava or being buried by an eruption, why wouldn't the record show that? The omission implied that he had died by other means.

  By other hands? Typho wondered.

  He had seen for himself Skywalker's skills and mastery of the Force. If natural means were not responsible—and if they were, there was no reason the captain could think of why that should not be reported in the official record—then it suggested a person or persons might be to blame. That made sense.

  Whoever wanted Padmé dead and had slain her by such ingenious means would understandably have to kill her bodyguard first. Was it possible an individual existed with the power to overcome a Jedi as powerful as Skywalker?

  The Emperor himself could have done so, Typho knew. But Padmé's death had occurred before Palpatine had declared himself, and in any event, Typho couldn't conceive of any scenario in which her death would have been politically advantageous to Palpatine's Michael Reaves 169

  ascension. Who else, then? Another Jedi, perhaps—but why would one Jedi want another dead, not to mention a renowned, respected, and well-loved Senator from Naboo? Who possessed that kind of mastery of the Force, and that kind of raw hatred?

  That was when it hit him. That was when it all came together in his mind.

  A Sith.

  Only one of the Dark Lords commanded enough

  •kill with the Force to overcome a Jedi as strong as Anakin Skywalker. Only one of that malevolent brood could casually dispatch someone as good and pure as Padmé. As to who might want her dead—well, with her outspokenness on behalf of the Republic, the Senator had made plenty of enemies, both within the old Senate and without. Many who favored the transition to the Empire would have been delighted at her passing, including the Sith.

  He needed to be sure, of course. At the moment he was only speculating. But the more he thought about it, the more he compared possibilities and alternatives, the more it made sense.

  Now he needed a name. An individual. But he could hardly expect the mundane official seated across from him to have access to the movements of the Sith.

  "Are you all right?" Losh asked. "Not that I care what happens to a miserable supplicant such as yourself."

  "I'm fine. Just making sure I have the information I need, you useless lump of worm-munch."

  The Jenet's whiskers inclined forward. "Even though you are here on official business, don't forget 170 Star Wars: Coruscant Nights II: Street of Shadows to indulge in the delights of the world-city." A beady red eye winked. "The lower levels in particular offer certain pleasures not to be found on any other planet.

  Of course, being mated and with family I wouldn't know anything about that."

  "Of course not." Typho rose from the chair.

  "Th
ank you for your time and assistance. I hope you drown tomorrow."

  "And may yours be the bloated corpse that rises from beneath to lift me up." With a wave of his hand the bureaucratic rodent wiped the floating, glowing information from the air between them. The consul-tation was at an end.

  No one bothered Typho as he wandered the halls.

  He passed through security scans without being challenged, having left his blaster and the lightsaber he'd taken from Sing in a secure locker before entering the complex. All those individuals in the swirl of beings around him were caught up in their own concerns.

  Since the Imperial complex was not a place in which to waste precious time, everyone who passed the captain from Naboo assumed he was engaged in important work of his own. Security did not question him.

  They were looking for those likely to cause a disturbance or enter sections that were off-limits. Security droids stepped or rolled or floated around him, ignoring his presence as he ignored theirs.

  How could he find out if a Sith Lord had been on Mustafar at the time of Padmé's death? If one had been present, it would explain a great deal. He paused long enough to enter an eating establishment.

  Like any machine, a body functioned better when properly fueled. So he ate and drank, but the food Michael Reaves 171

  could have been made of tree dust for all the impression it made on his taste buds.

  Where and how to begin? To another such a quest might well seem hopeless, but not to Typho. He was experienced and knowledgeable as well as determined. And, having already gained entrance to the Imperial complex, it would be easier to do so next time.

  What he needed to do struck him during the last few bites of his meal. A Sith capable of killing a Jedi as strong as Anakin Skywalker would undoubtedly be one the Emperor would keep close to himself—to keep an eye on as much as to make use of him. It might well be possible to learn if any Sith were based at the Imperial complex. Typho had heard it said that the Sith Order had for centuries been pared down to a total of one Master and one apprentice, but he doubted the truth of that—it seemed a perilous way to keep the Order extant. It was far more likely that there were many of them. Far from depressing him, the idea was heartening: it meant that Padmé's killer might be close at hand, lurking in a corridor or doing the Emperor's bidding somewhere in the complex around him. The notion stimulated his thoughts and strengthened his resolve.

  Tomorrow, he told himself. After a night's rest he would return in search of information far more dangerous than that which he had sought today. It would not be easy. After all, no one in their right mind deliberately sought to make the acquaintance of a Sith. But Captain Typho was not in his right mind.

  He was in love.

  172 Star Wars: Coruscant Nights II: Street of Shadows

  —[ PART II ]—

  RITES OF PASSAGE

  Michael Reaves 173

  fourteen

  There was a reason why the Qarek'k was literally and not just colloquially called a dive in the Neimoidian tongue. To enter, one stepped through a portal off the street and then dropped a full story down to a waiting pedway. Powerful repulsors positioned on either side of the drop slowed visitors one by one, holding them suspended until security equipment mounted overhead and on both sides could run a thorough check on each and every visitant. Those who passed were allowed to drift gently to the ground and enter the establishment. Those who failed, argued, or otherwise tried to make trouble were sent back up to the street.

  Weapons were permitted. In this region of underlevel Coruscant, it was the unarmed pedestrian who was considered unconventional. The no-nonsense owners of the Qarek'k had no problem whatsoever with customers packing multiple instruments of destruction. Patrons were welcome if they entered weighted down with everything up to and including a tactical nuke. Use a weapon in the establishment, however, and one would find oneself set upon by what was considered the toughest security team in the 174 Star Wars: Coruscant Nights II: Street of Shadows sector, comprising grizzled veterans of the Clone Wars who had seen and dealt with everything—several times.

  Into this sordid den of thieves, killers, and other miscreants dived an especially toothsome-looking female humanoid of indeterminate age, flame-red hair, and snow-white skin. Aurra Sing could easily have emphasized her entrance by executing a couple of forward flips or twists as she let herself be grabbed and slowed by the entry way's field. However, she saw no reason to exert herself to entertain the Qarek'k's dis-solute clientele. So she just jumped from the street and waited patiently for the security system to examine her and lower her to the floor.

  The identification that had been provided for her acknowledged her as a private agent on Imperial business. It was not questioned. Not even the lightsaber, which for anyone not working for Vader would have been cause to summon a platoon of stormtroopers and Inquisitors, raised so much as an eyebrow. Vader's authority was indeed all-pervasive.

  She paused as the bouncer, a Sakiyan, looked her up and down, performing one last manual matching check between her person and her hand-carried ident.

  The folded hundred-credit note on the underside of the card was adroitly slid up the bald humanoid's sleeve, and he gestured curtly for her to proceed.

  Although her outward expression did not change, Sing smiled to herself as she strode deeper into the labyrinthine warren of rooms. Even with Imperial clearance, it was never a bad idea to get on the good side of the head bouncer.

  She allowed herself to be subsumed by t he noise Michael Reaves 175

  from half a dozen different live bands. A storm of lights—some fixed, some ambulatory—bathed the adjoining rooms in every possible color and combination thereof, including the infrared and the ultravio-let. Depending on one's species, subjecting oneself to too much of one hue or the other could result in a serious burn or minor cancer. The owners assumed no responsibility for such developments. Anyone old enough, bold enough, and sold enough on the delights of the Qarek'k to chance entry did so at their own risk.

  She finally found an empty stool in a chamber called the Crimson Redrum. Arms extended wide, the Amanin pubtender gazed up at her. "Something to drink, hard-case?" The hypersonic bubble encasing the bar made conversation possible despite the two competing bands.

  Sing was quietly amused. "What makes you think I'm a hard case, flat-head? Don't I look soft and cud-dly to you?"

  The Amani's small red eyes, adapted to seeing in weak light, focused on her. "There is nothing of either about you, humanoid. I have seen your kind in here many times before."

  "You're perceptive," she told him. It was a male, she saw by his coloring.

  "I'm just a pubtender," he replied. "I don't want any trouble."

  "Don't curl yourself into a ball just yet. I'm looking for information, not trouble. I'll have a Merenzane Gold, on the rocks."

  The pubtender hesitated. "Expensive."

  Sing flashed the expense chit that had been pro-

  176 Star Wars: Coruscant Nights II: Street of Shadows vided her. The Amani frowned. "You pay with a chit.

  Cash is better."

  "But you'll make an exception in my case."

  He took the card without further protest. "What kind of rocks would you like?" He gestured behind him at the curved floor-to-ceiling storage bins. "We have everything from pure silicates to rare nonferrous metals."

  "Frozen water will suffice."

  She listened to the two bands that filled the Redrum with wall-to-wall noise. Each comprising multiple species, they seemed to be competing with each other to see who could play not the best music, but the loudest. The Amani was back in less than a minute. She took a sip of the liquid that gurgled in the tall glass and smiled lazily.

  "Good. Now—you spoke of cash." Reaching down to the pouch riding at her waist, she unsealed the top length and let him have a good look before she resealed the pouch. What was visible within caused the Amani's small eyes to grow almost as large

  "You should not bring so man
y Imperial credits into a place like this," he admonished her. "A mere humanoid such as yourself could get seriously hurt."

  "Don't worry about me," she replied. "Now—for liquid refreshment, I pay credit. For food, I pay credit. For information—I pay cash."

  The Amani was too short to lean over the bar. Instead, he pushed himself up on his long, dragging arms until his face was level with her own. "What is it you wish to know? What data do you seek?"

  "I'm looking for someone. His name is Jax Pavan, Michael Reaves 177

  though he may be known around here by another name." She held up a holobase. It immediately expanded to provide a three-dimensional, rotating por-trait of the man in question. "He's a Jedi, though not much of one."

  The Amani's thick lips curled downward into a rubbery frown. "The Jedi are all slain. Slain by minions of the Empire." He stared at her a little harder.

  "Are you a minion of the Empire?"

  "I work for myself. Actually, I'm employed directly by Lord Vader."

  The bartender hesitated, stared, then broke out laughing. "A hard case with a sense of humor. That's rare. Well, it's no matter of mine who you work for."

  "Glad you appreciate the absurdity of it." She pocketed the holobase, and the image disappeared.

  "Maybe he's not a Jedi. Maybe I was given wrong information. Personally, I don't care if he's the Grand Master or a local scrap recycler. I just need to find him."

  "I wish I could help you, hard-case. I have an excellent memory."

  "I know. That's why your kind are often employed as trackers." She smiled enticingly. "I appeal to your mercenary nature."

  "I can't give you information I don't have. I'd slime myself if it would jog the memory you seek, but there's just nothing there." Raising a huge three-fingered hand, he pointed toward the next room, the Green Dystopia. If anything, the music reverberating from within it was even louder than in the Crimson Redrum. "You might try talking to my colleague Ca-lathi, in there."