Scourge

by Jeff Grubb

  “We don’t smuggle,” said Reen, her face darkening with embarrassment.

  “Of course you don’t,” said Angela Krin. “No one here is saying that you do. What I am saying is that my own resources in the Corporate Sector Authority are limited, and if we can use your knowledge, perhaps even smugglers that you know among the trading community, we can save ourselves a lot of trouble.”

  Reen paused for a moment, and yes, her face turned a deeper shade of blue. Mander had seen it before in Toro. Not embarrassment. Anger.

  “No,” she said simply.

  “No?” said Angela Krin. She seemed shocked, an officer not used to insubordination on her own command deck.

  “No,” said Reen. “Sorry.” She took a deep breath. “You offered your help to find Toro’s killer, but I’m not sharing every spacer secret with you just so you can go looking.”

  “I don’t think it is like that—” Mander started, but the lieutenant commander cut him off. “You don’t seem to understand how serious the situation is. This is larger than just the death of your brother.”

  “And so I have to trust you,” said Reen.

  “Yes,” said the CSA commander.

  “No,” said the Pantoran.

  “We can discuss this,” said Mander. At the same moment Angela said, “We can pay you well for your services.” Mander wished the commander would quit making matters worse.

  Reen shook her head. “You don’t get it,” she said to Angela. “You have more than enough people in the CSA to pull this off. People you can trust. People you can order around. You don’t know us at all. You don’t have to take these risks. We don’t have to take this risk.” She moved to the door. “I’m going to head down to the New Ambition and, with your kind permission, sweep her from stem to stern to see if the Hutts put any bugs into the system while we were on Nar Shaddaa. Then Eddey and I are going our own way.” She turned to go.

  “Captain Irana,” Angela Krin said, raising her voice to Reen’s back; the Pantoran halted before the door. “Mander Zuma did the right thing in shooting you. You would have been used as a tool against us. As a hostage. He had to take you off the board.”

  Reen spun around and opened her mouth to speak, then spun back and left the conference room in a fury. Mander looked at Eddey.

  “What just happened here?” asked the Jedi.

  “I think we just quit before we were hired,” said Eddey. To Angela Krin he composed himself and said, “Sorry about that. The science here seems pretty interesting.” He looked at the schematics of the Endregaad plague spinning slowly over the lieutenant commander’s desk. He did not move to the door.

  “Aren’t you going down to help Reen?” asked the Jedi.

  “I could,” said Eddey, “but I don’t think I’m the one who has to talk to her. Besides, I’d rather stay here and talk with the lieutenant commander about her medtechs. Is it possible to download this on a datastick?” he asked, addressing Angela. “I’ve got some ‘spacer resources’ of my own that I’d like to check it against.” Angela Krin said nothing, but nodded, her mouth a noncommittal line. To Mander it seemed that she was trying to pin down the exact moment when she’d totally lost control of the situation.

  Mander left them behind and descended to the docking bay where the New Ambition was moored. Climbing the ship’s boarding ramp, he could hear Reen clattering around inside. She had already pulled off one of the forward avionics sections and was on her back, her head buried among the wiring.

  “Make yourself useful, Eddey,” she shouted. “Hand me the reflek sculptor. I swear there are some welds that weren’t here when we got the ship.”

  Mander sat down in the copilot’s seat and looked at the open toolbox. He rooted around and handed her a likely-looking suspect, a long beeping device with multiple heads. She dropped it like a live snake, and shouted “Reflek sculptor, Eddey. Don’t clown around with me.”

  “Eddey’s still up talking to the lieutenant commander,” said Mander. “How can I help?”

  Reen pulled herself out of the avionics section and scowled at Mander. “I thought I was clear on this. We’re not interested in another kriffing adventure.”

  “That part was clear,” said Mander. “I’m just not sure on the why. I mean, I guess after what happened on Nar Shaddaa, anyone would be rattled …”

  She looked at him with an expression that reminded him of her brother. “You shot me.”

  “I stunned you,” said Mander. “And it seems to bother you more than it should. You’ve surely been shot at before. I know. I was there.”

  “You don’t understand,” she said, trying to hide her irritation. Again, so much like her brother.

  “Try to make me understand,” he said, remembering old conversations he had with Toro. He had been younger than Reen when Mander had taken him on as an apprentice, but no less stubborn.

  “You shot me,” she said, “And I didn’t expect it.”

  Mander leaned back in the copilot’s chair and let out a deep breath. “So you’re angry that I surprised you?”

  Reen leaned back against one of the consoles, trying not to look at the Jedi. “I thought I had figured out how you thought. I mean, you’re a librarian.”

  “Archivist,” corrected Mander, but she ignored him.

  “You’ve been the one to recommend talking things over first,” she said. “Careful planning. Knowing your opponent. Waiting for someone else to make their move.”

  “I think we knew Zonnos pretty well by that point,” Mander noted. “And I thought we planned pretty well for the situation.”

  “And your solution was to ram an aircar into the building and shoot me?” Her voice climbed as she spoke.

  “We were pressed for time,” Mander said, “and shooting you was only an option if Zonnos took you hostage. Which he did.”

  “You were just …” Her voice trailed off.

  “Acting more like a Jedi?” suggested Mander Zuma.

  “Yes!” she said, slapping her knee.

  Mander was silent for a moment. Finally he said, “Sometimes adventure leaps onto us. It is not like we had a choice in the matter.”

  Reen started to protest, but Mander shushed her, continuing. “I think I know what you mean. Part of a Jedi is the ability to process all manner of threats and situations, analyze them, choose the best option, and then act. It is supposed to happen very quickly for us. We inherently know the best action. It is part of being connected with the Force, and our training enhances it.”

  He let out a deep sigh. “I’ve always been good at processing and analyzing a situation. I’ve never been so good at acting on what I learn. Acting instinctively and immediately. Until that fight in the depths of Nar Shaddaa, with the vrblthers. Suddenly I knew what had to be done and I did it. And when I had to deal with Zonnos, I had the same feeling.” He looked at Reen and added, “Sorry to have surprised you.”

  The two of them sat in silence on the flight deck of the New Ambition.

  “So where do we go from here?” said Mander Zuma.

  It was Reen’s turn to sigh. “You’re still my best lead. Particularly since I upset the lord high commander up in her briefing room by not ratting out my fellow spacers.”

  “All right then,” Mander said, and thought for a moment. “Bomu clan.”

  “They’ve been hunting us throughout this,” said Reen.

  “On someone else’s orders,” said Mander. “You said it yourself—they are basically small-time. But if we shake them up enough, maybe they can tell us who they are working for.”

  “Some other small fry,” said Reen, frustrated.

  “Who is working for someone else who is working for someone else,” said Mander. “And eventually we get to the one who isn’t working for anyone else, and he, or she, is the one we’re looking for.”

  Reen thought about it a moment, then said, “It sounds like more fun than spilling what I know about smuggling to a CSA agent.”

  “Or searching a thousand de
ad systems filled with hard radiation,” noted Mander.

  “And it’s not like the Bomu clan is going to be any less angry at us,” said Reen with a smile. It was an easy smile. The storm had passed.

  “I am sorry I had to shoot you,” said Mander. “But it was the right thing to do at the time.”

  “Warn me next time,” said Reen, then paused for a moment. “Why are you still here?” she asked. “You’ve gotten the coordinates and finished Toro’s last mission, rescued your traveling companion, and killed a Hutt and lived. I know why I need to go forward, and even Angela’s reasoning. Why are you still here?”

  “I want to find the origin point of the Tempest,” said Mander. “I want to put an end to it.”

  “For Toro?” asked Reen.

  “In part,” said Mander. “And for you.” And for Mika, he added to himself. For an odd little Hutt who lost his family because of the Tempest trade.

  “And for yourself?” asked Reen. “Are you sure that you’re not dealing with your own personal Tempest? Is the excitement, the chance of playing the hero, clouding your better judgment?”

  “I don’t know,” Mander Zuma said. “Do you want to come along and make sure my judgment doesn’t get clouded?”

  Reen made a noise and disappeared back under the avionics console. “Sure. Regardless, I still have to check out everything on this boat. Go tell Eddey it’s safe to come down here and help.”

  Mander said, “Of course,” and stood up. Reen popped her head out one last time. “And Mander?”

  “Yes?”

  “Tell the commander we are not game pieces,” said Reen. “We’re not to be taken off the board, or used as pawns. I hate that.”

  “That was a poor choice of words on the lieutenant commander’s part,” said Mander. “But I will keep that in mind as well.” But Reen was already back under the console, muttering at the welds and trying to figure out if they had been there before Nar Shaddaa.

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  THE TRAIL OF THE TEMPEST

  Rolan was the last member of the Bomu clan on Makem Te, and it felt to him like he was the last Rodian in the galaxy. Pushing his way through the mortuary bazaar, flanked on all sides by the heavy Swokes Swokes, Rolan felt trapped. When he was outside he was afraid of being spotted, and when he hid it felt like he was just waiting for his fate to catch up with him.

  So he moved, not staying in the same place any one evening. He crashed in alleyways and in the shadows of the great tombs. He stole where he could, ran when he had to. He stood out in this population of flabby, neckless monstrosities, and could not rest for a moment.

  There was no way for him to get word out. With the disaster in the spice warehouse—with the arrival of the Jeedai—their best warriors had died. Dejarro, his contact with the Spice Lord’s people, disappeared soon after that. The word was that the Jeedai had caught up with him, but Rolan thought that unlikely. It was more likely that Dejarro had bolted for space, and would not be heard from again.

  Then matters got worse. The Tempest shipments dried up … then stopped entirely. Attempts to reestablish the supplies were met with apologies at first, then with indifference. Those of the Bomu clan who had survived the Jeedai’s attacks slipped out in ones and twos. Some were called away on clan business, sent to new opportunities. Some were around one day, gone the next, and no one knew where. Eventually, the only ones left were the low-level dealers who were unaware that everything had gone south. Low-level dealers who were unaware that their supplier and patron, this Spice Lord, had turned away from Makem Te.

  Low-level dealers like Rolan.

  It got worse when the spice stopped. Their customers felt the pain first, as withdrawal surged through their systems, heightening their rage. Even though the Swokes Swokes lacked pain receptors, their flesh was still prone to the anger the drug brought. And they knew it came from the Rodians.

  And too late, Rolan realized the danger of having a clientele that was taking a spice that made them angry. A clientele that was near invulnerable in combat.

  An angry, volatile, near-invulnerable clientele that knew what you looked like.

  Rolan paused beside an open display of necrotic sugar candies cast in the shapes of various types of skulls—human, Cerean, Wookiee, and of course the Swokes Swokes. His stomach grumbled a protest and Rolan realized he had not eaten since the previous day. He looked at the clerk, who was at the other end of the counter helping a heavily bejeweled native.

  Rolan glanced around. Was anyone watching? He didn’t look at the candies directly, but rather snaked out a greenish hand to grasp a particularly nondescript example, one that didn’t seem to represent any known species. Some mistake in the casting that wouldn’t be missed. An overstock.

  Then he froze—he was being watched.

  She was across the aisle from him, a hooded figure at another booth. She should have been examining the muja fruit in her hand. But she wasn’t looking at the fruit. She was looking at him.

  With her free hand she pulled back the hood, and her flesh was blue, marked with yellow tattoos. Like the dead Jeedai that started all this.

  Rolan froze for a moment, then bolted away from the booth. He had gotten three paces before the side of his head exploded from the impact of the muja fruit. The rind burst and the pulpy interior splattered along the side of his face, its juices stinging his large eyes.

  Rolan staggered but did not drop, instead plunging into the crowd, the lumbering Swokes Swokes cursing as he pushed among them. Behind him he could hear the muja salesman braying a complaint, and wondered if that would delay his pursuit.

  It did not matter. There was another outlander up ahead, bearing down on him. This one was robed, too, and glowing red spectacles pinched the bridge of his nose. Something heavy was slung from his belt. This one was definitely Jeedai.

  Rolan made a sharp right-hand turn, jumping over a low stall of flower arrangements. The proprietor took a swing at him, but he slid underneath the blow and was out the other side of the booth in moments.

  He had gained but seconds on his pursuers, and he needed a place to hide, quickly. The bazaar was fed by numerous alleyways and, not bothering to look behind him, the last of the Bomu clan on Makem Te plunged into the darkness.

  Only when he was safely wrapped in the fetid darkness of the alley did he dare to look back. His pursuers, the woman and the Jeedai, were at the entrance, looking around. Rolan held his breath. They stayed there, their backs to him. He had lost them.

  Slowly he turned to move through the darkness to the back of the alley and escape. That was when he noticed the blaster aimed at him.

  It was a small blaster, but Rolan had no doubt about its power. It was in the furry paws of a Bothan, who smiled at the surprised Rodian with a toothy grin.

  “Hello,” said the Bothan in a surprisingly cultured voice. “My friends and I would like to talk to you about where you get your spice.”

  Threnda of the Bomu clan, inhabitant of Teg Kithri on the planet Budpock, considered herself a businesswoman first and foremost. Not the cantina out front—that was more of a hobby, a place to do real business from. Truth be told, it was a loss leader. No, the long warehouse in back was where the real credits were made, where a trio of CLL-6 worker droids busied themselves with pallets and Mitt, her Trandoshan helper, worked on the opened chassis of a fourth. Everything was automatic, except for making the deals and counting the money.

  So when the trio came into the warehouse area, she knew there was trouble. Human, Pantoran, and Bothan. The human and the Pantoran were in hooded robes too warm for the summer night, and Threnda considered hidden weapons immediately. The Bothan wore a zerape and a large, flat-brimmed hat.

  “Cantina’s out front,” said Threnda, jerking her thumb toward the doorway. She shot a glance at Mitt, and the Trandoshan stood up quietly, a spanner still in its scaled hand.

  “We’re not here for drinks,” said the human, casually. “We’re here about some spice
.”

  Threnda’s eyes narrowed and she barked in Basic, “I don’t do retail. Wholesale only. You represent someone?”

  The human parted his robes, and Threnda caught the gleam of a lightsaber hanging from his belt.

  “Budpock is an open planet,” said Threnda. “The Jedi don’t have any influence here.”

  “True enough,” said Mander Zuma. “And I expect that you’ve paid up your protection money to your family gangs so that ten minutes after you summon them—which I’m guessing you already have—they’ll be here, ready to help. We will be gone in three.”

  Mitt had circled around them by this time, coming up from behind, still wielding the heavy spanner. The Bothan wheeled and leveled a small blaster, previously hidden beneath the folds of his zerape, at the lizard man.

  Mitt took two steps back and put the spanner on the floor; the Bothan motioned him to stand next to Threnda. The third figure, the Pantoran, started moving down the aisles with a scanner, checking the codes on the various boxes. The brute-brained loadlifter droids ignored her until she rapped one on the leg, and it followed her in her search.

  Threnda frowned but continued, “I trade in spice all the time. What is it to you?”

  “We’re looking for a particular kind of spice,” said the human. “Tempest.”

  Keep him talking, thought Threnda. The clanbrothers should be on their way. “Never heard of it.”

  “It is a dangerous drug,” said the Jedi.

  “I don’t deal in hard spice,” said Threnda with a sneer.

  “Found it,” said the Pantoran, as a binary loadlifter placed a particular nondescript container on the open floor. She tapped the transportation code on the container’s side as the droid backed away.

  “Open it,” said Mander, and the Bothan provided a pry bar from beneath his zerape. The sealed lid parted easily to reveal white trays set with thin layers of the deep purplish spice. The heady pungent odor filled the warehouse around them.