"Yes."
"But you're military property," Jos said. "Even if you could find a way
to get transferred to Coruscant, you'll have limited freedom to search for
Pa van's son."
"Also true. Which means," I-Five said calmly, "I might have to desert."
For a long moment the silence was unbroken save by the gnats. Then Jos
said, "If you do, and you're caught, they'll wipe your memory down to the
last quantum shell."
"If I'm caught. My time on Coruscant wasn't completely misspent-I know
a variety of ways to slip through the cracks, especially in a megalopolis
that large."
Den sucked on a hydropak for a moment, then said, "No doubt-but first
you have to get off Drongar. And won't you arouse suspicion, traveling by
yourself?"
"Droids, particularly protocol droids, make interstellar journeys all
the time. We're not children. No one will look twice at me-especially if I
carry the papers of an envoy en route to the Coruscant Temple on Jedi
business."
He looked at Barriss. She looked back quite seriously.
"You are willing to risk everything-your very self-to do this?" she
asked.
"It's something I promised Lorn many years ago, when his son Jax was
first taken from him. He asked me to make sure that, should anything ever
happen to him, I would do my best to keep watch over Jax, even though he was
under the protection of the Jedi. Lorn did not trust Jedi."
"I must remind you, I-Five, that the Jedi are sworn to uphold the laws
of the Republic." Barriss paused, then added, "There are times, however,
when such laws come into conflict with the moral codes that we espouse.
These conflicts often require difficult decisions to be made."
"And how do the Jedi make these decisions?"
"Well," she said with a slight smile, "some have been known to get
drunk."
Jos laughed. He couldn't help it. And it felt good.
"It so happens," Barriss continued, "that I have something I wish to
see delivered to the Temple on Coruscant as soon as possible. There are very
few to whom I would entrust such a mission. If you would be willing ... ?"
I-Five said, "I would be honored."
31
‘olumn stared at the message on the desktop. It had taken several hours
to decipher the cumbersome triple code, but this time it had been worth the
effort. The Separatists had gotten the missive sent from this location
earlier. They had checked it out, and found that the bota was indeed losing
its potency. Much quicker than the spy had expected, they had come to a
decision: there would bean all-out attack on the Republic forces on Drongar
in the next few days. Every mech and mercenary the other side could field
would participate in the battle, with but one purpose: to capture and
collect the remaining bota for the Separatists. Many would die or be
destroyed on both sides; much of the bota in the fields might be ruined-but
the message, short as it was, was quite unambiguous and explicit. They were
coming. This Rimsoo, along with all the others, would shortly be overrun.
They would not be taking prisoners-at least, none they intended to keep
alive.
Column stared at the note with labile emotions and mixed feelings. Yes,
it had been expected, if not so soon, Yes, it would be a blow to the
Republic, which was the reason that Column had come to be here in the first
place. This didn't change the fact that the responsibility for the loss of
life and materiel would be on Column's head.
The decrypted message, printed on a plastisheet tern-plast, started to
curl at the edges. In another minute the process, a combustible oxidation
that began the moment the plastisheet was exposed to air, would evaporate
the note into nothingness.
Just as the spy's third identity would soon come to an end.
No matter, either way. The note had served its purpose- Column had
committed the contents to memory. The war here would also be effectively
over, quite soon. The bota would be collected or destroyed or mutated into
concerned.
Column would be gone by the time the attack came in force. There would
be a reason to visit MedStar, and the transport supposed to take the spy
there would be ... diverted, so that it delivered its cargo to the
Separatists' territory. Column would, of course, have the vouchsafe codes
that would allow the ship to pass unscathed. Then, the jump to hyperspace,
and those left behind here would be no more than sad memories.
There would be another assignment, on another world, soon enough. The
war elsewhere would continue, and Column, under another false identity,
would go forth to continue to aid in the destruction of the Republic.
However long the task took, it would happen, the spy knew. It would happen.
Column sighed. There was still much to be done here, and little time in
which to accomplish it. Records, files, information, some of which might
prove of value to Column's masters, all must be gathered and condensed into
data packets one could slip into one's pocket or travel case. The end-at
least here and now-was quite near.
It was nearly midnight. The long-snouted Kubaz costume was gone, and
the fat suit was a lot of trouble to flesh up and don, so Kaird had his
meeting with Thula dressed as The Silent monk. It was not as if anybody
would see them together, so he wasn't concerned about the impropriety of
speaking.
He stood with his back against a thin-walled storage shed just past the
main dining hall, apparently alone, Thula was inside the shed, invisible to
anybody who might be passing in the hot tropical dark, but easily heard past
a screened grille designed to let air circulate through the wall while
keeping out the rain. "You have what I need?" "Yes."
"Then you and your friend have your two days' warning. I suggest you
use the time wisely."
Thula's voice was a soft, feral purr. "And the balance of our payment?"
"Look atop the inside ledge of the door's frame." There was a brief
pause. Kaird's ears were keen enough to detect the sound of the Falleen's
footfalls as she quickly moved to the door, paused a moment, then returned
to the wall. He caught a faint glimmer of light through the mesh as she
triggered the credit cube he'd left over the door and checked the holoproj
for the sum it contained.
"Most generous," she said. "Where is my case?" he asked. "By now it's
in your kiosk, next to your other luggage, It was a pleasure doing business
with you, friend." "You have a way to depart?"
"Yes. We've secured tentative passage on a small transport vessel,
leaving tomorrow. There is a pilot open to bribes."
"A surface-to-ship transport won't take you far."
"Far enough to obtain something else that will. Money is a powerful
lubricant."
"Perhaps we'll met again someday," Kaird said.
"Perhaps," she said.
Kaird moved away from the shed and back to his kiosk. The door had been
locked, but such locks as were used here were hardly proof
against
professional thieves, as Squa Tront and Thula were-among their many other
talents.
The carbonite slab stood next to his other bag, disguised so as to
resemble a moderately priced travel case. It was almost a perfect match to
his luggage. Frozen in carbonite, the bota would keep until somebody
triggered the melter. After that, it would have to be processed quickly to
avoid the rapid rot that would follow, but that was not his problem. Black
Sun had the best chemists in the galaxy on tap; all he had to do was get it
to them.
He hefted the case. It was heavy, nearly seventy kilos, he judged, but
easily within his ability to pick up and carry.
Kaird felt better in that moment than he had since he had arrived on
this pestilent planet. He had done the best he could, given the
circumstances, and when all was said and done, he felt he would come out of
it looking very good indeed. Just a couple more days of subterfuge, and then
on to his homeworld and peace.
A well-deserved peace.
Jos woke up in the middle of the night, grainy from his most recent
bout of drinking. He sat up on his cot and rubbed his eyes. He had dreamed
of Tolk, and in the dream she had told him why she wanted to go away. Only
now, he couldn't remember what she had said.
Jos stood, padded to the 'fresher, and splashed water on his face. He
rinsed his mouth out. He had been drinking lately to such an extent that
even the anti-veisalgia drugs that normally quashed hangovers were losing
their effectiveness. He looked at himself in the mirror.
What a sad sight you are.
He sighed. No question about that.
What a pitiful excuse for a man, too. Are you just going to let her go?
Without a fight?
He frowned at his reflection. Aloud, he said, "What am I supposed to
do? She won't talk to me! And I don't know why!"
So? You're not stupid! Figure out why! You couldn't stop Zan dying-are
you fust going to let Tolk walk away without even knowing whys'
Jos turned away from the mirror and went back to his cot. He stood
there, staring at the bed. There was the question, wasn't it? The big one,
the only one: why? What had caused Tolk, the woman who said she loved him,
to just up and leave? She had cited the explosion on MedStar, the dozens of
deaths-but that didn't make sense. Tolk had seen worse, far worse, and a lot
closer at hand. No, this was different. It was almost as if she'd received a
revelation from some primitive planetary deity . . .
The sudden realization hit him hard enough to make him sit down. It was
as if he had been punched in the solar plexus, his wind stolen, so that he
couldn't take another breath. He knew. He knew
Great-Uncle Erel. He had talked to Tolk. He had told her what it was
like to give up family and home forever. He had poisoned Tolk's thoughts!
It made perfect sense. She had figured the old man would speak to her.
Jos had, too, but somehow that knowledge had slipped from his mind-he had
been so tired and overworked. In hindsight, it seemed unbelievable [hat he
could have put that possibility out of his thoughts, but he had. Tolk had
talked about the explosion, the deaths, the horror of it all, and Jos had
fastened upon that and thought about her reasons no further.
Uncle Erel.
Rage rose in him like a hot tide. He stood, went back to the 'fresher,
and flipped the sonic shower on. He stepped into the stall, feeling the
grime and sleep and sour smell of alcohol that still seeped from his pores
begin to sluice away, rolling down his body in dirty waves to the drain. He
looked at his chrono-the next transport was scheduled to lift midmorning.
Time enough to shower and dress, and then, by everything that was righteous,
he would pull rank, call in favors . . . grow wings and fly if that's what
it took to pay a visit to his loving uncle and have the truth from him-one
way or another.
32
Kaird, or Mont Shomu, as he was known in his fat human disguise, smiled
as the human pilot and the Twi'lek food service tech sipped from the bottle
of local wine he had brought along. It wasn't bad wine, made from a round,
reddish purple fruit about the size of a human's closed fist that grew on
the funguslike trees of the Jasserak Highlands. Called avedame, the pulp was
crispy when ripe, and had a tart, yet sweet taste; the wine reflected this.
That the wine was drugged with myocaine didn't affect the flavor at
all, given that in the liquid oral form, the muscle relaxant was tasteless,
odorless, and colorless. To allay any suspicion, Kaird also drank the wine.
The difference was that a pinch of neutralizer had gone into his glass,
along with the straw-colored wine, ensuring that he would feel no effect
from the chemical.
"Let's get started, shall we?" the Twi'lek female said. The excitement
was high in her voice. Kaird smiled, and the fat face smiled with him. How
sweet and naive ...
Bogan, the human pilot, was just as ramped. He swallowed half his glass
of fruit wine and impatiently waved the holoprojector to life. Not as
conscientious as the other pilot, to drink wine, even though it wasn't much.
The image of a large hall filled with tables, at each of which two
players sat, blossomed in the air above them. The holoproj was sharp, and
they would get to enjoy the first twenty or thirty minutes of it. After
that, once the pharmaceutical took hold, they would be awake and alert, but
simply unable to move.
After fifteen minutes, the pair of them began to slump, and, while they
no doubt wondered and worried at this, they simply did not have the energy
to do anything about it, save to frown. At twenty minutes, they couldn't
even flex their facial muscles enough for that. Were he to give each of them
a blaster, neither could summon the strength to raise it and shoot him.
Kaird moved to the human. "Can you speak?"
"Y-y-y.. . yesssss," Bogan managed, his voice a dragged-out slur.
"Wh-wh-whaaat. . . ?"
"I'll keep it short and simple. I've drugged you. I want the codes to
the admiral's personal ship-access, security, operational, everything. The
drug I gave you is not fatal; however, if you don't give me the codes, or if
you give me false ones, I will kill you and your friend. Do you understand?"
"Y-y-yesss ..."
"Good." Kaird produced a recorder from his pocket. He knew that the
man's slurs wouldn't matter-the security codes were not vox-specific, so
anybody could make them work. "Give me the codes. Take your time, identify
each one clearly. If they work, you and your girlfriend will have a pleasant
evening watching the Strag match, and by noon tomorrow, you'll be able to
move well enough to call for help.
"If any of the codes fails, however ..." Kaird removed a small thermal
detonator from his pocket. Used to trigger a larger bomb, a unit this size,
if it went off in this room, would shred everything in it, paint the walls
with blood and vaporized flesh, and then knock down the walls. All in about
a thousandth of a second.
He held
it so the man could see it clearly. "Do you recognize this?"
"Y-y-y-"
"Good," Kaird said, cutting him off. "I have a transmitter for the
detonator that has a range of two hundred kilometers." He produced a small
device, held it up, then pocketed it again. "If, as I leave in the stolen
ship-yes, I am stealing it-anything awry happens with the codes you give me,
and I mean anything at all-then I will trigger this." He stood, moved to the
holoprojector, and set the thermal bomb on top of the device.
Bogan had begun sweating, which was good.
"Now, I know you're a pilot and thus a brave fellow, Bogan, and
probably not afraid to die yourself," he said. "But your Twi'lek Strag mate
here is an innocent non-combatant. You wouldn't want her to be turned into
bloody paste now, would you?"
"N-no . , ."
"Well, then, we're in accord. The codes?"
After Bogan had spoken the words and numbers aloud-a long and slow
process-"Mont Shomu" took several of the couch cushions and used them to
prop the boneless couple up and against each other, so that they were
looking at the holoproj. He wiped the sweat from Bogan's face. "Enjoy the
match. I've set the projector to repeat, so you won't get bored-at least,
not for the first dozen or so times." Kaird bowed slightly, then exited.
He could have killed them outright, of course, and there were many in
his profession who would have done so without a second thought. Nor would it
have bothered him particularly to do so; he had sent more than his share of
people back to the Cosmic Egg in his time, so two more would hardly affect
the total very much. But there were reasons not to kill them. First off,
nobody had paid him to do so; second, it wasn't necessary. The two were out
of commission, inside a locked kiosk, and by the time anybody missed them,
Kaird would be long gone. They had no idea he was a Nediji, and the fat
human they had met would be recycled synthflesh in a few minutes. He'd made
sure there were no currents leading to his nest.
He grinned inside his disguise. Actually, the thermal detonator was a
trainer-mechanically and electrically identical to a live grenade, but
without an explosive charge, and thus harmless. The "transmitter" he had
waved at Bogan was a personal featherette groomer. As far as Kaird knew,
there weren't any handheld transmitters that size with a range anywhere near