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| - The flat, broad-winged freighter shot from hyperspace as it rapidly decelerated from superluminal velocities. The glowing blue sublight drives at the ship’s stern took over from the hyperdrive, propelling the ship through empty space towards the planet hanging silently before it, a dull brownish-green globe of a world that seemed almost featureless from orbit, save for thin white streaks that represented scattered clumps of clouds. The freighter’s trajectory took it almost lazily into a low orbit around the world, a tiny speck of metal against the curvaceous bulge of the horizon. The world itself looked ill, plagued with some sort of disease that could ravage the surface of a planet, and it gave off an uneasy essence in the Force. Perhaps it was the lack of sizable settlements despite the fact that the world was clearly habitable. However, most of the planet’s continents seemed to be covered by a tan-green plant of some kind, robbing it of the diversity one might expect of a vegetated planet with a healthy ecosystem. No, the land was almost perfectly monotone in color, offset here and there with the deep brown wrinkles of foothills and mountain ranges or splotched with the deep blue of a sea or lake. This was Honoghr. Vos’s brief account of the world that he had transmitted to Selu and Milya along with its coordinates, described the planet as sparsely inhabited, having a tropical climate replete with thick forests. Something had clearly changed in the nearly twenty years since the Jedi Master had been there, as the verdant tangle of trees and smattering of shades of green that characterized most forests was missing, clearly evident just from orbital observations. Selu turned to check the stern sensors, making sure that no Imperial ships were riding the Hawk-bat’s ion trail. To his relief, the scopes-painstakingly calibrated and upgraded often by Selu and Sarth-showed no ships tracking them. However, as he returned his attention to the flight controls, the communication light lit up on the console; they were receiving a transmission from the planet’s surface. Leaning forward, he accepted the signal, playing it through the ship’s audio system. “Unidentified ship, state your name and business,” mewed a gravelly sounding voice, evidently some sort of space traffic controller. “This is Agent Takk Chizoroen on the freighter Blood Carver,” Selu replied stiffly. “Of Imperial Intelligence.” His answer was met with silence. Selu wondered if the voice on the other end was looking into his credentials, or merely giving time for a ground-to-space weapon to track and fire upon his ship. His fingers slid around the flight controls, anticipating the possibility of weapons fire, tensing to throw all power to thrust and shields while getting them outbound as quickly as humanly possible. A long, quiet moment dragged on, while Selu waited with less than perfect patience. YGI had taken care to carefully slice this record and false ship overlay into the Imperial database, and unless their efforts had suddenly been exposed, it should have worked. After all, several other missions’ successful outcomes had arisen by using this sort of electronic forgery. They’d never before had their covers blown due to a faulty ship overlay. Then again, Selu reflected morbidly, there was a first time for everything. Selu drummed his fingers lightly on the ship’s console, waiting for a reply. Each passing second seemed harder to bear and only increased the likelihood that their cover was not being believed. Summoning years of self-discipline learned during his Jedi training, he exhaled the tension he felt, willing himself to be calm and serene. Vos’s account described the Noghri as outright unreceptive, and yet they had been willing to communicate first instead of blasting. Finally, there came a hissing sound from the speaker. At first, Selu mistook it for interference, but soon sensed that the sibilant sound was in fact someone’s attempt to converse with him. “Agents of the Lord Darth Vader, your ship appears in the Empire’s database,” said a different voice, one which held the same gravelly undertones. “Why are you here?” “We’re here to conduct a land survey,” Selu answered, layering his speech with the clipped, indignant tones of an Imperial officer emulating a Coruscanti accent. “And also collect botanical specimens.” Another pause, this one thankfully shorter. “Do you require escort?” “No, that won’t be necessary,” Selu replied. There was a silence after he spoke, as if the individuals on the other end of the transmission were expecting more, so he continued lamely, “Thank you for your offer.” “You are free to land on Honoghr, servants of the Lord Darth Vader,” came the answer, rather unpleasantly. “Nystao out.” The transmission ceased and Selu was left alone in the cockpit. He eased the ship down into a descent, programming the flight computer to guide the ship through Honoghr’s atmosphere. “Friendly types,” he muttered sarcastically under his breath. The synth-leather upholstery of his pilot’s chair creaked as he shifted his weight, keeping hands firmly on the controls. The inky black of space gradually receded, becoming more bluish as the Hawk-bat re-entered atmosphere. Selu kept the deflectors angled to dissipate excess heat built up by the ship’s re-entry, his focus on what he could see through the bridge viewport and what the displays told him. Apprehension plagued him for some reason, a feeling he couldn’t quite shake, and it was enough to cause his hands to become slightly sweaty under his flight glove. Still, the re-entry was smooth enough, unhampered by mechanical failures. After the Hawk-bat had descended to about sixty kilometers above the planet surface, he switched fully over to repulsorlift power, lowering the ship’s velocity so the Hawk-bat cruised along a little under the standard speed of sound. To lend credence to their cover, he extended several external sensor arrays and set the ship’s computer to scan the surface. Rising from his chair, he donned the black Imperial Intelligence issue cap that went with the uniform he was wearing in order to make him look like an Imperial Intelligence agent. When he had first put on the uniform, Milya had smiled at his appearance, saying he looked so somber and youthful without his goatee, which he had shaved as part of their latest disguise-a pair of Imperial Intelligence agents. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he left the bridge and headed back through the ship’s neck towards its aft. Seated in one of the form-chairs that Selu and Sarth had placed in the crew lounge during one of the Hawk-bat’s many refits was Milya, also wearing the black uniform of Imperial Intelligence. Selu softened his steps as he approached; his wife was in quiet contemplation, her eyes closed. A metal mug from the ship’s food prep unit was resting on the table next to one of her hands, still faintly steaming of something hot, with a distinctly herbal smell to it. Selu quietly drew up a chair next to her and sat down, waiting patiently as she continued whatever it was she was doing. In the mean time, he regarded her quietly, watching for any clues or indications. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, and Selu knew that even so much as lightly brushing his fingertips against the back of her hand might disrupt her. She was awake, that was for certain. Finally, his patience was rewarded as the crease of a smile made its way across her mouth and her eyes opened. “What is it?” he asked. “I found who we’re looking for,” she answered. “Where is he?” “Selu,” Milya reproved mildly. “You know better than I do that the Force usually doesn’t work in coordinates.” “Yes, dear,” Selu replied dryly. “Shall we proceed forward to the bridge so you can fly us down to our destination?” Milya gave him a sidelong look, followed by a mischievous smile. “Perhaps,” she said. “But you’ll be doing the flying. I just give the orders.” “Don’t I know it,” he chuckled ruefully, then added with just enough mock weariness inflected into his voice to get the desired reaction. “Yes, dear.” Nar Shaddaa The modal bass thumping reverberated through the crowded nightclub, making those patrons who were still coherent and sane enough to appreciate sensory functions such as good hearing cringe at the nonstop pounding. That number, however, was limited to a handful of people- almost nobody entered this particular establishment unless they wanted to be there. It was a place renowned more for its atmosphere than the quality of its intoxicants and stimulants or the general class of its clientele. The air was thick with the smoke from a dozen different kinds of cigarra, hookah, and possibly even a tabac pipe or two. Sentients more inclined towards liquid refreshment were seated on stools at a long bar whose shining wavy-curved metal surface ran along the length of the room’s east side. The bar was covered with a wide variety of drinks in various states of consumption, and some of whose caretakers seemed intoxicated to the point of being dangerously close to collapse or were near complete stupefaction. A swarthy Swokes Swokes was one of several bartenders whose services seemed to be in constant demand, being called, hissed, cheebled, grunted and squealed for by the patrons, a motley assortment of humans and aliens ranging from diminutive furry Chadra-Fan to a giant scaly Trandoshan. To say that the club was dimly lit was an understatement. The main sources of lights were from dim floor-mounted glowpanels scattered throughout the club and small multi-colored ceiling lights that swung and swayed in dizzying patterns around the south side of the room. Adding to the visual seizure playing out in the room, some of the lights obnoxiously blinked or flashed as they gyrated around the room, inducing faint senses of nausea in some of the more photosensitive species, who quickly began regretting entering the deafening environment of the club. The focus of the lights’ attention was on that southern end, where about twenty sentients, most of them young and already on their third or fourth drinks, were dancing wildly to the heavy isotope thundering through the room, which the music jockey crooned was a classic tune. Bodies of various species and genders rocked and swayed violently, some of them undulating sensually against other dancers. A lithe Togruta female clad in rather revealing attire-if a few bits of leather and fur could be called attire-stood on a small elevated stage, the red skin of her mostly bare torso jerking around crazily as she danced, apparently rapt at the attention she was receiving-though the slender choker around her neck, complete with electric leads, indicated she was most likely a slave. It was not the sort of place Spectre Kraen enjoyed, yet here he was, moodily nursing a fogblaster, a foul drink that he despised, which he’d barely sipped from in the past two hours. Seated at a small table underneath the balcony that ran along the western side of the building, he faced the main entrance at the north, waiting for his contacts to arrive. He had arrived early in order to scope out the place, and kept to himself, ignoring the two Lethan Twi’lek females who, obviously young and full of drink, had tried to occupy his attention for about three minutes before giving up in the face of his inattention and curt, brusque, monosyllabic responses to their chattered questions. His eyes darted from point to point, sweeping the room for possible threats. Aside from the drinkers and dancers, a few others, like a group of boisterous Devaronian males, were huddling around their tables, playing sabacc, which was beyond Spectre’s comprehension, as the noise made it impossible to hear anything. Other sentients just seemed to be standing around or tucked away in corners and alongside pillars, discreetly talking to each other in groups of twos and threes. Of course, it was impossible to fully see anything in this Force-forsake dive, but Spectre hadn’t gotten as old as he was-or as he felt-by not being alert. No doubt the two Twi’leks were actually on the payroll of the Zann Consortium-they’d certainly been frisky enough about where they tried to stick their hands that they no doubt would have been able to locate the weapons on his person had he not shooed them off. In fact, Spectre would have been quite surprised if almost everyone in the nightclub wasn’t somehow tied to the Zann Consortium. The place stank of debauchery, hedonism, and especially swilled beer. However, just because the setting had been arranged by the Consortium hadn’t stopped Spectre from taking more than a few precautions, just in case the Zannists were especially sloppy or planned a double-cross. YGI had a full four-man team stationed in the club, and all indications were that they’d managed to get into position without being detected. They had also been inoculated with a chemical agent that would render inert the effects of a certain gas which was now concealed inside several grenades placed inside the ventilation grid of the club. Should any trouble arise, a single code phrase from Spectre or any of the YGI agents would be transmitted through bead comlinks they were wearing to activate the grenades. Furthermore, while the burly Tunroth bouncer had carefully run a weapons scanner over each individual who entered the establishment, his scanner was useless against weapons that had been smuggled into the ventilation shaft and then retrieved by one of the YGI team on a trip to the refresher for distribution to the others. The pistol that Spectre had surrendered to the bouncer was a decoy-nobody walked around Nar Shaddaa without some form of self-defense. Spectre himself was unarmed, lest anyone run a weapons scanner over him again, but took comfort in the knowledge that, mag-locked to the underside of the balcony, right under a support where the shadows covered it, was a holster disguised as a light fixture that contained both a small vibroblade and a fully-loaded S-5XS pistol, the preferred sidearm of choice of YGI. The weapon fired small magnetically accelerated rounds made of a durasteel-tungsten alloy and was utterly silent except for a small whirr-chirp, as well as lethal. Spectre felt distinctly out-of-place in the raucous club, especially in his attire, which while befitting a fairly wealthy albeit unscrupulous businessman, was not nearly as comfortable to him as his uniform. The eyepatch he wore and the fake scar running across his cheek itched. Furthermore, the two shirts, vest, and coat he wore were utterly disagreeable in the stifling atmosphere of the club, soaking him with sweat. Still, he endured the discomfort, maintaining a stoic outlook on the situation, except when the thought of Sarth sitting his place burst into his mind. Amused by the idea, he had afforded himself a small smile and a brief chuckle before returning to his stony survey of the room. At long last, two beings shouldered their way through the crowd to his table, followed by a pair of hulking Trandoshans that could only be the dumb hired muscle. The first was a narrow-faced human male with long gray hair falling around his face-definitely an authority figure-judging by the way he walked. As the man approached, Spectre took in the scarred, hardened expression on his face and the distinct Zann Consortium insignia emblazoned across the man’s jacket, inhaling sharply as he realized he was in the presence of crime lord Tyber Zann himself. That meant that the huge alien towering over Zann while keeping a watchful eye on Spectre was a Talortai warrior named Urai Fen. Spectre’s mouth went a little dry as he kept his eyes fixated on the retinue approaching his table; he would have to be extremely careful here. Zann sat down at his table with a complete disregard for formality, though Spectre, having had certain habits of etiquette ingrained into him for official occasions, rose halfway from his chair out of respect. As for Zann’s companions, Urai Fen took up position behind the crime lord, his green alien eyes glittering in the dim light as he continued to eye Spectre suspiciously. The two Trandoshan brutes stayed farther back, apparently at a signal from Urai. It was time to talk. “Welcome to Nar Shaddaa . . .” Zann said, affably enough, and it was obvious from the way his speech trailed off that he was expecting a name in reply. “Tenzor. Matrik Tenzor,” Spectre filled in. “I’m a senior official for Kraechar Arms.” “You’re not who I expected to meet,” Zann answered, some level of surprise evident on his face despite his attempts to keep a cool countenance. “Nor did I expect you,” Spectre countered, just as placidly. “Yet here we are.” Zann, however, appeared to tire of the verbal banter and wordplay. “So, you have access to old Separatist weaponry,” he said bluntly. Spectre smiled thinly as he gave his response, “So we do.” “How much?” the crimelord asked. He was nothing if not direct. “Credits, or hardware?” Spectre asked nonchalantly. “I have far too few of the former, but I suspect you would be happy to trade some of my hardware for more.” “Hardware,” Zann replied flatly. “Let me put it to you this way: What are you willing to sell me?” “We refurbish and manufacture a number of items that were once employed by the Separatists,” Spectre answered evasively. “I’m sure we can reach an agreement.” “Then I’m sure you’ll answer my original question,” Zann stated, an edge that was previously nonexistent creeping into his voice. “What are you bringing the table?” Spectre was well aware of the heightened tension, even without Fen’s somewhat menacing step forward in his direction. He would have to play very carefully here-perhaps it was time to show some of his hand, now that he knew what the crime lord was after. Reaching into his smartly-cut jacket, he withdrew a slim holoprojector from an interior pocket and placed it on the table. “I have been authorized by my superiors to show you a small selection of our arms and weaponry,” he said. Pressing a small button on the projector, small three-dimensional images projected into the air above the projector were brought to life, images of various types of weaponry. “We have a limited but diverse selection of Separatist-era products that still have active assembly lines,” Spectre said, affecting the air of an elite businessman casually showing off luxury goods to a wealthy customer. “Based on what we knew of Consortium weaponry and tactics, we put together a short list of combat droid systems to offer you-at an exclusive price. Our smaller droid classes include pistoekas and droidekas, though we have to keep our manufacture of these small in order to avoid attracting unwanted attention from the Colicoids.” The Colicoids, the original manufacturer of the two droid medals Spectre had mentioned, were vicious, bloodthirsty insects native to the world of Colla IV. Spectre had faced death numerous times at the Clone Wars thanks to some of their creations, particularly the droideka, an autonomous killing machine that rolled into a ball for rapid movement and deployed four repeating blasters under the protection of a potent energy shield when in combat stance. The pistoeka, a diminutive tripedal sabotage droid often referred to as a buzz droid, was a starfighter pilot’s nightmare, as the little droids were often released in deadly clouds during a battle. The droids would then latch on to nearby hostile starfighters and rapidly tear them to pieces. Tyber Zann’s forces were rumored to use both of them. “Wise move,” Zann commented drily. “Even if the Colicoids are under close Imperial supervision.” “Some insects have long memories,” Spectre remarked in reply. “What else do you have?” Zann asked. “Our larger weapons platforms include self-propelled Heavy Artillery Guns and Armored Assault Tanks. Older systems, but still effective against everything but professional militaries.” The two vehicles, which had been key parts of a Trade Federation invasion of Naboo three and a half decades prior, appeared to be known to Zann, who grunted in reply. “Anything larger?” he asked. Spectre put on a charade of confusion. “Anything larger would require a shipyard or a full-scale fighter production facility. Our operations aren't quite that large.” “Pity,” Zann answered drily in return, distrust evident in his eyes. “How much are you willing to sell me?” “We can deliver one hundred droidekas a month at the present moment,” Spectre said. “Along with two thousand pistoekas. As for the larger vehicles . . .” “Forget those. I’m sure your prices are far too excessive for far too little product, given the paltry amounts you’re talking about,” Zann said, cutting him off with a wave of his hand. “I’ll take all of the smaller droids.” Spectre was surprised at how readily the crime lord had jumped on the offer. Spectre hadn’t even had time to discuss conditions or prices. And then he understood why Zann had chosen a location filled with his people. It was very obvious who had the upper hand in these negotiations. Still, he couldn’t just let Zann walk all over him. “And the transport?” Spectre asked in the same cool voice, lifting one eyebrow fractionally. “What was that?” Zann asked, evidently irritated by the question. “Where would you like your goods delivered to?” Spectre repeated. “Leave a way for us to reach you,” Zann answered flippantly. “My people will set up a series of designated times and locations.” “Acceptable,” Spectre replied slowly. “I think.” “What do you mean, ‘I think’?” Zann said sharply. “Most of our shipping of this nature is done through Bexpress, Inc. You gave them quite a scare at Bespin not long ago.” “And what does that mean?” “They’ll be a little reluctant to deal with you,” Spectre answered evenly. “They won’t want to travel very far.” Zann chuckled evilly in reply. “A lot of people are reluctant to deal with me, Mr. Tenzor,” Zann said with a wickedly bemused look in his eyes. “Doesn’t stop most of ‘em from doing so.” “Of course not,” Spectre managed, all too keenly aware of how much he disliked this sort of cloak-and-vibroblade trickery, especially right now. “Still, the transport . . .” Zann waved the matter off nonchalantly. “I’ll arrange my ships to meet Bexpress’s at a number of deep space locations,” Zann offered reasonably. “They’ll be isolated, away from Imperial patrols, and you have my assurances that they’ll all be within five parsecs of Bespin to keep your spineless business partners happy.” “I’m sure that will be acceptable,” Spectre said. Zann’s offer was in fact better than Spectre had expected to hear from the crime lord and Spectre figured Zann must really want that weaponry, badly enough to do most of the shipping himself. Of course, it was entirely possible that the crime lord didn’t trust Bexpress to do the work. “Good,” Zann said, rising from his seat and turning as if to leave. A look of faint alarm passed across Spectre’s face-there was still one last matter for them to discuss, and, if Zann was big into strong-arm tactics, mentioning it now would not only go over poorly, but also possibly elicit an aggressive or hostile response. Still, though he suspected Zann was pretending to forget the matter only to provoke him, the Yanibar Guardsman knew that his role demanded that he not let it go. “There is one but matter left you seem to have glossed over,” he said, lacing his voice with a hint of a sting. “And what would that be?” Zann asked icily, though Spectre knew from the crime lord’s eyes that Zann knew exactly what he was talking about. “The price,” Spectre answered. “You expect Tyber Zann, the leader of the Zann Consortium, to pay for such a puny purchase?” Zann replied indignantly. “That pathetic order isn’t worth the credits.” “Then you won’t be getting a single delivery,” Spectre replied coldly, his eyes glittering with challenge. He was impressed with how quickly Zann had turned from the congenial if distant host to a defiant challenger. Such were the ways of the underworld. “Is that so?” Zann asked, turning back to regard Spectre with evident unfriendliness. “What makes you think you can get away with that?” “Something,” Spectre replied vaguely, taking great care to look directly at the crime lord. “That would give you a great deal of discomfort if you knew about it. You might even kill me for it.” Tyber Zann froze in his tracks-something that rarely happened. Very slowly, very deliberately, he placed his hands on the table and leaned down until his sharp, pointed nose was less than a meter from Spectre’s face, scrutinizing the other man. “You weren’t born as Matrik Tenzor,” Zann commented. “You’re a clone, aren’t you?” Spectre said nothing, but continued to meet the crime lord’s stare with one equally icy of his own. Zann started vaguely in recognition as he realized who Spectre reminded him of, then covered his surprise with a thin smile. “You’re a clone of Jango Fett,” he said. It was not a question. “That’s right,” Spectre said evenly, with great effort. “And you know what that means.” The two men stood quietly, the noisy background of the nightclub drowned out by the silent tension between them. Each clearly disliked the other and neither was willing to back down or show weakness. Urai Fen shifted from his position, dropping into a barely discernible fighting stance-if Spectre made a wrong move or Zann gave a signal, the Talortai would attack. Spectre knew he was playing a dangerous game. If he pushed too far, Zann might react violently, but he was sure the crime lord was still just testing him. “Do tell,” Zann replied at last. “That means I can kill you before you blink and not even think about it,” Spectre said with a distinct dearth of tact, meaning every word of it. Zann chuckled again, an unpleasant sound that had a sinister air about it. “I’m sure you could,” he answered, but there was a modicum of respect in his voice now. “Not many people dare to threaten me. Even fewer get away with it.” Spectre had no ready reply for that, but he tensed slightly, preparing for action. Instead, though, Zann stood back up, his fierce stare relenting as he brushed the table’s grime off his hands. “Fett had a pretty good reputation back in his day. So did his clones,” Zann said, the word clone spoken with a hint of distaste. “I suppose that counts for something. Name your price.” “Nothing too unreasonable,” Spectre said, trying to switch from hostile to casual as easily as Zann had. “Ten million credits for all of it.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” Zann replied. “That’s not worth nearly that much and you know it. Half that.” “I’m almost insulted by an offer so low,” Spectre replied, recognizing the bantering as nothing more than casual bargaining. “Eight and a half million, and that includes the fee to Bexpress for shipping, as well as the bribes for Bespin’s customs officials.” “Six and a half million,” Zann shot back. “Seven and a half,” Spectre persisted. Zann thought it over, pretending to contemplate the matter melodramatically, just to draw out the suspense. “It’s a deal,” he said, sticking out his hand. Spectre started to reach out his hand to clasp the crime lord’s hand, and was suddenly overtaken by a wave of apprehension. He had just agreed to sell weapons, highly destructive droids, to one of the most notorious crime lords in the galaxy. Yes, the ruling council had approved it. Yes, this deal would help provide for the families in the Yanibar refuge. Yes, all the decisions had been made beforehand, but it still didn’t sit right with Spectre. He was making a deal with the devil, with one of the scum of the galaxy that he often sent covert teams of the Yanibar Guard to discreetly eliminate at key moments. The duplicity of it all struck him as wrong. He saw Zann’s eyes flash towards his expectantly and slowly, his arm rose stiffly to meet it. Spectre knew that his mission, the assignment he had been given, was more important than his own personal misgivings, even if he was the ultimate decision maker. However, he had come this far, and this was what he’d been ordered to do, so he chose to finish what he had started. Spectre shook Zann’s hand and received another thin smile from the ill-tempered crime lord. “That wasn’t so hard,” Zann jested sardonically. “Pleasure doing business with you.” Spectre nodded in reply; he couldn’t bring himself to say the same to Zann. He devoutly wished he had voiced more opposition to this plan earlier, but it was too late now. Something deep in his gut, perhaps even intuition from the Force told him that this was a bad idea, and that he should not have come. Worst of all, he had the distinct feeling that not only he, but all of Yanibar, would regret this decision. For the moment, though, Spectre mentally shrugged aside his misgivings-he needed a clear mind now; the danger wasn’t over yet. He would talk this over with Selu, Milya, Sarth, and Cassi when they returned. Returning to the present, he saw Zann murmur something discreet to an attendant before turning back to him. “In honor of our profitable business deal,” Zann said cheerily. “I’m prepared to be quite amiable.” “Really?” Spectre said, trying to sound intrigued when all he really wanted was to leave. “Yes,” Zann said. “Enjoy yourself, Mr. Tenzor. You’ll stay here for the night.” “That’s not necessary,” Spectre said, suddenly wary. “I insist,” Zann interrupted smoothly, the tone of his voice telling Spectre that he would brook no argument. “No harm will come to you, if that’s what you’re worried about. My men will see to it.” “How very kind of you,” Spectre answered. “But it’s not-,” Zann was still not listening. I’ve spoken to the proprietor,” the crime lord continued. “He’s under orders to treat as you as an honored guest. Anything you want from the bar or hookah station is yours.” “Thank you,” Spectre replied, giving up the argument for lost. “Oh, and one last thing,” Zann answered. “As a parting nod to our new agreement.” He beckoned sharply, and all of a sudden, Spectre sensed rather than saw someone approach the table, someone filled with a great deal of fear, as well as anger. Expecting a ruffian of some kind, he was surprised to see the barely-clad Togrutan dancer from earlier standing there beside him, looking subservient. “Sehsaak here is quite a treat,” Zann assured him. “The best in the house. She’ll be your . . . attendant for the evening.” “I’m overwhelmed with gratitude,” Spectre said, not meaning a word of it. “Then I’ll let you enjoy yourself,” Zann answered. “Just relax.” The crime lord, flanked once more by his two Trandoshan flunkies, turned and made his way off through the tables and the nightclub’s patrons. Unsurprisingly, most gave him a wide berth, except for a drunk Elomin who stumbled into their way and was swiftly shoved aside by a Trandoshan. Urai Fen lingered a minute longer to stare at Spectre with his green alien eyes, then gave him a small nod, as one warrior would to another, before he turned and stalked off after Zann. Spectre shuddered as they departed, relieved he was finally free of the underworld leader. However, he turned to see Sehsaak standing beside him, looking expectantly up at him. He sighed inwardly. This was not a complication he had the time or patience for. “You don’t have to stand there,” he said to her. “I’m your attendant,” she said, confused. “I’m here to provide whatever you desire.” “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “Should I show you to your room?” she asked sultrily, and Spectre began to wonder if anyone in this blasted nightclub listened to a word he was saying. “Fine,” he grumbled, if only to have somewhere quiet to get rid of this Togrutan shadow that had been forced upon him. Snatching up the still-unfinished fogblaster as well as his holoprojector, he allowed himself to be led up a flight of rickety stairs to the balcony. Making their way through the crowded tables there, Sehsaak led him towards a door that opened into a hallway lined with doors-the hidden side of the nightclub’s business, and one that was all too common on Nar Shaddaa. Spectre was vaguely aware of the jealous looks he got from several young males over the attention Sehsaak was paying to him, but ignored them. He couldn’t wait to get off this Force-forsaken rock. He waited impatiently while Sehsaak opened the door and admitted him to a dingy-looking suite, locking the door behind her. Spectre took in the battered furniture-the desk, the rather sad-looking dresser, the high-backed chair, the small rattling conservator unit. The centerpiece of the furniture was a large bed, the one thing in the room that appeared clean and somewhat new. He peered around the corner into the refresher station and found that it was similarly dilapidated. Charming. Plopping down wearily in the chair, he set his fogblaster down on the desk, rubbing the acrid smoke from his eyes. Sehsaak took that as some sort of invitation to slip up behind and start gently kneading his shoulders. The action of her hands on his tight muscles was therapeutic, working out some of the tension in his upper back. His muscles relaxed and he grunted softly as she applied pressure to a particularly large knot. Then Spectre suddenly realized where he was, and he whirled around sharply. The Togruta shrank back, hands raised, in response to the dark look he gave her. She was frightened, he saw, and his scowl softened somewhat in response. “I do not require you to do anything for me,” he said. That answer did not seem to satisfy her, though, and she stood there downcast, as if waiting for him to strike her. “Look,” he said, a little more gently. “I’m not going to hurt you.” “Some say that,” she whispered, a haunted look on her face. “Never mean it.” “I do,” he said. “I’m a married man.” “Didn’t stop ‘em before,” she said quietly. Spectre decided that he did not have time for this. He was highly tempted to simply apply a sleeper hold to the Togrutan, leaving her mercifully unconscious, but he had already promised not to hurt her. While he wasn’t above lying when he had to, the Jedi training Selu had instilled in him emphasized the importance of protecting the weak, not rendering them unconscious. “You can have the bed,” he said. “I’m not planning on sleeping anyway.” She shied back as he stood, but then managed to stand stock-still, trembling. “No need to be jumpy,” he said. “Are you hungry?” Hesitantly at first, then more eagerly, the Togrutan nodded, clearly torn over her obvious hunger and her distrust of Spectre. Seeing her response, he rose and activated the room’s communications unit, ordering two bowls of Alderaan stew. When an indignant attendant tried to tell him that he was in a nightclub, not a restaurant, Spectre frostily told him how displeased Tyber Zann would be if he found out that Spectre had been mistreated and furthermore suggested that the attendant make himself of more use by calling a nearby restaurant of no little disrepute and having the stew delivered, along with some flatbread. Or else. The flustered attendant had hastily muttered apologies and, thoroughly chastened, replied that the gentleman’s stew would be delivered to his room as soon as possible, along with flatbread. Would the gentleman like anything to drink? Water, Spectre had told him. Bottled and impurity-free. Or else. The attendant had stammered once more his assurances of how hastily the desired items would be delivered, along with profuse apologies for his earlier rudeness. Spectre, tired of his blathering, had clicked off the intercom. His head was throbbing from all that heavy isotope-the sounds of which could still be heard through the walls of the room, though significantly muffled. Had he ever actually liked that stuff when he was in the army? He knew he had, but yet now he had a hard time justifying his previous affinity for it. A lot had changed about him since that time, he reasoned. However, Spectre knew that, once again, his introspection had to wait. For the moment, he was not safe and there was still a distraction in close proximity. A petite Togrutan one standing off to his side. “Look,” Spectre said as diplomatically as possible. “You must be exhausted from all that dancing. Not to mention dirty. Why don’t you clean yourself up? The food will be here by the time you’re done with the ‘fresher.” Seshaak bobbed her head in an eager, but still suspicious nod, and started walking briskly towards the refresher station as if Spectre had been a superior officer who’d just given her a direct order. “Wait,” Spectre said, his words halting her in mid-stride. She turned to face him, worry written across her face, and Spectre realized that she must have been severely traumatized for her normally predatory Togrutan nature to have been knocked into this frightful servility. He walked over to the dresser and pulled it open, rummaging through it to find-among various products and items of clothing not fit for polite conversation-a large bathrobe, his size, monogrammed with the logo of the nightclub. Someone had obviously been observing him during his hours in the club. “Take that,” he said. “It’ll keep you warm.” He did not tell her the other reason for giving her such a bulky robe. Her abbreviated dancer’s costume showed enough of her to be thoroughly distracting; though he had no desire to disgrace his marriage, on a purely instinctual level, she was attractive. Also, giving her the robe would prevent the awkward scenario of her misinterpreting his intentions once more and emerging from the refresher naked. Spectre forced that particular image from his mind, attempting to keep his mind on the mission. Seshaak took the robe and went into the ‘fresher. Spectre closed the door behind her. Then, once he heard the water of the shower running, he walked to the opposite corner of the room from the entrance, pulling out his comlink. Carefully, he instructed the YGI team to pack up their surprises and surveillance of the nightclub’s interior discreetly, and handle a few other matters. The gas grenades in the ventilation shaft could wait until after the establishment closed, some time early in the morning. A few minutes later, Spectre could hear the sounds of some belligerent-sounding drunk making his noisy way through the upper hallway. He smiled at the nonsensical, slurred profanities the man was shouting. Soon enough, there was a loud pounding on his door. Spectre slid the door open to reveal one of the YGI agents standing there-sort of. The man was slouched over, leaning heavily against the door as he stared blearily at Spectre while clutching at something. “Here, take shees, Lisssa,” the man slurred, clearly delirious. He tossed several items into the room past Spectre. “Didja mish ‘em?” asked the agent drunkenly. “Didja kriffin’ mish ‘em?” There was a clatter of footsteps as a youthful looking attendant, no doubt the one Spectre had spoken to earlier, came running down the hall. Out of the corner of his eye, Spectre saw the attendant pale upon seeing him, scurrying forward to seize the agent’s arm and lead him away. “My apologies, sir,” the attendant said frantically. “I’m so very sorry this man disturbed you. It won’t happen again, sir.” The “drunk” man allowed himself to be led off by the attendant and, when the attendant wasn’t looking, gave a sly wink at Spectre. “Don’t worry about it,” Spectre told the attendant evenly. “He told me a rather funny joke. Just take him outside and send for an airtaxi to take him back home.” “Yes, sir. Will do, sir,” babbled the attendant as he half-dragged, half-led the agent down the hall. Spectre suppressed a smirk and then turned back to retrieve what he’d been given, closing and locking the door behind him. Scooping his vibroblade, S-5XS pistol, stimulant pills, and all-purpose mini-scanner from the floor, he stuffed them away into various pouches in his coat. True, there was another S-5XS in the hands of the bouncers at the front desk, who’d required him to surrender the weapon upon arrival, but now he was armed in case of trouble. A few minutes after the agent had made his delivery, there was a polite rap on the door. Spectre opened it to reveal the attendant, considerably more disheveled than the last time Spectre had seen him, standing beside a delivery droid carrying a tray loaded with two bottles of water, a cloth wrapped bundle inside a basket, and two sealed containers that no doubt contained Alderaan stew. Spectre took the tray, tipped the droid and even the obsequious attendant, and then once again closed the door. Setting the food on the desk, he carefully ran the miniscanner over all the items, making sure that there was no poison in the meal. Not content with simply scanning, he extended his Force senses, trying to sense any danger. This time, there was no problem with his connection to the Force, and its auras did not seem to indicate any threat from the meal. Spectre dug into his food eagerly, and was surprised to find that it was actually decent-tasting. There were real chunks of meat in the stew, and it certainly tasted like nerf, which was what good Alderaan stew was supposed to contain. The flatbread was still warm and toasty, and its chewy texture supplemented the stew well. The water, too, though not the purest he’d ever seen, was satisfactory, serving to wash down the stew and bread. Not long after he began eating, Seshaak emerged, wearing the robe. Spectre beckoned her close, and she sat on the edge of the bed as he laid the tray with her meal on it beside her. She eagerly dug into the food, eating as if she hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks. Then, she stopped in the middle of tearing into a particularly large chunk of nerfmeat with a carnivore’s hunger, to stare up at Spectre, stew broth dribbling down her chin. “It’s not drugged,” Spectre assured her, assuming she was once again suspicious of him. She shook her head, then explained, “Thank you.” Spectre grunted a reply, the irony not lost on him that it had been he who was assuming the worst now-and about himself. Glancing over at the Togruta, he saw she was still wearing the collar that she had worn while dancing. She saw his look and ducked her head, pulling up the lapel of the robe to hide it. “Why do you wear that?” he asked. “Have to,” she mumbled, her Basic coarse and heavily accented. Now that she was no longer talking in the rote phrases that had no doubt been drummed into her for her . . . occupation, her speech was fragmented and stilted, as if she didn’t often experience normal conversations. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Itsa sign of owning me,” she said hesitantly. “Letsem . . . letsem . . .” “Control you,” Spectre finished, to which she nodded mutely. “You’re a slave, aren’t you?” Once again, she nodded, a little more despondently. Spectre’s blood boiled at her admission. The Yanibar refuge did not tolerate slavers or slavery, and Spectre had made a point of ordering numerous covert operations against slavers, along with rescue missions to free slaves, many of whom had come to live on Yanibar after being freed. Despite his gruff exterior, Spectre had a soft spot for enslaved beings; he couldn’t stomach the idea of owning another sentient. “How did it happen?” he asked. “Captured me one day, when I was on the streets,” the Togruta replied. “Forced me to come here. Said I was a treat.” “How old were you?” “Six, maybe? Seven? I dunno,” she said. “How long ago was that?” Spectre asked her, appalled at the depravity he was hearing. True, he was no stranger to the depths of the galaxy’s least upstanding, but it wasn’t everyday that they sat in front of him talking to him. “Ten years, maybe more,” she answered offhandedly. “Time not really a big deal around here.” “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, at a loss for further words to console the girl for the horrors she had endured in her young years. “Whatsat mean?” she asked, cocking her head to the side curiously. “What? Sorry?” Spectre said, momentarily puzzled, fumbling for an explanation that would make sense to Seshaak. “It’s-it’s when someone wishes something hadn’t happened. People say it when things weren’t as they should have been.” “Ain’t nobeing ever said that to before,” she commented. Spectre sat silently for a moment, his hands folded together and resting on the scuffed-up desk, brooding on his course of action. “I’ll try and get you out of here,” he said suddenly. “But not right now.” “Why wouldja do that?” “Because I can,” Spectre said firmly. “Because it’s the right thing to do.” He devoutly wished Selu were here. With his mastery of the Force, Spectre figured that Selu’s talents would come in particular handy right now. “Don’t worry ‘bout me,” she said. “I’m dead already.” “Not yet,” he replied fiercely. “We’re getting you out of here.” “What about others? Girls like me,” Seshaak said. “Lotsa more.” “We’ll get as many of them as we can,” Spectre promised, while one detached corner of his mind asked him if he knew what he was getting himself into. “When?” “Soon. Just rest for now, and keep quiet. Don’t tell anyone anything about what I just told you. I’ll tell them what they need to hear in the morning to keep away any suspicion.” Seshaak looked at him with a look that somehow combined apprehension, bewilderment, and a small level of trust. She gingerly climbed into the bed, looking over her shoulder to see if Spectre had been making some sort of cruel joke before, leading her on before betraying her trust and showing his true callousness. However, the Yanibar Guardsman remained at his chair, quietly watching both the door and Seshaak out of the corner of his eye. Taking a stimulant pill, he waited until she was safely asleep before pulling out his datapad and adding several more entries to it, his mind buzzing with any number of schemes that, had Tyber Zann seen them, would have greatly displeased the crime lord. He had struck this deal with the devil, but that didn’t mean he had to dance with him.
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