Desperate Times/Part 15

Tirien was raising his Green Galaxy back to his lips when a hand closed gently around his left elbow and the emitter of a blaster pressed against his ribs. "I hope you'll excuse the disturbance," a cool female voice breathed in his ear, "but my employer would like a word with you."

Tirien took his time lowering the tall glass back to the bartop, taking care not to show a look of satisfaction. "Certainly. Let's not keep him waiting."

True to his word, Chokk Fernetti had taken Tirien to Kwenn Space Station— either the last bastion of Mid Rim civilization or the first encroachment of Hutt Space, depending on who was asked. Though it was only the size of a single city, Tirien did not have the time to search it subtly, and without the Force he could not gauge reactions to lead him in the right direction. So he had spent all afternoon asking questions in bars and gambling parlors, dropping the same name over and over, subtle enough that no one bartender or dealer would think to apprehend him outright but obvious enough that the pattern would emerge, if only there was a single intelligence to collect the data.

The blaster barrel in Tirien's side suggested there was.

Tirien tried to commit his surroundings to memory as the hand on his elbow guided him into a bazaar overflowing with beings, many hawking goods in Basic, Huttese, Bocce, and a dozen other languages he only vaguely recognized. He smelled cooked meat, sautéed vegetables, flash-frozen seafood newly defrosted, and the sweat, pheromones, and other secretions of a thousand beings all crammed together and clamoring at the same time. He had only a single escort at hand, but was in no position to conduct a careful survey of the surrounding area for a backup or spotter, nor was he sure how much trouble a blaster shot and a dead body would cause on Kwenn Space Station—in the Mid Rim it would be a death sentence and in Hutt Space it might merit a fine, but in this nebulous in-between he could only guess.

In any event, he had no desire to escape. Tirien allowed his captor to lead him through the bazaar, past a Chev waving what he swore were authentic gaderffii from Tatooine, and into a level which clearly pandered to an entirely different desire. The window displays got larger and left progressively less to the imagination, and Tirien saw a handful of children running from building-to-building in the midst of adults both furtive and raucous; Tirien could not help noticing the irregular number of mixed-species hybrids among the children, several of whom appeared to be half-Twi'lek. Tirien tried to sneak a peek at his captor under cover of ogling a Zeltron who flashed him a flirtatious grin, but the blaster barrel jabbed him.

"Eyes forward, please," he heard from behind. "Their wares will still be here if you come back."

Trying to find the optimism in that he might be coming back rather than that he might not, Tirien followed the tugs on his elbow and the blaster prods out of the red light district and into a row of cantinas and tapcafes. A few vendors had set up food stands between the larger establishments; Tirien found himself steered toward a Rybet with a bucket of what appeared to be swamp water. The Rybet pulled a skewer stick out of the muck, revealing four large balls of congealed fungus. "Have one! Two wupiupi apiece!  Two for three!"

Tirien's guide spared him the need to reply. "We'll take the back special, Bloof."

The Rybet's head bobbed, but Tirien thought he saw a darker glimmer in the other man's slit-pupiled eyes. "Okay, go ahead. But if you change your mind…"

He waved the fungus stick; Tirien did not need the insistent prod in his back to step forward and pull aside the thick red velvet cloth at the back of the Rybet's stand, revealing a concealed doorway. He stepped into the shadows and immediately found himself confronted by a tall, well-muscled Zabrak with the longest horns Tirien had ever seen. "Weapons. Nice and slow."

His guide clasped his off arm to ensure Tirien tried nothing foolish. Tirien handed over his blaster, his hold-out pistol, and his karambit knife, exaggerating each motion. The Zabrak deposited each weapon in a storage container, then narrowed his eyes and brushed open the left side of Tirien's coat, revealing the lightsaber. Tirien gave him a look, but the Zabrak looked right back.

"No weapons, period," he said. "You play by the rules or you don't play."

"And you can't exit unless you enter," Tirien's escort noted.

Surrendering Mali's lightsaber meant risking a trap completely unarmed, but refusal likely meant execution on the spot. Thinking fast, Tirien decided to chance it; they had no way of knowing he was powerless, and he remembered ancient Master Ogan Broze once telling a group of aspiring Jedi Consulars that a Jedi is never unarmed, for he always has the Force, and his wits.

One out of two would have to suffice. Tirien handed over the lightsaber, remarking, "Try not to cut yourself with it."

The Zabrak gave him a cold smile, but stepped out of the way, and Tirien passed him to take a short flight of steps down and emerge into a bar. It was not like any he had visited to attract attention, whether upscale or dive; the only lighting came from a built-in edge of glowing red neon on the bartop itself. In the gloom Tirien could see a Hutt holding court in an alcove to one side, a pair of scantily-clad humanoids rubbing oil onto his flesh as a Duros quibbled with him. Another corner of the bar was rounded out, and figures lay on the floor; Tirien thought they were corpses until he saw one flop onto his back and reach for a pipe an attendant offered. Shadowy figures sat in booths around the room while a few hunched over their drinks at the bar, defined only by their red-lined silhouettes. Wordless music played from speakers that seemed to be placed at random; Tirien thought they were more to cover conversation than to entertain patrons.

Tirien's guide turned his arm. "He's waiting for you."

As they walked the guiding arm disappeared and the pressure of the blaster barrel with it. It seemed like a sign of trust…but that did not jive with Tirien's memories of Sorin Ruy'the at all. Casting about, he saw a Bothan in a booth around the bar, past the comatose addicts in the miniature spice den. A second Bothan leaned against a wall straight down from the first, some five meters past, apparently watching the Hutt and the Duros. A third sat the bar, cradling a drink with both hands.

The Bothan in the booth was lit by a datacron he was studying, and he looked up at Tirien expectantly. Mind racing, Tirien took in the whole scene, knowing he likely had one chance to get this right. Taking a deep breath, he nodded to the seated Bothan, then took a seat at the bar between the third and a woman sipping a cocktail—a Zeltron woman, with a strap across her back that might be a bandoleer…

"Hello Sorin."

"Very good, Kal-Di," the Bothan said, the fur on the sides of his neck rippling. "You noticed, I expect, that I was the only one without a hand free, and therefore that much slower in a shootout?"

"And if I sat in the booth, your friend against the wall would have to shoot past your decoy to hit me." Tirien glanced sideways. "And I suspect some of those spice addicts aren't quite as high as they appear."

"Perhaps one or two." Sorin looked at him; his eyes caught the red light and made them look demonic.

Tirien looked the other way to find his escort and saw, with great surprise, than she was Pantoran, or at least a Wroonian with makeup—it was hard to tell in the gloom, and he did not recognize her clan tattoos. Doubtless they had seemed a close, if slightly stiff, couple as they walked through the marketplace. Nodding to her, he said, "Thorough."

"A happy coincidence," Sorin said. Tirien was prepared to bet Mali's lightsaber that was a lie, but he kept that to himself. "I haven't seen you in quite some time, Kal-Di. Not in person, anyway."

He added no more, leaving Tirien to contemplate the implications. "After we met last, things didn't develop exactly as we'd hoped."

"Not my doing; I was sorry to hear of Suwo's death."

Tirien was not at all surprised to learn that Sorin had already heard that news where Acroaka hadn't. He remembered for a moment the flash of lightsabers in the underground cave, then put the memory away. "As I was to see it, but he's gone."

"He was a good man, for a Jedi," Sorin continued philosophically, as if Tirien hadn't spoken. "A reasonable man—one who understood the way the galaxy works. Your Order could use more of him."

"I'll recommend that to the High Council."

Tirien tried to keep the bite of impatience out of his voice, but Sorin's fur flattened nonetheless. "You were always cut from a different cloth. Straight and narrow philosopher with his head in the idealistic clouds."

Tirien gritted his teeth. "If I was straight and narrow, would I be here with you?"

"Only if you needed something."

Carefully now, Tirien told himself. "You know things no one else knows."

"There are things I know that you don't know," Sorin allowed. "There are things you know that I don't know."

Tirien couldn't be sure whether the Bothan was proposing a price or simply forcing the scramball back into Tirien's quadrant. "I need to know a thing you know."

Sorin shrugged. "What makes you think I know it?"

Tirien leaned in; he thought the woman on his other side stirred, but she did not attack. "I remember more than one time Suwo and I came to you because you knew a thing no one else knew. Those things hurt the Sith once we knew them—sometimes Sith died.  And yet with all the power the Sith had, with men like Darth Vandak at their command, here you are, still breathing.  That tells me the Sith think you're worth more alive than dead, which means sometimes they've learned a thing only you knew, too.  And the Republic hurt."

Sorin looked at him, running two fingers down his muzzle. "I'm not the Jedi Archives—knowledge is power, and power comes with a price. Information is a business, Jedi, not a charity.  That's what you never understood.  If I wanted to be your personal spy network, I'd be wearing a Republic uniform."

"And yet you left Kothlis." Tirien hit him with the observation suddenly, watching his body language, but the Bothan was too controlled to give anything away; even his fur stayed still. "In Bothan Space, established in a place of your choosing, tied into the Bothan Spy Guild, with a million travelers bringing in ten million new pieces of information every day…and yet you left."

"Kothlis had its advantages, but Kwenn Station is the border of two worlds as well. The Hutts pay quite well for information, and people coming from them bring it.  A new venue can bring new opportunities."

"And that's why you're camped in a dark spice den and ambushing people who ask questions about you," Tirien said sarcastically. "Here, just far enough from Nal Hutta that the Hutts won't strongarm you, but close enough that Black Sun treads lightly and even the Sith might think twice. About operating openly, at least—they might act subtly, but then, you'd know about that.  You didn't come to hide here because you don't have information people want, you're here because you have information everybody wants and you don't know what to do with it."

Sorin took a long, slow drink. "Any information can be sold; it's just a matter of setting the price."

"And calculating the cost?"

"Of course."

"I think you're here because now you know something too valuable—if you tell one side, the other might just decide that you're worth more dead than alive after all."

Had Sorin's fur fluttered, or was it a trick of the gloom? "Yet here you are, the agent of one side, and you expect me to sell you that information?"

"I expect you to calculate the cost—understanding that I don't feel the High Council needs to know where I get all my information—and then set a price."

"I know many things you might want to know that the Sith would prefer you didn't," Sorin stalled. "Each comes at a different price, and not all are for sale."

Tirien was fighting mightily for Jedi calm, but the days he had spent traveling to Kwenn gnawed at him, and visions of Narasi and Aldayr in Sith captivity kept intruding on his mind's eye. "Then let me narrow it down for you: where is Darth Alecto?"

Sorin turned on the bar stool to face him. "And what are you going to do if I tell you that?"

"She and I need to…talk."

"You'd better hope she's feeling conversational. You're not really in any condition to be fighting her just now, are you?"

Tried though he did, Tirien could not restrain a jolt of surprise. He damned himself for the slip, but Sorin shook his head. "Don't castigate yourself too much, Jedi, I knew before you arrived."

Tirien's mind raced. He had been let down by a fellow Jedi, if not betrayed altogether. He was conscious again of Sorin's guards scattered throughout the room, but he felt their presence now in a way that had nothing to do with the Force. Disarmed from the moment he walked in, he had gambled on some measure of leeriness of his Force powers, but surely Sorin's guards knew he was defenseless as well. He remembered the Zabrak's cold smile, and the memory took on a new, darker significance. "How?"

Sorin shook his head again; he looked disappointed. "That's information, and a costly piece indeed."

Tirien almost asked, but he thought of Narasi and restrained himself. Think clearly, he commanded himself. You still have your wits. How Sorin knew was incidental to the fact that Sorin knew, and Tirien was in no greater danger now than he had been a moment before—less, perhaps, since he was forearmed with knowledge. Sorin had no need to intimidate him, and he was far too intelligent to deprive his guards of the element of surprise if he meant Tirien harm regardless.

Narasi and Aldayr. "If you know, then you know—or you're smart enough to guess—why I want Alecto."

"And if she's not feeling conversational?"

Tirien had been wondering that very thing since he set out from the Jedi Temple in search of Acroaka, and he had little better in the way of a plan now than he had then. But as Mali pointed out, sometimes there was something to be said for improvisation. "Suwo was my master, remember? I'll be creative."

Sorin was silent for a long time, long enough that the Pantoran who had escorted Tirien in and sat on Sorin's other side rotated her bar stool to face Tirien, but Tirien waited him out. "Let's say that information was for sale," Sorin said abruptly. "What price are you offering?"

"What price are you asking?"

A flutter of fur trickled down Sorin's neck. "Perhaps Suwo taught you a thing or two after all. The problem, my young Jedi, is that I'm not sure you're prepared to pay what I'd consider fair value.  Some of the Republic's military movements, for example.  Or details about your fellow Jedi that outsiders might find interesting."

Tirien kept the distaste off his face as he tried not to wonder if some other Jedi had seen Sorin recently, and what information might have been bought for the price of Tirien Kal-Di's loss. "I know you've helped move proscribed goods into Coruscant lately. If—"

"Don't flatter yourself that Coruscant is some bastion of import security that I've pierced with a lucky stroke," Sorin cut him off. "You're more vulnerable than you know."

"Are we?"

"Is that the information you want to barter for now?"

Focus. As he thought, Tirien had a memory against which his sense of loyalty to the Republic rebelled at once, but he reminded himself that Aldayr, too, was in Sith captivity. "Are you finding the same vulnerabilities on Corellia?"

There was no mistaking the fur ripple this time. "…I'm listening."

"No Sith," Tirien said firmly. "No terrorists, no proscribed weapons. Apart from that, I could arrange, say…three shipments for—"

"And how would you arrange that?" Sorin asked. "You aren't Corellian, nor does Corellia have any reason to love you."

"No, but Corellia loves Mali Darakhan, and Mali is a friend." Tirien gestured toward the entrance. "That lightsaber your Zabrak friend took from me is Mali's. Mali will do me a favor if I ask it of him."

"Quite a favor to ask," Sorin observed. It was, but to return to the Force at last, Tirien knew he would ask it. When Tirien didn't reply, the Bothan continued, "And one for which I'd have to trust you—the information you want to buy might be stale by the time we could get through a first, good faith shipment."

"I'm a Jedi—I give you my word."

"And do you give me Darakhan's? Taking promises without security is bad for business."

"I suspect you know things the Sith might want to know if I didn't follow through."

Tirien squirmed inside; he had never been as comfortable dealing with the underworld as Suwo for exactly this reason. Would he put the entire Republic in danger if Mali couldn't be persuaded? He couldn't be sure what Sorin did know, but he was certain it could be very dangerous indeed, and the Bothan would likely pick something particularly nasty if he felt himself cheated. Before Tirien could offer some other collateral, however, Sorin spoke.

"Ten shipments."

The chance cube had been cast. "Five."

"Seven."

"Six."

"Seven, and I'll provide you transport where you're going." His eyes gleamed in the ruby bar light. "Time really is of the essence, Tirien…"

Did he know about Narasi and Aldayr, too? Tirien dared not ask. "Seven. No Sith—"

"—no terrorists, no proscribed weapons," Sorin finished, extending a hand. "Agreed."

Tirien swallowed the bile rising toward his throat and shook. "Done. Where is she?"

"Rosstark's, on the fourteenth moon of the planet Bogden. Do you know it?"

"No," Tirien answered, already anxious to move on. He had a location, he finally had a target…

"An unpleasant place, but one in which it's easy to disappear. I'd keep those weapons close if I were you."

Tirien rose and nodded. "Thank you, Sorin."

The Bothan raised a hand to forestall him. "Suwo saved my life once—did you know that?"

Impatience tried to propel Tirien toward the door; he choked it down. "No."

"Yes, when we were both very young men. Whenever I saw him from then on, he paid fair value for whatever information he sought," Sorin mused. "And then came Thisspias, and he died with that debt unpaid."

"Jedi don't keep score of good deeds," Tirien said.

"More fools you. You're fortunate that information brokers do." He looked up at Tirien. "So here's my gift to you, in payment of that debt: I'm rare in knowing the information you came for, but not unique. I suspect you're not the only person hunting her who knows where she is, and not the only one of those who is her enemy.  If you want her alive for your…conversation, hurry."