Star Wars: Scourge (26 page)

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.

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.

“First time I’ve ever seen that,” said Threnda. “Must
be a mistaken shipment. Happens all the time. Like I said, I don’t carry hard spice.”

“Then you won’t mind if we get rid of it for you,” said the Jedi. “Eddey?”

The Bothan produced a small grenade and held it over the crate, putting his thumb on the arming toggle.

“Wait,” said Threnda. “All right, what do you want? Information?”

“No thanks,” said the Jedi.

Threnda goggled at him. “No? I can tell you where this came from, and you leave me alone.”

“No,” repeated the Jedi. “You got this shipment from the
Demoneye
out of Ventooine. It picked up the shipment from the Bosph system.” He looked at Threnda’s startled expression, “This isn’t the first distribution point we’ve been to, and some of them have been positively chatty. Eddey?”

The Bothan thumbed the activation switch. A red light flashed at the top of the orb.

“Ten-second fuse,” said the Jedi. “You should stand back.”

Threnda and Mitt dropped back and fell to the ground as the grenade detonated. The resulting blast caused the container to bulge outward, and a pulse of violet fire to spring from the top of the case. Fragments of burning Tempest scattered around the warehouse, and some of the other crates smoldered in the flames. A thick purplish smoke oozed from the top of the box, surrounding them like a fog.

Threnda cursed and slammed Mitt on the shoulder. The Trandoshan ran for a fire extinguisher, pulling the heavy lifters away from the fire on the way.

The three visitors stood there, unaffected by the blast.

“It has been three minutes,” said the Jedi. “We’re going now.”

“Why are you doing this?” yelled Threnda over the flames. Behind her Mitt was cursing and trying to operate the fire extinguisher with his thick reptilian fingers. “What do you want?”

The Jedi paused and turned back. “We want you to send a message to the rest of your clan, and to the Spice Lord you work for,” he said. “We’re going to stop the Tempest trade, and it doesn’t matter how long it takes.” And then he was gone in the swirling smoke.

“At least you still have the cantina,” said the Bothan, and he was gone as well.

“Ma Lorda,”
said Koax, her face in the holoreceiver a grim mask. “The
Jeedai
and his allies have proved most nettlesome.”

“Report your status,” burbled the Spice Lord. As usual, the Hutt chose to have a bright light shining from behind, cloaking the Spice Lord’s cruel features. Koax was always careful when contacting her superior, but the Klatooinian had turned anxious and nervous of late, and had none of the proud declarations and good news that had been typical of her.

“The
Jeedai
has been striking against our distribution centers,” said the worried Klatooinian. “In particular those tied with the Bomu clan. He and his allies have hampered our cash flow.”

The Hutt made a dismissive noise, the sound of mud dropped from shoulder height. “There will be spot shortages, which will be good for the trade,” said the Spice Lord. “Drive up the price, create some desire. I trust your ability to expedite the orders to the most critical areas.” The Hutt leaned back and took a hokuum pipe from a nearby holder, making a show of unconcern.

“With respect,
Ma Lorda
,” said the Klatooinian, choosing her words carefully, “it is more than merely a
tightness in the market. We are seeing a dramatic slowdown in sales as local governments are becoming aware of the Tempest spice. In the Corporate Sector alone, market penetration has halted completely, and we are in danger of losing our new prospects in the Nuiri sector. No one wants to deal in a spice that might promote a visit from the
Jeedai
. They strike and say they are sending a message—that they will end the Tempest trade.”

The Spice Lord leaned forward. “What are you not telling me?”

Koax stammered for a moment, then cast her eyes down. “The Bomu clan,” she started.

The Spice Lord let out a laugh that made the Klatooinian, far away at the other end of the connection, jump. “The Bomu clan! Have we not had them all killed or made them too busy to think about revenge?”

“They are resilient,” said Koax, “and numerous as well. But the losses the clan has sustained at the hands of the
Jeedai
are sufficient to make them question their … loyalty. One of them has given up the name of Morga Bunna, the depot runner.” She let the last word trickle out like an admission of a secret.

The Spice Lord wondered how long she had kept that information to herself. “Ah,” said the Hutt, leaning backward. “And you fear that they will cut their losses. That they will decide that this
Jeedai
will be pleased if they simply tell it what they know and they can be done with it. That they will lead the
Jeedai
back to me.”

“Not that you could not handle it,” said the Klatooinian firmly, “or that the
Jeedai
and his allies would not fall to your obvious power. But it could affect our work further.”

The Spice Lord chuckled. “Yes, I see. I do not fear them tracking the spice back to its origins—we have left a tangle of warehouses, drop points, and supply depots throughout the spiral arm. But I appreciate your concern.

Set up a meeting with the Bomu clan matriarch. Tell her I am pleased with the achievements of her clan and concerned about this most recent threat, and will do whatever I can to help protect her. Go yourself. Make it clear to her that the protection of the Spice Lord is upon you. I will protect you as you seek to protect me.”