IN THE SHADOW OF THE MANDALORE
PART THREE of Chapter 6
So it’s SCI-FI FRIDAY. I’m sorry I’m late getting this out. I was trying to catch up on different posts and emails, rereading what I wrote last night in my on-going “Locksley” Serial (which is coming along just fine, thank you.) Anyway, this is my on-going STAR WARS Story — not fan-fic like it would be if it had Luke and the guys, but something original and a different time (still long ago) and a different place (still a Galaxy far, far away.) Anyway, I hope you like it and SHARE it by restacking it, or recommending me to your readers.
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Four hours after the attack, Ver’dika sat tracing a slow design in the water pooling on the table in front of him. Sitting in a dark corner of an over-full cantina on the Third Level of the Second Strata, it was a comfortable little spot, he told himself. It was a place where a man could lose himself after the routine of daily work.
He sat with his head low, his cowl up, eyeing the odd assortment of aliens who stood close by, all watching him carefully. A single tap alongside his eye socket enabled his vision to run through the full spectrum of x-rays, infrared, and gamma ray particles, all in quick succession. It wasn’t hard for him to see who was a threat, as well as who was armed. After searching the entire cantina, he reached up, disconnected the phosphor lamp hanging overhead and cast the table into darkness. Then he sat back, eased his blaster out of its holster, and set it in his lap, waiting.
A Duros man his father once had dealings with back in the day—back in the days when he still had a family—ran the cantina. Cai Vodik was discreet, his clientele mostly alien, which meant no one would be asking him any hard questions. They went back a long way, Ver’dika realized, back before his life on Mandalore fell apart.
Ver’dika knew he could find anything he needed on an ecumenopolis the size of Taris; it was simply a matter of knowing where to look. That was where Vodik came in. If anyone knew a way to get him off the planet, it was Vodik.
The waitress serving him was a Twi-lek with an olive green complexion looking as if she might’ve seen better nights. The two other waitresses were Duros, and Ver’dika thought if he was going to be spending his time with a female, better a worn out Twi-lek than a noseless Duros.
The drinks were cheap because Vodik watered them down; but Vodik knew what he could get away with. The air was heavy with the blue smoke of fresh burning meat—as well as the stench of rotting flesh that seemed to seep out of the not-so-air-tight doors. Vodik had once explained to him that the cantina catered to a variety of species, and not all of them wanted fresh meat. Some alien species never evolved from the scavengers they once were, and he was drawn to the table of Trandoshans seated across the room.
I suppose it’s something you get used to, Ver’dika told himself.
The waitress placed a drink on the table and picked up three credits from the small pile in the middle of the table.
Ver’dika reached a hand out and grabbed the woman’s wrist.
“That other drink only cost me one credit.”
“That’s because I didn’t think you’d live this long. I was planning to take everything once they killed you, anyway.”
Ver’dika tilted his head slightly, a tight smile playing across his lips.
“And now?”
“Now? You’re still alive, aren’t you? A girl’s got to make a living. The price of the drink includes a tip by the way. It’s not optional.”
“I’ll bet you don’t talk like that to the Trandoshans,” Ver’dik said, letting her go and sitting back in his seat.
“Those lizards don’t scare me. Well, not in here at least,” she added. “By the way, nice look,” she smiled.
“What?”
“The silver skull cap. The scowl and cape; the whole brooding look. I like it. I can do without the facial tattoos, though. Mandalorian, aren’t they? And that’s a nice scar. I like scars. I remember my father had one on his left shoulder I could span my hand across and still not cover. I’ll bet that had to hurt.”
“Why didn’t you ask him?”
“He took off before I got the chance.”
Ver’dika smiled.
“There isn’t much you don’t miss, is there?” He was unconsciously rubbing the scar where it ran down the length of his face.
“I can tell you they don’t like your kind down here,” she explained.
“Oh? And what kind is that?”
“Mandalorians. They say it has something to do with the War, but d’ya know what I think?”
“I’m almost afraid to ask.”
“I think it might be different as far as Mandalorians go; I think they just want to hate them. What do you think?”
“I think the Mandalorian War was more than fifteen hundred years ago.”
“Closer to two thousand.”
“Yeah, exactly. Maybe they should get over it?”
“I guess they still hold a grudge.” She was playing with the credits, and then dropped them on her tray. “So what happened? Accident of birth? Mother drop you on your head? Or are you just another hapless victim in an ongoing war no one wants to admit to? Not that you look hapless.”
Ver’dika laughed. “What war is that?”
“The non-Sith Sith war; the same war that’s been going on for two thousand years. It’s the reason the Jedi came back.”
“Have you ever met a Sith?”
“You mean other than foot soldiers?” she asked with a note of caution.
“Is there a difference?”
“You know there is. But the Sith don’t scare me.”
“Maybe you should give that some more thought?”
“Not everyone in here is a citizen of the Republic, or a soldier for that matter, even if this is what you’d call Republican Space. I don’t care where a man’s loyalties lie—the Hutt, the Sith, the Republic, even the Chiss—as long as he’s loyal to me for the night and willing to give me a tip.”
“You might feel different if you were to ever meet a Dark Lord.”
“Haven’t you heard? They don’t like to come out this way looking for trouble.”
“No, they don’t.”
“I know it sounds cliché, but like I said, we get all sorts through here—Sith mercenaries; Mandalorian bounty hunters, Swoop Bike racers; gangsters, thieves, and harlots. Even slaves like me.”
“You’re Vodik’s slave?”
“I was born free, if that’s any consolation; how I got here doesn’t matter. Are you still going to complain about my tipping procedure?”
“Not by any means,” he laughed, throwing her another two credits. “In fact, you’re not taking enough.”
She nodded her head as she picked up the extra credits.
“All I’m going to say is this is going to be the beginning of a long friendship if you keep that up,” she laughed.
“I’m expecting someone to come here looking for me. A Sineteen?”
She shook her head. “Company?”
“You might say that.”
“If it’s any consolation, they’ve all been looking at you.”
“Who?”
“Who? Everyone here! To them, you’re fresh meat.”
“They may find me a little tough to chew—even the three Wookies in the corner.”
She turned to look and then smiled down at him. “They don’t care about you. They’re watching the Trandoshans. Don’t you know Trandoshans hunt Wookies? They export them as slaves to the Outer Rim.”
“Somehow, I doubt if a Wookie would make good a slave. Anyway, I try not to get too involved in the affairs of others.”
“That’s a good way to be,” she said. “I wish I could say the same,” she added, and then moved on to the next table.
When the man finally arrived sometime later, Ver’dika recognized him immediately. Just as Vodick said, the man wore the stench of treachery on him like a bad fitting jacket. A Sineteen, he had pale skin, small pupil-less eyes, as well as a hairless, oversized head resembling the lobes of an exposed brain. Vodik said Sineteens could calculate jumps into hyperspace without the use of an onboard NavCom. If that was true, he’d be Off-World in a matter of hours.
He was Force Sensitive Ver’dika recognized immediately, which explained how he’d managed to survive in the cutthroat business of smuggling. But any man willing to deceive his client will quickly earn a certain degree of contempt and mistrust, Ver’dika thought.
He watched the man as he walked toward the bar with a slight limp, stopping to speak with Vodick after taking in his surroundings. He took out a handful of credits and passed them across the bar before Vodick nodded. The Sineteen turned to look, and Ver’dika held back the urge to hold a hand up and wave the man over to his table.
He waited, watching as the man approached. He didn’t bother to introduce himself or offer to move. He pointed at the chair across from him and waited for the Sineteen to speak. It was obvious the man was nervous. He kept looking over his shoulder, and Ver’dika wondered if the man was being followed, or simply nervous with a table full of Trandoshans sitting close by.
“Are you Gill?” he asked in Galactic Basic.
“Gill? The name’s Rahul-Ahman Gill, and it’d serve you well to remember that,” Ver’dika said in his best guttural Basic. “I believe you have something for me?”
It wasn’t a question. He made certain the Sineteen understood that, because there was no turning back for him. Not now. The consequences would be dire if he failed.
“I have one question.”
“Just one?”
“The square root of twenty-seven to the eleventh power. You have—”
“77,559,109.9. Satisfied?”
Ver’dika nodded and loosened his grip on the blaster.
“I heard something about you that I found disconcerting.”
“Disconcerting? Is that a word someone like you even uses?”
“That depends, doesn’t it?”
“What do you want to know? What is it so disconcerting about me that you’re willing to have me walk out that door and never see you again? I’m perfectly willing to leave right now if that’s what you want.”
“I don’t. But I detect some sort of—what’s the word I’m looking for here? Hesitation? Reluctance?” Ver’dika asked slowly.
“What are you? A Jedi?”
“Then I wouldn’t be asking you all these questions, would I?”
“Let me be honest—”
“That would probably be in your best interest.”
“Is that a threat?”
“A promise.”
“A promise.” He seemed to mull it over in his mind and then looked up as the Twi-lek waitress arrived to take his order.
“You want another?” she asked Ver’dika.
He shook his head.
“You?”
“Salurian ale.”
“We don’t have that.”
“Who doesn’t have Salurian ale?”
“We don’t. What else?”
“Synestene.”
She nodded, punched the order into her comLink and left.
“I haven’t been able to get the proper manifests for the supplies you asked for.”
“And how is this my problem?”
“I thought I’d be able to pick them up on the trip out here, but SecuroCom’s got everything locked down tighter than a Zabreck virgin. I haven’t had a chance to input any of the data. Half the planet’s Jedi are looking for whoever brought that ship down. You didn’t have anything to do with that, did you? Not that it’s any of my business—it’s not—and I want you to understand that. But security’s tight right now. Don’t worry, I’ll figure it out. We might have to do a transit jump.”
“A transit jump?”
“I drop the ramp and you fly in while in we’re in transit—a second later, we jump. It’s dodgy, but it’s the easiest way to get you off-world. I just have to have the correct weights before I jump. Everybody’s so concerned about Spice smugglers these days.”
“You do understand what’s at stake, I trust?”
“You mean the cargo?”
Ver’dika leaned across the table, the cowled hood of his cloak sliding across his skullcap, and the Sineteen moved back. The chromium plate riveted to Ver’dika’s skull caught the half-light and the shadows exaggerated the horrible scars on his face, except for the single eye staring out with its brilliant yellow glow. The left eye socket was dark, looking empty, and the long scar running down the length of his face gave it the appearance of a gouge.
“No. Not the cargo. I’m the cargo. I mean your life, and that of your family.”
“Again? Why are you threatening me?” the Sineteen asked, steeling himself from some hidden reserve deep inside.
Ver’dika smiled.
“I’m sorry. Don’t you know the difference between a promise and a threat? You have until tomorrow,” he said, standing up suddenly. The man looked at the blaster in Ver’dika’s hand.
“What’s that all about?”
“Can’t be too careful in a place like this,” Ver’dika smiled, throwing a couple of credits on the table.
“Leave the Twi-lek a tip.”
…Or leave the Twi-lek a tip!