Outbound Flight Page 7

  "Then bring it," Patriot said. "Third North from Chessile and Scriv Streets. Two hours."

  "I'll be there."

  There was a ping as the connection was broken. Putting away his comlink, Doriana glanced at his chrono. Excellent. The ad­dress wasn't more than half an hour's walk away, which would give him time for a leisurely stroll and a careful survey of the neighborhood before he arrived.

  But first, he would see what he could do to keep Kenobi on the sidelines where he belonged.

  Fortunately, that shouldn't be a problem. Whatever his pur­pose here, chances were he wouldn't make any serious moves without first consulting the Jedi Council. A little tweaking of the city's HoloNet computer access system, and there would be nothing coming into or going out of Barlok for the next day or two. Plenty of time for him and his Brolf allies to finish the job.

  Stepping over to the desk, he opened his computer and set to work.

  The cantina they found didn't have the most promising decor Obi-Wan had ever seen. But like Dex's Diner on Corus­cant, appearances could be deceiving, particularly where food was involved. The hearty aroma of roast tarsh was definitely in the air, maxers were the headliners on the menu, and Lorana's guide card gave the place a triple-porken rating. All in all, it looked like a pretty good bet.

  A WA-2 droid scuttled up as they chose a booth overlooking the street and sat down. "Welcome to Panky's," it said, its elec­tronic voice somehow managing to convey both courtesy and the fact that it was being severely and unfairly overworked. "What may I provide for you?"

  "I want a tarsh maxer and bribb juice," Anakin said eagerly.

  Obi-Wan suppressed a smile. Anakin had discovered bribb juice on his first trip as a Padawan, and ever since then he'd or­dered it every chance he got, whether it really went with the rest of the meal or not. "Same maxer for me, but make my drink a Corellian noale," he told the droid.

  "I'll take the bribb juice, but with a prisht-fruit salad," Lo­rana said. She gave Obi-Wan a hesitant smile. "After all, Barlok does produce the best specimens."

  "So I've heard," Obi-Wan said, studying her. She was about medium height, with dark hair and striking gray eyes. She had an intelligent face, a nice smile, and that sense of global awareness that came from knowledge of the Force. To all appearances, she seemed well on her way to becoming a typical Jedi.

  And yet, there was something about her that felt odd to him, something that didn't quite ring true. Her air of dignity and con­fidence felt strained, like an accessory she put on every morning instead of something that was truly a part of her innermost being. Her smile had a similarly tentative edge to it, as if she was afraid it would get her into trouble.

  On the surface, she had everything down just right. Beneath it all, she was still a Padawan learner with a lot of work yet to do.

  "I don't think I've ever met anyone before who was trained by Master C'baoth," he commented as the droid bustled away. "What's he like to study with?"

  The corners of Lorana's mouth compressed, just noticeably. "It's been a valuable learning experience," she said diplomati­cally. "Master C'baoth has a depth and strength in the Force that I can only hope I'll someday be able to approach."

  "Ah." Obi-Wan nodded, his mind flicking back to his last conversation with Master Windu. She might be right, or it might also be that C'baoth wasn't nearly as deep into the Force as she thought. Possibly even not as deep as C'baoth himself thought.

  But discussing a Jedi with his Padawan was considered poor form, particularly in front of another, younger Padawan like Anakin. "I'm sure you'll make it," he told her. "In my experi­ence, a Jedi can gain as much depth in the Force as he or she wants."

  "Within his or her limitations, of course," Lorana said rue­fully. "I don't know yet where that line lies for me."

  "No one does until the line is reached and tested," Obi-Wan pointed out. "Personally, I don't believe there are any such limits."

  Another droid bustled up with their drinks balanced precari­ously on a tray. Obi-Wan leaned back, ready to reach out with the Force to rescue the glasses if it became necessary, but the droid set them down without spilling a drop and bustled away. Picking up his drink, Obi-Wan sent a slow look around the room.

  Small, unassuming places like this, he knew, were usually passed over by casual visitors looking for flash and sparkle. Sure enough, most of the patrons were locals: hornskinned Brolfi in varying shades of yellow and green, plus a counterpoint sprin­kling of the more delicate arboreal Karfs from the vast tisvollt forests that edged the city on two sides.

  But there were also a few other species represented, includ­ing three more humans. Perhaps the guide card recommenda­tion was actually having some influence on the visitor trade. His leisurely gaze drifted to the genuine duskwood bar at the far end, where a skinny, mostly yellow-skinned Brolf was serving drinks.

  He frowned. "Lorana, that human over there—black vest, gray shirt, talking to the bartender. Have you ever seen him be­fore?"

  She turned to look. "Yes, he was in the group waiting outside the negotiating chamber when the talks ended yesterday. I don't know his name."

  "You know him, Master?" Anakin asked.

  "Unless I'm mistaken, that's Jery Riske," Obi-Wan said. "Former bounty hunter; currently top enforcer for the magis­trate's office of the Corporate Alliance."

  "What does an enforcer do?" Anakin asked.

  "Pretty much anything Passel Argente tells him to," Obi-Wan said. "Bodyguard, investigator, and probably extra muscle if there are bad debts to be collected. I wonder which of those roles he's performing here."

  "Probably the bodyguard one," Lorana said. "Magistrate Ar­gente's leading the Alliance's negotiating team."

  An unpleasant sensation crept up Obi-Wan's back. The head of a powerful, galaxy-spanning organization such as the Corpo­rate Alliance hardly had the time to deal personally with a minor contract dispute like this.

  Unless the Barlok dispute wasn't as minor as everyone seemed to think.

  He looked back at Riske. The man was still talking with the bartender, both of them leaning slightly over their respective sides of the bar, their heads close together. "Anakin, you see that dish of quartered nuts on the bar near Enforcer Riske?" he asked, setting down his drink. "Go and grab a few of them."

  "Sure," Anakin said. Sliding out of his seat, he started threading his way between the rows of tables.

  "What are you doing?" Lorana asked.

  "Giving myself an excuse to go over there," Obi-Wan said, watching Anakin's progress across the room and judging his tim­ing. One more table . . . now. "Wait here," he added, standing up and heading off after his Padawan. Focusing his attention on the conversation at the bar, he ran through his Jedi sensory enhance­ment techniques.

  He got within eavesdropping distance just as Anakin reached the bar, squeezed himself in between an Aqualish and a Rodian, and started helping himself to the nuts. "—centered in Patameene District," the bartender was saying in a low voice. "But that's just a rumor, mind."

  "Thanks," Riske said. His hand brushed over the bar­tender's, and Obi-Wan caught a glint of metal as the bartender straightened up, his closed fist dropping casually behind the bar. The Brolf's eyes shifted to Obi-Wan, the hornskin puckering a little as he frowned. Riske caught the change in expression and turned, his right hand dropping casually to his belt, the fingertips dipping inside the edge of his vest.

  "That's enough, Anakin," Obi-Wan said, keeping his voice light but firm as he came up behind Anakin and took casual hold of the boy's shoulder, carefully keeping his eyes away from Riske and the bartender.

  "Just one more?" Anakin asked, turning and holding up a large tashru.

  "All right, but for after your lunch," Obi-Wan said firmly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Riske's hand drop the rest of the way to his side and sensed both his and the bartender's sus­picions fading. "You don't want to spoil your appetite."

  The boy sighed theatrically. "Okay," he said. Closing his
fist around the nut, he started to turn around.

  And as he did so, his shoulder bumped the Aqualish's back just as the burly alien was lifting his drink to his mouth, sending a small wave of bright red liquid sloshing over the rim and down the alien's massive hand.

  Obi-Wan winced. It was a minor accident, as such things went, with equally minor damages. But such subtleties were lost on the typical Aqualish mind and temper.

  And this one was very definitely typical. "You—child human troublemaker—" he grunted in his native tongue, spinning around fast enough to slosh a little more of his drink over the edge. "What do you do to bother me?"

  "It was an accident," Obi-Wan said quickly, pulling Anakin back to just in front of him. "I apologize for his carelessness."

  "He is no babe in leafwrap that you must clean up his messes," the Aqualish retorted, glaring at Obi-Wan with his huge eyes. He looked back at Anakin, his hand dropping to the blaster belted at his waist. "He must learn manners and self-discipline."

  Obi-Wan tightened his grip on Anakin's shoulder as he sensed the boy's flash of anger. Self-discipline was one of Ana­kin's biggest problem areas, something Obi-Wan had to call him on probably twice a week. The last thing the boy wanted to hear was the same lecture coming from a grumpy alien. "Easy, Anakin," Obi-Wan warned, aware that every eye in the cantina was on the confrontation. His little playacting had alleviated Riske's first suspicions about the would-be eavesdropper, but those suspicions would be back with a vengeance if Obi-Wan was forced to reveal himself as a Jedi. "Come, friend," he said sooth­ingly to the Aqualish. "Surely you have more worthwhile ways to spend your energy. Let me get you another drink, and we'll be on our way."

  For a long moment the Aqualish glared at him, his hand now openly gripping the butt of his blaster. Obi-Wan stood motion­less, his mind slipping into combat mode, his hand ready to dart beneath his tunic and snatch his lightsaber if and when it became necessary.

  And then something seemed to flicker in the Aqualish's anger. "A Likstro," he said, lifting his hand off his blaster and pointing at his half-filled glass. "A large one."

  "Certainly," Obi-Wan said. The other's glass was nowhere near large size, but this wasn't the time or place to quibble over details. Senses still alert for a last-minute sneak attack, he turned and caught the bartender's eye. "A large Likstro," he said, ges­turing to the Aqualish.

  The bartender nodded and busied himself with his tap. A minute later the drink was in the alien's hand, the payment was in the bartender's, and Obi-Wan and Anakin were heading back toward their booth.

  "That wasn't a large drink he had," Anakin muttered as they maneuvered between the tables.

  Obi-Wan nodded. "I know."

  "That means he stiffed you," Anakin said, an accusing edge creeping into his voice. "Probably what he had in mind all along."

  "Possibly," Obi-Wan acknowledged. "What if he did?"

  "But we're Jedi," Anakin growled. "We shouldn't have to put up with that kind of shakedown."

  "You have to learn to see the bigger view, my young Pada­wan," Obi-Wan reminded him, glancing around. "All we really wanted to accomplish here—"

  He broke off. Riske was gone.

  So was Lorana.

  6

  It was apparently her lot in life, Lorana thought as she wove her way through the crowds on the walkway, to be forever trying to keep up with someone. Earlier it had been C'baoth; now, she was struggling just as hard to keep Riske in sight.

  She had to admit, though, that it was an interesting study in contrasts. C'baoth's technique was the straightforward one of in­timidating others out of his way. Riske gained the same result by taking advantage of every opening or opportunity for advance­ment, seldom disturbing any of the other pedestrians, slipping through the crowd like a night animal through the trees of a forest.

  Master Kenobi had said that the man used to be a bounty hunter. He'd probably been a very good one.

  Unfortunately, she hadn't thought to get Obi-Wan's com­link frequency before they split up. C'baoth might have it, but she knew better than to interrupt him during the negotiations for anything short of an imminent catastrophe.

  But the Jedi Temple on Coruscant surely had the listing. Dodging around a strolling Ithorian, she pulled out her comlink and keyed for the city communications center and a HoloNet relay.

  "Vast apologies, citizen," a mechanical voice said from the comlink. "All connections offworld are unavailable. Please try again at a future time."

  So much for that approach. Lorana shut off the comlink and returned it to her belt, sidestepping as a pair of large Brolfi sud­denly loomed in her path. They passed her by and she started for­ward again, craning her neck to sec over the crowd.

  To find that Riske had vanished.

  She hurried forward, scanning the street and stretching out to the Force. But there was no sign of him.

  Calm yourself Padawan, C'baoth's oft-repeated admonition whispered through her mind. Riske couldn't have gotten very far in the brief time he'd been out of her sight. He must have either gone into one of the dozens of little shops that lined the street or else ducked down one of the pair of narrow alleyways branching off to the left and right just ahead.

  Briefly, she weighed the options. The shops would be con­stricting, drastically limiting his freedom of movement. A man like Riske, she decided, would more likely go for one of the alleys.

  She reached them and looked both directions. No one was visible. When she'd last seen Riske, he'd been closer to the left alleyway, which made that one the more obvious choice. But he didn't strike her as an obvious sort of person. Weaving around an­other pair of pedestrians, she stepped into the alley to the right.

  The passageway was fairly narrow, about one and a half land­speeders wide, with one side stacked with tall but neat piles of garbage containers awaiting pickup. Halfway along its length, another alley cut across it at right angles, dividing this particular block into quarters. If Riske had gone this way, he would have had two additional directions to choose from once he reached the center. Slipping her hand inside her tunic, she got a grip on her lightsaber and headed in.

  She reached the central intersection without incident and looked in all directions. Riske, unfortunately, wasn't visible in any of them.

  For a moment she stood there, looking back and forth down the cross-alley, the sour taste of defeat in her mouth. Nothing to do now but retrace her steps and hope Kenobi wouldn't be angry enough at her failure to report her to C'baoth.

  A flicker from the Force was her only warning, but she re­acted to it instantly. Taking a leaping step to the side, she spun around, drawing her lightsaber from her sash and igniting it.

  The spinning disk gliding in through the alleyway behind her caught the sunlight as it tilted slightly, altering its direction toward her new position. Getting a two-handed grip on her lightsaber, she watched it come, wondering why anyone would bother with such a relatively slow weapon.

  Half a second later she got her answer as the disk split into thirds, the top and bottom sections becoming duplicates of the original and swinging wide to approach her from different an­gles.

  So it had become three against one. Still not a problem. She took a step backward, mentally mapping out the sequence she would use against them. They hummed their way into range; and with a quick one–two–three she slashed the glowing blade out­ward, slicing all three disks in half.

  And as the sections of the last one clattered to the alley floor, an arm snaked around her shoulder from behind to wrap firmly around her neck.

  She inhaled sharply in chagrin. So that was the reason for the simplicity of the attack. It had been nothing but a diversion, driving her into the tunnel vision of combat while Riske slipped out of concealment from one of the garbage stacks and sneaked up behind her. She shifted her grip on her lightsaber, wondering if she would have time to stab backward with it before he got an­other weapon into position.

  "Easy, girl," a mild voice said as
something hard pressed against her neck beneath her right ear. "Close it down and put it away. I just want to talk."

  "About what?" she demanded.

  "Put it away and I'll tell you," he said. "Come on, girl—this isn't worth getting your head blown off over."

  "I'm a Jedi," she warned. "We don't respond well to threats."

  "Maybe Jedi don't," Riske agreed, an almost amused edge to his voice. "But you're no Jedi—you got suckered way too easily for that." The arm around her throat tightened slightly. "Come on. Cool down and let's talk."

  Lorana glared at the alley wall. Still, derision aside, if he'd wanted to kill her he probably could have done so long before now. "Fine," she said, closing down her lightsaber and sliding it back into her sash.

  "There, now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" he said soothingly as he let go of her neck.

  "I'm glad you're happy," Lorana said, taking a step forward and turning around to face him. "What do you want to talk about?"

  "Let's start with you," Riske suggested, tucking a small hold‑out blaster back into concealment in his tunic. "Why is C'baoth having you follow me?"

  "Master C'baoth has nothing to do with this," she told him, stretching out to the Force and trying to get a feel for the man. He was cool and unemotional, with the alert detachment she'd often seen in professional bodyguards. But beneath the calm she could sense a certain honor, or at least a willingness to stand by his word.

  And the fact that he'd put his blaster away implied he ex­pected a certain degree of honor from her in return. That alone dictated that she at least hear him out.

  "Was it the other Jedi, then?" Riske asked. "The one with you in the cantina?"

  There are times when you'll wish your identity to remain un­known, C'baoth had reminded her back on Coruscant. Clearly, it hadn't worked with Riske. "He was interested in you, yes, but following you was my idea," she told him. "He was mostly sur­prised that a person of Magistrate Argente's stature would be handling these negotiations personally."

  "I could say the same about Jedi Master C'baoth," Riske said. "Magistrate Argente was rather surprised himself when he showed up." He gestured in the direction of the cantina. "And now we have another Jedi in the game, this one trying to eavesdrop on private conversations. What exactly is the Council playing at?"