Part IV
~~Three Years Later~~
A battered HWK-290, once yellow, but now faded almost to tan, emerged from hyperspace over a moon of the planet Galaan, one of the handful of inhabited moons. Barely reducing speed, the ship punched through the gray moon’s atmosphere, finally slowing as it approached a spaceport surrounded by small city, spread loosely around the port. The HWK’s pilot thumbed the comms channel open.
“Baysend Port, this is the freighter
Outlast, requesting docking clearance.”
A voice crackled through the commons in response, “Freighter
Outlast, transmit documentation and hold course pending approval.”
Borommakot sent the transmission and sat back, letting the autopilot take over. Momentarily, the comms chirped again. “
Outlast, you are clear for landing with a two rotation permit. Proceed to docking platform three twenty seven.”
“Copy, Port. Proceeding,” Borom passed the information to the ship’s computer and folded his arms as the ship descended, rotating to face out of the port before landing. The canopy lifted and Borom stepped onto the small ladder that had been shunted over by a docking droid, climbing down to the platform, careful not to catch his robe on anything.
He wore the same off-white tunics and brown robe; they had weathered but proved their durability. There were only a few of burn marks and holes scattered across his garb. He looked around, scratching the short beard he now wore. There weren’t any officials or workers present, besides a team of droids, and the control tower was quite a distance away, at the center of the port. Apparently security wasn’t much of an issue.
Sniffing at the hot, dry air, he crossed the platform and took a lift down to ground level, exiting onto a wide avenue that bustled with activity. Across the street a long series of shop fronts and building facades extended all along the street, mostly in nondescript grays and yellows, broken up by occasional scab-like patches of brown where plaster had cracked or peeled away. On his own side of the street, stands and stalls of all sizes and colors were erected up against the terminal wall, their vendors clamoring for attention from the pedestrians. Borom relaxed; he would fit in fine here.
Glancing up the street he spotted a small hotel, and looking down in the other direction, a few bars and cantinas.
Two days, he thought,
A two day pass to investigate these new disappearances. No time to waste, he turned and headed toward the nearest bar. Alcohol and spaceports were the perfect combination for scrounging information. Between disgruntled employees, bragging pilots and the odd merc or bounty hunter, there was always someone who had heard something.
Borommakot stepped through the sensor gate and up the couple of steps to the main floor. The place was rowdy, and full, perfect listening in and asking questions. Wading through the strong smells and unsteady bodies, he found a place along the wall and began to survey the room. The best place to start would be with the ones who looked less than enthusiastic…people trying to drown their problems, trying to escape reality and failing. There, an old, bearded human who stared so hard into his drink, he might have actually lost something in it.
Borom got up and went over to him, sliding into the seat across from the bearded man, who took no notice. After a pause, Borom spoke up.
“So,” his voice made the bearded man jump, “been hearing about these abductions?”
~~~
One day passed, and the second wore on, but he found nothing. Entering yet another grimy establishment, he sidestepped a gray-cloaked figure hurrying the other way, and began looking at the faces he’d have to work with. Some he even recognized from other bars. He had trawled through just about every pub, club and cantina surrounding the port, but it seemed that the ship turnover was too high for any of the pilots to get a lasting impression; no one seemed to stay longer than the initial two rotation pass. On the other hand, the locals…they knew something, Borom could tell, but they didn’t want to talk. Something
compelled them not to talk.
“Fine,” he sighed at the conclusion of another unhelpful interview with one of the people who lived in the port city, “Do you at least know of any ship captains who’ve been around more than a few days?” To his surprise, the man nodded.
“Zydo, flies freight,” the man added, clearly relieved at the opportunity to get rid of Borom, “He’s right over there.”
The local pointed and Borom’s gaze followed, picking out a tall, thick man in a green flightsuit that would have been quite clean, except for the still soaking stains from his drink, splashed across his front. He was standing beside his booth, absently padding the damp clothing with a rag, staring red-faced and angrily at the the entrance. Borom nodded to the local, and promptly got up and walked over.
“You’re the one called Zydo?”
The pilot snapped out of his angry reverie and looked at Borom standing next to him.
“Huh? Who’s asking?” It sounded like he’d already got a drink or two in him before spilling his latest one. He looked Borom over, and didn’t seem impressed.
“My name is Borommakot. You need another drink?”
The pilot’s expression relaxed, “Should’ve led with that. Corellian ale, no ice,” Zydo sat down, still trying to dry his flightsuit, while Borom went to the bar and back, setting one glass of green-tinged liquid on the table.
“Not drinking?” Zydow asked. He was more at ease than before, but Borom could still hear the annoyance of a spilled drink in his voice, “That mean this is business?”
“Of a sort,” Borom nodded, “I’m told you might know something about the abductions that have bee—”
Suddenly Zydow was on his feet, face flushing splotchy red again, finger jabbing at Borom as he leaned over the table.
“Oh, you’re with the white haired harpy, aren’t you!?” He shouted, “Y’think this some kind of joke? This’s my best outfit she ruined! And after I answered all her stupid questions!” His hand was inching shakily toward the blaster at his hip as he exploded, “Well blast the both of yo—”
“You need to relax,” Borom said, voice as even as ever, his hand shifting across the table in a casual gesture. Zydow blinked and slowly straightened up.
“I need to relax,” he said, and sat down again.
“You should enjoy your drink,” Borom added.
“I
should enjoy my drink,” Zydow chorused, a peculiarly resolute look on his face as he scooped up the glass again.
“Now rest assured, my friend, I’m not here with anyone’s business but my own. But you know what I’m talking about. Tell me what you told her, and who knows, maybe you’ll ruin all her plans, eh?”
Zydow looked blearily at him for a long moment, and then nodded so deeply Borom thought he might have briefly passed out.
“Well, she comes to me, tells me how her poor brother got taken out of Baysend a month back, just vanished, and she’s just begging anyone for information,” Zydow said, “So I told her. I told her, well rumor was there’s this new syndicate getting traction in the outer rim. Word is they’re competing with the Zygerrian slave trade…directly,” Zydow finished confidentially. Borom waited for him to continue as the pilot took a long draught from his glass, but when he put the cup down he just stared dumbly at the former Jedi. Finally, Borom prompted him.
“And?”
“
And,” Zydow said emphatically as though the conclusion was obvious, “They’re doing it with Inner Rim slaves! Where the Zygerrians would never go!”
“Yes, but that can’t be all you gave her,” Borom pressed, “Surely there’s some rumor of a name, a location, something?”
Zydow was mumbling to himself, “She just said she had to get back to the private docking bay before her pass expired, an’ I just suggested I could keep her company. Next thing I’m covered in my own ale…”
“Focus, Zydow,” Borom lunged across the table and grabbed the freight captain by the back of his hair, “Who. Is taking. The captives?”
The man stared back at Borom, eyes anything but focused. A second later he heaved a sigh and went limp, completely unconscious. Borom let go of him and his red face planted itself on the table. Getting to his feet, Borom hurried to the entrance. He couldn’t wait around for Zydow to recover; his own docking pass would expire soon. His only chance now was to find the white haired woman who had questioned Zydow first.
Hitting the street, Borom looked around for a taxi, but finding none, he broke into a run. There were a handful of private docking bays around Baysend port, but only one within walking distance. If this woman had taken a transport to one of the further bays, he’d have to try and get one from this first port. Suddenly the sound of every ship taking off made his blood pound harder; there was no telling which of them might have his one lead.
Finally he reached the private docking entrance, but of course, the door was sealed. Reaching out with the Force, he was able to override the locking mechanism and open it, running inside. In the center of the bay was magnificent ship, with a blue and white hull, almost too large to be a private transport. It had a broad prow that tapered back into the body before expanding again to accommodate escape pods situated on either side, and large, powerful engines.
At the end of each side of the prow were dual laser cannons, and though it was fairly clean overall, there was enough carbon scoring to tell that it had had to use the cannons before. Borom could just make out some sort of design painted across the bridge, but it stretched onto the back of the ship and out of sight.
Borom almost didn’t notice the figure in the gray cloak ascending the boarding ramp, but the sudden hiss of ship’s hydraulics caught his attention and he looked down. He’d seen that cloak leaving the bar.
“Hey!” he called out, and the figure turned, exposing a glimpse of pure white hair inside her hood, “It’s you,” Borom said, almost to himself as the woman turned to face him. He called to her again as he approached the ship, “You’re trying to find your brother, right?” He stopped near the foot of the ramp as she set down the crate of supplies she was carrying and straightened up, removing her hood. He was surprised. He had expected an aged woman, but by her pale complexion she looked no older than him. She regarded Borom with emerald green eyes, but when she didn’t immediately reply, he went on.
“Perhaps I could offer some help? I’m looking for the captured locals as well.”
She sniffed, “Since when did the Jedi bother with anything beyond the Inner Rim?” She spoke smoothly, with a hint of an unfamiliar accent.
“I’m not a Jedi,” he replied flatly, straightening up.
“Really? Because you dress like one, and last I checked, Jedi were the ones with the monopoly on these…” Her hand opened toward him, and before he could react he felt something tug at his belt. His lightsaber shot out of the folds of his robes and landed in her waiting palm, where she ignited it with a small smirk.