Star Wars: Crosscurrent by Paul S. Kemp

music, laughter, and conversation leaked out of the rough-cut holes that served as windows. He spotted Marr's parked speeder bike, put the Searing beside it, powered it down, activated its antitheft security, and hopped off onto the packed-dirt road, avoiding the inevitable mines of ankarax dung.
    A trio of Zabrak lingered on the street outside The Hole, the horns jutting from their heads as irregular in size and formation as Farpoint's buildings. They chatted in their rapid, coarse language, each with a tin cup of pulkay from The Hole's stills in their hand. Khedryn knew them by appearance but not name. He nodded and they returned the gesture.
    A hulking Houk sat on a crate outside The Hole's door. A light blaster cannon that looked old enough to have served in the Yuuzhan Vong War—normally a crew-served weapon—hung across his scarred chest, suspended by a strap of ankarax leather.
    "Khedryn Faal," the Houk said in Basic, his voice as deep as a canyon, and pulled open the metal slab that served as a door.
    "Borgaz," Khedryn returned. He stopped before the door, noticing the new words painted over old ones in an uncertain hand:
     
    NOT EVEN LIGHT ESCAPES THE HOLE.
     
    He puzzled over it for a moment, frowning. "What is that supposed to mean?"
    "Milsin calls it marketing. A catchphrase."
    "A catchphrase?"
    Borgaz wobbled his head from side to side, the Houk equivalent of a human shrug.
    Milsin owned and operated The Hole and was always trying this or that gimmick he picked up from watching vids from the Core.
    Shaking his head, Khedryn entered The Hole.
    The dim interior of the place smelled of unwashed bodies, stewed ankarax, the pungent cheese produced locally by a small community of Bothans, and some offworld spice that Milsin must have purchased from a passing freighter. The eclectic collection of tables and chairs, some plastic, some wood, some resin, some metal—gathered from hither and yon over the years—mirrored the eclectic clientele. Rodian, Chiss, human, even a Trandoshan, drank, ate, gamed, and argued at The Hole. A duo of well-attired Bothans sat on crates and played the twelve-stringed soundboards of their people in a tuneless attempt at Yerk music that Khedryn barely heard anymore. Old vidscreens hung on the walls, the largest over the bar. HoloNet reception was hit or miss so far out, so most of them played recordings of shows and sporting events that had aired in the Core four standard months earlier. Nothing was produced locally, not even news. It was as if The Hole, as if all of Farpoint, existed in the past, four months behind the Core.
    Khedryn nodded at familiar faces as he maneuvered his way through the tables. Milsin, an elderly human as thin as a whipweed, as bald as an egg, but as tough as an ankarax, waved at him from behind the bar.
    "Spiced pulkay," Khedryn called, and Milsin nodded.
    "See him?" called Stellet, captain of Starfire and a friendly rival of Khedryn's. Stellet was speaking to his Wookiee tablemate, presumably a new add to Starfire 's crew. "That man's a junk jockey. Swims in engine lubricant. Handles a wrench better than he handles a woman."
    Khedryn made an obscene gesture but offset it with a smile as he approached Stellet's table. "I've been on the rickety boat you call a ship, Stellet. I expect to be salvaging it when it burns out on your next run to Chiss space."
    Stellet laughed, raised his glass in a mock toast. "Sit?"
    "Can't. Got a game to play."
    A gravelly voice from a nearby table pulled Khedryn around. "You smell of fine perfume, Khedryn Faal," said Kolas, a tawny-furred Cathar still working on the kind of banter that predominated at The Hole.
    Khedryn leaned over him—he smelled of spoiled pulkay—and said, "You mean ankarax dung, or an open sewer, or something unpleasant . Keep trying, Kolas."
    Those at the tables near Kolas jeered the Cathar. Kolas's whiskered face screwed up in confusion. He growled with embarrassment and hid behind his drink.
    Khedryn