the CSA.”
“You’ve smuggled,” said Mander succinctly.
“Some,” Reen said, shrugging. “A little. Nothing bad, nothing major, nothing that a Jedi would blow a circuit about.”
“Small package trade, really,” said the Bothan calmly. “Personal items, artifacts of dubious provenance, objects of art. That sort of thing.”
“Nothing bad or horrible,” Reen added quickly. “Nothing like hard spice. Nothing like … Tempest.”
Mander nodded and thought he understood. Reen and her partner were part and parcel of the shadowy world of spacers, the great majority of whom wouldn’t think twice about bringing contraband through planetary customs if there was a bonus in it. But it was that same evasion of authority that made the spice trade possible, and the same avenues may have been used to bring in the Tempest that killed her brother.
She knows how smugglers think because she has been one herself
.
He said, “The Jedi are not religious leaders. We don’t provide absolution or forgiveness. The best we can do is help others come to terms with what they have done, and help them make amends. But that does not explain why you wouldn’t want to meet with a CSA lieutenant commander who doesn’t even know you.”
“Ah,” said Eddey. “There’s the rub.”
“The original
Ambition
,” started Reen.
“The one probably being sold for scrap on Keyorin to pay for the docking fees,” clarified Eddey.
“The
Ambition
was,” Reen continued, “for lack of a better word, damaged as result of escaping a CSA corvette,conveniently parked behind a moon near a rendezvous point.” Her cheeks flushed dark again.
“Ah.” Mander mimicked Eddey. “I understand. And even though it is unlikely that anyone will make the connection, you aren’t sure if you are in a database somewhere, the information just waiting to leap onto Lieutenant Lockerbee’s datapad and surprise you.”
“That sums it up,” said Reen, but she didn’t look up at the Jedi. The Bothan let out a small cry of triumph as he pulled away a particularly stubborn gasket, now reduced to a tattered black mass.
“Very well—I will be dining with Lieutenant Commander Angela Krin,” said Mander. “And if your name comes up, I will take note. In the meantime, though, I intend to avail myself of the hospitality her command offers, and try to persuade her that she should trust us enough to let us go planetside. Three days. I think three days should do it, one way or another.”
“We can get things operating in three days,” said Eddey. “If we can get the parts. Tender our regrets to the good commander,” he added to Mander, “and both of you can leave me to my work in peace.”
“Indeed,” said Mander Zuma. “I think it is time to renew my research in CSA standard operating procedures.”
Three days passed with a glacial slowness. Most of the planetary transceivers were in Tel Bollin, and as far as Mander could tell most of their operators were stricken by the plague or just laying low until the pestilence had passed over. From what little Mander could gather, general society—always a rough-and-tumble affair on mining planets—had collapsed entirely in the wake of the disease. Looting and fires were common; what civil authority was left had its hands full surviving on its own, and therefore had precious few resources to help offworlders. One of the few full holoconversations Mandermanaged took place with a tired, exhausted officer with white crusts at the corners of her eyes and mouth, her hair an unruly tangle. She didn’t know anything about Hutts onplanet, but said that any exomorphs should have gone to ground, since the survivors were looking for something to blame and nonhumans fit that bill. Then the officer terminated the call in the middle of a prolonged coughing jag.
Once further attempts to contact anyone on the ground proved equally problematic, the Jedi turned to the ship’s library. It was a smart little operation
“You’ve smuggled,” said Mander succinctly.
“Some,” Reen said, shrugging. “A little. Nothing bad, nothing major, nothing that a Jedi would blow a circuit about.”
“Small package trade, really,” said the Bothan calmly. “Personal items, artifacts of dubious provenance, objects of art. That sort of thing.”
“Nothing bad or horrible,” Reen added quickly. “Nothing like hard spice. Nothing like … Tempest.”
Mander nodded and thought he understood. Reen and her partner were part and parcel of the shadowy world of spacers, the great majority of whom wouldn’t think twice about bringing contraband through planetary customs if there was a bonus in it. But it was that same evasion of authority that made the spice trade possible, and the same avenues may have been used to bring in the Tempest that killed her brother.
She knows how smugglers think because she has been one herself
.
He said, “The Jedi are not religious leaders. We don’t provide absolution or forgiveness. The best we can do is help others come to terms with what they have done, and help them make amends. But that does not explain why you wouldn’t want to meet with a CSA lieutenant commander who doesn’t even know you.”
“Ah,” said Eddey. “There’s the rub.”
“The original
Ambition
,” started Reen.
“The one probably being sold for scrap on Keyorin to pay for the docking fees,” clarified Eddey.
“The
Ambition
was,” Reen continued, “for lack of a better word, damaged as result of escaping a CSA corvette,conveniently parked behind a moon near a rendezvous point.” Her cheeks flushed dark again.
“Ah.” Mander mimicked Eddey. “I understand. And even though it is unlikely that anyone will make the connection, you aren’t sure if you are in a database somewhere, the information just waiting to leap onto Lieutenant Lockerbee’s datapad and surprise you.”
“That sums it up,” said Reen, but she didn’t look up at the Jedi. The Bothan let out a small cry of triumph as he pulled away a particularly stubborn gasket, now reduced to a tattered black mass.
“Very well—I will be dining with Lieutenant Commander Angela Krin,” said Mander. “And if your name comes up, I will take note. In the meantime, though, I intend to avail myself of the hospitality her command offers, and try to persuade her that she should trust us enough to let us go planetside. Three days. I think three days should do it, one way or another.”
“We can get things operating in three days,” said Eddey. “If we can get the parts. Tender our regrets to the good commander,” he added to Mander, “and both of you can leave me to my work in peace.”
“Indeed,” said Mander Zuma. “I think it is time to renew my research in CSA standard operating procedures.”
Three days passed with a glacial slowness. Most of the planetary transceivers were in Tel Bollin, and as far as Mander could tell most of their operators were stricken by the plague or just laying low until the pestilence had passed over. From what little Mander could gather, general society—always a rough-and-tumble affair on mining planets—had collapsed entirely in the wake of the disease. Looting and fires were common; what civil authority was left had its hands full surviving on its own, and therefore had precious few resources to help offworlders. One of the few full holoconversations Mandermanaged took place with a tired, exhausted officer with white crusts at the corners of her eyes and mouth, her hair an unruly tangle. She didn’t know anything about Hutts onplanet, but said that any exomorphs should have gone to ground, since the survivors were looking for something to blame and nonhumans fit that bill. Then the officer terminated the call in the middle of a prolonged coughing jag.
Once further attempts to contact anyone on the ground proved equally problematic, the Jedi turned to the ship’s library. It was a smart little operation
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