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The Emperor, and his lickspittle Vader, had much to answer for.

“There’s more,” Rostu said.

Jax looked up, and a small, faraway part of him realized that his expression must be dark indeed, because even Rostu’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of his face. “Yes,” he said. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have sent you to me.”

“You’ve heard of the Whiplash?”

Jax nodded. “Of course.”

“There’s a droid you’ve got to find.” Rostu glanced around, and lowered his voice. “It’s a Series Tee-Oh, classification number Ten-Four. Nickname’s Bug-Eyes. Seems it got its operating parameter messed up somehow, and is for all purposes lost. It’s carrying data vital to the resistance movement—what, exactly, I don’t know.” He put one of the less responsive pieces of sulyet into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “Not bad,” he said, in a tone of mild surprise.

“I guess it doesn’t matter what the data are,” he continued. “What matters is that the Emperor wants it. There’s a command phrase that’ll give you control over it: Zu woohama.” He shrugged. “I’m told it’s an impolite Wookiee saying. Anyway, Master Piell was looking for the droid to get it on a ship and off Coruscant when the troops caught up with him.”

“And he wants me to take up the search.”

Rostu nodded. “It was his dying request.”

“Even if it wasn’t,” Jax said, “I’m in.”

eleven

“Well,” said I-Five, as he and Den emerged from the speeder bus terminal, “it could be worse.”

The droid and the Sullustan stood on a balcony three stories up from one of the larger streets in the Blackpit Slums. Even at that height the stench of organic refuse, industrial pollutants, and—it being the dinner hour—gallimaufries of various species cooking outdoors was noticeable. The constant, crepuscular twilight seemed to keep everything in suspended time, as though they were trapped in some nether dimension. They could hear horns, imprecations, cries of fear, snatches of music, bits of conversations in a plethora of tongues, the Dopplering buzz of badly tuned repulsors as vehicles swooshed by, all merging into a mélange of hostility and despair. Flickering phosphor signs advertising lubricious thrills were everywhere Den looked. The chemicals in the air stung his eyes. He was glad he’d gotten out of the habit of wearing light-dampening droptacs, as they would have exacerbated the irritation. He hardly ever needed them downlevel, anyway.

He felt the sudden pressure of a hand on his shoulder. Or rather a foot, he realized, as he turned to see a Dug standing beside him.

“Death sticks?” the handwalker croaked. “Dream-dust? Glitterstim? Whatever you want, I got it.” He plucked at the pockets of his vest with dexterous phalanges. “Top quality assured, no additives—” He leapt back with a squeal of fright as a quick laser blast from I-Five’s left index finger powdered the flagging in front of him, then turned and half ran, half hopped away.

Den looked at I-Five. “How could this possibly be any worse?”

“He might have been infected with scab-rot,” the droid said, referring to a highly infectious disease that affected primarily Dugs, Ithorians, and Sullustans. Den decided not to dignify that with an answer, although he had to admit it was an unsettling possibility. Not all that remote, either; after all, it was well known that diseases that had long since been eradicated among the more affluent classes could still strike downlevel. And wouldn’t that be ironic—to escape with his health intact from Drongar, one of the most pestilential planets in the galaxy, only to fall prey to some bug on Coruscant?

He sighed. “Anyway, we’re here, alive and well—for the moment. Now let’s find some creds and a shed, pronto. This is one neighborhood I don’t want to be in after dark.” The Yaam Sector was in an earlier time zone than the Zi-Kree Sector, and so the sun had not yet set—not that one could easily tell. There were more lights coming on, however, as more goods and wares of questionable taste, and even more questionable sanitation, began to be touted by shop owners and street