Star Wars_ Coruscant Nights II Streets of Shadows - Michael Reaves [60]
Weapons were permitted. In this region of under-level Coruscant, it was the unarmed pedestrian who was considered unconventional. The no-nonsense owners of the Qarek’k had no problem whatsoever with customers packing multiple instruments of destruction. Patrons were welcome if they entered weighted down with everything up to and including a tactical nuke. Use a weapon in the establishment, however, and one would find oneself set upon by what was considered the toughest security team in the sector, comprising grizzled veterans of the Clone Wars who had seen and dealt with everything—several times.
Into this sordid den of thieves, killers, and other miscreants dived an especially toothsome-looking female humanoid of indeterminate age, flame-red hair, and snow-white skin. Aurra Sing could easily have emphasized her entrance by executing a couple of forward flips or twists as she let herself be grabbed and slowed by the entryway’s field. However, she saw no reason to exert herself to entertain the Qarek’k’s dissolute clientele. So she just jumped from the street and waited patiently for the security system to examine her and lower her to the floor.
The identification that had been provided for her acknowledged her as a private agent on Imperial business. It was not questioned. Not even the lightsaber, which for anyone not working for Vader would have been cause to summon a platoon of stormtroopers and Inquisitors, raised so much as an eyebrow. Vader’s authority was indeed all-pervasive.
She paused as the bouncer, a Sakiyan, looked her up and down, performing one last manual matching check between her person and her hand-carried ident. The folded hundred-credit note on the underside of the card was adroitly slid up the bald humanoid’s sleeve, and he gestured curtly for her to proceed.
Although her outward expression did not change, Sing smiled to herself as she strode deeper into the labyrinthine warren of rooms. Even with Imperial clearance, it was never a bad idea to get on the good side of the head bouncer.
She allowed herself to be subsumed by the noise from half a dozen different live bands. A storm of lights—some fixed, some ambulatory—bathed the adjoining rooms in every possible color and combination thereof, including the infrared and the ultraviolet. Depending on one’s species, subjecting oneself to too much of one hue or the other could result in a serious burn or minor cancer. The owners assumed no responsibility for such developments. Anyone old enough, bold enough, and sold enough on the delights of the Qarek’k to chance entry did so at their own risk.
She finally found an empty stool in a chamber called the Crimson Redrum. Arms extended wide, the Amanin pubtender gazed up at her. “Something to drink, hard-case?” The hypersonic bubble encasing the bar made conversation possible despite the two competing bands.
Sing was quietly amused. “What makes you think I’m a hard case, flat-head? Don’t I look soft and cuddly to you?”
The Amani’s small red eyes, adapted to seeing in weak light, focused on her. “There is nothing of either about you, humanoid. I have seen your kind in here many times before.”
“You’re perceptive,” she told him. It was a male, she saw by his coloring.
“I’m just a pubtender,” he replied. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Don’t curl yourself into a ball just yet. I’m looking for information, not trouble. I’ll have a Merenzane Gold, on the rocks.”
The pubtender hesitated. “Expensive.”
Sing flashed the expense chit that had been provided her. The Amani frowned. “You pay with a chit. Cash is better.”
“But you