Star Wars_ Coruscant Nights III_ Patterns of Force - Michael Reaves [50]
“Then we still don’t know where he stands.”
“No.”
“How will we know?”
“If he continues to evade our attempts to track him, we’ll know he’s Thi Xon Yimmon’s man. But if one day he is less than vigilant about such things …”
Tesla smiled. The gesture hurt, tugging at the new flesh on his barely healed face. The pain, like the scars, was also good. It was a reminder of his personal goal: with or without the help of Prefect Pol Haus, he would track down the Force prodigy who had done this to him—be he Jedi or not—and either bring him as a prize to his master, or destroy him utterly.
ten
“I don’t get it,” Den said. “Why are you asking me this?”
“Obviously,” Rhinann replied, his face, his posture, his entire person saying that he thought the question idiotic, “because I thought that perhaps you knew.”
Den gestured at the virtual SEND icon on the holodisplay and watched his message to Eyar Marath soar away on wings of … well, whatever such messages soared away on. “I don’t know,” he said. “I suppose I assumed that Five had it or had done whatever he thought appropriate with it. Maybe he gave it to Jax.”
“Doubtful.”
“Why doubtful?”
Rhinann shrugged. “Jax has said nothing about it. And he obviously hasn’t used it.”
“Well, yeah. I kind of think we’d know if he had … considering what it’s supposed to do. But he wouldn’t just use it without warning us.”
“What makes you say that?”
Den gave the Elomin a withering glance. “I know Jax Pavan.” He got up from his workstation. “I just remembered it’s my turn to do the shopping. Gotta run. I’ll see you later.”
“You must realize what could happen if that substance should fall into the wrong hands.”
The words turned Den around in the doorway of the workroom. “Yeah, Rhinann. I’m not a total milking moron. I do get it. But frankly, there’s not a whole lot I can do about it … other than trying to talk my good friend the droid out of doing something abysmally dangerous.”
“So you’re not even curious?”
Den shook his head. “No. Not even.”
“An odd state of mind for a journalist, don’t you think?”
Heat flashed up the back of Den’s neck and around the rims of his ears. “Now, that was just plain low.”
“I only meant—”
“You only meant that you don’t think I’m much of a journalist. Well, maybe I’m not. And maybe I don’t want to be anymore.” Oh, now that was a mature comeback.
Rhinann’s eyes narrowed. “You have it, don’t you?” he murmured. “You’ve got the bota.”
“And you’ve got a loose sanity chip, big guy. There’s no way that I-Five would trust me with that stuff.”
“Nonsense. I can think of no one else he’d trust more.”
Den shook his head. “Well, then you’ve been into the dreamspice, Rhinann. Because I don’t have it, and I don’t much care who does.”
The Elomin didn’t try to stop him again. Den managed to get out of the conapt and make his way down several levels to a little café on the fringes of the Ploughtekal that he frequented. There he ordered himself a hot caf and a steamed bun stuffed with vegetables and meat—the provenance of which it was wisest not to inquire about—and sat at a metal table under an arbor covered with plants that were no more real than the “meat” in the bun.
He had finished his meal and was working on his third cup of caf when he felt watched. He looked up nervously, his eyes drawn to a hooded figure at a booth across the way. The cowled head was turned partially away from him, and he was beset with the sudden fear that he was looking at an Inquisitor. The noise of the market seemed to suddenly grow in volume, and his face felt flushed and hot.
That’s ridiculous. Why should I be afraid of the Inquisitorius? I’m not a Jedi.
Maybe not, said a snarky voice from the back of his head. But you know where one lives.
What should he do? Get up and leave? Order another cup of caf?
The figure turned, presenting a comely profile,