Star Wars_ Darth Maul 02_ Shadow Hunter - Michael Reaves [14]
The bartender, a Bothan, glanced at Lorn, then shrugged and moved on down the bar. A Duros wearing spacer’s togs and sitting nearby looked at them, seeming to register the droid’s presence for the first time. “You let your droid decide how much you can drink?” he asked Lorn.
“ ’S not my droid,” Lorn said. “We’re partners. Business associates.” He pronounced the words carefully.
The Duros flickered nictitating membranes over his eyes in a sign of surprise and disbelief. “You’re telling me that droid has citizenship status?”
“He’s not telling you anything,” I-Five said as he turned to face the Duros, “largely because he’s so drunk he can barely stand. I’m telling you to mind your own business. My status in galactic society is not your concern.”
The Duros glanced around, saw that the rest of the tavern’s patrons were rather pointedly ignoring the exchange, shrugged, and went back to his drink. I-Five pulled Lorn off the bar stool and aimed him in the direction of the door. Lorn walked, weaving, across the room, then turned and faced the tavern.
“I was somebody, once,” he told the group, most of whom didn’t bother to look up. “Worked uplevels. Penthouse suite. Could see th’ mountains. Damn Jedi—they did this to me.” Then he turned and walked out, I-Five following.
Outside, the air was chill, and Lorn could feel a small amount of sobriety returning. The sun had set, and the long twilight of the equatorial regions had begun.
“Guess I told ’em, didn’t I?”
“Absolutely. They were riveted. I’m sure they can’t wait for the next thrilling installment. In the meantime, why don’t we go home before one of the colorful locals decides to see how fast alcohol-soaked human tissue burns?”
“Good idea,” Lorn agreed as I-Five took his arm and started walking.
They passed sidewalk vendors offering bootleg holos, glitterstim, and other illegal items for sale. Beggars of various species, wrapped in tattered cloaks, pawed at them for alms. They entered the nearest kiosk entrance to the underground, descending a long-broken escalator that ended in a winding corridor. It had been warm on the surface; down here it was like a sauna. The mingled body odor of various unwashed beings moving through the passageway, combined with the fungal reek permeating the walls, verged on hallucinogenic. Why can’t they all smell like Toydarians? Lorn wondered.
They turned down a narrow side passage, its walls and ceiling a complex pattern of pipes, conduits, and cables. Flickering luminescent strips at irregular intervals provided dim illumination. Granite slugs oozed along the floor, requiring Lorn to pay attention to where he stepped—no small task in his condition. Eventually they reached the third in a series of recessed metal doors, which he opened after several tries with his keycard.
The windowless cubicle, a cell carved from the city’s massive ferrocrete foundation, was designed for single occupancy, but since Lorn’s roommate was a droid, they were not particularly cramped for space. There were a couple of chairs, an extensible wall cot, a tiny refresher, and a kitchenette barely big enough for a nanowave and food preserver. The compartment was spotlessly clean—another advantage of having a droid around.
Lorn sat on the edge of the cot and stared at the floor. “Here’s all you need to know about the Jedi,” he announced.
“Oh, please—not again.”
“They’re a bunch of self-serving, sanctimonious elitists.”
“I have this entire rant recorded, you know. I could play a holo at fast speed; it would save time.”
“ ‘Guardians of the galaxy’—don’t make me laugh. All they’re interested in guarding is their way of life.”
“If I were you—a hypothetical situation the mere mention of which threatens to overload