Star Wars_ Fate of the Jedi 08_ Ascension - Christie Golden [61]
Both of his large, lovely eyes with their slitted, dark gold pupils had been utterly ruined.
He sat, tightly bound, no longer proud and boastful and arrogant, but sobbing, producing a soft, cooing sound of deep agony.
“Well,” said Lecersen, “not so cocky now, are you?”
Another soft sob. Lecersen eyed the hovering ball.
“Eethree said he was willing to talk. I trust the interrogation ceased the moment he said so?”
“Such is my programming,” said the IT-O in a deep, chilling monotone. “I am ready to recommence if you so order.”
“Let me hear what he has to say first.”
“His tongue is intact,” the interrogator confirmed.
“Well now, Mahlor,” Lecersen said, “I’m all ears.”
“You … were right,” rasped the Minyavish, his huge head drooping over his plucked, barrel chest.
“I often am. About which part?”
A clacking sound. “W-water?”
“Later. About which part?”
“No … cohorts.” Each word was clearly costing the Minyavish dearly.
Lecersen smiled slowly. “I see. I rather gathered that when, within the allotted hour, absolutely no one contacted me at all. Senators Treen and Bramsin are, I believe, quite happily at dinner at the moment. So, you’ve no fellow conspirators. Who else knows about this evidence?”
Again, the cooing sob. “No one.”
“Come now, all that evidence … or were you lying about that, too? Do I need to order the IT-O to—”
“No!” The word was a shriek ripped from the being’s very core. “Please, please, no! The evidence does exist! I wasn’t making it up!”
It would have been in Mahlor’s benefit to lie, to say that there never was and never had been any hard evidence, just a rumor that he had gambled was true. Instead, he was confirming his earlier threat. Proof enough to Lecersen that the IT-O, once again, was working as intended.
“If you could just write down—oh,” he said. Writing would be rather hard for a blind being. “Tell me what exactly you have, and where I might find it.”
“I told you … p-please, water …”
Lecersen waved a hand. Emitting its unique throbbing, humming sound, the IT-O maneuvered on its repulsors over to the table. Its grasping claw extended, gripped the pitcher, and poured water into the glass. It bore the glass over to Mahlor and pressed it against his mouth.
At once the Minyavish opened wide, gulping and coughing as the droid interrogator poured water into his mouth and down what little plumage remained on his mostly plucked chest.
“Careful,” admonished Lecersen, “we don’t want him to choke.”
At once the droid withdrew, replaced the now-empty glass on the table, and hovered, awaiting its next instructions.
“Tell me what the evidence is and where I can find it,” Lecersen repeated.
Mahlor did. Words spilled out like the water that had spilled down his chest. Lecersen grew a little pale at the litany of names of witnesses, the nature of the recordings, and what exactly was contained on the datachips. And fortuitously enough, all this precious and quite damning evidence was located in a safe-deposit box on Minyavish. Mahlor told him the name of the institution and the box number.
“Astonishing,” Lecersen said, not without a trace of admiration. “That must have been difficult to acquire. Your people might have a fine future ahead of them as spies, once you learn not to go blundering arrogantly into the rancor’s pit.”
“I … can even get it for you,” Mahlor said.
“How?” Lecersen demanded. He dearly hoped that the security didn’t require a retinal scan.
“… code,” he said. “Memorized.”
“You’ll tell me,” Lecersen said.
And it was then that the poor creature realized that he wasn’t going to get out of this room alive. “No, please,” he begged. “I’ll give you everything, then go away …”
“Yes,” Lecersen said affably, “you will.” He turned to the IT-O. “Continue until he reveals the code. Then I’ll dispose of him.”
“Affirmative,” replied the interrogator droid. It thrummed over to bob gently up and down