Star Wars_ I, Jedi - Michael A. Stackpole [118]
Of major import on this level was the central courtyard area. It actually linked up with Diamond Level above it through a massive refitting effort that cored through three decks in the heart of the ship. In this airy well each day was displayed a brilliant holographic presentation of the Thyferra campaign. I noticed that Booster’s role, and that of the Errant Venture, were expanded, and that my role was all but eliminated. That niggled a little bit, but I decided the presentation was theatrical not historical, so hyperbole was bound to creep in.
On Blue Level I visited a tailor who scanned me and started fabricating clothes that would fit my identities. I had him double-check the measurement on my collar. It would have been just like Booster to have him trim three or six centimeters off so I’d choke my way through my trip. The tailor, a Sullustan, cheebled at me that he’d never do such a thing—proper fit was his stock in trade, after all.
Booster’s final effort to get me onto Corellia was a masterwork. He wouldn’t even let me up on Diamond Level—he said just having someone from CorSec on Blue Level was dampening the hedonistic abandon of luxury passengers—but he found me help up there. He convinced a Corellian couple that the only real way to feel the illicit thrill of being a smuggler was trying to smuggle something onto Corellia. He went so far as to say that even though they were Corellians, he didn’t think they could pull it off. They demanded he let them try. He demurred. They pressed. He relented, after they bribed him, and even thanked him for finding them replacement crew members for two of their yacht crew who had run into trouble in a Black Level entertainment establishment.
I had no idea what the couple was smuggling, aside from me, but watching them pretend to be smugglers was rather amusing. When we arrived at the Coronet City spaceport, they decided to brazen out their effort by dumping a hefty bribe on the Customs inspector who greeted them. The inspector, taken aback by the bribe, began to question them closely. His colleagues in Immigration were intrigued with what was going on, and undoubtedly wanted their share of his bribe, so they passed the crew through without more than cursory glances at our identification, then zeroed in on the couple.
Shouldering my two satchels of clothing and equipment, I departed the spaceport and found a fairly clean transient housing facility just off Treasure Ship Row. Despite my having worked the Row in years past, I wasn’t worried about running into old colleagues and being discovered. CorSec had changed through the years—it wasn’t even the Corellian Security Force any more. The Diktat had morphed it into the Public Safety Service, and had exchanged the traditional emerald and black uniforms for something darker and more Imperialistic. The PSS’s mission had become more snoopy and more concerned with maintaining public order than solving crimes.
The past I knew here is dead. A shiver ran down my spine. Treasure Ship Row had changed in the six years I’d been away. It had always been seedy and disreputable, but the bright lights had provided a carnival veneer to the whole place. People of all types had been able to come here and find amusement. Certainly there were places good and respectful folks didn’t go except by accident, but the slight air of menace made the jaunts here more memorable—much like shipping aboard the Errant Venture.
The changes on Treasure Ship Row might have seemed an improvement to many. The main street had been cleaned up considerably. All the paint was fresh, and graffiti was obliterated before it had time to dry. The lighting appeared less garish and the establishments were milder in tone. It had moved from being a place to being a showplace, leaving it all artificial and shallow.
Out and around it, in the area that had not been transformed, the shadows had deepened and the menace festered, until anyone venturing a block away from the safe zone would drown in reality. The government,