Star Wars_ Millennium Falcon - James Luceno [52]
The sight that had widened his eyes the most was a band of Mandalorians strapped into their cumbersome trademark armor and marching down a spaceport concourse like they owned the place. A near-mythic group when Jadak was piloting for the Republic Group.
In many ways, the galaxy seemed as wide open as it had been in the years preceding the Trade Federation's embargo of tiny Naboo. Human travelers no longer had to wonder every time they dealt with a Gossam or a Koorivar or a Muun, or watched a pack of Geonosians hurrying into one of their organic-looking starships, if they had just crossed paths with an enemy agent. But if even distant star systems were more accessible, beings of all species seemed more self-absorbed, quieter about who they were and whatever business they were up to. There was something purposeful in the way they spoke and moved; something about them that struck Jadak as driven. Maybe that was the reason for all the tight security. The current regime wanted everyone marching in step. Disturbances to the hard-won peace, by accident or design, would not be tolerated. The cams and scanners that tracked everyone's movements seemed to say: Your actions are being monitored, and we don't care that you know.
Jadak hadn't liked running out on Aurora the way he did. He owed Sompa and the rest for at least prolonging his life, if not precisely saving it. But he couldn't forgive the fact that they had tried to toy with him. Tracing him wouldn't likely pose a problem for anyone with a speck of know-how, but Jadak thought there might be some advantage to getting a running start. With any luck he'd be able to hold on to the lead until he could be fitted with a new identity, which on Nar Shaddaa used to mean only a couple of hours. Now he wasn't so sure.
At Balmorra Spaceport, feigning interest in seeing how his new legs looked on the display screen, he had bribed a Bothan security agent to allow him a peek at his scanner image. The everyday identity chip Aurora had implanted in his wrist showed clear as day, but nothing else leapt off the screen. If the Smugglers' Moon was still the criminal paradise he remembered, he would have himself scanned for locator chips, as well.
Provided that his credits held out.
The galactic jump had eaten deeply into the ten thousand he had received from Core Life. If he kept spending at the same rate, he'd be looking for a job long before he caught up with the Stellar Envoy— assuming it was still in one piece somewhere, under someone's command.
In Aurora's library he had read that Nar Shaddaa, much like Obroa-skai, had suffered greatly during the war with Yuuzhan Vong. Obroa-skai had even hosted a war coordinator. But Jadak was encouraged by what he saw and heard on passing from customs into Nar Shaddaa Spaceport's main terminal. Beyond the terminal's floor-to-ceiling window panes rose the ancient, kilometers-high refueling spires and loading docks he remembered from a lifetime ago. The reek of widespread pollution was beyond the capacity of the terminal's air scrubbers. And if nothing else, Vertical City was still the loudest place in the galaxy. The moon's residents were so accustomed to outyelling the decibel racket of construction droids, deliberately loud skimmers, blasting radios, and blasterfire that whenever or wherever a Nar Shaddaan was encountered, you could be assured of a high-volume conversation.
Angling for the exits, Jadak waded deeper into the mixed-species crowd. Short of the automatic doors, he stopped to gaze at a bewildering splash of advertising holodata that crowned them—images of hotels and restaurants, come-ons for transport to different sectors of the ecumenopolis, and other local services. Only weeks into his new life and he was already wondering if he would