Star Wars_ The Approaching Storm - Alan Dean Foster [24]
“And if they do not, but only wound and capture them? Artless as they are, they will surely tell the Jedi who hired them to attempt such a task.”
Soergg’s great belly heaved as he laughed. “Once they commence the operation, they are to report personally to me at prescribed intervals via closed-band comlink. Two nights ago, while they slept the sleep of the simple, I had my own physician install a small device in the neck of each. Should they fail to report”—he tapped one finger into an open, greasy palm—“I will remotely activate the devices. Before they can give away any incriminating information, the very compact explosive charges contained within will separate their heads from their shoulders. Rather messily, I’m afraid.”
“What then, Great One?” Ogomoor was curious to know.
Soergg shrugged, fleshy ripples running in descending waves down his entire flaccid length. “Clanless imbeciles are cheap, even in Cuipernam. If these two fail, we will try again with another pair.”
Kyakhta swirled the lightweight, waterproof robes more tightly around him, the better to hide his face. They were the robes of a member of the Pangay Ous. That was not his clan. He and Bulgan were Tasbir, of the Southern Hatagai. But it felt good to be back in clan gear even if it was not his own, even if it had not been earned.
The robes were necessary to allow them to blend in with the crowds that filled the bustling marketplace. Remembering the small device clipped to his waistband beneath the robes, he fingered it briefly, as per the instructions of their master the Hutt. Soergg had been most insistent that they call in regularly. After all, he had informed them, explaining how the explosive devices implanted in their necks worked, if they failed to check in at the appointed time, they would not live long enough to collect their pay. Kyakhta and Bulgan had been deeply touched by this intimate expression of the Hutt’s concern for their welfare.
There were larger marketplaces on Ansion than Cuipernam’s. In these days of modern intragalactic commerce, the majority of transactions involved little more than an exchange of numbers and symbols. But on many worlds, the old-style, traditional marketplace still retained a warm spot in the hearts of the local inhabitants. Trading by machine might be more efficient, and allow for an infinitely greater variety and volume of goods to be bartered, but there was no joy in it. The delights of doing business face to face remained one of life’s small pleasures in an increasingly automated galactic civilization.
Besides, what did a local specialist vendor of marthan fruit need with the expense and complications of an electronic trading nexus? And how many visitors and gawkers and tourists would a portable information shifter draw to a community’s downtown? Not to mention that face-to-face business provided a way to avoid many taxes. Among those inhabitants of Ansion who were heartily in favor of secession could be counted many notable merchants. It wasn’t so much the taxes themselves that had caused them to distance themselves from the Republic—it was the endless and ever-growing list of rules and regulations. Though these concerns were shared throughout the Republic and had been passed on to the Senate by citizen representatives, like so much else, they seemed never to be acted upon. Isolated and coddled on distant Coruscant, the galactic government had grown ever more divorced from the needs and aspirations of the people it purported to govern.
Kyakhta and Bulgan moved easily through the crowds, though Kyakhta had to keep a close eye on his companion as they wended their way past one stall and shop after another. Innocent that he was, the bent-backed Bulgan had a disconcerting