Star Wars_ The Old Republic_ Revan - Drew Karpyshyn [94]
“What kind of information?”
“I’m looking for someone. A friend. I need the name of a contact who knows how to find people.”
“People that don’t want to be found?”
“I’d rather not say.”
The storekeeper crossed his arms again and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Make it twelve-five and we have a deal. I’ll even set up the meeting.”
Ten minutes later Meetra walked out of his establishment with twelve thousand, five hundred Imperial credits and an appointment to meet someone called Sechel in two days.
MEETRA WAS SURPRISED by the high-class atmosphere of the Nexus Room.
Over the past two days she’d come to learn that Imperial society was all about status, caste, and class. Clearly her contact was a being of significant rank.
She was greeted at the door by a young human male wearing expensive clothes and a prominently displayed slave collar. Larvit must have provided a description of her, because he seemed to know who she was.
“Welcome to the Nexus Room,” the young man said, casting his gaze respectfully to the ground. “Master Sechel is expecting you.”
In Meetra’s eyes, slavery was one of the most vile and despicable practices in the galaxy. The Republic had officially condemned slavery, though she knew it still existed under euphemisms like indentured service or lifelong personal attendant. And on Hutt-controlled planets, which were outside Republic jurisdiction, individuals were openly bought and sold like chattel. But somehow what she had encountered on Dromund Kaas seemed much worse.
In the Sith Empire slavery was a societal institution, governed by laws and regulations and seemingly accepted without question by the citizens. Slaves were symbols of rank; the wealthy and powerful used them as status symbols to be paraded out in front of their peers.
There was an abject hopelessness in the eyes of the slaves; they were condemned to a lifetime of servitude with no chance of freedom. Even on Hutt worlds slaves could at least dream of one day escaping to the Republic and starting a new life. But in the Sith Empire, slaves had nowhere to run. Every planet would condemn them; at best an escaped slave would be returned to a wrathful owner, or claimed by a new one. Multiple escape attempts were met with public execution—a slow and agonizing death according to what Meetra had seen in the official records from Nathema.
“Forgive me, mistress,” the young man said, bowing low and folding his hands together in a universal gesture of supplication, “but droids are not allowed inside the club.”
“Wait here, Tee-Three,” Meetra said. Her voice was sharp as she fought to contain her outrage at the young man’s circumstances. Unfortunately, the slave thought her barely contained anger was directed at him, and he began to tremble.
She could see the terror in his eyes, and she could only imagine what punishments he would be subjected to if he offended a guest of the club. But he no doubt faced even worse consequences if he were to violate the rules and let T3 accompany her inside.
She didn’t dare offer him any words of comfort. She couldn’t do anything that might draw attention to herself. So she simply had to let the young man suffer, silently hoping his mental anguish would quickly pass once she went inside.
“P-please follow me,” he stammered.
Still trembling, he led her to a table in the back where a Sith in expensive courtier’s clothes was already seated. She could tell by his appearance—and even by the way that he sat—that he was more diplomat than warrior. There was something soft and supple about his appearance; his muscles were not well defined, and he didn’t seem to possess the physical self-awareness common among those who relied on their martial skills to survive. He was clearly part of the aristocracy.
Meetra made a mental note not to underestimate him; what he lacked in physical prowess he probably more than made up for with intellect and cunning.
Sechel dismissed the young slave with a disparaging flick of his wrist, then motioned for her to sit down at the table in the chair across