FORSAKEN III - Shadow Wars

CHAPTER THREE

"Spare some creds for a war veteran," said a clone trooper, offering his helmet as a collection plate. He had disheveled graying hair and beard and wore parts of his dirtied Phase II armor over tattered clothes. Its blue markings belonged to the 501st Legion, nicknamed "Vader's First" after the war. Ignored by the throng, the soldier placed his helmet down and returned to warm his hands on a burning headless R-series astromech droid by a street corner under a small canopy. The sound of credits dropping in his helmet caught him by surprise. "Thank you—Hey, Pantoran. How are you doing?" he said when he looked up, recognizing Syrran.

"Why don't you try this for size, trooper?" said Syrran, handing him a blanket he just bought at a stall on the street market. He wore a hooded poncho and a pair of fake cybernetic eyes covered his peculiar eyes.

"You're a good man." The clone covered himself with the blanket.

Syrran had flashes of all the clones he murdered while posing as an Ubese bounty hunter. Before the Mortis Chamber, Syrran wouldn't have hesitated to kill him for his battalion's role during Operation: Knightfall—behavioral modification biochip be damned. "Hardly," he said. "Just a guy with a soft spot for outcasts. That's all."

"Yeah, well, that's more than most folks care to do these days."

"What's new?"

"The Imps have been doubling up on their patrols lately." The clone veered his eyes toward two stormtroopers walking through the crowd. Another pair on the same block stopped a young Mirialan woman to check her chain code.

"What are they looking for now?"

"Word on the street is that they're looking for a group of Jedi—again. Too bad those Recs can't shoot the broadside of a capital ship. If my brothers and I were still serving, there would be no Jedi to search for." The clones nicknamed the humans that filled the ranks of the Imperial military "Recs," because they were recruited, not created for the job.

Syrran took a beat to answer, "I hear you. Keep dry, Nax."

"In this place?" the clone said as Syrran left. "I'd have a better chance finding a patch of dirt in Coruscant."

Syrran walked to the food stalls interspersed among the myriad of establishments flanking the crowded streets. He leaned against a machine across the way from Swartz BBQ—a grease kitchen with a counter under a three-lamp awning—to wait for a spot to open up, while watching a nearby game of spike dice. His infrared vision picked up a die hidden inside the jacket of one of the players. Swartz, a Muun, called Syrran over when a customer left.

"I'll have the Crait slat gornt," said Syrran, pulling back his hood as he sat on the stool.

"Want to try the spicy nuna? It's fresh," said Swartz, who was lanky, pale, and hairless with flat features on his log face. "It goes well with miasra sauce."

"Start grilling."

"Coming right up." Swartz tossed a few thin cuts on one of the darkened grills and brushed on yellow sauce. "Someone dropped this for you." He produced a business card from his dirty apron and place it on the counter in front of him.

"Who?" Syrran picked it up and recognized the name of a local business, Ryloth Wine.

"A street urchin. Somebody must have paid him."

Syrran took a psychometric reading of the item. Through this rare power, he could see, hear, and even feel those who had held the object, and the info he got was everything he needed to know. "I'll take my order to go," he said.

Later, Syrran entered Ryloth Wine, a busy cantina run and operated by Twi'leks. Dim green lamps provided illumination. Syrran found the owner of the business card sitting by herself in a booth. She was a human dressed in black with her dark hair tied into a single tress. A black and orange helmet with a narrow eye slit rested on the table, as well as two drinks.