The driver clicked the call button on his comlink.
"Delivered, sir."
A short pause.
"No, safe and sound... Yes, we're waiting."
The disconnect signal.
"As agreed?" the fighter with the blaster clarified.
"Yes, it'll be in two minutes. We're ordered to wait."
"So you two are mercenaries too..." Nemo drawled regretfully. "Too bad, too bad."
He wasn't answered. However, there was no order to shut up either. The fighters waited silently and patiently, paying no attention to their prisoner – but they didn't lose their vigilance. The blaster barrel still pressed against Nemo's side.
After two standard minutes, a bike stopped nearby. A man in inconspicuous clothing dismounted – that's how some unsuccessful official might dress. What was striking was his demeanor. Too fit and self-assured to be an official, the man approached the car. The escort, as if on command, got out of the cabin and stayed outside, leaving Nemo inside. They kept the doors at gunpoint. And there was no doubt that he couldn't steal the car: they hadn't left the keys in the cabin.
The arrival calmly approached, sat next to the contrabandist, fidgeted, getting comfortable.
"Good day," he greeted politely. "Mr. Nemo, I'll have to ask you a few questions."
"You could have just stopped by for a cup of caf," the contractor smiled good-naturedly, beginning to probe the stranger through the Force, "but since you're here, I'll have to do the same."
"You interfered in my business," his interlocutor seemed not to hear him. Only cold indifference emanated from the Force. "I don't like pointless cruelty; it's a waste of reserves. But whether you leave alive will depend on the answers I get. I need the Duros Jethro. Or information about where he is. Or his body."
"Allow me, but you interfered in my business," the contrabandist objected in the same good-natured voice, "because of which I incurred significant financial losses. Not to mention lost time. And you haven't introduced yourself, by the way. And I don't like doing business with strangers."
Such a long speech had one single goal. Nemo began to slowly and cautiously undermine his interlocutor's consciousness through the Force, calming his mind, lulling his caution, to bring him to a state where he would answer all his questions himself.
A weak response arose – and immediately disappeared. This man had a very strong will.
"You didn't understand me, Mr. Nemo," a warning was clearly heard in his voice. "I'm not going to bargain with you. If you don't answer voluntarily, you will be forced to. And in that case, I cannot guarantee that you will remain alive. Or whole. Depending on the circumstances. Where is the Duros?"
"Where you can't get him," Nemo said without a trace of his former good nature, "I'm not the hostage here. You are. I advise you to start answering my questions quietly, otherwise everything you promised might happen to you. Is that clear?"
With these words, he paralyzed all of his opponent's motor functions.
His interlocutor felt no fear. A brief surge of surprise, an instantly made decision.
"Fire!" the fighters were supposed to hear this command. And they did.
Two blasters spat out a wide cone of stun radiation.
Nemo remained seated, even closed his eyes for greater effect and slid to the side, waiting for the two fighters to approach him. Armor was no obstacle to him. But it was desirable for both to be within reach. If the thought of firing another charge flashed through the minds of this sweet pair... Which was unlikely. A person might not withstand a second consecutive discharge. Their hearts might skip a beat. So now they were supposed to approach, open the door, and then he would neutralize them both.
The fighters were in no hurry. One continued to keep the car at gunpoint. The second began to tear a metal strip from the wall. Someone appeared in the doorway, saw the blaster pointed at him, and hid back.
The time the fighters spent on actions incomprehensible to him, Nemo spent on restoring his body's normal function, and then carefully caught the nearest fighter in his focus, paralyzing him while the second was busy tearing off metal structures, and then his comrade, continuing to pretend to be a log.
When the stunned fighter's blaster clattered onto the plascrete, his partner dropped the iron bar and raised his weapon.
There was no one nearby, and he didn't have time to figure out what was happening – he fell too.
Nemo dove into the Force, surveying the surroundings, looking for other threats to his life. There was a possibility that the unknown person would have a sniper as a backup.
Attention to the lone-standing machine, around which armed men were falling, had already been drawn. But they were in no hurry to approach it – possibly fearing whoever had taken down the militants. Nemo felt someone's attention.
Kontr did not hurry to leave the machine. It still represented some kind of shelter. He didn't want to waste energy breaking down the door. He looked at the door, contemplating how to open it. He had to act quickly. But first, he had to solve another important problem. Nemo felt for his "bracelets" through the Force, carefully moved the locking mechanism of the right one, freeing his hand, then the same trick was done with the left hand. The handcuffs went to the stranger, locking his hands behind his back.
After that, it was not difficult to deal with the locking mechanism of the door. Nemo unlocked the door, preparing to open it to move towards the distant militant for his blaster. He was ready to return to the cover of the machine at any moment.
The smuggler couldn't get far. As soon as he touched the door of the car to open it, a charge from the hull hit his hand.
The twilight state is a very peculiar thing. The double discharge from the hull did not kill the smuggler and did not even completely extinguish his consciousness. He could see and hear. But he did not comprehend what was happening and could not move.
Nemo saw someone slam the rear doors, get behind the wheel, and drive off.
He was floating...
Or flying. He couldn't understand, but he knew one thing for sure: he was being carried somewhere, dragged. Strangely, he couldn't remember who he was, where he was, or where he was being carried.
Around...
Everything around swam in incomprehensible circles in swirls. And then came the realization that he, an abstract being, also could not move. And was he even a being? He thought, and therefore existed. And therefore, he was still a being. So, the question of who he was, was fundamental and stood at the forefront of everything.
What happened? Something important, he didn't remember what, but he felt the importance of the event. And at the same time, he was tormented by shame, reproach, and an echo of fear. He could also be afraid, it turned out. Kk... Like whom? He wasn't like everyone else? An unfamiliar word surfaced. Gifted.
Gifted with what? By whom? How?! All the questions floated by without answers, he wanted to run, fight, cry. All at once. Somewhere in the background, a man with disheveled hair, about forty years old, surfaced. He was surprised when he heard about giftedness. Whom? The first name surfaced. Rimon Rok.
Who is he? Me?!
The answer was ambiguous. Neither no, nor yes.
Was he him once? But what happened?
Rimon Rok died, became part of the universe. But he didn't. Then who is he? The answer came with a child's laughter. He is no one. No one in nowhere and in never, flying into nowhere. The answer did not suit him. He had to know exactly where he was flying. Why was he flying, not floating? He liked this word more. He liked to fly. He loved the feeling of flight. Who was he?
A pilot?
The answer came almost immediately, affirmative. A pilot, a captain. But he was. Now he was no one.
Then why is he here?
For answers, for the safety of friends. He had to do something important. Meet someone. Do something. But what? He remembered a hotel. Or a motel? Grenades bouncing off the air at the threshold of his room against all laws of physics. Two in armor. What was there? He didn't know. He remembered, but he didn't know. He didn't comprehend everything he remembered.
This cannot be!
It can. Consciousness, as if in slow motion, replayed a phrase that ended with "Mister Nemo." Nonsense. In one of the dead languages, Nemo means Nobody. He remembered this from a book he once read.
"Nemo. Is that me?"
And the answer was neither no, nor yes. He was him now. But he wasn't always him. He became him quite recently.
"But what am I doing here?"
He was being taken somewhere. Before that. There was a fight. Then another. And twice he had the upper hand. Why was he in this state? Two moments flashed in his head. A man in armor breaking rebar – and him, or someone like him, shooting at the machine with a stun discharge.
Residual energy?
He was paralyzed due to residual energy. How stupid. His mind had been knocked out of its usual picture, and now he was being taken somewhere. The first question in importance was somehow not "where," but "who?" He had... allies who could have arrived in time to help. Or they might not have.
He needed to regain his ability to act. To return to the real world from this twilight. But how?
How?
The answer was whispered to him. The Force. He could return with its help. For some reason, understanding how to do it came with the answer. But how exactly to apply his knowledge? After all, he always relied on what he could do, manipulate. But how to manipulate now? When he imagined himself as a piece of consciousness without protection, like a person without clothes.
Trust it. Not just float, but let the stream of energy pass through himself, carrying away everything unnecessary, returning at least the ability to realize himself in his body. And then he could act.
His effort was unexpectedly supported: an invisible presence guided him, suggesting how to get himself in order faster. But it did not identify itself in any way, and it was impossible to understand who it was yet.
The alien presence was simultaneously encouraging and alarming. It could be both allies and enemies, interested in getting him in order as quickly as possible. But now he decided to accept help. His life had long taught him that everything offered for free should be accepted and put to use, because such gifts of fate are rare.
The first thing the guy felt was a tingling in his numb arms and legs, but he couldn't allow himself to come to his senses immediately. He had to spend time restoring his body. The first thing Nemo did was to suppress the pain receptors. His head was splitting, his body ached, he couldn't work in such a state. After sending a few waves of the Force through his body, he achieved a state where a slight migraine did not bother him, then he began to work with his circulatory system, accelerating stagnation and stimulating it where necessary. When he decided he was strong enough to find out who was driving the militants' speeder, he opened his eyes.
"Good morning," Larrius greeted him. "If you don't mind, pretend you're out cold. I'm going to turn you in to the client now."
"And isn't he," Nemo nodded towards the stranger, "the client?"
"This is a different client," the mercenary replied calmly. "I have my own order. They really want Jetro's cargo. We've arrived..."
The speeder was landing in some hangar in an unfamiliar sector.
"Hutt's spleen," Nemo sighed, "how many people around need me."
With these words, he settled comfortably in his seat, leaning his head back and letting the Force flow through him. Seeing him in this state, an outside observer could feel the serenity and detachment that comes with unconsciousness.
The machine slid into the open hangar gates and stopped. The mercenary opened the door and got out, followed by a fluffy shadow. Approaching footsteps were heard.
"Is this really him?" a raspy voice sounded.
"I didn't find my reputation in a junkyard," Larrius replied. "The shaggy guy in the back seat. You won't mistake him. Don't touch the second one. It's not yours."
"Wow..." someone peered into the machine, but didn't have time to touch Nemo.
"Money," the mercenary reminded him. "First, money. Then you can take him apart for spare parts."
A disgruntled grumble was heard, the client moved away from the machine.
"Here's the credit card," Nemo heard. "Bearer."
"For the full amount? Let me check... Yes. Are we square?"
"Square," the client confirmed.
"Excellent."
The sound of a heavy body falling was heard.
Nemo touched what was happening outside with the Force, not daring to open his eyes.
Near the machine, Larrius and Bus were found alive and unharmed. And a completely dead body, which had just been alive.
A quiet click was heard.
"This is Larrius. Your order is complete. Accept the camera recording... Yes, a bonus won't hurt. Thank you. Call again."
The signal of a dropped call.
"That's it, you can come to your senses."
"Plans within plans?" Nemo practically fell out of the machine, barely staying on his feet, and with almost painful pleasure finally began to stretch his limbs. "Anyone else want Jetro or his cargo?"
"Why refuse if the money comes into your hands?" Larrius shrugged. "The rest are small fry, not dangerous. And no one will pay for them. But this one..." she glanced at the machine. "You caught an important bird."
"Uh-huh, only couldn't get out of the cage," Nemo said with a wry smile. The annoyance at the stupid miscalculation didn't go away. "I think he needs to be tied up before bringing him to his senses. He can cause problems. Will this hangar do?"
"Quite," the mercenary replied serenely. "I'm renting it for my business. As for 'couldn't'... You're not a militant. How would you know you could get caught like this?"
"That's an excuse," Nemo said reproachfully. Excuses were only needed when you were guilty. And he felt guilty. He should have guessed. But he didn't. If only he could suffer now, then in the future... He couldn't afford such miscalculations. "It's my mistake. I'll be more careful next time. I need a chair and ropes."
Nemo went into the machine and looked at the stranger, checking if he was still unconscious.
"He won't wake up until Bus allows it," Larrius intercepted his gaze. "There are no chairs here. Will a container do for you? It's quite impressive when you come to your senses in a starfish pose."
Pulling the man out of the machine, he looked at the containers.
"It'll do. If there's something to secure him in that star pose," something unpleasant squeezed in his chest. He didn't want to resort to torture. Again.
Larrius handed him a package of disposable handcuffs.
"There are brackets in the corners, for a lift," the mercenary's gaze was attentive and inquisitive. "Should I leave?"
"It's better if he doesn't see anyone but me," Nemo neither said yes nor no. Let Larrius decide for herself where to be. "He should concentrate only on me. But he will remain alive... And whole, if possible."
With these words, he began to fasten the body to the container.
The mercenary nodded and slowly walked somewhere into the depths of the hangar. Bus, as usual, darted into the shadows and disappeared from view. He could only be found now with the help of the Force.
When everything was ready, Nemo sat on the hood of the machine and reached out to the unknown's body with the Force, bringing him to his senses.
Somewhere, a perfectly articulate "meow!" was heard. The prisoner flinched, then froze. His muscles tensed almost imperceptibly – he was checking if he could move. And only after being convinced of the opposite, he opened his eyes.
"I told you," Nemo began friendly, "it would have been better to have a cup of caf, to talk. Instead of playing charades."
Just in case, the guy examined the sleeves, collar, and all the stranger's clothes through the Force, looking for poison or any other substance that could cut short this conversation.
"Let's start all over again," he smiled. "You haven't introduced yourself."