Chapter 3: Lies and Credits
The Varkesh touched down in a cloud of sand on a private Mos Eisley landing pad. The silence that followed the engine's cut-off was heavy. In the cargo hold, the briefcase containing the Sith artifact seemed to pulse, even through the metal bulkheads.
"Where do we hide it?" Noah whispered, casting a nervous glance toward the boarding ramp. "If the Imperials or those guys in white show up, we're dead."
Maylan pointed to a secret compartment beneath Noah's galley stove, where he kept his rarest spices.
"Here. No one's going to sift through Kessel pepper and Glee Anselm sea salt. It's the last place anyone would look for dark magic."
The "Rat's Hole"
Twenty minutes later, the two partners entered the Rat's Hole, a dim cantina where the smell of sweat mingled with coolant fluid. In the back, in a booth drowned in shadow, a man in his thirties was waiting for them. This was Loan.
Loan wasn't a fighter. He was a middleman—a man who knew everyone and whom no one noticed. He juggled bounties like others played Sabacc cards.
"Well?" Loan asked in a drawl, sipping a glass of blue milk. "Did you bring back the data module from Jakku? The clients are getting impatient."
Maylan sat down, his face remaining a mask of stone.
"It was a hornet's nest, Loan. The First Order dropped in before we did. We had to bug out before we ended up as a pile of ash. The site is lost."
Noah nodded, feigning perfect disappointment.
"A total waste of time. I almost lost my port wing."
Loan watched them for a long moment, his eyes searching for the slightest micro-expression on Maylan's face. The silence stretched, broken only by the discordant music of a Bith band at the other end of the bar. Finally, he shrugged.
"Shame. 'Black Bounties' are a gamble; that's the game. But I have something else for you. Something more... traditional."
Toward the Core
He placed a small holographic projector on the table. The silhouette of a portly human, dressed in rumpled luxury clothes, appeared in shimmering blue.
"Vaxen Tor. A high-level accountant who 'borrowed' a few million credits from a Rim crime syndicate. He fled to the lower levels of Coruscant. The bounty is standard, but it pays in platinum dataries."
Maylan crossed his arms. Coruscant. The center of the galaxy, now the seat of the New Republic. It was the total opposite of Tatooine: skyscrapers as far as the eye could see and billions of faces to hide among.
"It'll be a nice change from the dust," Noah said, trying to sound enthusiastic despite the knot in his stomach caused by the object hidden on their ship.
"We'll take the contract," Maylan stated, pocketing the projector.
Double Game
As they left the cantina, Loan watched them walk away, a thin smile on his lips. He activated a miniature comlink hidden in his sleeve.
"They came back empty-handed. At least, that's what they say. I'm keeping an eye on them. They're heading for Coruscant."
Outside, Maylan stopped under Tatooine's moon.
"Noah, we're going to do this job for Vaxen Tor. We stay low-profile. We don't talk about what we found on Jakku anymore. If anyone asks about the artifact, we know nothing. Understood?"
"Understood, boss. But May... if that red thing starts singing or making my pots levitate, I'm tossing it out the airlock."
Coruscant looked like nothing Maylan had ever known. From space, the planet was a sparkling pearl, covered in an infinite grid of lights. But as the Varkesh plunged into the traffic lanes, the splendor gave way to a metallic suffocation.
They descended. Lower and lower.
They pierced through the smog clouds, passing the gleaming spires of senators and wealthy merchants, sinking to where the sunlight never reached.
"Welcome to Level 1313," Noah grimaced, checking the landing dials. "The place where the galaxy sweeps its dust under the rug."
Shadow of the Core
Stepping off the ship, Maylan was hit by the smell: a mixture of ozone, cheap frying grease, and stagnant humidity. Here, the "rain" was merely condensation from the upper levels dripping from rusted pipes in the ceiling, miles above.
Flickering neon signs in Aurebesh cast acidic reflections on the waterlogged ground. Battered speeders zipped between the colossal pillars supporting the upper city.
"Stay sharp, Noah," Maylan warned, adjusting his collar. "Down here, they'll kill you for your boots before they even ask your name."
They walked through the crowd. It was a chaos of species: glassy-eyed Rodians, decapitated protocol droids serving as ad stands, and humans with faces etched by exhaustion. Maylan felt an unusual weight in his chest. It wasn't just Coruscant's heavy air. It was a resonance. Even though the Sith artifact remained hidden on the ship, he felt as if he were still carrying its icy warmth in his bones.
The Cold Trail
They stopped in front of a steaming noodle stall. Noah couldn't help but analyze the smell.
"Kwazel-tentacle broth... too much salt, not enough spice," he muttered by professional reflex.
"We aren't here for a food review," Maylan cut him off. "Look."
He pulled out Loan's holoprojector. The image of Vaxen Tor, the fugitive accountant, flickered in the gloom. According to the latest intel, Tor had been spotted in an underground gambling club called "The Silver Sarlacc."
They pushed deeper into a narrow alleyway where the walls seemed to close in with every step. Suddenly, a cry rang out further ahead, followed by a raucous laugh. No one turned around. That was the law of 1313: never mind anyone else's business.
Target in Sight
After two hours of searching the most infamous dives, they arrived at a circular plaza overlooking a ventilation shaft. In the middle of the crowd, near an automated transport terminal, Maylan froze.
Fifty meters away, a man in an oversized traveling cloak, desperately trying to go unnoticed, was nervously checking his watch. His hands were shaking.
"That's him," Noah whispered, his hand sliding toward his disassembled rifle under his jacket. "Vaxen Tor. He looks even more pathetic in person than on the holo."
Maylan didn't move immediately. He scanned the surroundings. Tor wasn't alone. Two hulking figures—Gamorreans in light armor—stood guard a few paces from him.
"No scenes, Noah. We pin him between the two pillars when the transport arrives."
But as Maylan prepared to move forward, he felt a prickle at the base of his neck. A sense of immediate danger. It wasn't Vaxen Tor who worried him, but the feeling that in the shadows of the skyscrapers, other eyes were already watching them.
"Move," Maylan said in a low, authoritative voice. "Now."