"Yes," the Hutt drawled, in its slow, ponderous native tongue. Almost all Hutts understood a wide variety of languages -- when sheer girth denied you even basic mobility, Sirus reflected, the intellectual pursuits were probably all you had -- but none spoke aloud anything but Huttese. "You once again please me, human. I did not think that it would be possible to take poor Veeril alive."

"Didn't think it would be, Zulga, or hoped it wouldn't be?" Sirus asked. The enormous slug of a creature before him was seated on a massive litter, which itself sat upon an elevated platform. No doubt Zulga favored having the height advantage for intimidation purposes, but Sirus had dealt with him enough that neither party put any effort into intimidation. The Hutt was the owner of one of the many Bounty Offices in lower Coruscant. "Veeril will have some interesting things to say to Imperial Security."

The great Hutt shrugged and chuckled. "One is the same as the other, my dear human. It does not matter either way; the Empire will pay more for Veeril alive, and the extra profit will be channeled into ensuring that they do not divulge to higher authorities any secrets about me or my activities." To Sirus' right, the tiny Rodian was led away in restraints by a pair of Gammoreans, muttering angrily and throwing vicious looks at him. At one time, Zulga would have been forced to hide the fact that he worked for and with a variety of crime lords and was at least as crooked as most of the criminals he paid mercenaries like Sirus to bring in. But, the Imperial authorities were much more forgiving than those who had policed the city world during the Republic's ownership of it -- or at least more ready to make deals with devils like Zulga.

"I should've known," Sirus muttered, and the Hutt laughed again.

"Ah, human, please do not tell me that the reason you brought Veeril in alive was to cause trouble for me. What a misguided effort!"

"I won't say the thought didn't cross my mind, Zulga."

The Hutt laughed merrily. Sirus knew that he was nothing more than a hired gun to Zulga, and Zulga knew that he was nothing more than a temporary source of credits to Sirus; the two had reached a mutual understanding that allowed them to ignore the occasional barbs and considerable enmity between them. "It is always good to have you around, human. Always amusing."

"Yeah, yeah," Sirus muttered. He looked anxiously about the small room as a speeder passed dangerously close to the transparisteel window only ten feet to his left. Zulga's Bounty Office was always filled with questionable characters; bounty hunters, mercenaries, crooks, thieves and murderers. The sort that Sirus was suprised weren't the subject of numerous bounties themselves. And though he'd earned some small amount of respect for the contracts he'd fullfilled, he was still no more than a young man; his exact age was a mystery even to him, but he thought that twenty-one standard galactic years was a fair guess. He found the seedy crowd around him as intimidating as any young man would. "I need a new contract, Zulga. The rent doesn't pay itself. What do you have?"

"Hmm," Zulga said, drool oozing from his gigantic mouth. "Well, I do have one... but it's dangerous, yes, too dangerous for a human child I think..."

Sirus nodded. "Yeah, yeah. Give it up."

"Well," Zulga said, "it involves the Razor Skalds, the swoop gang, I am sure you've heard of them?"

Sirus grunted. "I'm not your assassin, Zulga. I only take government contracts, you know that -- none of this garbage from Jikal Veneer, or any of your other 'friends'."

"Not my assassin?" Zulga grunted, his large face feigning an incredulous look. "But you took care of that Rodian gang for me, very nicely I might add. Certainly looked like an assassination to me."

"That was an accident, Zulga. A minor misunderstanding. Apparently the Rodian word for 'mother' sounds very similar to the one for 'swoop bike'. It wasn't my fault -- not at all." Sirus grimaced. It really had been an accident. His command of Rodian, while considerable, was apparently not quite up to conversational level, as he'd somehow incited the five Rodians to attack him as he attempted to explain that Jikal Veneer had determined that they had tampered illegally with other riders' Swoop bikes during the last rally. "Now, if you're just going to waste my time, Zulga, I'll be off. I hear that Kivan Glee-squa is hiring out mercenaries for protection during a bit of business on Thyferra -- "

"No, no, no, human. Stay. This task does not involve assassination, and I assure you that it has been posted by Imperial Security. The Razor Skalds, it seems, have taken prisoner some sort of former Republic official, who currently is in the employ of Qar Unlimited. A Jedi, of some sort, actually. Apparently, the Skalds didn't feel that it was appropriate for Qar to be scouting out a place to set up business on Coruscant in an area dangerously close to their territory, and they attacked. Only this Jedi survived. The Empire wishes him... retrieved."

"A Jedi?" Sirus asked. "On Coruscant. And the Empire wants him retrieved. Sorry, Zulga, but I don't do political contracts, either. The last thing I want is for some rebels to come and blow up my appartment after I hand over one of their friends over to the Empire for execution."

"You misunderstand again, my human friend. I assure you, the Empire does not intend execution for this Jedi. He has renounced the Republic -- which is dead, anyway, need I remind you -- and Qar Unlimited is prepared to pay Imperial Security handsomely for his retrieval."

Sirus still seemed skeptical. "And just how did a gang of Swoop bike-riding scum with the collective intelligence of a Coruscant granite slug capture a Jedi, to begin with?"

"He was injured in the assault, presumably. If you wish to find out for yourself, the contract is yours..." One of Zulga's many protocol droids shuffled up beside Sirus, offering him a datapad in one of its hands.

Sirus eyed Zulga for a minute more, then snatched the datapad from the droid.

"Informants tell us that he will be transported from the Razor Skald compound to a... more secure location tomorrow, at 1700 hours. I suggest you catch them then."



Sirus walked out of the office, onto one of Coruscant's many catwalks. The street was dark, even though it was daytime; the tall towers above enshrouded lower Coruscant in partial darkness for almost all of the day, save for noon. Speeders whizzed by above and below the catwalk.

"You. Boy. You pay attention to Menol!" Said a water voice in the Rodian tongue. Sirus stopped, sighing slightly. Several sets of footsteps could be heard behind him. The buggers had obviously waited for him outside Zulga's Bounty Office after they'd seen him bring Veeril in. "Hey, boy, you stupid? Or just deaf?"

"Stupid, deaf boy could not have captured poor Veeril," said another of them remorsefully. Slowly, Sirus spun on his heel. Three Rodians, all dressed in sets of thrown-together combat garb, had formed a semi-circle around him. "Very sneaky, you are, Onasi. Slipping sedative into Veeril's drink and then stunning his friends. Very sneaky indeed."

"Me no care how the Onasi boy did it," said the third. "He deserves retribution. But we will not be setting out blasters on stun, no no, will we, Menol?"

"Not at all."

Sirus sighed slightly. "Look, guys, trust me, Veeril is better off that I captured him. If one of Zulga's other slugs had gotten to him before me, his brains would be pasted on the wall of Zexor's Cantina."

"He as good as dead with Imperials!" Shouted the one called Menol.

"And you're as good as dead if you fight me. Remember how I took care of Malakart?" Malakart had been a trandoshan bounty hunter, who commanded quite a great deal of fear and respect among the various lowlifes of Sirus' district of lower Coruscant. That was, until he'd gone too far with one of his bounties, and tortured a bouncer at a cantina for information -- a bouncer who just happened to be the disowned son of a local Imperial politician. Disowned or not, the politician had not been pleased, and Sirus had been only too happy to kill a being who had a reputation for brutality and slaughter.

Two of the Rodians seemed to be very convinced by this. "Onasi boy right, Menol. Not good idea to pick fight with him. Bad business."

"I think we go, Menol..."

"No!" Shouted Menol. "Do you two remember what he's done to poor Veeril? We get him for that!" And, to no one's great suprise, Menol's hand dropped to his belt, pulling out a blaster. He pointed the thing at Sirus. "Now we see how tough you are, Onasi! Tough enough to take blaster bolt to face?"

Sirus was immediately on his toes. He waited as long as he dared, trying to gague when the Rodian would pull the trigger. At the last second, he leapt aside, mere milliseconds before the now-enraged alien fired on empty space. Rolling up from the dive, Sirus' twin blasters -- weapons that did not match, one being a basic blaster of Coruscant design, the other being an old-style Zystel III model of Zabrak make -- were out, and trained on Menol. He fired one shot from the Zabrak blaster, hitting the Rodian in the leg, and spraying blood onto the catwalk's floor and safety barriers.

The Rodian screamed its high-pitched scream, dropping his blaster and clutching his leg. "Little human slime! Filth!" The weapon slid across the ground to about halfway between the two of them. The alien's throes of agony ceased as both combatants locked eyes on the weapon. As Menol leapt towards it, Sirus holdstered his Zystel III blaster and, gripping the business end of his other weapon, took a quick step towards Menol and smashed him across the face with the butt of the gun even before he landed on the fallen blaster.

Menol, now dazed and confused, missed grabbing for the blaster by about two inches. Sirus promptly picked up the weapon, sticking it into his belt along with the other one.

"Now, neither of you try that again," he said, and turned away from them, and headed, somewhat shaken, back to his appartment.

Sirus' landlord was an Ithorian by the name of Bok-lok, which Sirus assumed to be either a very bizarre nickname or a perfectly normal Ithorian name. He'd never bothered to ask, and in accordance with Bok-lok's policy regarding all tenants, the Ithorian had returned the favor. No questions, no records, and no deals with authorities; that was the shady alien's motto, and while it had at first disturbed Sirus to note the slimy batch of miscreants that comprised his fellow tenants, this alone had been more than enough to attract him to permanent residence in Bok-lok Appartments.

Bok-lok was, as always, at the front counter when Sirus entered the appartment complex. The walls of the room, like the rest of the complex, were scarred with a variety of blaster shots, vibroblade cuts, and stains of questionable origin. The young mercenary threw back a lock of dark hair, nodding pleasantly to the Ithorian. On Imperial Coruscant, many aliens were granted very little respect, particularly from humans; and Sirus, with his short dark hair and muddled green eyes, seemed to be as pure-blood human as they came. Yet he'd always treated Bok-lok well, and for this -- though he'd never make it known -- the alien was grateful.

"Ah, my favourite tenant," the Ithorian rasped in his native tongue, turning his attention away from the holonet access terminal he'd been using. He seemed to move himself to block the blue glow of whatever he'd been viewing. Sirus was sure he'd read somewhere that Ithorians were noble creatures who respected and cherished life in all of its forms. The obvious clash between this reputations and Bok-lok's slimy nature was, Sirus assumed, part of the reason he was living in lower Coruscant -- not that he had a home to return to, after Ithor's destruction.

"Hey, Bok-lok," Sirus said, ignoring the Ithorian's actions. Whatever questionable business the alien had been conducting with the holonet terminal, the young man didn't care to know. "How's life treating you?"

"Oh, you know, so-so. The Mandalorian on floor B can't seem to keep his fights to himself... stumbled in drunk last night, bruised and cut up like he'd been put through a food synthesizer. Then, ten minutes later, three humans run through here, ask for his room number, and go up there." The Ithorian sighed. "Bang, bang, bang, for about twenty minutes! Then this morning the Mandalorian is lugging three big garbage recepticals, taking them out to the trash compactor!"

"Well, you do have that 'Don't ask' policy, Bok-lok. What kind of people did you think you'd be attracting, Jedi?"

Bok-lok chuckled uneasily. "It doesn't extend to when you're killing people in my appartment and then crushing them into cubes out back! But, of course, I can't say anything to him, because he doesn't speak Ithorian."

Ithorians, because of their bizarre vocal configuration, could not speak basic. But Bok-lok, unlike most landlords, prized credits more than tenants to whom he could communicate his displeasure with their habit of commiting murder in their rooms. Sirus was one of the few tenants who did understand Ithorian. He'd always had a gift for picking up languages; after a day around an alien, he understood a few words, in a week he could form basic sentences, in half a month he could carry out a conversation. Bok-lok had been immensely pleased with Sirus' desire to learn Ithorian, when he'd first begun leasing a room in his complex. "I'll have a word with him later, if you want."

"Ah, yes, that would be excellent."

Sirus leaned on the counter, looking the strange alien right in the eye. "I need some information, Bok-lok. I know we've got at least one Razor Skald living in this appartment, and I know that I'm not the only one who talks to you."

The Ithorian's large eyes blinked innocently. "You know the policy, my human friend... don't ask. No inquiries, no deals with authorities."

"Do we have to do this every time?"

"Do what every time?"

Sirus sighed. "Everyone has their price. What'll it be this time?"

The Ithorian contemplated this for a moment. "Fifty credits."

"Thirty-five."

"I have to make a living, human!" The Ithorian exclaimed indignantly. "Forty, no less."

"Deal. Word is that the Skalds have some sort of Jedi captured -- he works for Qar Unlimited. Heard anything about it?"

The Ithorian shrugged. "I may have. What do you need to know?"

"Word is they'll be moving him tomorrow, to a safer compound." Sirus supressed a smirk. "I need to know how they'll be doing it."

"More work for Zulga, no doubt," the Ithorian said, shifting. Bok-lok had no problem with accepting the credits that being a source of information generated, but coughing up the information itself was like pulling teeth. Sirus wasn't entirely sure if Ithorians had teeth, but this one seemed to. "Well, I can tell you that the Razor Skalds still have that armored speeder they stole from the Durosian GalBank. And one of them might have mentioned to me that it's the most secure thing the Skalds have."

Sirus nodded. "Thanks, Bok-lok."

"Hey, no problem. Just remember old Bok-lok when you're a big famous mercenary tracking crooks for the Empire, eh?" The Ithorian chuckled uneasily again.

"I hope I won't be doing this that long."

"Look, pal, how much are they paying you to make this run?" Sirus asked, fixing the Twi'lek with a serious look. "It can't possibly be enough. I'll pay you to let me finish the run." The Twi'lek in question was the pilot of a large transport speeder, who had stopped in a Coruscant diner before finishing his run. The speeder was hauling some sort of nondescript fuel to a factory on the other side of the world.

The Twi'lek mulled this over. "How much?" Was his final response, spoken in native Twi'lek, which Sirus had only a very basic command of.

"Two hundred."

The alien gave Sirus a suspicious look. "How do I know you'll finish this run? I don't know why you're doing this, but if that rig doesn't make it back to company headquarters, I am as good as dead. The speeder and everything on it are Dego Industries property."

Sirus put on his most charismatic smile. The two stood outside the diner, with the transport speeder only meters behind the Twi'lek. The young man had begun to wonder if it might not have been wiser to simply steal the speeder and be done with it, but he reminded himself that it was best to cause as little of a stir as possible. "Come on, pal. I'm just looking to earn some easy money. In the time it would've taken you to finish hauling this load, you can get two more short-range jobs and have earned it all back and then some."

This seemed to convince the Twi'lek. "Alright, then. Take it." He handed Sirus a small datacard, and, after he was given his credits, started away. "Company headquarter co-ordinates are in the onboard computer. Enjoy."

Sirus thanked him and walked towards the speeder. When he inserted the datacard in one of the slots on the side door, the pressure seal hissed, and the door swung open upwards. He climbed in, and the door automatically shut itself. The speeder was about ten meters long, all one piece, with the rear cargo section of the craft being more rectangular and the front narrowing down into a sleek cockpit.

Immediately, Sirus began to tap away at the onboard computer. It was a basic blue-panel viewscreen computer, probably about two or three years old. Modern enough to be easily recognized, old enough to be outdone with a few slicers' tricks. Sirus had lucked out. Tapping a few buttons, he said, "Activate automated pilot system."

A cold, metallic, and vaguely male voice found on most modern protocol droid models replied, "The automated pilot system is a restricted function." Sirus nodded; he'd assumed this would be the case. Shipping companies didn't want their pilots just automating the journies across Coruscant; there was just too much traffic for them to safely allow a droid brain to move precious cargo.

Sirus hit a few more buttons. He reached one hand into either pocket of his jacket. From one, he pulled a small, sharp instrument. From the other, a small vibrodagger. He reached under the computer panel, feeling around for the wiring systems. One of the larger wires caught his attention. He cut the Kashyyykan rubber coating from it with the vibrodagger, and inserted the sharp instrument between the smaller wires that twisted together to comprise the larger one. "Activate automated pilot system," he said again.

"The automated pilot system is - " the voice began, but immediately stopped. Sirus had pressed the button on the end of the sharp instrument, automatically assaulting the computer with loads of garbage data. The voice began to sputter at a high pitch, and the blue panels of the computer went black.

Sirus immediately began hitting buttons, entering several generic commands for an automatic restart. One of them worked, and the screens flashed back to life. Nothing, however, was displayed on them. Quickly, he hit a few more keystrokes for override commands; one of these, too, worked. A few moments passed, and the computer finally replied, "Override accepted. Automated pilot system activated."

A small map sprung to life on the screen.



It was about an hour later that Sirus stood on another Coruscant street corner. Upper Coruscant was a great deal different than its lower counterpart; the catwalks that formed the pedestrian roads were brightened by the pale orange sun, with much of the great city that covered almost all of Imperial Center's surface suspended below. The feeling of vertigo was palpable to any who cared to gaze off the edge of the streets.

The commlink at Sirus' waste buzzed slightly, and he grabbed the metallic cylindar, speaking into it. "Onasi."

"Yeah, it's me. They've left. Going up 45th. They should be at the Xelion Towers, now."

Sirus had bribed one of the young guards who operated the speeder bay of the Razor Skald compound to contact him. It hadn't been hard; it was well known that the Skalds grossly underpaid all but their most cherished allies, and the young man - who was really little more than a boy - had been only too happy to accept a small payment from a similarly aged man who seemed to be a sympathetic ear. Sirus had always been able to charm others when it was necessary.

He would have to time this right. If he ordered the now-automated Dego Industries speeder forward too soon, it would allow the Razor Skald group to turn off at the gap between buildings - sometimes referred to as a hoverlane, and numbered as the 45th was - and avoid the calamity that Sirus planned to cause altogether. Too late and they'd be gone.

Just beyond the next hoverlane intersection, Sirus could see the Razor Skald speeders move out of the shadow of one of Coruscant's massive buildings. Quickly, he pulled his datapad from his jacket, and looked across the hoverlane before him. On the opposite side, across the mighty chasm seperating them, was the transport speeder. With the press of a button, it hovered into the air. Sirus looked at the numerous speeders whizzing past in the hoverlane. Figuring then to be a good time as ever, he pressed another button, and the transport lumbered forward - directly into the paths of the oncoming traffic.

The screech of airbrakes rang through the air as one, and then another, of the smaller speeders struck the larger one. One bounced off and continued its flight; the other became embedded in the cockpit of the speeder, metal wrending metal. Luckily, both craft's antigravity systems stayed intact, and the damaged speeders continued to float in the hoverlanes, intwined. The Razor Skald craft crept forward, slowly bringing itself to a hault behind the traffic now building up behind the accident.

Very few of the speeders - least of all the bulky, ungainly Durosian GalBank speeder - dared pass the two, as the warnings of explosive fuel were rather plain to read on the side of the damaged transport speeder. Sirus ran across the street he was currently on, one which snaked around one of Coruscant's buildings, towards the wide catwalk that connected his side to the other. Just past the catwalk was the Durosian speeder, stopped dead in its tracks.

As he ran, Sirus reached into his jacket once again, and pulled his Zystel III blaster from his belt, attaching a grappling hook add-on to the weapon. Finally, he reached the middle of the catwalk, and stared up at the speeder massive speeder, which could have passed itself off as a hovertank, roughly twenty meters above him. For what seemed light a very long minute, he debated walking away, and going back to his appartment. But then, he needed the credits. He'd never gotten any job done by sitting around and debating internally.

Aiming at the rear of the speeder, Sirus fired, watching the hook attach itself to the end of the craft, propelled by the blaster shot. He felt the line tighten as it took hold. And then, ensuring his grip was tight, he hit the retract button on the grappling hook attachment, letting the powerful fusion motor do its work. Instantly, frighteningly, he was pulled into the air.

It was over in seconds, and he hung on the edge of the craft, the catwalk frighteningly far below him, the endless, dark abyss leading down to Coruscant's seldom-seen core even more so. Quickly hoisting himself up onto the rear bumper of the speeder and holdstering his blaster, before vertigo sunk its claws more deeply into him, Sirus cursed several times. What reward was worth this?

Finally, he got a good look at the Durosian GalBank speeder. It was long and stout, with curved edges to form a smooth shape reminiscient of a more organic-looking Carrack Cruiser, reduced in size about fifteen times over. He now stood precariously on the rear bumper, gripping onto one of the many protrusions from the transport's hull, this one seemingly an antenna of some sort. He examined the back panel as carefully as he dared, given that he had no idea how long the impediment he'd created would last. The rear loading doors seemed to be held by a typical security lock. Basic work.

Sirus pulled his Zystel III blaster from his jacket, firing a single quick shot into the panel to the left of the lock. The panel was blown free, and with quick, deliberate movements, he shoved his hand up, into the circuitry, past the area exposed by the shot. Feeling about amongst the wires inside, he gripped one and pulled it as hard as he could. The wire tore and came free. Then, just as quickly, he felt around in his pocket, grabbed one of the instruments within, and inserted it into the end of the wire, its spike inserted between the various smaller wires. With one quick look below him - where most visible pedestrians were more distracted by the spectacle of a speeder crash than by that of a man hanging off the end of a transport speeder - Sirus pressed a button on the end of the instrument, and the right side of the door opened aside, collapsing onto itself.

Sirus swung into the interior of the speeder. Inside, it was dark, dank, and cool, the mark of a place that was rarely shown light. This, he thought, was likely intentional. The open door cast a beam of light across metallic transport compartment, and the young man's target became apparent; there, on the ground and with arms chained behind his back, was a man, about mid-fifties, dressed in nondescript black garb, with stubble from at least two days of not shaving. He glanced up at Sirus, blinking blearily.

The young mercenary crouched beside the man, and fired a shot from his blaster into each of his restraints. Sirus got back up without saying a word, walking over to the open door and glancing around briefly. Finally, the Jedi decided that he would be the one to initiate conversation. "I assume you're not with my captors."

Sirus glanced back at the Jedi irritably. "Good deduction. I guess that Jedi sense stuff is no joke."

The Jedi blinked. "You're here to rescue me."

"Wonderful. A thousand Jedi, and I got the one who talks to himself."

The man didn't seem annoyed. "You'd be talking to yourself, too, if you'd been locked away in this hole for a few days."

"I doubt it." Sirus continued to look out the back of the speeder, as if searching for something.

"So, who hired you?" The Jedi asked, getting to his feet. "Qar?"

"I'm just a mercenary. I work for Zulga the Hutt. He pays, I do the work. The contract came from the Empire." Sirus turned his head around again. "Sit down, or you're going to get flung into a wall when this tin can starts moving again."

"I can manage."

"Yeah, you're a Jedi, right? Some Jedi. A couple of shackles hold you for days on end. They weren't even durasteel."

"I'm an old man," the Jedi replied. "I can't be expected to do this sort of thing on my own."

Sirus snorted, but said nothing.

"It may also not be the wisest course of action to return me to Imperial custody," the Jedi said. "Since you know who I am, you may be able to figure out why."

"Look, pal," Sirus said, finally turning around fully. "I don't know who you are, and I don't care. You're a Jedi. Qar Industries is paying the Empire for your release, and they've hired me to do the dirty work. Now just sit down and be quiet."

The Jedi didn't budge. "I'm Grev Palax, and I used to be with the Republic. What do you think the Empire will do with me once they have me?"

"The Empire loves credits, just like everyone else in the galaxy. If they're getting paid right, they'd give Luke Skywalker back." Sirus glanced hesitantly out the open door again.

"Why do you keep looking out that door?" Grev asked. "You do have a plan for getting us down from here, don't you?" The Jedi rolled his eyes. "I should have known. You're just a kid. This wasn't a wise thing to do - you should've thought it through."

"Keep your Jedi wisdom to yourself, old man, and we'll get along just fine." Sirus gritted his teeth. "I'll find a way down, don't you worry..."

And with that, the door slammed itself shut, re-extending automatically. Suddenly, they were both trapped in the dark, and by the thrum of the speeder's engine, they could tell that they were moving again. "Wonderful," Sirus said. "Just wonderful."