Cleaner One: A Reluctant Agent

Cleaner followed her to the holoterminal and flopped on the acceleration couch, well outside image capture range, "We're still shooting up the place. That's hardly boring." Kaliyo's only reply was to stick her tongue out at him. "Mm. Afterwards, yeah?" he asked. "If you're good," she said with a sly smile. "I'm very good," he retorted, adjusting himself through his trousers. "Ha ha," she said. Blue snow filled the holoterminal display while it made the connection. Kaliyo went serious as the image resolved, "We need to talk, Yjal." "So now you want to talk," Yjal said. He looked in remarkably good shape for having survived a cantina bombing. "Yeah. I wanna talk," Kaliyo insisted.

“I heard about you and your Twi'lek companion on Nar Shaddaa,” Cleaner unfolded one leg, more interested. Which Twi'lek did Yjal mean? "Anspi's old news. I owed her one,” Kaliyo said, assuming the other. "You owe me as well, Kaliyo," Yjal said, threat darkening his words.

"The bounty wasn't very nice."

"On the contrary, it is an extremely nice bounty," Yjal said,  "More than adequate for the purpose. You cost me business. Credits. Reputation. Very nearly my freedom."

Kaliyo rolled her eyes, "Come on,Yjal. You spent more on the contract." "It is the principle of the thing," he said. "How do I convince you to take it off?" Kaliyo asked.

"I hear you have a new Twi’lek friend. Where is he? You should introduce us." Yjal said, ignoring her. "Partner. Former partner. I ditched him," Kaliyo said, "Thanks for asking. Drop the bounty, Yjal. You're gonna get a bad rep with the brokers." "I do not believe you left your new friend," Yjal said, still ignoring Kaliyo's responses, "my information says you are still with him." She put a hand on her hip, "Info’s wrong." "I do not think so,” Yjal said, “You still have his ship.” "Out of date, then,” she groused, “I dumped him and kept the ride. For old times’ sake.”

“Sentiment? You?” Yjal scoffed, “I doubt it. Say you kept it to spite him. This I would believe.”

Cleaner fought the urge to laugh. Kaliyo flipped a rude gesture, equally applicable to himself or Yjal, “Had a fallout over your stupid bounty. Surprise surprise,” she said.

"A shame he did not try to collect it," Yjal said. "Why do you think I ditched him?" Kaliyo said. "Just as well," Yjal said, “Will you pay what you owe?”

“You spent more coming after me,” Kaliyo insisted, “That’s just dumb, Yjal. Even for you.”

Yjal sighed. Cleaner could see his frustration through the holo. "At least speak to me one more time." “We're speaking now,” said Kaliyo. “In person,” Yjal said. Kaliyo laughed, "In person? Right. Looks to me like you didn't show the last time." "Neither did you," Yjal accused. "That wasn't my fault-" "I am no fool," he concluded, "Had you come my men would have escorted you to me." “By men you mean thugs?” Kaliyo asked, propping a hand on her hip, "And by escort you mean kidnap?" Yjal’s image shrugged, "Semantics." "Hardly," Kalino glared, an expression likely unreadable through the link, "Bounty's just a third-party contract kidnapping anyway."

“If you prefer your words then keep them,” Yjal said, "You will pay or my hunters will bring you."

Kaliyo scrubbed at her eyes, “Fine. Fine. We’ll meet. Somewhere nice and neutral--”

“Port Nowhere,” Yjal interrupted. “You planned that,” Kaliyo said, “had it in mind all the time.” "I remember how you falsified holonet credit transfers," he said, "I will accept only genuine currency and only from your hands." Kaliyo stabbed a finger at Yjal's holo, "No flunkies and no hunters. Just you and me in a public place. And no weapons, either." Yjal crossed his arms over his chest, "Port Nowhere frowns on altercations. That is all the assurance I will give." "Call off the hunters," Kaliyo demanded. Yjal grinned. Cleaner could tell even without seeing his face, "I think not. The bounty stays in place until you settle with me personally." "Fine. Port Nowhere," Kaliyo agreed, "Three weeks." "Three weeks," he repeated, "Yjal out." The holo collapsed in blue sparks, suggesting Cleaner ought to realign the emitters. "You hear that little tremor in his voice? He's adorable," Kaliyo said with a smirk, "Whenever I stick my nose out he starts torturing people to find out where I am. He's obsessed with me." Sounded more like he held a grudge a parsec wide. "He agreed to a meet awfully quick. What's the story between you?" Kaliyo gave Cleaner a dismissive wave before settling in beside him, "We met on Farstine when he was selling hardcase ammo. Spotted each other's markings across the room. He had a line on top-grade Balmorran arms. Pretty good while it lasted." "Why'd you quit him?" Cleaner asked. Kaliyo shrugged and nestled into his shoulder, "He got all clingy. Like he owned me. So I sold a mixed lot of blasters out from under his nose and split with the take. He claims I owe him since they were his, but since he had his flunkies take 'em out the factory back door, I don't owe him a nerf turd." Cleaner ran a finger around the edge of her ear, "He sees it different." "Course he does. He wants to see me," Kaliyo said, "plus he sucked up to the Empire on Balmorra. He's probably short on credits now that the government changed sides." Not with the size bounty he was offering. Unless it really was a play to get Kaliyo to holo him. Stars knew not much else would. Cleaner stretched his legs out on the scuffed gaming table, "Port Nowhere, though," he said, changing the subject, "Bit far into Republic territory for my taste." Kaliyo levered up off his chest, "No worse than Czerka," she said. "Czerka's an actual op," Cleaner said. "Afraid?" she teased. "Of the ‘pubs? Hardly," Cleaner replied. Kaliyo squirmed around on the acceleration couch until she lay on her back with her head in Cleaner's lap, "That Daddy will find out what you're up to?" she asked. Cleaner bristled. She meant the Minister. He hated it when she referred to him that way. "I'd prefer neutral space." "Port Nowhere officials like credits just as much as Hutt Cartel ones do," Kaliyo assured him. She reached up to stroke his chin. He evaded her caress, "That's what concerns me." "Three weeks," Yjal said. The image in his holo, a human male, nodded, "And the location?" he asked. "Port Nowhere. She didn't even argue," Yjal said. "Excellent," the image replied, "Kaliyo requested the meet?" "Yes," Yjal frowned, "She says she's no longer with her Twi'lek partner." "She's lying," the holo said, "Though I am surprised he's not playing bounty hunter and trying to collect from you." "Perhaps he will," Yjal said, "she agreed rather quickly. Your people will be there?" "Of course." Yjal leaned in toward the image, "Kaliyo Djannis is mine. I want that perfectly clear. I have no interest in her partner or what you do with him but do not touch her," he warned. The holo nodded again, "Perfectly clear, Yjal.  You get what you want, I'll get what I want. I see other lucrative contracts in your future if all goes well." "I hope you know what you're doing, Hunter," Yjal said. "Don't worry," the image replied, "I arranged everything. Hunter out." As soon as the connection broke Hunter quickly reconfigured the system and reopened a different channel, "Apologies, Master Kothe. Some of my contacts don’t tolerate delays as well as you do.”

“No apology required, Hunter,” Ardun Kothe said, his reassurance rumbling through the transmission like a purr, “I understand your concerns, but the Hoth mission must succeed. I cannot emphasize that enough.”

Cleaner nodded as though in agreement. Better lay out some more ground rules with the good doc. "You let me know if he bothers you, yeah?" "Of--of course sir," Fixer 43 said.

“Is that what you’re working on now?” Cleaner asked, glancing at the console’s display. The microscopic size of the font alone was enough to give him a headache.

The Fixer flushed, “Oh, well, technically no, sir. I was catching up on some of the periodicals. There’s so much less fuss over clearances on the homeworld. Not that publishers don’t ask,” he hastened to add, “but the checks come through quicker. Even through the Nar Shaddaa bureau channels I was always a month or more behind.”

Cleaner smiled. Couldn’t have asked for a better segue. “You’ll be pleased to see this, then,” he said, removing a crimson datacard from his trouser pocket, “Got some more out of Darth Zhorrid’s files on the Eradicators." "Really?" Fixer 43 asked, reaching for the data card. Cleaner didn't release the card right away, "I wanted you to see them first," he said. He let 43 have the data, his fingertips trailing over the Fixer's soft skin. 43 pulled back and hurriedly shoved the card into the read slot. "Gentle!" Cleaner admonished, "That's the only one I've got," he said with a wink. Fixer 43 suddenly found the station's display riveting, "Oh. I--I'll be sure to make a copy, then." He risked a glance at Cleaner out of the corner of his eye. "Please do," Cleaner said. He leaned in a bit closer. Thought about touching his lovely hair and decided against it. Patience. Fixer 43 wasn't going anywhere. "Let me know if you need anything else," he said. "I-- I will, sir," Fixer 43 stammered. "Good," Cleaner breathed. He slid off the desk. "It looks like Jadus did a pretty thorough purge," he said, all business again, "but if he left anything I'm sure you'll find it." "I will do my best, sir," the Fixer replied. "Excellent," Cleaner said. He left the storage area for the lounge and its oversized holocom. Checked the scrambler and entered coordinates in Hutt space. His contact was sure to run a trace and he didn't want to come up deep in Imperial territory. Pulled out his sole remaining pack of cigs--two left. Thanks, Kaliyo, for cutting short the last Nar Shaddaa visit. He stuffed them back and entered the holofrequency then stepped back into visual capture range while the idle tones played. The connection alert chimed and a heavyset figure resolved in the field. "Hey, Horell. Glad you picked up," Cleaner said in basic with a strong Huttese inflection. "Tan’araan!" Horell cheered, "I was just thinking about you. Don't suppose you've exceeded my bag, have you?" he asked with a laugh. Cleaner laughed with him, "Did pretty well on Nar Shaddaa a while back. But then I don't keep count the way you do." "Hardly sporting on Nar Shaddaa," Horell said, scratching his Van Dyke, "like fish in a barrel." "True," Cleaner admitted with a shrug, "You change your..." he trailed off as though searching for a word and mimicked Horell’s gesture, "...face-fur?" he said at last. Horell guffawed, "Beard! Beard. Yes, yes I did." "Beard. Yes," Cleaner said, accepting the correction he didn't need. "Looks good." "For face-fur," Horell said, snickering, "Got rid of the muttonchops. Wife says she likes it better this way. She says it makes me look more serious. Executive," he said, his voice pitching lower for the last few words. Made him look fatter, in Cleaner's opinion.  "She knows best," he said. Horell guffawed again, "She does! Well, about that sort of thing." He turned serious, "You didn't holo me about my appearance, Tan. I doubt it's to invite me on another Evocaii hunt, either." Cleaner sighed, "It's not." Horell nodded in sympathy, "Republic not to keen on your employer's business practices, eh?" "Oh, they like the guns just fine," Cleaner replied with a derisive short, "It's the ‘collaborator' label they hate." "Hypocrites," Horell said. Cleaner shrugged again, "Good thing I was offworld at when it changed hands." A little smirk twisted Horell's furry lips, "I suppose you're out of a job, then." "Got a new one already, thanks," Cleaner said. "Oh?" Horell said, surprised, "still in weapons?" "No," Cleaner replied, "At least not exclusively. Concierge of a sort. Clients want something, I get it. For a fee, naturally." "Naturally," Horell said, scratching at his beard again, "sounds interesting. Are you accepting new clients?" "Depends," Cleaner said. He had a bribe in mind for Horell’s cooperation, but it wasn’t part of his new cover story. Bit late to backtrack now. "What do you want?" he asked. Horell laughed, "Right now?" "Sure," Cleaner said, "though I holoed on behalf of an existing client. I wasn't planning on soliciting new business." "I see," Horell said. "If you’re in the market..." "No, no," Horell started. "...I can offer an associate discount," Cleaner finished. "Hmm, I might just take you up on that in the future," Horell replied, "so what were you looking for?" "I've got a client who's big on archaeology. Not a pro. A dedicated amateur," Cleaner said, "A collector. Current obsession is--hold a sec, I gotta check the spelling." He made a show of retrieving the datapad and selecting a file. "R-A-K-A-T-A. Rakata. I'm saying that right?"

“Long ‘aurek,’ that’s right. Rakata,” Horell corrected, putting the emphasis on the second syllable.

Bingo. Can’t deny knowing what they are now. “Rakata. Thanks,” Cleaner said, repeating Horell’s pronunciation, “Rakata. And I thought, I bet my friend Horell at Czerka knows a thing or two about the Rakata.”

Horell straightened a bit. Probably flushed as he realized he was trapped, but it didn’t show in the holo’s blue monochrome.  “I don’t know, Tan.”

“Come on, Horell, this stuff is tied up in museums or academic’s offices, gathering dust,” Cleaner said, “or going for ridiculous sums at auction. I need something else.”

“Czerka has clearances, Tan,” Horell objected, “I can’t just wander into one of the research labs and drop a nugget in my pocket.”

“What about stuff in storage?” Cleaner asked, pressing the issue. “Tan, you’re asking a lot,” Horell insisted. “I smoothed things over with Nem’ro for you,” Cleaner said, “He even gave you a reward for putting down an Evocaii rebellion instead of kicking you off his part of Hutta. You owe me one." "It's not that simple, Tan," Horell said, "Anything that reaches Corporate is catalogued. Inventoried. If things go missing it will be noticed." Cleaner ran a hand over the top of his head, "I'm really in a jam, Horell," he said, quieter, "I would have charged the client a lot more if I'd known what Rakata were at the time I took the contract. I'm going to take a loss on this job as it is. But I need the business. The reputation. Help a guy out, willya?" Horell held his hands wide, "Tan-" he started. "Look, how about a list of sites?" Cleaner asked, "I'm sure Czerka already cleaned out all the good stuff but there's got to be something left. I can get it myself." Horell considered for a moment, "You realize you're asking for company secrets. Privileged Czerka information." "Yeah," Cleaner acknowledged. Now for the actual bribe. He took a deep breath, "I do still have a few prototypes left. Demo models. Nice plasma rifle, high-end scope with some experimental compensators tied into the barrel and emitters. Probably won't ever hit the market now that the factory changed hands." He met Horell's eyes through the holo, "Hate to see it scrapped." Cleaner imagined he could see Horell's brain working. "Is it for sale?" he asked. Score. "Gotta cover my loss somehow," Cleaner said. This part was for public consumption. Horell's cover in case he was found out. Of course corporate communication was monitored. "Standard reload?" asked the Czerka executive. "For the type, yeah," Cleaner replied, "Nothing proprietary. I've even got a couple spares on hand." "I'd like to see it," Horell said. "Any time," Cleaner said, "When's good for you?" "I've another safari planned in a few months," Horell answered, "so the sooner the better." "I'll be near your system in two or three weeks," Cleaner said. "Perfect," Horell said, "Holo me when you're close and we'll set an appointment." "Will do," Cleaner agreed, "Talk to you soon. Tan'araan out," he concluded. The blue image collapsed and Cleaner shut off the terminal. He looked up to see Lokin in the doorway. Cleaner stood, "Have your data in a couple weeks."

"Jadus was right," Lokin said, "you were wasted in your former life." Bastard. "Yeah," Cleaner said, "Too bad you people enslave everyone not human. Might discover more." "Societal reform doesn’t much interest me,” Lokin said, “and your particular skills don’t quite recommend the remainder of your species.”

“Neither do yours, Doc,” Cleaner replied.

Lokin shrugged, uncaring. “There is a matter I would like to discuss with you,” he announced, changing the subject.

Great, “Can it wait until we hit hyperspace?”

“I believe it is of immediate import.”

Wonderful. Probably wanted to remind him that Zhorrid's data should go to him first. Cleaner depowered the holoterminal and followed him into the medbay.

Lokin closed the hatch behind him, “You asked me to look into ways to alter your conditioning,” he began.

He had. Lokin made it sound so benign. So not a complaint, that was something. “Yeah?” he prompted.

Lokin remained behind, at the door, “Fascinating topic. I’ve outgrown it, of course, but the Research division has an extensive body of experimental results. Quite a variety of species involved as well as conditions and circumstances. Excellent and thorough work, I must admit. My research notes are on the datapad, if you care to look.”

Cleaner dragged the datapad across the bench and glared at the open file. Examination and Chemical Alteration of the Neptheline Transfer System in the Twi’lek and related species with Concurrent Behaviour Modification. In the first paragraph, the abstract, the only word he understood was ‘abstract.’ It referenced a full-color chart, handily reproduced, of a number of non-human species and...something on the axes. Maybe dosage or serum concentration, over probably time. Maybe. His eyes narrowed further, willing himself to understand it. No good. No wonder Doc didn’t worry about leaving his stuff lying around.

Lokin rapped the counter, interrupting his study, “The most relevant parts are farther in,” he said.

“How about you give me the quick version?” he grumbled.

One white eyebrow raised, “The quick version? Well then: no.”

“Fan-fucking tastic,” Cleaner complained.

“Not without knowing the precise commands implanted,” Lokin went on, “Experience suggested as much. The serum proved particularly effective on you. Something to do with the structure of the Twi’lek brain, I expect. It activated strongly in the cerebral tissue resident in your lekku. Since that area houses both long-term memory and some motor functions, it provided excellent control and long-term effectiveness.” Lokin continued, “I don’t often get such encouraging results from an early trial. Intelligence outdid themselves in practical applications. I almost wish I’d not let them have it so cheaply.”

“Figures. The one thing you humans create that works on my species just makes us better slaves.  You know something?” Cleaner said, shoving the datapad back across the counter toward Lokin. The creator deity of Twi’leks was truly evil. “I’d hate you more if you didn’t do half your experiments on yourself.”

Lokin snorted in derision, “Really.” A statement, not a question.

“No, not really,” Cleaner said, “Not a lot of point to hating you. I can’t do anything about it.”

“You could,” Lokin said.

“What, kill the only doctor who knows how to program the damn bugs?” Cleaner groused, stomping toward the door, “can’t do that anymore than I can shoot myself. Amounts to the same thing anyway.”

Lokin harrumphed, “Bugs. Another application I handed over to Intelligence without enough thought. Have you any idea what Sith would give for what you deride as mere bugs?”

“Sith don’t need ‘em,” Cleaner countered, “Sith have the Force.”

“Sith like backup,” Lokin replied, “Reassurance. Certainty.”

“Okay. So. On occasion they’re useful. Mostly they ruin two of my three favorite pastimes. Not a good trade, on balance,” He reached for the door panel, “I need a workaround. Something that won’t tip everyone off to the fact my brain has a password.”

Lokin covered the door controls with his hand, "You should also know I've discovered an anomalous signal. A communication of some sort," he said in an almost conspiratorial whisper. Nerves prickled all down Cleaner's spine, "What kind of communication?" he asked. "It is a simple signal, likely a code or cipher," lokin said, "buried in the background of the ship’s long-range comms. I only discovered It by chance looking for unused bandwidth for my own receivers." Same old Doc, keeping tabs on all his lairs. "Whose?" Cleaner asked. "Unknown," Lokin replied. "What's it say?" Cleaner demanded. "Likewise unknown," Lokin admitted, "I only just discovered it. I thought you should know of its existence even if I had no other information to convey at the moment." Who was it? 43? Kaliyo? Both? Could be Lokin himself throwing suspicion on the others but his gut said no. "Keep me informed," Cleaner said. Lokin's only response was to remove his hand from the door controls. Bastard.

Pain lanced from her needleprick nails as well as the pressure. "I thought of the Council. How they don't fear you," he began, wincing when her grip tightened. He counted his pulsebeat against her squeezing fingers. “It’s true. You know it’s true. I’m sorry, my love, but you know it’s true. To them you’re not Darth Zhorrid, Full Member of the Dark Council, Head of the Sphere of Intelligence, you’re just Darth Jadus’s daughter who inherited his seat without trial.”

She twisted his lek and grinned when he yelped, “You dare grant him a title? You presume to invoke my parentage? He is dead to me! I will kill him!”

Disjointed scraps of memory rose to the surface. The grimy smell permeating Nar Shaddaa alleys. Jenks, twisting his lekku the same way. The time a ryll crystal stabbed his finger and he put it in his mouth without thinking. The mingled taste of raw ryll and his own blood. A floaty sense of relaxation underlined with sick dread. A twinge in his temple that had more to do with impinging on the Minister’s restrictions than Zhorrid’s lekku abuse. Provoking her was not good for his continued existence. “You will, my love. I know you will. But the Council, they don’t see it. You have to show them you are worthy. That they underestimated you before, and they continue to do so at their peril.”

Her grip loosened ever so slightly. Score for flowery language. “Continue,” she ordered.

He exhaled, “A Master has an apprentice. An apprentice is allowed places a servant is not. Places I cannot go." The vise on his lek relaxed another fraction. While-hot waves of fury broke and retreated, leaving a cautious curiosity,  "She is a pathetic excuse for a Sith. No one will believe she is my apprentice," Zhorrid fumed. "Jadus had only one apprentice. You," Cleaner said. Her grip ratcheted back up, "He taught me nothing!" she exclaimed. "But the Council doesn't know that," Cleaner said. Her fist brought with it the odor of the shipboard organic digesters, part of the waste reclamation system. It receded as the pressure on his lek did. "They don't know what he taught you. I could barely stand his presence. The Dark Side clung to him like a cloud. He might have amplified it to make others uncomfortable. He might have taught you to shield your strength. You could be hiding hers. No one knows what secrets he imparted because he never trained anyone else." The pressure decreased further. He could slip her hold if he wished. He did wish. But he let her keep her prize a while longer. "The only records are yours. You can tell the other Darths anything and they won't be able to check. Too much unknown, too many variables." "They will fear the unknown," Zhorrid said. He stroked her arm. The one attached to his lekku, "They will fear you," he said, and she smiled at him at last. "When you don't act the way they expect. That makes you dangerous. A force to be reckoned with." "To be respected," she said, "to be feared." "Yes," he assured her. Her talons withdrew from his lek. Blood welled and dribbled, a new pattern against his natural markings. Heat filled the void where her fingers had been. Now he counted his pulse in the bruise. "But I do not want an apprentice," she pouted. Cleaner gave a small shrug, "So don't teach her. Apprentice is for outsiders. I chose her as your servant." Realization dawned in Zhorrid's eyes. “So you dressed her as Sith. For deception.”

“Yes,” Cleaner said, “Even to just bring her here. Your enemies have spies everywhere. The spaceport. The trams. Whoever questions what you say will look at the recordings and see only that your Hand brought you an apprentice.”

Zhorrid nodded once, "Walk with me," she reiterated. She gave his lek a slight pull then she turned and continued down the passage. He followed beside her until they reached a familiar set of pressure doors. A silver-faced servitor whisked open the locks and pulled it open at their approach. The garden beyond was no longer barren. Precise knotwork hedges edged the beds. Black-stemmed vines bearing wicked red thorns and nothing else intertwined with a silvery shrub covered in tiny round leaves. A few specimen trees were on display. Cleaner couldn't guess at their names. Dark green ground cover grew everywhere else. Tiny blood-red berries hid among its shiny, leathery leaves. Zhorrid led him along the paths, "I am still uncertain," she began, "Suppose she begins to think she should be sith?” She held the one lek like a leash, petting it gently. "She won't." Cleaner assured her, "You said it yourself. She's too weak. And she knows it, or she'd have gone to Korriban already. She is good enough to know your moods, my love, but no more." Zhorrid passed an unoccupied pedestal, "It is a long time since I had a servant with a face. Another servant," she said. Which gave him another idea that he quickly buried. "I hope you'll be as pleased with her," Cleaner said. "I won't be," she said. A slight breeze sent her plumage fluttering. The metal scraped and chimed. "But I am becoming accustomed to disappointment." Another tug. Zhorrid moved on. "I'm sorry if I displeased you, my love," Cleaner said. Fear vibrated down his spine. Zhorrid giggled. "Oh, not with you, dear Hand. Dear, dear Hand. With so many others. It is my curse to be surrounded by incompetence.” They paused before Yvord Yanol's pedestal, "You should have explained your plan sooner, Hand," Zhorrid admonished, but there was no acid in her voice.

Cleaner stared up at the remains of Jadus's former servant and tried not to shiver. "I did not want to trust the details to the comm system. Even one so secure as yours and with encryption as strong as Intelligence offers. The stakes were too high." Damn straight the stakes were too high. Dromund Kaas's everpresent moisture condensed on the statue. It looked as though it were sweating. Cleaner was, and not only from the humidity.

"Who is she, really?" Zhorrid asked. She gave another light tug on his lek. She was done here.

Cleaner walked alongside her as she strolled through the garden, "Who do you want her to be?" he asked.

Zhorrid giggled, "I mean it," she said.

"So do I," Cleaner said. He tickled the inside of her wrist with the tip of his captured lekku. What he could reach, anyway, before her arm disappeared into her long sleeve. "Tell me her life, and I'll put it in every database."

She turned toward him and left off stroking his lek to reach for a hand. He let her have it. "You make truth," she said. Her eyes twinkled in the overcast light, a mischievous smile on her lips.

"You make the truth, mesh’la-mesh’la," he said, "I merely distribute it." He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it as he had before. Lingered. His tongue drew circles around her delicate central knuckle before he let it end. He stepped into her embrace and wrapped his free arm around her corseted waist, beneath her plumed cloak. He leaned down to kiss her sparkling lips. The florals in her perfume mingled with the earthy green outdoors smell. Her lipstick tasted like the first lick of a berry; waxy but with the promise of sweet beneath the surface. He pulled her up and cradled the back of her head in his best holoshow prince charming impersonation. He felt her weight shift. With the cloak in the way couldn’t tell if she popped her foot or not.

She broke off, dropping back but still clinging to his lekku. "You fancy her," Zhorrid said, “don’t you?” A trickle of perspiration ran down the small of his back. "I find her attractive, yes," Cleaner admitted. Safer course than outright denial. "Perhaps I'll let you have her sometime," Zhorrid said, "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" His stomach twisted in an unpleasant and unexpected knot. He touched the side of her face with the back of his fingers, "If it pleases you, my love."

"My Lady wishes to go over your duties," Cleaner said.

Temple looked up. Struggled to push away from the floor. The carpet left a pebbled impression on her forehead. There was a smudge of metallic blue on the step between her hands. “It’s been hours, sir,” she said.

He knew how long it had been. Zhorrid made him model the wardrobe she commissioned for him. Right now he looked like some historical military officer. He felt like an idiot. However, the bodyscan tailored costumes fit far better than any of the limited-measure-extruded stuff he usually wore, so at least he was a comfortable, well-dressed idiot. “She has magnificent plans. You are fortunate to be part of her household,” he said. He offered her a hand, the lace-edged cuff falling to the perfect break over his knuckles.

Temple’s brows scrunched together. Then unscrunched with dawning understanding, "I-- I am glad to hear it."

"You belong to her now," Cleaner said. Let the statement sink in for a moment before continuing. "She awaits you in the Hall of Trophies. I'll lead you there." Temple took his hand and struggled to rise. When her face neared his he whispered, "You're in. You know your role. To the rest of the Sith you're her apprentice." His words came rapid-fire from unmoving lips, a skill he rarely tapped since his Sevarcos days, "If other Sith ask about you, smile. Don't talk to them. Especially don't confirm you're Zhorrid’s apprentice, but don't deny it either. Be a mystery. Make them fill in the gaps with imagination. The data spike I just slipped you will let you in her back doors. There's also a code for her comms, bypassing internal security and recording. Keep her happy." His other supporting hand fell away from her hip, where he left the dataspike under her costume’s elaborate waistband.

Temple’s free hand twitched as though she wanted to confirm the spike’s existence, then halted out of caution, “Thank you, sir.”

One of Zhorrid’s identical metal-faced servants met them at the landing pad. Three more joined it inside the main door. The escort led them not to Zhorrid's trophy room but her audience chamber. Jadus' outsized furniture was gone, replaced with pieces more to Zhorrid’s taste. Thick velvet drapery in crimson with a silvery sheen covered the walls. A knotted carpet lay over the same green and red stone as the trophy room, its pattern a clever interpretation of the Imperial Emblem. Cleaner took more than a little pleasure in walking on it.   Seated on a raised dais at the head of the room waited Zhorrid herself. She wore an elaborate fairytale costume this time; nipped-in waist, long skirts and attached high-collared cape, all colorful Varactyl plumes and spring metal cut to mimic them. She perched on the back of a humanoid statue, bent double in supplication. The table beside her was of similar design: a kneeling humanoid, eyes cast down, hands bearing a large, wide tray above its head to serve as her desk. Another mural backed her in the same jagged style as she employed in her Citadel office and the trophy room. Maybe she owned the artist.

Lokin won again. Bastard. Cleaner propped his feet up on the gaming table, pushing Kaliyo's plasma booster out of his way, "And you think Jadus's Eradicators are some of this leftover technology?"

"Derived from it, certainly," Lokin agreed, and Fixer 43 nodded, "The genetic signatures are too similar to be a coincidence."

Cleaner puffed absently, "How'd you figure this out?"

"It was Fixer 43 who made the initial connection," Doctor Lokin said, "my subsequent work confirmed it and mapped the extent of similarly. Remarkable development. Quite fascinating devices, these."

"Good to know you two are getting along," Cleaner grumbled, "Okay. So who derived it? Did Jadus steal this thing from the Science Bureau or the Reclamation Service, or stumble on it himself?" Who was he kidding. Jadus didn't stumble over anything.

"It's difficult to say with the information currently at our disposal," Lokin said.

Meaning official documents. Lokin wanted Zhorrid's files. Great. Cleaner tapped ash into the tray, which happily vacuumed it into oblivion. "How will this help find Jadus?"

"Again, it is difficult to say, " Lokin admitted, "but it is, to date, your only solid lead."

Only lead period. Jadus did a better job of disappearing than Yvord Yanol and he had a galaxy to hide in. It was a safe bet he avoided Imperial holdings but that still left a lot of available real estate. "All right. I'll see what I can dig up. What about the tech?" Cleaner asked.

Fixer 43 froze like a jacklighted gizka. He took a half-step sideways and leaned so as to speak while looking in Cleaner's general direction, "It appears to be a standard orbital weapons platform with cybernetic interfaces, sir," he said.

"So what's on a standard orbital platform and what makes these different?" Cleaner asked. Playing to his interests usually put the jumpy Fixer at ease.

"Sir? Oh, well, most of the modern ones include plasma cannons as well as short-range lasers," 43 said, emerging from Lokin's proverbial and literal shadow, "I've seen blueprints for some that include mass drivers and other missiles, but none on the prototype eradicator plans--"

Cleaner sat upright on the couch, dropping his feet to the deck, "Prototype?" 43 quailed, "All the schematics were labeled 'prototype' and they differ in some ways from the device recovered on Hutta--" Karking Imperial bureaucracy. "You don't have the actual specs on the Eradicators?" he snarled. "You requested the files on Special Project 62991A and the Minder's report from Intelligence--" Fixer 43 explained. Cleaner wished he had hair so he could pull it out, "Why didn't you tell me you didn't have the specs?" he asked. Lokin intervened, "There might not be any others. I think it likely Darth Jadus pulled the project from direct supervision when it began showing promise and completed development elsewhere." Lokin was probably right. Again. Bastard. "You think he's holed up in whatever facility he made for the Eradicators," Cleaner said. "He was untracked for the better part of a year," Lokin said. "No one was looking for him," Cleaner countered. "True enough," Lokin agreed, "However, the fact remains that he acquired a great deal of equipment as well as completed and deployed his weapon without anyone being aware of it. No doubt he corrupted some Imperial apparatus to do so, but I find it unlikely with the development itself. A project of this nature would generate considerable discussion among members of the Science Bureau. Buzz, if you will. There was none. I would know." Obviously the Science Bureau was as bad at keeping juicy secrets as Intelligence. Cleaner watched Kaliyo painstakingly reassemble her blasters. Until the conversation turned to targets or destruction, she had no comment. "He might have just bolted for the rim," Cleaner said. Even as he said the words he knew it was false. Jadus didn't bolt. He retreated. To his secret stronghold. Leaving his first puppet embedded in the Empire with a string of new code. Thinking about it started a headache. He did not like the implications. "Possible," said Dr Lokin, "but as that leaves you with millions of places to check and no way to narrow the choices, I recommend a more systematic approach." Cleaner rubbed at the growing pain in his temples. Not the Minister's restrictions so much as stress. Lokin didn’t want Zhorrid’s files. He wanted Jadus's biolab. Almost as bad an idea as Kaliyo's for dealing with Yjal. Fixer 43 jumped every time he looked at him. Ensign Temple kept to the crew quarters as much as possible. Managing people was a pain. He missed the good old days when he worked alone. "Nevermind. What's different about their armament? Anything on detection yet?" Cleaner asked of 43, avoiding the issues. "Ah, no, sir. Sorry. Leaving out mass drivers and opting for only energy-based weaponry reduced their necessary size," Fixer 43 said, warming to the subject. "They're unmanned, so require only minimal life support. The biological portion functions as both power plant and command and control. Existing weapons and sensors graft onto the electro-mechanical hardware, served by a military grade cybernetic interface. It's an ingenious design, this. Very flexible, easy to tailor to the situation prior to deployment. Maintenance is an issue, but it seems they are meant as disposable." Fixer 43 made it sound like the Eradicators were alive. Cleaner declined to think hard on that, too. "So no unique energy signatures, something for sensors to lock on to?" "Ah, no, sir, not really," 43 admitted, consulting his datapad to cover his nervousness, "there is detectable energy, sir, but only at short range. They're very low-power and relatively small, given the lack of human-sized accommodations. To casual scan, the kind you might do for screening, readings are consistent with a one- or two-man craft or orbital habitat." He peeked over the top of his datapad, "Against the background of a typical inhabited planet they are virtually undetectable. Ingenious. The Balmorrans never came up with anything half as clever. If we can re-engineer them, or better still capture the lab and manufactory, we'll have an excellent weapon against the Republic or insurgent colonies." He paused for praise Cleaner was disinclined to give before moving on, "I'm sorry, sir. I-I can't help but admire excellent design. Even knowing what Darth Jadus planned to do with them, might still be planning, I can't hate such elegant weaponry. Or the engineers and biologists who created it." "Well, with this on your CV I'm sure you have a promising career ahead of you in the Science Bureau or Weapons division," Cleaner said. Kaliyo's toe jabbed his foot under the cluttered dejaric table. Sarcasm flew over Fixer 43s head like an old fashioned unguided missle, "Do you think so, sir?"

"Oh yeah," Cleaner replied. Kaliyo kicked him again. Lokin ignored the exchange. The end-of-jump alarm sounded and Cleaner checked the chrono. Mid-afternoon local time. Cleaner stood and targeted Lokin, "I'll get what I can on Jadus's old bases. In the meantime work on a better detection method or some other way to neutralize these things."

"Understood, sir," Fixer 43 said.

Always eager to please, was Fixer 43. About some things, anyway. Cleaner headed for the bridge but paused beside Lokin, "Need an update on that other problem," he said quietly.

"Of course," Lokin replied, just as quiet, “at your convenience.”

Cleaner nodded and proceeded to the bridge for the translation to realspace and final approach to Dromund Kaas. No sooner had the door hissed shut behind him than Kaliyo spoke up, "What secret project?" she asked.

Doctor Lokin harumphed, "Hardly a secret.  Cleaner would prefer to avoid a repeat of his last encounter with Darth Jadus. I'm sure you appreciate that."

Kaliyo rubbed her ribs,  "Yeah. I do. Why so hush-hush then?"

"Habit, I expect," Lokin said, "ask him yourself if you're interested."

"I'll do that," she replied before sauntering off toward the stern.

Fixer 43 minced up to Lokin, "Will she?"

The facility itself was tucked into an icy canyon. He spotted turret emplacements hidden in the walls as he coasted in, tracking his movement. If the Chiss wanted to shoot him, they could have. But they did not. He slowed the speeder at what looked like the entrance. A guard disengaged from the wall, all but invisible in camouflaged gear, "Identify, please."

Please. Nice to get a please; Blue didn't alter the IFF. "Imperial Agent Cleaner One," he said, hands close enough to his blasters for his peace of mind, but not so close as to be threatening. "Your military loaner got reassigned," he said.

"We've received no transmissions," the sentry objected.

"Dorn base lost their repeater towers. I tried hailing you and got nothing just six kilometers away," Cleaner said, "ID and orders are in my coat. You're free to verify them but I'd rather not open up outside."

The guard nodded and waved him in. Two more emerged from cover and approached him. Damn, they were good. Barely showed up in IR and not at all visually in the fading light.

Cleaner wrestled his speeder through the entrance and left it in the bay behind the ice wall. Their path wove through a series of baffles and the air grew warmer the further into the base he went. At last the zig-zag hallway ended and they reached a guard station. "Present your credentials, Agent," the sentry said. Cleaner popped his goggles up on his forehead and pulled his scarf down, unfastened his jacket and handed over the battered grey datacard that was his ID.  The uniformed soldier on station ran it, then a couple functions besides, likely because she couldn't access Imperial records with no comms. She removed it and handed it back, "Verified, Agent Cleaner One. You stated you were here for a personnel transfer?" "I've got orders for an Ensign Raina Temple," he began, "You're free to check the stamp’s official but beyond that is classified. Command-level only." The guard frowned. Even that level of verification might be impossible without comms. To him she said, "Wait here." She passed word up the line in the same melodious language as Yudrass back at the base, dismissing his current escort with a nod. Cleaner kicked back to wait some more. Wondered how many weapons were hidden in these walls. How many were trained on him. The rest of the entrance detail held blasters but aimed at the floor. Very reassuring. Finally he heard crunching footsteps in the passage behind the guard station. Another Chiss, white-uniformed like the sentry, emerged. "I am Ensign Tama'zil'jiaan, Aristocra Saganu's assistant. He will see you now," he announced, "this way, please." Same distinct accent as Yudrass. Cleaner rolled the name around, committing it to memory. He could get used to this please thing, "Great. Let's go." Cleaner said. Tama'zil'jiaan led him further into the base. Unlike the standard Imperial preference for straight lines and right angles, the Chiss built with curves and arches. How they managed to keep the ice clean was beyond him. No garbage frozen to the walls, no crap hermetically sealed in melt layers on the floor as the environmental cycled. Barely any churned chunky snow marking most-traveled pathways. Reminded him of Blue's obsessive neatness. Maybe it was a species thing. Like the ambient temperature, several degrees on the chilly side in his opinion.

The hallway opened into a large central control hub. Active consoles and workstations fringed the space, all manned by Chiss. All Chiss. He'd never been around this many blue people who weren't Twi'leks. Felt weird. His escort alerted one of the Chiss, his white cape apparent evidence of his authority, “Ah. The Cleaner Agent. You have orders for our transfer from the Imperial Military?”

Dromund Kaas Basic with only a hint of his native language. “Aristocra Saganu?” Cleaner asked.

“Yes,” The Chiss confirmed. He quit hovering over the lower-ranked console jockey and approached Cleaner, “Ensign Temple is a valued member of my expedition. It will be a shame to let her go.” At least he wasn’t going to contest it. These Chiss were too nice by far. “So where is she?" Cleaner asked. "Ensign Temple requested she be informed of the reason for transfer, as she did not initiate the process,"  Aristocra Saganu said, "Since you said those reasons are classified, I arranged a private meeting in my office." Half a dozen off-color remarks came to mind. Just as well he didn't bring Kaliyo. The Chiss were something of an unknown quantity; he figured it best to play polite for the time being. At least deep in their base on a planet where a disappearance and subsequent discovery of a frozen corpse was an all too believable occurrence. "Let's go." With a swirl of his cape the Aristocra showed him to his office, a small, spartan affair whose only decoration was an iridescent finish on the icy walls. Assuming it was intentional and not an artifact of construction. Ensign Temple stood with her back to the door, focusing on the undulating tracery. Like the Chiss, she didn't bother with extra layers. Acclimated to the cold or wearing insulated underwear. Not a hair out of place, her head tilted just so, she might have been one of Zhorrid’s Kaas walnut carvings dressed up in Imperial grey. Perfect ass rounding out her uniform--Cleaner cut his thoughts off. Clamped down hard. No idea whether she read him. The brief suggested she valued duty and loyalty; he’d never project those feelings with any conviction so he settled for the sense of routine, of just-doing-my-job. That he could pull off.

The door hissed closed behind them, “Ensign Raina Temple,” Aristocra Saganu began, “The Intelligence Agent with your transfer.”

“Would you mind staying, Aristocra?” Temple asked.

She turned and Cleaner caught her profile. Classic Kaas elite, same as her accent. High cheekbones, perfect nose, give her some blue-black lipstick and a crimson robe and she’d make a fine Sith. And she wanted a chaperone. How cute. "It's a transfer from the military to Intelligence," Cleaner said, "That's all."

Temple's gaze flicked between himself and the Aristocra, "I made no requests," she said.

He knew that. "Intelligence chooses its recruits," he said.

She focused on him, "There is no need to reassign me," she said, "I am quite effective here."

A shiver went down Cleaner's lekku. He delivered the orders. He really wanted to get back on the speeder and leave, the sooner the better. Except...he might not have realized what she was doing but for Zhorrid's recent mental groping. "Nice try," he said. He tipped his head at the Chiss, "Orders come from higher up the chain. You want some privacy to read ‘em?"

The pupils In Temple's deep brown eyes dilated, whether from surprise or effort Cleaner wasn't sure. "I am required here," she repeated.

"Ensign Temple has earned our respect, Agent," Saganu said, "not something I give out lightly."

Stars, Zhorrid would eat her alive. Wondered if she pushed her Chiss friends or if the Aristocra genuinely liked her, "Nothing to do with your performance in your current position," Cleaner said, resisting the urge to add mesh’la-mesh'la to the phrase, "Got an assignment that requires you. Orders came from higher up."

Temples' intense stare dropped. "I would like to confirm the orders, please, Agent."

Cleaner removed the standard Imperial datacard from his pocket. Temple inserted it into a reader. The blue glow from the screen cancelled the warmness in her skin. She stood as one of Kaas City's iron statues, her eye movement the only thing giving her life.

Finished, she handed the reader to Saganu, "Everything seems in order, sir," she said, “Might I speak with the Agent alone for a moment?” “Of course,” the Aristocra agreed. He left the room with a swirl of his cape. Cleaner reached into his pocket and clicked on a radio bomb, just in case. The Chiss probably had ways of separating the signal, but no need to make it easy for them, “The Chiss sure like you here. I'm impressed. They're the only species more full of themselves than humans. Or Hutts." he added as an afterthought. Temple turned to him, "I cannot go. I cannot be assigned to Dromund Kaas. There must be another way I can serve." "Intelligence knows," he said. Flat statement. No pity, no sympathy. "They've known for ages. If they didn't, your little demo just proved it." Temple went ashen, the blue light of the reader no longer needed to turn her to stone. She spoke again with a tremor in her voice, "My father-" "Is safe. Under protection," Cleaner said, "His trade goes the other way, now." She blinked, "I...I don't understand," she said. "I'll let him tell it," Cleaner said. He pulled a compact holoprojector from another pocket. One nice thing about dressing in layers. He hid a ton of stuff in his clothes with no one the wiser. He flicked the projector on and rotated the image so it faced the ensign. The figure of a male Human resolved in the projection. Hair indifferently styled, a cybernetic interface eyepiece, no uniform. Instead, he wore coveralls or a flight suit. Between the grime and the labels, Cleaner guessed the former. "My dearest Raina. Be assured that I am safe.  I record this message for you freely, not under duress. You know the sacrifices your mother and I made for you that allowed you the position you now have. I--we deemed it a fair price for your safety.” There was a pause in the recording, as though allowing Temple time to reflect. The man continued, “That position was always precarious. The balance is now tipped and our positions reversed. Intelligence requires your ability. The Minister’s representatives will not inform me of the specifics--I expect whatever operative brings you this recording has that information, and I am not cleared for it. Regardless, should you cooperate, Intelligence will make certain that I am safe from any Sith retaliation. They have already taken steps to do so. Which is why I am at last able to communicate with you.

“It pains me to ask this of you, and especially on my behalf. I am convinced it is for the better of the Empire. While the choice is ultimately yours, I believe Intelligence will make good on its promise both to myself and to you. No more hiding, Raina.” The figure shifted his weight, “No more hiding for either of us.”

The image flickered and vanished, leaving a timestamp two weeks old. Shortly after his conversation with the Minister, in fact. Cleaner collected the holoprojector and buried it in his clothing. The recording contained an implicit threat. Defying the Empire had consequences. Decline, and Intelligence removes their protection. People die. In ugly and painful ways. Temple stood still. Her eyes embers melting ice, a drop of which she blinked away before it ran over and rusted her steel cheek. "What is my new assignment," she said.

Not even a question. "How about I explain on the way?" Cleaner said. Also not a question. No need to give the Chiss more than he already had.

"I need some time to wrap up my duties here,” she said. No tremor in her voice, barely a rasp betraying her emotions.

"How much?" Cleaner asked.

“A few days,” Temple said.

Temple’s eyes remained fixed on his but without the push he felt earlier. He could decline. Force her on the speeder now if he wanted. It stood at odds with his just-the-messenger attitude, especially with Hoth’s night on outside, and he needed her at ease. “All right. Don’t dawdle. People might get nervous,” he said. Kaliyo unsupervised was trouble. Especially with no comms. At least he’d be able to give the speeder a more thorough check and make sure Blue hadn’t left the surprise for the return trip.

Temple acknowledged with a tight nod, likely thinking of different people than Cleaner was, “I understand, sir.”

They made their way to the control center in the frozen bunker, “Colonel Vannis?” Cleaner asked.

“Colonel Vannis is not here at present. I’m Commander Tritan,” said a sandy-haired officer, "Ah, you're here, Agent. About time Intelligence honored my request," he said, addressing Lokin. "What request?" Cleaner asked over Lokin's amused chuckle. Tritan's attention shifted to Cleaner. "For Intelligence support of our position here, of course," he said, returning to Lokin. Obviously his idea of 'Agent' did not include a masked Twi'lek wearing women's hose on his head. "Frankly, I hoped for more regular aid but I suppose your alien associates will help you blend in with the local pirates. They're a varied lot." Lokin, still amused, cleared his throat, "I expect you want Agent Cleaner One. I'm Fixer Fifteen." Cleaner wished he had a cigarette right now, just to annoy Commander Tritan. He settled for yanking down his scarf. "No one requests a cleaner agent, what are you on about?" he asked. Kark all, even indoors was cold. Dribbling meltwater from the walls refroze in the corners, sealing all kinds of floor crud in lumpy ice. His breath puffed in the air. He'd been in warmer freezers. The Commander shifted his weight, "The operation here requires up-to-date information on Republic placement and troop movements. I've repeatedly asked for Intelligence to provide this information or operatives to collect it. When I heard an Intelligence Agent arrived I assumed it was in answer to my requests." "No," Cleaner said. Great. Inter-bureaucratic crossfire was the last thing he needed. "Well," Commander Tritan said, squaring his shoulders while the rates behind him pretended they weren't listening, "since you're here, I need reconnaissance done on the snowfield. Our repeater towers are suspiciously-" Cleaner broke in, "I'm here to pick up a transfer. That's it. If she's not here I want a comm to the CEDF." A smirk crossed the commander's face, "If I might finish. Our comm towers are suffering suspiciously precise damage, limiting range and power. At present, we are unable to reach our allies in the CEDF. However, if you were to investigate the sabotage and eliminate the source, I would be in a position to aid you." Kaliyo leaned toward him, her vocabulator turned low, "Notice how damage turned into sabotage?" she whispered in Huttese. Cleaner's only answer was a curl of his lekku. He addressed the commander, "Your repeater towers aren't my problem." "Then I'm afraid I cannot accommodate your request at this time," Tritan said. Cleaners' lekku went from curl to straight and rigid though he confined the accompanying irritated shiver to the lower third. "What are the coordinates for the base?" he asked. The commander took half a step back, "I don't recommend-" "Coordinates, a speeder, and an accurate map to the CEF," Cleaner demanded. "Cold-modified speeders are at a premium," the commander insisted, "I can't spare more than one." He crossed his arms. This discussion was over. Of all the karking-- "One speeder, Coordinates, map, and a parka rated for at least 200 degrees Kelvin," Cleaner demanded. The smirk reappeared, "Our speeders seat no more than two." Cleaner ground his teeth. "Speeder. Parka. Coordinates. Map. You two will have to stay here." "Aw. I was looking forward to freezing," Kaliyo said. "You can wait outside if you want," Cleaner grumbled. Lokin chimed in. "Fixer 43 and I can use the time to concentrate on our project." Great, more bonding over schematics for his favorite fixer and least-favorite doctor. He turned to Lokin, "I need some solid progress on that," he said. "We have some very promising avenues at the moment," Lokin assured him. Cleaner frowned. Sounded like Fixer-speak for not having a fucking clue. "Fantastic. Who do I see for my gear?" he asked, attention back on the commander. The chalky officer looked like he just kissed a sourfruit, "Captain Yudrass," he replied. One of the background officers disengaged from his instruments, "May I be of assistance?" he asked. Chiss. His Basic oddly accented as though he hadn't quite thrown off his native pronunciation. Not unattractive if he didn't already have the galaxy's hottest fixer waiting back at the ship. Now that he noticed it, there were a lot of Chiss here. Side effect of the CEDF, maybe.

Commander Tritan's sour expression didn't change, "Yes. This Agent requires a speeder and other equipment. Take care of it," he ordered. "Of course, sir," Captain Yudrass replied, "This way, please." He indicated a second, ice-filled passage. Cleaner followed. The entire exchange smelled bad. Bureaucratic crossfire with a little chain-of-command rivalry on the side. Maybe a dash of anti-alien bias as well. Lovely. The one time he got a real briefing and ended up going for a stroll in an unmarked minefield anyway. "You having trouble with the motor pool?" he asked. Nice and innocuous, leave the guy an opening. "Our resources at this base are limited," Captain Yudrass admitted, "But do not be concerned. I am certain I have the equipment you require.” He hesitated, “Standard Imperial equipment does not suit your species,” Yudrass said, almost an apology, “and Hoth’s environment is unforgiving. With an hour’s time, I can provide gear with proper fit and better reliability than,” Yudrass’s gaze swept Cleaner’s dodgy headgear, “your present items.”

Cleaner suspected a catch of some kind hidden in the offer, but even so it sounded better than repurposed parka arms, “Yeah?” he asked.

“Oh yes,” Yudrass assured him, “Hoth reminds me of Csilla in many ways. One of the reasons Chiss are more integrated here than on other Imperial worlds is our expertise with this environment.”

Commander Tritan didn’t seem to appreciate his expertise. Commander Tritan also impressed him as an ass. Yudrass seemed to share his opinion, if he was more circumspect about expressing it. “That’d be nice,” he accepted. Probably meant he was on the hook for a good word in Yudrass’s record. Small price to pay for not losing lekku to frostbite.

A quick stop by the base quartermaster--also a Chiss and a cute one at that, with freckles--for measurements and other assorted, non-modified gear, and Captain Yudrass led the way to the speeder pool. The service desk was unmanned. “Sergeant?” he called.

Cleaner heard a clatter in the repair bay beyond and a melodious curse in language he didn’t understand, complicated and full of vowels. It was familiar, though Cleaner couldn’t quite place where he’d heard it before. Captain Yudrass answered in kind, his words long and ornate, like graceful architecture that served its function while being pleasing to the eye. An answer from the bay beyond. It might have been a rebuke, written in calligraphy and delivered on antique flimsiplast. The voice uttering it was almost familiar, too.

“Sergeant Thent,” Yudrass said as another Chiss emerged from the back room, “I need to requisition one of the modified speeders--”

“Blue?” Cleaner blurted out in Huttese. His annoying minder from Nar Shaddaa was much the worse for wear, having lost one red eye somewhere along the line. Probably to The Flame’s crazies. Cybernetics replaced it, their active red glow not quite matching the remaining biological one.

He pondered that question since before they left Nar Shaddaa and still didn't have a good answer. He could have ignored her message. He could have turned back after reaching the firefight. He could have bailed anywhere between those points. Why didn't he?

He had answers, None he’d reveal to her. For one, she knew too much. Kaliyo might not have figured out the Imperial Intelligence Retirement Plan yet but it was no less inevitable. A Kaliyo out of his immediate supervision, whatever the reason, was a dead Kaliyo. It was the reason he'd give to the Minister if he had to. It was mostly a lie. Mostly. In truth, she was fun when she wasn't being a complete pain in the ass. They liked the same things. She didn't give him disapproving looks when he destroyed stuff, she joined in. Hell, she suggested it. She half believed his stories and he wasn't done fucking with her yet.

Who was he kidding. He wasn't done fucking her yet. It was nice having a hookup any time he wanted. Especially now with his own ship. He wasn't about to give her that kind of leverage. Fuming, he spun back to the controls with a final, "Fuck you."

"Yeah. Thought so," Kaliyo said. She strode into the cockpit and leaned against the controls, her back to the hyperspace vortex and its riot of unnamable colors. They played over her pale skin, distorted on her curves.

"Why'd you call?" Cleaner snarled. He declined the tempting sight, staring at the instrumentation without really looking. He shifted his weight in the chair to make it squeak. She'd remember. She wasn't done fucking him either.

Her thoughts ran their course, no doubt in much the same vein as his. "Yeah, well, whatever," she said, recrossing her legs. "Have Intelligence cancel it."

He picked at grime around a switch, "If Yjal's as determined as you say he is he'll just post a new one."

"Sooo," she sidled closer, "Couple thoughts." He brushed her thigh with the back of his hand. Lokin's supercharged kolto repaired her injury with neither scratch nor scar. Muddied the one tattoo but no one in a position to notice cared. He sighed. At least one of her plans would sound like a blast and both would be bad ideas. "Let's hear it." Kaliyo shifted her hip to press against his caress, "I holo Yjal, set a meet. When we get there you shoot him in the face. Done. Like we should have when I first got the info from your people." Yeah. Bad idea. His fingers drifted down to her knee and slipped around the inside as she uncrossed her legs. "They're not my people," he said without venom. "Your annoying contacts, then," she said and he laughed despite himself. If only they were just contacts. She grinned her patented mischievous grin and went on, "Or we could play a game." His fingers crept higher and traced the ruined tattoo, unseen through the fabric, "What kind of game?" he asked. She stroked the top of his head and tickled one lekku, "The fun and profitable kind," she said. Now for the really bad idea. He knew better than to ask but did anyway, "What kind of fun and how much profit?" Kaliyo leaned in and gripped his shoulders. She rotated his seat until he faced away from the console and nestled herself in the space between his legs. His hands automatically went to her ass. She toyed with his lekku, "Role play," she said. "Role play?" Cleaner asked. Sounded like a true Kaliyo-level bad idea. Fun, no doubt, but terrible.

"Mm-hm," she said. She drew the length of his lekku through her hands, let them fall back and did it again. "You still have that holo-disguise thing from Tatooine or did Intelligence confiscate it?"

Cleaner inhaled her scent. She hadn't changed or bathed since they retreated to the ship and the smell of ionized tibanna gas clung to her clothing along with a vague whiff of ale and cigarra smoke from whatever bar she hit before the fight. Beneath it all, the smoldering aroma of adrenaline-laced perspiration. Kaliyo's natural perfume. "I still have it. Why?"

Hands stroked his lekku. "Since Yjal's offering such a nice bounty, how about playing the Big Bad Bounty Hunter for him," she kissed the top of his head, "and then shooting him in the face?"

Stars above, it was a terrible idea. Even in the realm of Kaliyo ideas. He ought not encourage her. Especially if he were going to veto it anyway. But the thought was damn tempting. Hilarious fun if they pulled it off. "I don't know there, missy," he said, doing a bad impersonation of Slate, the bounty hunter in the Ace of Staves holoshow, "I expect you want a cut. Why should I do that when I can collect the whole amount all by my lonesome?"

Kaliyo giggled and slithered down between his legs to the deckplates. "Well, sir," she said in an equally awful impression of Ace's Corellian Basic, "I believe we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement." She licked her lips and rested her arms on top of his thighs, her fingers laced under her chin and the mischievous grin again gracing her face.

Cleaner relaxed back in his seat. It moaned in half-hearted protest. He traced the delicate cartilage of her left ear, "Maybe so. What kind of arrangement do you have in mind?" he asked.

She snuggled in and kissed him through his trousers, her lipstick leaving a smoky smudge, "Let me explain," she said. Her breath blew warm and promising.

Fixer 43 peeked around the doorframe into the medlab, “Are they always so loud?” he asked.

Doctor Lokin removed an earbud and set it on the counter. Tinny music spilled from its miniscule speaker. “The argument, or at present?” he asked.

“Both,” Fixer 43 asked. “I ignore so the majority of their activities,” Lokin said, consulting the manual for his newest acquisition. The rapid gene sequence/resequencer refused to calibrate a baseline. He checked the output display, "Their cabin and the refresher are soundproofed. I recommend earplugs or music inserts if you find the remaining occurrences annoying." Fixer 43 sighed, "Thank you, sir," he replied. Lokin went back to the stubborn equipment but the Fixer interrupted, "Sir, if you don't mind my asking, are you at all familiar with the Science Bureau’s Special Project 62991A?" "Why do you ask?" Lokin said, checking the calibration matrix. "Well, sir, Cleaner asked me to look into it quite some time ago but my request for the files was refused," Fixer 43 answered. "You have them now, don't you?" Lokin asked. "Yes, sir, I do," Fixer 43 said, "The biological sections are out of my league." "I expect so," Doctor Lokin agreed, "I'm looking into those. Cleaner’s investigation is one reason I required upgraded equipment." "I understand, sir," Fixer 43 scuffed his shoes on the deck, "I hope you don't think I'm stepping on your toes, so to speak, but I believe I've seen something like this before." Lokin replaced the baseline verification procedure checklist on top of the sequencer's collection tray and focused his attention on the hesitant young man, "Oh?" he asked. "Yes, sir," 43 continued, "But I could be mistaken. Biology really isn't my specialty." "Understood, 43," Lokin replied. His gaze dropped momentarily to the datapad in the Fixer's hand, "Tell me about it." Fixer 43 advanced into the medlab, "A few months back some mercenary types claimed they discovered a coven of Revanites--you're familiar with the cult, I presume--” Lokin was all ears, "In general, yes," he confirmed. "Ah, good," Fixer 43 looked as though he ate a sourfruit, "I don’t know much beyond the name, myself. I try to avoid Sith religious disagreements. In any case, these individuals claimed the coven, populated entirely with unknown aliens, was founded by Darth Revan himself and powered by some strange organic source. They brought a nugget of organic material with them and wanted a reward for their discovery."

“And it was forwarded to the Science Bureau?” Lokin prompted, leaning a degree or two toward 43.

“No, sir, it wasn’t,” Fixer 43 replied, “This was the Nar Shaddaa branch. We have screeners for that sort of thing, much like on Balmorra. The official on intake that day concluded it was a group of strung-out spiceheads with a scoop of something they dug out of the gutter.” Lokin frowned and 43 hastened to add, “In his defense, it’s a wild story even for Nar Shaddaa. If a crowd of ragged nobodies showed up on your doorstep with a hunk of smelly detritus, would you believe them?”

Doctor Lokin focused on the important issue, “Was any analysis done?”

Fixer 43 brightened, “Yes, sir, though it was minimal. It was scanned for explosives--again, one can never be too careful--then went to biological for toxin and infectious agent scan before appropriate disposal.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have the report, would you?” Lokin asked.

“Not as such, sir,” Fixer 43 replied, “I only remember the incident because I got stuck with the explosives scan.” He passed the datapad to Lokin, “I kept a record of my data, which includes 3D models and internal structure. It’s familiar. The biological analysis too.”

Doctor Lokin flipped through the images without reading the accompanying text. He set the pad down, “I don’t suppose you still have access to the official report and associated documents, do you?”

"No, just sounds the same," Mouse volunteered. Her Basic wasn’t standard Imperial, either. Not local. She definitely blew in from the rim somewhere.

“Good,” Cleaner said. He reholstered his weapon, “Any of you speak Huttese?" A few nods, Mouse and Mobile Turret among them. Tightass not. “How do you get stationed on Nar Shaddaa and not pick up the local lingua? Must be hell trying to find a public ‘fresher,” he muttered, “All right. Ignore everything I say, and shoot what I tell you but not until I tell you, got it?”

“This is not an operation, Agent,” Tightass said.

"You follow me around and it is," Cleaner said.

"My unit is here only to observe and report," Ensign Tjen objected, "You can't give them orders."

"If you're not going to play along you can observe and report from here," Cleaner said, "or I'll shoot you for interfering with Intelligence." He could at that. Not a one of these fish had Intelligence insignia. Minister would be pissed at him, though.

Tjen ground his teeth. Cleaner saw his jaw muscles bunching. "This is not an Intelligence Operation," he managed at last.

Cleaner rolled his eyes, "Pwuska ittu, unclench a bit, will you, bukee?" he said. Hoped Kaliyo had his cigs, he was going to need one to unwind after this nerf-herding episode, "What's going to look better in your file, taking initiative and assisting an Intelligence agent or following orders to the letter?"

Tjen's beady green eyes narrowed, "You can't shoot me," he dared.

“Can’t I?” Cleaner glared at him. Waited for the twitch, the tell, the moment when Tightass Tjen’s brain decided to go for his weapon but before his body actually did. In a flash, Cleaner’s holdout dropped into his hand even as he raised his arm to aim. The snub barrel ended barely past Cleaner’s fingers, lined up with the ensign’s nose. Tjen’s hadn't made it out of his holster. “Do not fuck with Intelligence, son,” Cleaner said, “If you can’t follow directions I’ll drop you down the nearest waste chute along with any witnesses who annoy me. No one will say boo. Now, you gonna play along or does one of your squad get a field promotion?"

Tjen eased his weapon back into its holster and moved his hand away. Slowly. His eyes flicked between Cleaner and the barrel of the little holdout, "This incident will go in my report," he said.

"You do that. Tattoo it on your ass for all I care," Cleaner said, "Are we clear?"

The green eyes focused on the business end of Cleaner's blaster. At this range even a miss would cost Tjen an ear and half his hair. Tjen blinked, "Clear," he said.

"Good," Cleaner said. The little blaster disappeared back into his sleeve. "Play nice and we might stop for drinks on the way back."

"I don't take bribes, Agent," Tjen said.

"Not a bribe," Cleaner said, "If I gotta get out anyway I might as well hit someplace fun. Let's go."

His hunch was right. Within a block even the wasted dregs were gone from the streets and the sound of blaster fire echoed off the storefronts. Cleaner paused behind a bend where he could see a distorted reflection of the street beyond in a tattooist’s demo window. Kaliyo favored a hideous yellow-green bolt and he saw what looked like hers farther down. He and his entourage came up behind whoever was shooting at her. Lucky, since approaching Kaliyo from behind under the circumstances was a good way to get shot.

Speaking of which. Cleaner took out his comm and buzzed her, "Found your friends," he said.

Her image was grainy and full of static, "You waiting for an invite?" she asked.

"You know me. I'd rather crash," he said, "just don't shoot me."

"You're no fun.''

"Fun later," he said. Explanations, too, if he got her hammered enough.

"Ooo. Promise?" The grainy image struck a coquettish pose.

"You still got that kolto lube, yeah?" he asked, "I want a piece of the ass I'm saving."

"Come get it," she said. The link cut.

Mouse tittered then went silent as though ashamed at her outburst. Cleaner held the conversation in Huttese so she was one of the few in the crowd who understood it. " All right," he began, Basic for the Imperials, "Remember instructions. Don't shoot till I say so, after that shoot anyone you want. Do NOT shoot the nice Rattataki lady in the holo or I will be very unhappy." Mouse blushed. A couple others coughed. Let 'em laugh. He continued, "Her blaster bolts are snot-green and she should be behind cover at the far end of the alley," and if she were smart she'd stay there until he mopped up the mess, "Anyone else is fair game.  Collateral damage is encouraged, pursuit is not. They wanna run let 'em go," Nods from his appropriated squad. "All right. Fan out across the street. You, Mobile Turret," he pointed at the soldier with the autocannon, the one who slipped in the lift, "you're with me in the middle."

"Engagement protocol states-" Tightass started.

Cleaner adjusted his beam choke, "I want the big guy by me for intimidation value. Questions?"

Tightass declined to press the point. He hung back behind Cleaner as the squad moved out of cover, spreading out across the width of the street. Anywhere but Nar Shaddaa and they'd be cutting off escape routes; here they just forced their foes to run deeper into the warrens. Cleaner saw three different bolt colors and four likely involved sources. One might be a team. None of Kaliyo's; the crossfire had her pinned pretty well and they were in the who-runs-out-of-gas-first stage. He also saw how she'd gotten herself trapped. A hefty metal construction fence blocked the far end of the alley. Beyond was a void. A building either going up or coming down, hard to know which. Part of Nar Shaddaa's endless resurfacing. The way was clear last time, leading up to one of the less seedy red light districts, or down to a technically illegal gladiatorial arena.

Cleaner activated a personal shield-no sense taking chances-and fired his blaster into the overhead infrastructure, "Hey! You on Fa’zeeth turf! You bad for business!" he yelled in street-level Huttese, followed by another blast at the ceiling.

The multiway firefight ground to a halt in half a dozen shots. After a pause, someone called out, "Got a contract. Mind your own business."

Contract? Bounty contract? Interesting. Pretty much left intimidation since, legally, they were covered. Unless they shot first. "Am minding business. Fa’zeeth's business. No contract to shoot up street. Bad for business. Imps unhappy. Fa’zeeth says go."

"Fa’zeeth can keep his chubby tail to himself!"

"Fuck the Imps. This is Nar Shaddaa."

One from the left, the other right, neither of them the initial speaker. "Pick your targets, don't shoot till I do," he muttered in Basic to Mobile Turret, who acknowledged with a curt nod. Cleaner took another step forward, "You move off or I make you," he warned. He heard the autocannon's safety click off. The sound echoed off the buildings, reinforced as the rest of the squad followed suit. Nice timing, Mobile Turret.

The alley was silent save for the buzz of holosigns and grumpy air purifiers. An eye appeared in the back of the tattoo window and vanished just as quickly. One of the soldiers shifted her grip on her weapon. Metal and plastiform parts rattled. After an eternity the first voice spoke again, "I'm registering a complaint with the Brokerage," it said, stepping from cover. Easily as massive as Mobile Turret and armored head to toe, Cleaner had no clue what species it was beyond humanoid. It made a show of holstering its weapon, proving it had no intention of shooting, "Also with the Kajidics, the Mandalorians, and the Imperial Consulate. You've no right to interfere with my hunt," it said. "Four of you," Cleaner said. "Where the rest?" Half the squad trained their weapons on the only obvious target as it advanced on their position. No one fired, a testament to their training. "I can't speak for them," it said, "Only myself." It closed with the Imperials, wide hands well away from its guns. Its voice modulated through a vocabulator to a lower register, but regardless of gender Cleaner had to admit it had balls. It marched straight up to him and Mobile Turret. It waited, helmet angled just slightly downward, the darkened eyeslit meeting Cleaner's eye. Daring him to shoot. He could. But he didn't need to. "Make your complaints. Off Fa’zeeth's turf." To the Imperials he spoke in Basic, "Let him through," he ordered. Mobile Turret Two headed for a break in the line before the troopers shifted aim. Cleaner didn't bother watching its progress, same as the hunter wouldn't check for tails or a cowardly shot. The Minister called the dynamic ‘honor among thieves’, but only because he didn't understand it. Prey checked. Predators didn't. Three remaining. "Your big friend gone," Cleaner announced. He let the statement hang. Still might get a firefight out of the idiot contingent. But he didn't. A pair of humans leaned out from a side passage, like enough at this distance to be twins, "We have this," one announced. "Not today," Cleaner said. Talky Twin glared at him, "I'll remember you, Twi'lek," he said. "You do that," Cleaner replied. Talky Twin tilted the business end of his rifle toward the ceiling. He and his duplicate disappeared into the maze, not daring a further confrontation. That left only one, on the right. Cleaner took another step forward and Mobile Turret followed, autocannon at ready. For an Imperial soldier, he knew the Hired Muscle script by heart. "All alone now," Cleaner said to the still-hidden shooter, "No friends. Be smart like them." An explosion of truly creative cursing erupted from the voice's hiding spot, followed by the speaker, a diminutive Cathar in mismatched and hand-me-down armor. "Just like that. Drop my biggest payday ever on your say so. Well I say fuck that." He leveled his weapon at Cleaner. Every safety in Cleaner's entourage clicked off. Tightass jumped; Cleaner saw the twitch in his peripheral vision. A distant warble from the Cathar underlined the tension. Trigger-happy had a rangefinder alert installed in his chest piece. Right now it warned him of six different rifles virtually guaranteed to hit. Not including the non-scoped blasters whose aim might be less perfect but no less lethal. Cleaner's own blaster stayed at his side. His shield was good enough to absorb a shot from Trigger Happy's wide-bore disrupter, assuming it hit at this distance. Right now the squad was his weapon. 

Like Tjen not thirty minutes earlier, Trigger Happy blinked first. "You win this round, Twi'lek," he said with a sound part snort, part growl, "Tell Fa’zeeth he's made an enemy. He won't always have Imps around to protect him. And neither will you."

"Clear out," Cleaner ordered, indifferent to the threat.

The Cathar smiled, not at all reassuring or friendly with his feline teeth, "Sure. Sure, I'm going. For now." As had the twins, he hefted the disruptor into a neutral position, muzzle pointed at the ceiling and sauntered toward the Imperial line. He brushed past Cleaner, his pauldron crumpling the fabric of Cleaner's right sleeve. Not a slam, which required an answer, but a more subtle threat. Cleaner angled his blaster so the barrel clacked against Trigger Happy's armored thigh as he passed. A subtle response. And the Minister said he wasn't subtle.

Trigger Happy continued on, tossing out a vague, "Watch your back," over his shoulder before getting out of earshot.

Cleaner declined further comment, listening to the footsteps recede into the distance. He didn't know what joint the Cathar had been in, but he'd been locked up somewhere. He only saw that kind of dominance game among other cons. Slaves played it a little differently. Might bear looking in to, if only to satisfy his curiosity. And in case Trigger Happy became a problem. Mobile Turret Two seemed more inclined to move through official channels while the Twins were likely to drop the issue altogether despite their comment.

The threat neutralized, Kaliyo popped out of hiding not thirty meters from Trigger Happy's last position, "Aww. If you kept him talking a couple more minutes I'd have taken him out."

"Relax," Cleaner told the squad. Most had aim on Kaliyo and the remainder looked like they wanted to, but weren't ready to  piss off the Intelligence Agent. "Thought you were low on gas," Cleaner said, returning to Huttese.

"Not that low," she said. She vaulted over a pile of long-dead speeder debris--or possibly the wreckage of a public comm terminal, it was a little hard to tell--and came right up to Cleaner. Held out a hand for the reload, as though she asked for takeaway, not a rescue. Of course technically, she hadn't asked for a rescue.

Cleaner handed them over, "Quite a party you were having," he said.

Kaliyo took the loads and swapped one into her primary weapon, "Wasn't it? Shame you didn't join in."

"Not for lack of trying," he answered.

She stepped in closer, "You could have tried harder."

"The point wasn't starting a firefight," Cleaner said. The scent of burnt plasma and overheated blaster barrels clung to her like a violent perfume. Half wished he had opened up, at least on the Twins and Trigger Happy. "The point was saving your ass. Speaking of," he stepped in closer and ran one hand down her back to caress the roundness below, "They didn't shoot it off, did they?" he mumbled in her ear.

Kaliyo snickered and let him, "Nope."

His caress became a grip, "I think I should take you someplace to get drunk and then check."

She poked his chest, "Ship."

"We'll end there," Cleaner said, pulling her tight against her, "I promised the squad l'd show 'em a good time."

Kaliyo pushed him away, "Ship."

"C'mon, you dragged me out here," Cleaner wheedled, "If I gotta walk around Nar Shaddaa with half the Imperial Army I at least want to hit a bar or three. I bet you didn't grab my cigs yet."

"Ship now," Kaliyo emphasized.

Kark all he had at least five hours to kill. Just because she had her fun already didn't mean he was done, "Give me one good reason why."

Cleaner's statement broke through 43's confusion, "About that, sir, the contingent in the hangar?"

"What about them?" Cleaner asked.

"That's not for me, is it?" the Fixer asked.

Truth was easy, but oh so useless. "Nah," Cleaner said, "I’m not here under cover, so they’re here to protect Imperial interests. As in the ship. Top of the line Imperial tech in here. The last thing I need is some port rat jacking it.” Fixer 43’s expression changed from concern to abject horror. Poor guy. It was too hard to not mess with him. “Relax. I'm not sending you into the field. I need a guy who knows his weapons backwards and forwards and you were on the top of the list."

"Oh," Fixer 43 said, "I'm flattered, sir."

Cleaner's personal list, at least. "Don't be so worried. I can requisition anything you want. You and Kaliyo can talk weapons, you can get all scientific with the Doc, it'll be great. Doc's Fixer 15. Still has ties to the Science Bureau."

Fixer 43 brightened for the first time since boarding, "Really, sir?"

"Yeah." Cleaner said, "I know how much you wanted a transfer there." Fixer 43 wasn't so dense as to miss Cleaner's implication. Favors were owed. "Come on, I'll show you the rest." He fought the desire to hook the Fixer's arm before continuing down the hall. Damn, he was cute.  "Galley, don't touch the second chiller. The one labeled ‘Lokin'. That's Doc's stuff. Might bite back."

43 snickered, "I had a roommate at University who put ‘biohazard’ tape on all his--oh, you weren't joking." he said at Cleaner's flat expression.

"Safer to assume his stuff is toxic," Cleaner said, "trust me. Bottom shelf in the main chiller is yours. Leave stuff anywhere else and it's fair game. Including liquor. If you don't want to share keep it in your locker."

Fixer 43 at last found a place to set down his drink, "I never know when you're joking, sir."

"I'm not joking," Cleaner said, "Nutri-packs, other non-perishables, snacks, more liquor. You want something, requisition it." He made a mental note to restock on decent nutri-packs. Outside the Empire he had a variety to choose from. Being a ubiquitous species had its perks now and again. He wondered how much one of those autochef droids ran. Or if he could load the programming into Cleaner Two. He spotted the droid hovering behind Fixer 43, having received no orders. Maybe not. "Fresher's down the hall. First come first serve. C2 cleared a cubby in there for you."

"Oh, um, thank you, sir," Fixer 43 replied, still juggling his datapads.

Cleaner led the way to the ship's common room, the one with the questionable carpet and out-of-date acceleration couch, "Won't liftoff for another ten hours so you've time to pick up anything you forgot."

"I might just actually-" Fixer 43 began when Cleaner's comm beeped.

"Sec," Cleaner said. It wasn't the Minister's high priority alert, but Kaliyo's. Her image resolved, grainy with interference. "What?" he asked.

"Hey, if you want your cigs you're gonna have to come get 'em. Also bring me a couple gas cylinders," she said.

The tip of one lekku curled. "You got a chit. You can't find a blaster service on Nar Shaddaa?" he said. In the back of his mind he knew why she needed a recharge.

The high whine of blaster fire came through in the background. "Not in this block," she answered.

"Are you shooting someone?" Cleaner asked. Rhetorical question under the circumstances.

"No."

"Several someones?"

"Maybe."

Cleaner rolled his eyes, grateful the holo was too small to transmit the gesture. "You realize I'll be bringing friends," he said.

"Yeah. Kinda the point," Kaliyo replied. She raised her blaster and the flash from the bolt blinded the communicator for a moment. Cleaner squinted against the blue glare. "You got the coordinates off the com-trace. Don't waste time." Kaliyo said. She cut the connection and her holo collapsed.

Cleaner clicked the unit off and shoved it back in his pocket, "Duty calls," he said.

Fixer 43 clutched his datapads to his chest, "Sir, I had to turn in my weapon at the local office because it was registered to the branch and I couldn't take it with me after the transfer-"

"You walked around Nar Shaddaa without a blaster?" Cleaner interrupted 43's word waterfall. The Fixer nodded, mute. "You're braver than I am," Cleaner said, lekku twisting in amusement. He pushed past his new recruit and the silent droid and headed toward the weapons locker.

Fixer 43 jogged behind him, "What I'm trying to say, sir, is that I am currently without a service blaster-"

"Don't sweat it," Cleaner said. He had no intention of taking Captain Clueless into any situation that might mess up his pretty face. He let the printlock on the armored cabinet scan his biometrics. It completed with a polite chime and unlocked, revealing an array of blasters ranging from compact holdouts to heavy rifles not quite heavy enough to be autocannons. Cleaner tugged open the drawer labeled “Kaliyo” and dug around for a cylinder or two that weren’t depleted, frowned, and grabbed a fresh pair from the general supply. "Why don't you stay here and get settled in while it's nice and quiet? Check out what’s on hand. If you don't like any of the spares let me know what kind you want." He retrieved his personal pistol and a micro-needler holdout, just in case.

“I, erm,” Fixer 43’s voice came from behind, “I'll do that. Thank you, sir,” he said.

Cleaner stuffed the cylinders in his pocket and headed back toward the galley. The pistol went in his standard holster; the holdout disappeared up his sleeve. Glancing in, he noticed the Fixer's drink abandoned on the counter. No sense letting good whisky go to waste. He downed it in one gulp. Sucked air in through his teeth. Good stuff, Corellian whisky. He almost collided with 43 on his way out. "We’re on Nar Shaddaa. I can get anything," Cleaner reiterated. The Fixer nodded mutely. Cleaner walked to the to the rear airlock, Fixer in tow.

Being planetside, the hatch opened immediately then hissed closed on Fixer 43. Cleaner clumped down the ramp. Ensign Tjen and his fun brigade lay in wait for him just outside the safety perimeter. He pounced as soon as Cleaner crossed the scuffed paint, "Agent Cleaner, you've taken on your personnel transfer. My orders state-"

Cleaner headed for the turbolift without slowing, "Gotta run an errand," he said.

"Rico, stay here with Aurek Platoon and continue observation. Besh, you're with me," Ensign Tjen nodded at the squad to the left and they fell into step behind him. He jogged to catch up, "I will not let you out of my sight, Cleaner. My orders are explicit on that point," he said, "I am to monitor and report on your activities for the duration of your stay."

Cleaner verified the coordinates from Kaliyo's trace. Organ market. This ought to be fun. "Knock yourself out," he said, punching the  button to summon the turbolift.

"I've kept track of the deliveries," Ensign Tjen went on, "All of them. Registered the business of origin as well."

The lift door ground open and a scent like droid light lubricant and leaky fuel cells wafted out. Cleaner's boot slipped on the grating. Gingerly, he made for the lift controls. His entourage followed. The heavy gunner went down on the treacherous floor with a curse. There was one laugh. Ensign Tjen silenced the offending humorist with a glare. Cleaner selected the level and shoved the handle over to full. The landing pad disappeared behind greasy service doors and the lift began its descent. Ensign Tjen made a note of the selected level and the time on his datapad.

Cleaner leaned on the lever. Dumb fish. "Bukee, I don't know what they told you when they gave you this assignment. That it was a test of your leadership ability or that it would look good on your service record or it was a sensitive duty or what." Tjen's deepening scowl suggested at least one of those reasons hit close to home. Cleaner went on, "But they lied."

Ensign Tjen puffed up with importance, "I have also been briefed on you, personally, Agent, so as to better-"

Sure. No ensign had clearance enough to get much more than his designation. "It's a shit detail and you know it," Cleaner turned to him. Kid had green eyes. Cleaner figured brown, to match his nose. "Compiling a list of my groceries and the porn holos I order? That's promotion material," he said. A few of Tjen's support troops shifted their weight, one of them the gunner with the bruised pride. None of them wanted to stare down the Twi'lek Agent with the bad reputation. Cleaner chuckled and followed the level counter as they descended. "Someone hates you, mi bukee. Hoping to get rid of you, permanently with any luck. So before you make more notes to file with your seventeen-page report on my liquor preferences, you might want to think about who that is and what you're going to do about it."

“I imagine it would be,” Kaliyo said.

“So,” Cleaner began, “I bring friends, price for everything goes through the roof, assuming I can find someone who’ll sell at all. Plus they’re eavesdropping on comms so ordering in isn’t an option either.”

“Sucks to be you,”

Thanks for rubbing it in. “So hit Roxy’s for some cigs for me, yeah?”

“What’s in it for me?” Kaliyo teased.

He held out a credstick, a nice high value one, “My undying gratitude,” he said. Kaliyo’s fingers closed over the stick and he snatched her wrist, tugging her in and wrapping his free arm around her waist.  She squeaked and giggled. “For as long as the cigs last, anyway. Keep the rest.”  He planted a kiss on her forehead.

She twisted out of his grip with a snort, “I will,” she said, grinning and palming the credstick.

Lokin clumped down the gangplank past them, oblivious, “I’ll likely have a number of deliveries and installations.  Be sure they’re granted permission to board.” He continued on and vanished through the wall of troops without waiting for confirmation.

"Nar Shaddaa. All by myself," Kaliyo gloated, ignoring the interruption.

"Standard day.  Don't be late," Cleaner said.

"I won't be," she said. The meatwall allowed her to pass and closed behind her.

One stepped forward. The decoration on his uniform proclaimed him a ensign. Ooo, a real officer. Probably on the base commander’s shit list. He didn't make any friends with the military detachment stationed here on his last visit.  "You are the Intelligence Agent Cleaner One?" the ensign asked.

"Who wants to know?" Cleaner replied. They knew damn well who he was. Introductions were a formality.

"Ensign Tjen. My orders are to observe your activities and report my observations to my superiors," he replied.

He considered going for a stroll through the lower level warrens. Watching his personal army jump at shadows and wonder when he planned on trading them for free passage. He discarded the thought barely formed. Fun, yes, but the last thing he needed was his face closely associated with Imperials. Not on a planet with this many information brokers, and certainly not under present circumstances. "Well, observe from down there."

"My orders-" Ensign Tjen began.

Cleaner cut him off, "I'm picking up a personnel transfer from the local Intelligence office. Let him through when he gets here."

"I received no inst-" he tried again.

"You let my guy through unless you want to spend your career overseeing 'fresher maintenance on Kessel instead of this cushy post, got it?"

"All transit in and out of this vessel--" the closing airlock door cut off the ensign's tirade.  Kark him. Cleaner wandered back to the common room and flopped on the couch. The ship was quiet, save for the low bubble in Lokin's kolto tank and the repetitive grind of a bearing going out somewhere. All alone and he couldn't think of a single thing to do.

Kaliyo skipped onto the promenade. First up: look for familiar faces on the bounty boards. Always good for a laugh. Then maybe a cruise through the organ markets and the chem drag. Wind down in a cantina--Roxy's was pretty decent for recreational substances, not that she'd ever let Cleaner know--and make it back to the ship just before liftoff. She hoped Cleaner would message her in the last thirty minutes so she could pretend to ignore it. Especially if he reminded her about the cigarettes. Must be nice to drink and smoke as much as he did with no aftereffects..

There was also a clandestine holocall to make. Any public terminal. After she broke Cleaner's credstick. There was a certain irony in that, Cleaner paying for her research into his background. But get smaller value 'sticks first in case he embedded a tracker. He was paranoid like that. She knew paranoid. She was clever.

Kaliyo perused the boards. Funny. Not many of her old friends were on here anymore. Not even as bounties claimed, expired, or cancelled. She ran around under an Imperial umbrella for so long everyone else was out of circulation. Felt odd. Overdue for a jump but not done with Cleaner yet. She still had unfinished business.

She was about to close the terminal when a new bounty popped up. High threat, paid triple for alive, undamaged. Right here on Nar Shaddaa. Kaliyo opened the entry and shut it down just as fast.

Her heart raced. She glanced at the reflections on the glass-fronted terminal of passers by behind her. Checked the beings on either side of her out of the corners of her eyes. No one noticed. Not yet.

Nonchalant, she stepped away from the terminal and joined a knot of pedestrian tourists. Slipped out of that crowd into another, Frogdog fans complaining about the Rotworms cheating. She broke away when they entered a cantina and picked up a brace of heroically drunken dockworkers. Not a one of them could see straight.

Good thing.

It was her name on the bounty list. Contract courtesy Yjal.

Fixer 43 hesitated outside the lift to the small private craft bays. Hefted his duffel. He got the transfer notice a week ago. A prescription for digestive acid reducers the next day.

He felt a little disappointed that no one bothered to throw him a happy transfer party. Or snacks over lunch. Not even an informal get-together after hours. Nothing. He knew he wasn't the most popular person in the local office but it would be nice to know someone noticed he was leaving.

He took a deep breath of Nar Shaddaa's polluted air and called the lift. Well, he did get one sympathy holocard. Unsigned. Probably a joke.

The lift door wheezed open. His stomach gurgled displeasure.

He wiped a tear from one eye. The letters were some kind of Sith script; he recognized a handful of characters even if he couldn't read it. The alcohol buzz already faded, "How'd you get it?" he croaked.

"Showing some young Sithy types a good time," she said.

Poodoo. “What kind of good time?”

"Wouldn't you like to know," she sang.

Cleaner blinked a few times. An incense-y fragrance clung to the back of his nasal cavity like an obnoxious guest overstaying his welcome. "I know you wanted different, didn't think you went for toxic."

Kaliyo snickered again, "Probably not supposed to drink it straight up."

"Probably not," he agreed. He listened to the traffic hissing on wet streets outside the windows for a moment, “Where’s the Doc?” he asked, looking around.

Kaliyo yawned, “He said he was under no obligation to stay in the alien ghetto. Plus he made noises about utterly inadequate medical facilities on the ship and that he was going to upgrade them to useable.”

Barely two weeks and she had Lokin’s cadence and delivery down. "He on the ship, then?"  Cleaner asked.

She edged closer, "Yeah. I guess.  Didn't ask. Like I want to hang out with Doctor Rakghoul.   Gives me the creeps.  I almost wish I had to spend a couple hours with My Favorite Watcher. This planet sucks."

Cleaner's eyes narrowed and he leaned toward her, "You missed me," he taunted, poking her arm.

"Did not," Kaliyo denied. She glared at him out of the corner of her eye but there was no venom in her voice.

"Did so," he insisted. He turned toward her, resting an elbow on the counter. He half wanted a plain old nap. After his Zhorrid excursion he really wasn't all that interested more sex.

"Did not," Kaliyo repeated. She gave him a visual once-over, her gaze lingering. "Hope the new girl didn't break my favorite toy."

"She didn't," he said.

"I should check anyway," Kaliyo said. She placed her hands on his hips and she swayed up against him. "Ah ha," she crowed at his wince, "I knew it."  Her arms wrapped around the small of his back and she settled in.

Heat and warmth and...dammit, a nap would be nice. "Kaliyo, I'm not much in the mood right now,"  he said. Risky. Kaliyo thwarted would bail after locking the door and torching the furniture while he slept.

She flicked the tips of his lekku, "I have flavored kolto lube," she whispered, snuggling up against him.

A kolto rubdown would be nice.  He preferred Kaliyo snark to Lokin snark under the circumstances. While she might not be any more gentle than the Doc, she beat the hell out of him for bedside manner. When she was happy at least.  "Flavored, huh?" he replied, encircling her waist with his arms and lacing his fingers.

"Mmm-hmm," she hummed, "Supposed to be riiti melon. Wanna find out?"

Stars. The things he did for this job. "I think I could be persuaded," Cleaner said.

The Minister reviewed Fixer 43's file. The facts remained the same. With his performance reviews - however positive-he was not a good match for Cleaner. He slumped back in his overtall chair and kneaded his eyebrows. No one was, if he were honest with himself. But Cleaner’s argument was solid. The Eradicators were their best connection to Darth Jadus--former Darth Jadus--and Fixer 43 was perfectly suited to interpret Cleaner's data. Attaching him to Cleaner gave Intelligence a small layer of insulation if Zhorrid self-destructed. None of which changed the fact that Shen no doubt had another reason for wanting Fixer 43 and it likely had nothing to do with his qualifications for the job.

The Minister sat forward again. He saw little point in looking for another experienced person just to spite Shen. Such moves usually backfired anyway. 43 would have to deal with it. He made a note to discuss it with his replacement when he confirmed the active Cipher ops later today.  

Cleaner's other plan also had merit, much as he hated to admit it. Though he thought he could do it one better. Zhorrid needed an apprentice.  Someone who could pass for one at any rate.  A darth's apprentice could go anywhere, do anything, very few questions asked.  They could also intercept communications and make pronouncements on their master's behalf. A perfect position for a mole.  There was only one difficulty.

An apprentice must be Force-sensitive.  All Force-sensitives went to Korriban.

Except when they didn’t.

The Minister’s hand hovered over the control panel. The move he planned was risky.  None of these candidates were strong in the Force. Whether by bribery or luck or daring or a combination thereof, all of them avoided the meat grinder that was the Sith Academy. He planned to drop one into an even more cutthroat environment.

He entered his security codes and brought up the file.  On it, hundreds of Imperial citizens exhibiting what Cleaner called ‘a little spark’ and not much else.  The ones smart enough to know they’d never survive Korriban.  Smart enough to understand how precarious their positions were.  People with no ambition to climb in Sith circles.  Who were no threat to Zhorrid, at least not in ability.  One of whom might just make a capable mole. They couldn't very well refuse the proposal.

Get his damn graphic of interlocking Sith loyalties, rivalries, and favors-owed.  

"I declared Kaggath on him, love.  Do you know what that means?"  Zhorrid played with the end of his left lekku as though it were a hookah pipe.

His fingers drew circles her thigh.  He already knew, but Kaggath probably had more rules than the ones he read about.  He kissed the inside of her knee, "Tell me," he said.

Get pro help wading through the new information from Zhorrid's files.  He knew who he wanted to tap for the position, the trick was persuading the MInister.

Darth Zhorrid glowered, "I've tried. His files are sealed. It's useless."

"Let me try," Cleaner said.  He didn't dare touch them without permission.  Jadus' old alarms went straight to Zhorrid and she was quite protective of her father's secrets.  What she hoped were her father's secrets, “I know a few tricks.”

A wave of passion rolled off her at his turn of phrase and she dragged a chrome-colored nail down the center of his chest.  "You do at that," she purred.

Talk to the Minister about other things.

Storms brewed in Zhorrid's eyes, "Intelligence is mine.  My resource.  My power base.  I will have them focus on Jadus.  Nothing else.  That is Kaggath."

"Of course, mesh'la-mesh'la," Cleaner replied, "But the Empire has more enemies than just Jadus.  Intelligence watches them all.  What good is winning the Kaggath if it ruins the Empire?"

The storm paused at the point of breaking.  "You care little for the Empire, I think," she said.

"I'd like their currency to stay good long enough for me to spend it," Cleaner said.

Humor defused her temper and the storm blew over, "I did not think of it that way," she said.

He brushed a wayward lock of hair from her face, “But more than that.  If one or more of the other Councilors take advantage of your focus, defeating Jadus will be for nothing.  You know what they say on Nar Shaddaa.”

Zhorrid revealed perfect white teeth inside her scarred wide smile, “What do they say on Nar Shaddaa?”

“Guard the front door and thieves come in through the window.”

“They do not say that on Nar Shaddaa,” she said with a mischievous scrunch of her eyebrows.

“They should,” Cleaner replied.  

The transport touched down in front of the Sith Sanctum as usual.  Cleaner disembarked and headed for the Intelligence wing.  It wasn't raining or windy for a change, which qualified as perfect weather in Kaas City.  External Security stopped him when he reached the Operations taxi platform. “ID,” one demanded.

Yep, he was definitely back in the heart of the Empire. "Cleaner One," he said fishing the scratched datacard out of a pocket. Fearless Leader’s less-than-fearless backup tightened her grip on her weapon. "Run it.  I'll wait."  Who the hell did they expect coming from the Sith Sanctum who didn't have de facto clearance at least?    

“Confirmed.  Sorry, sir,” Fearless Leader said.

Slight note of resentment in his voice.  Cleaner patted for a cigarette in his jacket and was half surprised he still had them.  Getting direct transport from the spaceport to a Darth’s residence did have some perks.  Not that he could actually light up, of course. He strolled into Operations. 

Except the Minister wasn’t Keeper in Operations anymore. He was the Minister of Intelligence, ensconced in the upper reaches of the Citadel. No one seemed to notice his hesitation as he stuffed his ID in the lift slot for clearance, and the slight surprise that it moved when he selected his destination.

A functionary in formal military dress met him when the lift doors chimed open. She had rank pips but no other identification. “You will follow me to the office of The Minister of Intelligence,” she said.

“How about you just give me directions,” Cleaner suggested. Didn’t really need an escort. Didn’t really want an escort, either.

“You will follow me to the Office of The Minister of Intelligence, Agent Cleaner One, Hand of Zhorrid,” she said.

News of his relationship to Zhorrid was spreading. Well, between Zhorrid’s address and the Minister’s elevation it could hardly stay a secret. And we was getting an escort whether he wanted one or not. “After you,” he said, with an exaggerated bow. If it annoyed his guide, she declined to show it.

The Minister of Intelligence--former Keeper, former Cipher, former just Agent--sat behind his impressive desk, fingers steepled.  "I read your report.  What did you want to keep out of official records that you could not address in your last message?" he announced.

It was the real Minister after all.  A single strand of muscle in the back of Cleaner’s neck, ratcheted tight since leaving Taris orbit, relaxed.  “Yeah. I know I’m encrypted but I didn’t want to chance it.  Plus Kaliyo.”

The minister let out a tiny snort, “Plus Kaliyo.”

Cleaner shifted his weight.  Big damn room and still no chairs.  “Lokin’s on board but I have concerns.”  

“Lokin understands--”

“Lokin turned himself into a rakghoul,” Cleaner said.  

“Permanently?”

“No, not permanently--” Cleaner blinked, “wait a minute, you knew?”

The Minister replaced his hands on the desk, “I was aware of the general nature of his research, yes.  Not that it had progressed to human trials.”

Probably wouldn't have told him if it had.  Lovely.  “If he’s not lying it’s only the one human,” Cleaner groused.

“Then it should not affect his performance in his new assignment,” the Minister said.

End of discussion.  Moving on.  Cleaner shrugged and approached the dais.  Damn Sith aesthetics were getting to him.  “He thought he was off the record," he pressed.

“Doctor Eckard Lokin acted on his own volition.  He was not on an official assignment at the time,” the Minister said, “Like yourself, Lokin requires somewhat different handling than most agents.”

“Speaking of other agents,” Cleaner began, “he ratted out one of the Ciphers.”

The Minister cocked an eyebrow, “You’re telling me this why?”

“Because Lokin made a point of saying she was there and that she didn't have sanction either,” Cleaner said, “probably covering his wrinkly ass.  Or deflecting suspicion.  Hell, I don't know.  I know I don't like it.  There’s poodoo going on and I’m not in the loop.”

“Which Cipher?”

“Nine,” Cleaner replied.  The Minister wasn't involved in day-to-day ops anymore.  This might be news to him.  On the other hand, Cleaner had enough history with Nine--none of it good--the Minister might ignore the whole incident.  

The Minister glanced at his desk, making a note on an out of sight datapad, “Anything else?”

Cleaner scuffed his boots on the polished floor.  He did not like introducing Mystery Assassin.  “Darth Gravus' apprentice took a shot at me."

"I warned you I could no longer protect you from the Sith," the Minister said, "Darth Zhorrid announced herself as your patron. It's her responsibility now."

Cleaner went for his cigarettes before he forced the wayward hand back to his side, "Yeah, well, someone took her out.  Not Zhorrid, the other one.  On Taris.  Timing was too damn convenient.  I know it wasn't one of Zhorrid's people looking out for me so I wanna know what else is in play.  Who else is in play."

That got the Minister's attention, "You're certain it wasn't one of Zhorrid's?" he asked.

"Positive," Cleaner said, "I verified.  Cipher Nine might have, but I figure she'd rather shoot me instead given the opportunity.  Same thing with the SIS.  Same thing for everyone, dammit. I'm not the cleanup crew anymore.  The last thing I need is to drop Zhorrid's project to salvage the op I just karked up.  Who the fuck else is in play, Minister?  I need to know."

"How was it done?" the Minister asked, declining Cleaner's question.

Technically, Lokin killed Thana Vesh, but that wasn't the point.  "Long-range sniper.  Green bolt, not much spread," Cleaner closed his eyes, recalling the scene.  "Elevation better than forty-five degrees but less than sixty.  Came from my left, slightly behind."

"What did you find in the hide?" the Minister asked.

"I didn't," Cleaner replied, reopening his eyes, "Kaliyo caught reflected plasma and needed a medcenter.  I returned fire but I doubt I hit anything.  They only shot once so I never saw where it came from. It was too dark and there were too many possibilities.  Could have been a kilometer or more away or in the nearest ruin."  He shifted his weight.  If the Minister reamed him over anything, it would be not investigating when the trail was fresh.

But he didn't.  The Minister drummed his fingers on the desktop before speaking.  "I want a full report on the entire incident.  Before you leave planet again.  What did you learn during your rather lengthy visit with Darth Zhorrid?  I presume she's still pleased with you,"  he asked.

Nice.   "She let me in Jadus' files." An eyebrow raise to that.  Screw him.  "A little anyway.  Didn't get much but I was hoping you could give me a watcher."  He’d never get one, but if he started at watcher a fixer looked much less ambitious.

"Not quite my department anymore," the Minister said.

Cleaner rolled his eyes, "Like your boss never made special requests.  Besides, New Keeper hates my guts.  She won't give me the time of day, let alone a watcher.  Probably thinks I'd eat him."  

"Is she wrong?" the Minister asked.

“How about another fixer, then?” Cleaner said, dodging the question and segueing into his real goal, “Jadus hijacked the science bureau project on the Eradicators.  I figure they’re his best chance of getting his position back.  Zhorrid agrees,” a shiver at the thought, and the memory of soft hands sliding down his lekku.   

“Does she, now,” the Minister asked, “you must have been quite persuasive.”

It was Cleaner’s turn to grind his teeth, “It's what you wanted.  What you asked for,” he grumbled.  “He's either making more of them or trying to regain control of the existing ones.  I'd guess the latter."  He took a breath, "The Eradicators are karking complicated.  Lokin can interpret the biological crap in his sleep, but I need a weapons expert too.  Someone who understands big emplacements and the like.  That’s not me.  I’m small-arms.  Wetwork.  So’s Kaliyo.  You know that.  Carryable, concealable, maybe some little bombs, nothing like the Eradicators."

"You have someone in mind," the Minister said.  A statement, not a question.

Here goes.  "Fixer 43.  He's smart, knows his stuff, I worked with him before and I like him."  Cleaner made a point of maintaining eye contact, "I hate everyone, so that's a plus.  Hell, I even put a nicey-nice thing in his file.  He and Lokin will be science buddies.  He’ll have a blast."

The Minister's fingers pressed harder together.  Cleaner half expected to catch fire under his intense laser glare.  "What do you really want with him?" the Minister asked.

Instant improvement of his ship's decor.  More with a little luck.  Not anything he'd admit to the Minister if he wanted the assignment approved.  He replied, "Someone who knows weapons better than I do.   He called me ‘sir all the time.  Without prompting.  Like I'm a real agent."  When the Minister declined comment Cleaner continued, "I promise I won't try to kill him."

A pause.  "I will consider it," the Minister said, "anything else?"

"Yeah," Cleaner said.  The Minister was going to like this request even less.  "Zhorrid needs a minder."

"That's your job now," the Minister retorted.

"I'm your pet thug moonlighting as her confidant.  Her advisor.  Not a babysitter," Cleaner said, "Look, she owns Intelligence but she doesn't understand it.  She really has no idea how it works or how to use it to her advantage.  And doesn't much care.  All she wants is to win this Kaggath of hers.   You could be a hydrospanner.  Or a stylus.  And like a 'spanner she's going to break you without guidance.  Assign a minder to her to act like a major-domo and she'll be a lot less trouble," Cleaner said.

"Darth Zhorrid is amenable to this idea?" the Minister asked.

"In concept, yeah," Cleaner said.  If she sussed out the real purpose she'd char both of them and solve a lot of problems.

"Who do you have in mind for this enviable position?" the Minister asked.

Cleaner shrugged again, "Dunno.  Someone not stupid.  Someone who takes direction well and knows how precarious their situation is.  Someone without much ambition.  Zhorrid will smell it a mile away.”

"I see," the Minister said.

"Someone with a little spark, someone can read her.  Even her out.  Or at least not get killed before I’m done with introductions," Cleaner continued, still not quite answering the Minister's question, "Maybe owes you a favor.  I can't puppet her all the time.  Fill her house with your people and I won't need to.  But the first one's crucial."

"Explain."

"I vouch for the first one.  First one vouches for the rest. " Cleaner said, "Kark it up and you lose it all."

"A what?" Zhorrid asked.

"Major-domo.  Hutts have 'em.  Someone to take care of all the boring crap so they can eat and gamble and otherwise amuse themselves," Cleaner said.

"You think I can't take care of myself,” she said.  Her words came out in a tight monotone.

Treading on dangerous ground.  He continued anyway, "You have the vision, my Lady.  The grand plan. You are the playwright, crafting the roles and the lines.  Telling the story," he stroked her neck.  Felt her relaxing.  "Let a director make sure the actors have their costumes and show up on time.  Someone to help make your inspiration become reality."  No fear.  Not fear right now.  He ran his fingers over the edges of her ear, lingering over its delicate convolutions.  He liked ears.  Ears were sexy.

"That's not you?" she asked. She wriggled forward and closed the gap between them.  Tickled the the scar on his hip.

"Not alone.  We'll find others to share your vision.  Expand beyond the power you inherited," he said.  

Distant lightning flashed in the bedroom’s high window behind her, making a blue halo of her hair and riming white on her bare shoulder.  His eyes blind in the darkness afterward, he felt the hand at his hip following the curve of his thigh muscle.  Her toes caressed his calf and came to rest on his ankle.  "So I can plot and plan and fornicate with impunity," Zhorrid purred.  

No fear.  He brushed her lips with his fingers, "Whatever you desire."