Free Star Wars: Red Harvest by Joe Schreiber Page B

from scrap. Despite its ungainly shape,or perhaps because of it, the ship had a canting, rough-hewn meanness, a crude bulk that defied anyone to get too close, for fear of whatever might have been waiting inside. There was a series of partially worn numbers and letters on the side of the hull.
    “Can you enhance this image?” Trace said.
    Emmert pressed another button, magnifying the picture until Trace could read the name on the side: MIROCAW .
    “We haven’t been able to fully identify the call letters yet.”
    “That’s because they’ve been scraped off just enough to make them illegible. It’s an old smuggler’s trick.” Trace frowned a little. “You said it got through using some kind of cloaking device?”
    Emmert nodded. “Yes, but …”
    “What’s that?” Trace pointed at the screen, at a series of pale bluish green discolorations along the
Mirocaw
’s portside. The marks had an oddly phosphorescent glossiness, almost as if that portion of the ship’s outer plating had been streaked with a layer of iridescent oil.
    “Carbon scoring?”
    “No.” The Jedi Knight shook his head. “That’s Thulian vapor residue—it’s a galactic anomaly, a mixture of post-industrial airborne pollution and crystal fog. You only find it in about three places outside the Mid Rim.”
    Emmert gave him a blank look.
    “Have my ship ready,” Trace said. “I’m leaving in five minutes.”
    Within the hour he’d confirmed his suspicion—the nearest Thulian cloud formations in existence cast a permanent shadow over Kwenn, a dreary post-industrial outpost along the outermost borders of Hutt space.
    By day’s end, Trace had landed there. The Kwenn Space Station was a polluted sprawl of docking bays, warehouses and repair facilities, cantinas, and unlicensed gambling parlors. Without drawing undue attention, Trace walked through a dozen different establishments, talking to the pilots, fugitives, mechanics, and fringe dwellers that made upthe station’s population. He bought rounds of drinks, fighting his own impatience, and listened to long, seemingly pointless monologues from barflies who hadn’t enjoyed such an attentive audience in years. In the end, it was a one-armed Bothan smuggler named Gree who told him what he’d needed to know—the former whereabouts of the
Mirocaw
’s owner, a Whiphid bounty hunter who went by the name Tulkh.
    “Haven’t seen him around in a while,” Gree said, after Trace had bought him a series of drinks, including a local favorite called a Mind Eraser, and crossed his one remaining palm with a stack of credits. “Word is that he picked up a pretty sweet gig, nobody knows what.”
    Trace met the smuggler’s gaze, holding it fast, feeling the Force flow through him into the Bothan’s mind, completing the task that the liquor had already begun. “Did he say anything about a flower?”
    “A …” Gree’s face went smooth, all reluctance draining away from his voice so that the words came easily. “Yeah, that’s right—he was going after a flower. Tulkh wasn’t much of a talker, but we got liquored up one night and he started telling me about it.”
    “Who hired him?”
    “A Sith Lord named Darth Scabrous.”
    Trace felt a sudden coldness pass through him. “Located where?”
    “I don’t know … a Sith academy …?” Gree grimaced a little, struggling with the memory. “I want to say … Odacer-Faustin?” He blinked. “Hey, you think I could get another drink?”
    But Trace was already gone.

12/Ingredient
    S TEPPING OUT OF THE TURBOLIFT , Z O FELT HER HOPE DWINDLING AWAY .
    Escape was no longer an option, if it ever had been. The Whiphid had led her through the ruins of the academy, passing a few Sith students and Masters who had stared openly at them, their faces darkened with anger and determination. If the orchid registered any of this, it said nothing.
    It was midafternoon when they reached the tower.
    An HK droid had met them at the entryway. It confirmed