Before going to visit the customs officers, a number of preparations were necessary. Usually, ships were inspected, but Rimon was generally not searched on his "home" planet, especially when there were paintings and a container of weapons on board. And most importantly, such a pile of trouble behind him.
He needed, first of all, to check the operation of the elevator's electronics. Without the necessary contact, which disables some of the ship's safety protocols, it should have excluded the possibility of opening the door when the elevator was not fully lowered. Such a pleasant labor protection measure that all ship owners with such a means of transport were obliged to have. But even without that, he needed to check the gaps in the material from which the hiding place was made, as well as the rivets. Everything should show that it was done conscientiously and for eternity. Under the cladding were the power lines for the navicomputer and, in general, the main ship centers: life support, planetary engines. Power was supplied to the hyperdrive and the main engine through a different path. Access to the internals was only possible by removing part of the ship's cladding, and Rimon was not going to allow that.
In general, it would be interesting to play mind games with customs through the Force. But it was also dangerous. The container with blasters remained. Also a nice thing. What category should it be classified under? Antiques? It would go on the declaration. Weapons? Trading weapons requires a license, and he didn't have one. Considering where to hide the second dangerous cargo, Rimon went to the technical compartment and thought. This container was located in the hangar itself. Was it reasonable to hide it there? Reasonable. Removing the rubberized coating, the contrabandist unscrewed a few screws and crawled into the hydraulic system for lowering the ramp. The system itself had long been modernized, reduced, and in the resulting niche, the blasters could be compactly placed. Then put the durasteel sheet back in place, reattach the rubberized coating, and that was it. Tapping would yield nothing; the sound would be equally dull everywhere.
After rewriting all the data about the ship's flights over the past year onto a deck, he erased them, leaving a record of the departure from Dantooine, but moved the takeoff point to a deserted area a thousand miles from the waterfall.
Returning to the cockpit, he looked at the time. He had time for a cup of coffee, and then he could prepare for guests.
When the ship emerged from hyperspace, Rimon announced his arrival, took one of the free courses, and headed for the planet without much haste.
The ship smoothly entered the atmosphere, switched to repulsors, and just as smoothly landed on the designated spot on the landing platform, offered in a commanding tone. The pistols and vibro-knives were prudently stored in the weapon locker, which was located in the mess hall immediately behind the cockpit, and the locker itself was locked with a biometric lock. When the ship gently landed on the planet's surface, he took the documents handed over by Varoo and headed for the "main" exit from the ship, where he was already expected.
Customs officers were indeed waiting. And, judging by their appearance, Rimon had nothing good to expect.
"Mr. Rok?" the customs officer clarified grimly. "Your ship will be searched."
Rimon gently touched the mind of the speaker, studying him emotionally. And he himself, without showing any emotion, said in a steady tone:
"Reasons for the search?"
"You were wanted."
The officer had no desire to explain himself to someone he wanted to turn inside out along with his ship. And then shoot him just in case. But rules are mandatory for everyone.
"I do not recommend offering resistance."
"I was wanted," the counter said coldly. "And if..."
He didn't finish. He could have said a lot to the customs officer. But it was not in his interest. The fewer reasons he had to dislike Rok, the faster the inspection would pass.
"Familiarize yourself," he said again without any emotion, extending his hand with the documents slightly.
"What is this?" The officer didn't wait for an answer and inserted the card into the reader. "I see... We received information about the cessation of pursuit. But we didn't know it was the ISB... However, that doesn't concern you... It doesn't negate the need for a search. Show me the ship, Mr. Rok."
"And what exactly do you want to see?" the counter asked with interest in his voice.
"Everything," came the reply. "Everything, Mr. Rok."
"Where do you want to start? The toilet? The bathroom? My dirty laundry?" Mr. Rok continued without changing his intonation.
"We'll start with your bridge," the customs officer decided. "Lead the way."
"Please," Rimon showed his defenseless nape to the customs officer without any hesitation and moved into the depths of the ship. Fortunately, it wasn't far. A few meters to the elevator, a few meters up, and the bridge would be immediately to the right.
An interesting thought began to take shape in his mind. If he could feel the currents of attention directed at a certain object, then he could also control them. To disperse, to create a sphere of inattention, within which an object would be invisible to the being on which the influence is exerted. The thought was interesting and, perhaps, it could even be tried to implement.
The customs officer followed him without a word.
"I need the records from your navigation equipment," the officer turned on the scanner, checking the cockpit for hidden devices.
He could, of course, complain for form's sake, but the records had been edited.
"I warn you, the ship was returned to me a couple of days ago. There aren't many records in the navicomputer," Rimon informed the customs officer, providing the infochip with the data he was interested in.
"Who returned it?" The scanner found nothing, and the customs officer was satisfied with a copy of the navicomputer data. "Next, Mr. Rok. The mess hall."
"Turn around," Rok said, poking his thumb over his shoulder, pointing to a round room with a round table and six chairs, "this is the mess hall. You don't know it, but my ship was stolen. And it was returned by those who had it at the moment I found it. That has nothing to do with you."
"I decide what has to do with what."
The officer glanced at the scanner readings.
"Power cells. You are carrying weapons on board. Show me."
Opening the box, Rimon presented his modest arsenal for the customs officer's inspection.
"Two civilian blasters and two tools for mechanical cutting. Nothing forbidden."
"Do you always keep them in a safe?" The tone didn't soften, but the Force couldn't be deceived – Rimon had just earned a plus for himself.
"The blaster law doesn't apply here," Rok replied with a smile. "When I fly here, I always lock up anything dangerous."
The customs officer said nothing. He continued the inspection, but less thoroughly, and Rimon's hiding places were successfully missed.
"Destination?" the words that concluded the inspection finally sounded.
"Rest," Rimon decided not to limit himself to a short answer. "Visit relatives, attend the Cornet fair, maybe I'll go to a museum or an exhibition."
The electronic signature on the planet entry permit was a pass to a new life.
"Interested in culture? That's commendable..." the officer returned his documents. "But you will be watched, Mr. Rok. We don't need problems with the ISB here."
"Just not fanatically," Rok said with a smile. "And it's better to make sure that headhunters don't invade the planet's territory. They cause a lot of trouble."
He received a cold look. With one sentence, Rimon had crossed everything out.
"Are you trying to teach us how to do our job?"
"It's a joke," Rok shrugged. "Who am I to teach anyone their job? I only have school behind me."
"In that case, I advise you to learn to keep your mouth shut," the officer dropped, turning away and heading for the exit.
"There are many advisors like you," Rok thought, swallowing this phrase with a smile. Who else but a smuggler would teach the customs officers how to search ships? But what smuggler needed that?
But there was no time to think. He needed to buy more civilized clothes, look at tickets for the exhibition, and find a suitable hangar for the ship. Flying to Garrion in this state and on the "Eye" was unsafe.
Half an hour after leaving the ship, Rimon was leisurely strolling down Cornet's central street, looking with annoyance at the expensive boutiques. He wasn't a fashionista and frankly didn't care what color clothes were in fashion this season. But it was hard to find a truly quality item, and he basically needed to rebuild his wardrobe. The previous owner had thrown out all his clothes from the ship.
Groups of children ran through the streets, serious-looking men walked about their extremely important business, mothers walked their children. The variety of Cornet had the characteristic features of a calm city, and Rok saw them, saw and understood, sometimes with joy, sometimes with longing, that this was not for him. He could have grown into one of these leisurely businessmen who work day in and day out, have a job, wealth, a family...
He might have regretted the last one, but the pangs of this regret were rare and fleeting.
He had his own life, with its joys, sorrows, and dangers, and he liked it. He liked it for the presence of what most beings tied to family, work, duty lack: freedom of choice.
Or, at least, the illusion of freedom.
He was going to a shop where clothes were sold almost by weight, the master who traded them was an old pensioner and he had enough to live on. Quality items at a reasonable price could be bought here. If you didn't ask questions about where they came from.
Half an hour later, he emerged from there with a bulky bundle and looked around for the nearest cafe where he could grab a quick bite and familiarize himself with the museum exhibits and galleries. He already knew all the museums, Garrion was quite a cultured person in this regard. For a technician. But he was already looking for information about an exhibition where at least one of the artists was missing, so he skimmed through the current events of the capital's cultural life. Are they watching him? Let them watch, he'll play along.
After a small afternoon snack, Rimon, with his belongings, headed back to the "Eye." During his snack and review of the exhibition list, he found a hangar, small, inconspicuous, with an open top. He didn't need to hide, but he still tried to find a landlord who wouldn't ask unnecessary questions and would take the least amount of credits. The hangar was old, however, the massive doors, walls, etc., clearly built for centuries, covered what was not a workbench, nor a workshop – absolutely nothing modern. But it wasn't needed now.
Returning to the ship, Rok carefully laid out his purchases and went to sleep. He still had about ten hours until the scheduled meeting. Would she come? He didn't know, he only knew that he himself would arrive on time.
Rimon woke up two hours before the supposed meeting and took care of himself. When the unpleasant smells and stubble were gone, he began to put on the outfit he had bought specifically for going out. The set included black shoes, polished to a mirror shine, classic trousers to match the shoes, a white turtleneck without a collar, over which he intended to wear a jacket with a straight stand-up collar without a fold, and over all this a light coat. He could have hidden a blaster under the coat. But for some reason, Rok decided to go there unarmed.
For him, this meant being naked. But he decided to take this step. He needed to detach himself from what had been happening lately, at least for this evening. And he decided to start with weapons. All he took with him was a modified deck for communicating with the ship.
Catching a car, Rimon found himself near the entrance to the restaurant half an hour before the scheduled meeting.
Entering the hall, he gestured to the administrator and politely inquired about the reserved table.
"Mr. Rok?" the administrator inquired primly. "Your table is not yet free, it will be ready in a quarter of a standard hour. You arrived earlier than the appointed time. But you can order and wait in the holodeck, or in the entertainment area."
"That's right," the counter confirmed. "I'm not making any claims, just clarifying if everything is in order. The order can wait. The holodeck would suit me."
He didn't care where he was right now.
The administrator, with the same prim look of a seahorse that had swallowed a needlefish, nodded and disappeared into his refuge, wishing Rimon a pleasant rest and telling him the table number.
Nodding to him, Rok headed to the holodeck. No thoughts, no plans. Rest.
A quarter of an hour later, a droid waiter rolled up to the smuggler.
"Mr. Rok," he whistled, "your table is free. Will you be ordering?"
"Two menus," the counter said in a calm, slightly indifferent voice. "And, perhaps, a bottle of chilled Corellian light."
At least, a few years ago, the girl he was waiting for preferred this particular type of wine.
Once at the table, Rimon leaned back and scanned the hall with an expressionless gaze. He immersed himself in the Force and decided to check if there were any individuals who showed him increased interest.
No one showed interest in him. Soon, a droid waiter rolled up, placed the menus on the table, and set down an already opened bottle. The wine needed to breathe before it was drunk.
"You're unrecognizable..." a girlish voice sang from behind. "Rimon, don't tell me you dressed up like this for me, I won't survive it."
Annette stood next to the table, dressed with that modesty that unmistakably indicated true mastery in presenting oneself and excellent taste.
Rok stood up with a smile, moved the chair intended for the girl, and gestured for her to sit down.
"Maybe I decided to repay you for that night visit," he joked.
"With what?" Annette sat down at the table, adjusted her dress with a gesture that immediately caused a surge of restrained interest at the neighboring tables from the men and similar restrained dislike from their companions. "By sticking your head into a sarlacc pit again? Rimon, are you out of your mind?"
"And what did I do again?" the counter raised an eyebrow in surprise, sitting down in his place. "Rehabilitated my name, got my ship back. Or do you know more than me?"
"You are wanted."
After the dress, it was the hair's turn. Either Annette had taken the trouble to visit a beauty salon, or a lot of time had passed since their last meeting in daylight, but her hair turned out to be longer than expected.
"I heard the wanted notice was canceled," the girl buried her face in the menu. "But they'll be tailing you now. I'm afraid not just one."
"And they're searching the ship completely," Rimon sighed with feigned sadness, admiring the girl. Admiring her, precisely: he looked at her like a work of art, a beauty he was not worthy of. "Annette, I try to be friends with the law. I follow its spirit. So let them follow. I don't mind. It's better than ending up on Oovo again. Tell me, how are things with you, why is it always about me and me?"
"Us - who?" the deep blue of her eyes flashed through the strands of hair hanging over the menu. "You don't expect an operational report, do you?"
"Who do you take me for? With your password update speed, the person who wrote the protection for your networks should be quartered," Rimon quipped. His face smoothed out, becoming a mask for a moment, expressing nothing, and then the counter said with a hint of sadness: "I mean the workshop, Annim, Gar, you. Do you have anything besides work?"
Now he wasn't playing, not pretending, not being evasive. He genuinely missed them all. He longed for them. But he knew that not even a week of planetary life would pass before he would long for the stars and the steady hum of engines.
Annette hesitated with her answer – she quickly marked the chosen dishes in the menu. The advantage of electronics is that you don't have to wait for the order to be taken. Finishing this, the girl looked up at Rimon.
An unexpectedly serious look.
"We do," she said. "And you? What do you have besides your work, Rimon?"
"My work is my life," Rok said with a sad smile, then gathered his will into a fist and smiled sincerely and without pretense: "I like my job. I like the flexible schedule, the absence of a constant boss and daily routine. I like talking to a Twi'lek on Ryloth today about supplying new chips for moisture collectors, and a day later indulging in bliss on Dakka beach. And as trite as it sounds, I have you, Annette."
He didn't mention the downsides of the profession, which had hit him hard in the last couple of months. The credits would fall on his street too, someday. More precisely, it had already fallen and was lying on the ship, under the reliable protection of hiding places.
"For now - yes," the girl nodded. "And what about later? When you have enough of what you've already received. Or... Will you never have enough?"
"Everyone stops sometime," Rimon replied evasively. "And for now, I want to stay here for a long time. Here. Now. It's not that I'm oversaturated, but I've decided to step away from serious matters. At least for a while... Maybe... Forever..."