Nemo was not a close-quarters fighter. If he had a blaster, three bodies would already be sliding down the cabin railings, but as it was... He might have tried his luck with the twi'lek, but zabraks – these fighters, very resilient and with a devilishly high pain threshold, were too dangerous. So, he had to act indirectly... Although...
He reached out to the nearest opponent through the Force, and it obligingly illuminated his aura, but Nemo needed something else. He had done this before. In the gallery, on Corellia, quite recently, only on a different scale. He focused on the zabrak's body, switched to his nervous system, found the pain receptors, all the pain receptors. A madman? Then his conscience is clear!
And then strike hard at all pain receptors. How to draw energy from the Force, he didn't know, or rather, he didn't know yet, so he simply redirected some of the Zabrak's nervous system impulses, and then... Appear nearby, grab the blaster, knock the Zabrak down with a kick to the knee joint, fire a stun shot at the pig-faced one, aim the blaster at the Twi'lek, and send him to the land of dreams after his comrade.
Too many actions in a limited period of time. The construction of events in his head clearly indicated that he wouldn't have enough speed. Or would he? What did he know about the Force? You can control it just as it controls you. Until now, he had relied entirely on how it led him. This was not the case now. He plunged into the pulsating fields of the Force, of which he was one, and then directed energy from the outside, onto himself, accelerating the organs and processes responsible for the speed of his thinking and reaction. He needed speed, and not just speed, but superior reaction speed to the fastest of the group. Or better yet, superior to everyone here, but not exceeding the bounds of the impossible. To heat up like a bullet from moving through the air would probably not be very pleasant... Before attacking, he slowly tucked his far leg under him, so that he would have time to get up before the Zabrak did anything, if he noticed him.
If he didn't notice, he sensed something. The horned head began to turn, showing a reaction speed far from normal - and then the Zabrak was distracted. A small bright spot flashed in the air, and some fluffy creature appeared between its horns. Armed to the teeth. And with claws. The bandit's scream, clutching his face, which the claws had raked across, was terrible.
Nemo didn't wait any longer, deciding that this was a perfect moment, no less than a gift from fate, and in one leap he was next to the Zabrak. Grabbing the hand with the blaster and twisting it to gain possession of the desired weapon, and simultaneously pulling it away by the arm to use its body as a shield, Nemo gave a small discharge to all the horned one's pain receptors.
The bandit twitched, trying to break free from the grip, but after the Force's influence, he wheezed, arched his back, and then convulsed. His fingers were so contorted that the weapon could only be pried out by breaking them.
The Gamorrean solved the problem by shooting at the unknown creature. It darted under the seat with a shrill cry, and the entire charge hit the Zabrak. The bandit's fingers unclasped.
Nemo decided to leave the composition of the obituary to the deceased's relatives, and meanwhile cursed himself, blaming himself for a rash step. However, he didn't do it for long, just for a moment, as the blaster fit comfortably in his hand. It was clearly an L-23 that had seen better days, which flooded the markets of Smuggler's Moon, but the guy didn't think about it. Nor did he play peacemaker.
Shifting slightly to the side so that the handrails wouldn't interfere with hitting him, he landed a shot between the Gamorrean's eyes. The increased reaction speed allowed him to do this with surgical precision. After the counter, he turned the blaster to the Twi'lek, waiting for his reaction. In his current state, Nemo would win any speed competition without risking anything or anyone. He would always have time to shoot. At least, Nemo was sure of that.
The pig-faced alien grunted, slumping to the floor of the capsule. And the Twi'lek was no longer in his previous spot – he had assessed the situation and didn't wait to be shot. Grabbing the nearest passenger by the elbow and neck, the Twi'lek pressed the blaster to his temple. More precisely, her temple. As luck would have it, the victim was a human woman. Her clothing indicated she was a mercenary, but she had no visible weapon.
"Drop the gun, or I'll blow her brains out!" the bandit's voice was unnaturally high-pitched, almost squeaky – perhaps it was due to his perception speed, or perhaps he too had accelerated with some kind of drug. The counter couldn't explain where he got such agility from. He certainly couldn't risk it again.
Nemo smiled. The new trick with the safety catch had been executed flawlessly, and he naturally hadn't lowered the blaster.
"You won't," he replied laconically, looking the Twi'lek in the eyes, "put the blaster on the floor, and at the next stop, you'll get off. Alive and unharmed."
As much as he hoped the Twi'lek would heed his words, his eyes searched for a spot to shoot that wouldn't result in the 100% lethal outcome for the local riffraff.
The "scent" of madness in the Force became clearer. The alien wasn't going to obey. The Twi'lek's finger squeezed the trigger. The woman squeezed her eyes shut.
Nothing happened.
There was hope that the woman would still take measures, but alas. Nemo's second blaster shot went into the humanoid's elbow joint: even if his fingers cramped from pain, he wouldn't be able to inflict harm.
Simultaneously, the woman hung onto his wounded arm, striking the bandit's feet hard with the heels of her boots.
Another scream echoed in the capsule. Nemo hadn't tried to hit the Twi'lek with the Force, but the reaction was little different from what he had already seen with the Zabrak: loss of coordination and convulsions.
The passengers began to come to their senses. When the alien released the victim and collapsed, eight blasters and ten pairs of eyes were looking at Nemo. One pair – from the mercenary's hands, who had picked up the fluffy aggressor.
Nemo lowered his blaster.
"Well, that's great," he muttered to himself, bending over the Zabrak's body. He wasn't interested in his money or any equipment, but the holster hanging from his belt was necessary. How did that Duros put it – natural selection? Placing the blaster on the dead man's body, he deliberately and unhurriedly began to unfasten the straps, waiting for the locals' reaction.
A few seconds of hesitant anticipation – and the weapon returned to where it had been taken from. Someone kicked the Gamorrean's body, commenting quietly:
"He's high, pig..."
The mercenary watched Nemo with narrowed eyes. She was the only one who hadn't produced anything other than the creature with long, light fur. She crouched beside the Twi'lek, quickly searched his pockets, shoved the data card back, and disdainfully tossed the syringe-tube aside.
"He's not high. He's drugged," she corrected the speaker quietly.
"What's the difference?" the guy said indifferently, as a new blaster settled into the new holster on his belt. "They're all dead anyway..." he finished the sentence mentally, then sat down in the vacated seat, crossing his legs and folding his arms across his chest, and once again pretended to be detached from the rest of the world. However, this time he sat in such a way that he could see everyone around him clearly. Unfortunately, the visor didn't provide a field of view exceeding human eye parameters, and he didn't want to use the Force too often, but he wanted to see the still life around him.
No one approached the bodies. They would be stripped, of course, but later, when the shooter who laid them down left the capsule. For now, it was his loot, and claiming it would be bad form.
The woman sat down in her previous spot – the one she had been pulled from just recently, stroking her fluffy pet.
What awaited the Twi'lek? Hardly anything pleasant, it would have been easier to shoot him... Fewer questions, but to kill like that... Coldly... Mercilessly... He couldn't. And who would believe a drugged Twi'lek? He grinned, looked at his watch, which was hidden under the sleeve of his jumpsuit. He had messed something up when he kept it... It was too expensive for a technician. However, the jumpsuit sleeves hid it perfectly. While they were traveling, he needed something to occupy himself with.
And he decided to study the woman who had just been a living shield.
She looked about thirty, and clearly hadn't used cosmetologists: the first wrinkles at the corners of her eyes betrayed her age and habit of squinting. Completely calm, as if a barrel hadn't just been pressed to her head, she was parting the creature's fur into strands, stroking its long ears, but doing it more mechanically: her absent look wasn't feigned – the woman was thinking intently about something.
Thirty years for Smuggler's Moon was a considerable time. And considering that the lady didn't use weapons... It turned out to be something interesting. So interesting that Nemo immediately pulled himself back. Curiosity is not a vice, but it often spoiled his life too much. And this woman. She was interesting as a puzzle he wanted to solve. But did he need it? No. He needed his blaster, Tardis, ship, and equipment. But did he need a crew?
Pretending to adjust his visor, he recorded her image. Just in case.
The creature opened its green eye slightly, glancing at the smuggler, and immediately closed it again. Its long, fluffy tail swished back and forth a couple of times. The capsule began to slow down before stopping.
There was no point in getting out first, so Nemo remained seated until the capsule came to a complete stop. Something told him that upon seeing the corpses, the new passengers would first let everyone out, and only then would they enter themselves. Although everyone could have stayed seated, hoping to get a piece of his victims' belongings.
The woman got up as soon as the braking began, and left the capsule first. The creature moved to her head, letting its tail hang down her neck like a fur collar and fluffing its fur so much that it seemed twice as large. The mercenary moved without the emphasized grace of an experienced fighter – she just walked. If not for the living hat on her head, no one would have paid attention to her. Several more passengers followed her – those who wished to disembark.
Nemo went last, and got out just before the crowd of those wanting to enter. Looking at the living hat, he immediately switched to the signs. This was the first time he had reached this place on foot.
The woman was heading towards a hotel – a mid-range one, the kind where the special service is the guarantee that the guest won't be murdered in their bed at night, and the staff won't steal more than the expected tip.
Well, at least she could afford to spend money on such places. That was already information to ponder.
Reaching the place turned out to be somewhat more difficult than initially expected. First, he had to find the parking lot where he had stopped, walk through a small alley that differed from its counterparts by its almost sterile, for Nar Shaddaa, cleanliness.
When Nemo found himself near a solid door made of transplastic, he finally took out a small key, which he had kept in a hidden compartment on the ship before this flight. It fit perfectly into the keyhole. This was the first test.
After walking through a five-meter corridor, he put all his electronics and weapons into a sliding cabinet, then waited for disinfection and passed through a second door, behind which stood three figures. Two D60 droids with their main weapons aimed at the newcomer and a bored-looking fat man.
Glancing at the person who entered, he extended his hand, into which Nemo placed the key, and then sent it under the analyzer's rays.
"Welcome," the owner of the establishment said, returning the key as he stood up. Simultaneously, another door, hidden in the wall, opened.
Behind the door was a vault. fifty bank safe deposit boxes. An anti-infantry turret hung over the ceiling. Nemo confidently walked to his box, opened the first door with his key, and the second was unlocked by a clerk scurrying behind him.
"Do you wish to be alone?" the question was asked dryly, and the answer was even drier, a nod of the head. The clerk left, leaving Nemo alone with the turret.
The advantage of this place was that 51 people knew about it. Complete anonymity, no questions asked, and huge deductions. Rimon Roc had taken this place 50 years in advance when he could afford such a luxury. Who would look for a bank on Nar Shaddaa? Nemo just had to open the case. Put on a concealed holster, pick up his trusted "Kilan," into which he had much more confidence, stuff two thousand credits into his inner pocket, check the stone's preservation, put the case back, slam both doors shut, and retrieve his belongings at the exit.
Half an hour later, Nemo emerged from the alley, caught a taxi, and headed for "The Last Refuge." He needed to talk to Kailas.
Nemo entered the hotel calmly, following a group of Rodians, sat down at a small table by the wall, completely ignoring all the dark corners, and gestured to the droid waiter to order a portion of Corellian brandy. A few minutes later, a liquid of pleasant brown color was splashing in a glass with two ice cubes. The patrons paid no attention to his entrance, and he could, in a calm atmosphere to the blues of three musicians and one female singer, establish that Tardis was not in the room.
Hoping that the former SIBO operative, or whoever he really was, hadn't bolted, Nemo reached out to the Force, carefully scanning the building for a familiar silhouette.
It wasn't visible downstairs. There were no traces in the Force indicating that another gifted person had been here either. Judging by all appearances, the pilot hadn't descended into the cantina at all since Rimon's departure. But in the living quarters, a familiar response was felt. Tardis was in place.
The counter carefully called through the Force to an acquaintance from his past life, and... He couldn't describe what he did, words and definitions were lacking. If compared to something ordinary, it was a polite pat on the shoulder from behind.
The Force responded. The icy cold of readiness to strike was replaced by recognition: as if ripples had passed across the surface of a lake, betraying the movement of a predatory fish in the depths, and then everything fell silent again.
Nemo sent him an image of himself and the table where he was sitting, then immediately returned to the cantina. Taking a napkin, he carefully wrote the name of the motel two blocks away on it and left it where he had been sitting. On the opposite side of the table lay chips for fifty credits, which the waitress almost immediately took. All that remained was to wait for Tardis to appear.
The pilot appeared soon. Not as quickly as a healthy person would have walked, but faster than one could expect from such an emaciated creature. He seemed to have gained not a gram of weight since they parted. But his gaze was clear and sober, and in no way resembled the tormented and desperate look of a wounded beast that lives only because it doesn't know how else to live.
From the door, "taking" the entire hall with his gaze, Tardis slowly headed towards Nemo's table. A brief touch in the Force showed – the pilot recognized him.
Nemo showed his acquaintance with not a single gesture. When he was a few meters from the table, he demonstratively touched the napkin with his chin, then carefully placed it on the edge of the table, stood up, and went outside.
Behind him, the emaciated man, looking like a deep old man, awkwardly sat down on a chair, brushed the paper off with his elbow onto his knees, and asked the waitress to bring him some caf. Hot and with spices.
Outside, Nemo stood by the cantina, bumming a cigarette from a passing group. No, he wasn't a smoker, but for some reason he decided to stay there for a time, long enough for one nail in the lid of his coffin. When the filter was crushed under the heel of his boot, he slowly moved towards the motel. All that remained was to book a room and wait for Tardis there.
Would he come?