Once in the hangar, Nemo's first action was to professionally search the downed bodies, pile the belongings on the floor, find several skeins of twine, two chairs, make sure the pair was completely immobilized, and returned to Jetro.
"Show me the wound," he demanded imperiously.
The Duro winced, but pulled out his leg, which was bandaged above the knee with a piece of plastic tie for a container. The leg looked bad - the torn trousers were soaked in blood, and the brownish-green liquid had already formed a crust.
"The arteries are intact," Jetro took out a knife. "It's better to cut the pants. I don't want to take them off."
Nemo took the knife without a word, gesturing for the Duro to sit down.
"I'll be walking around in shorts in my old age," the pirate sighed, carefully straddling a free chair. "What were you up to, wizard?"
"Oh, I've moved up in rank," the counter said with a smile, "slashing the pants in an 'H' shape, he exposed the wound and plunged into the Force. It wasn't difficult to feel the injury site."
The Duro was lucky - his knee was intact. But below the knee, a deep wound, left by a fragment, darkened. Almost a hand's length long, it had cut through the muscles, exposing white bone in one place.
"Didn't have time to dodge," Jetro was in a lot of pain, but he was still trying to joke.
"Yeah..." Nemo stretched, he couldn't even patch up such a wound, "it looks bad, I'll tell you."
But something had to be done. And he carefully embraced Jetro's leg through the Force, ran along the nerve endings around the wound, relieving the pain. He could have completely turned off the sensitivity, but he couldn't imagine the consequences and didn't want to risk it. Then he needed to at least partially restore blood flow around the wound. If the pirate were human, Nemo would have started the regeneration process, but the Duro had completely different biochemistry. And understanding it would be too long and dangerous. But his muscles were similar, and he could try to restore tissues where it was possible... Controlling tissues at the molecular level was too dangerous.
He exhaled, coming to his senses at the same time.
"How is it?" the question was asked cautiously, the guy was now even more tired than when he was dragging two lifeless carcasses.
"It barely hurts," the answer was just as cautious. Jetro looked at the smuggler with curiosity and surprise. "I didn't think you were a shaman..."
He loosened the clamp of the improvised tourniquet. After a few moments, a little green blood appeared at the edges of the wound, but there was no heavy bleeding. The Duro licked his lipless mouth - he was starting to feel thirsty.
"It would be good to stitch it up..." he asked uncertainly. "But I need a doctor for this."
"Yes, I'm powerless in other respects," it was as difficult to agree as to admit defeat. But to fear defeat is to fear moving forward. "I'll call a doctor, no question. The question is something else. Soon these two will wake up, and we need to do something. Tell me, who is Clark?"
Jetro tilted his head in surprise.
"My intermediary. Who told you the name?"
"You received a message on your deck," Nemo explained, "where you were asked to stay in your room, not to go out, and to report when they found out who killed Clark."
"Did you remember who sent it?" the pilot's eyes became very attentive.
"I didn't even look," Nemo replied dryly, considering what could be done with the wound. On the ship, in theory, there could be bacta patches, that would be enough for the first time. "I thought you left the comm for me. But I heard it and immediately started calling you. Although the voice... seemed familiar to me."
Jetro was very surprised. Very. And he tried very hard not to show it.
"Didn't bring the deck?" he asked as indifferently as possible.
Nemo hesitated for a second. Then he shook his head negatively.
For a few seconds, the pirate hesitated, then sighed.
"I would ask you to help me get to my room... But with this situation, it's better not to show myself."
"I could probably get there myself, but leaving you alone now is not the best idea." The counter thought. "On the other hand, I could connect through the buoy on your ship to your deck and get the necessary recording, I just need the access codes."
"Can you explain to me how this is done?"
Nemo sighed. They didn't have time for a programming course.
Jetro got up from the chair, carefully shifted his weight to his wounded leg, and immediately abandoned the idea.
"I'll wait it out on 'The Patch'. If you find a doctor, bring him here."
"Put bacta patches on the wound if you have them," Nemo said as a farewell, dragged the mortal bodies of the captured people into different rooms, and began to inventory the property obtained in battle.
Four blasters, four decks, a ring, a keychain, a bag of drugs, fake documents - it wasn't much, but still, some information could be obtained from it. Nemo turned on the first deck he saw.
The ordinary life of an ordinary bandit. Pictures of battle-hardened beauties with a claim to piquancy, correspondence consisting mainly of questions about where to get drunk today, and whether there was any work, because soon there would be nothing to drink with. Questions about work were more often addressed to Willy. About drinking - to Fiji. And only one message, the freshest, was sent to someone named Larus. The owner of the deck wanted to know where the said Larus was, if he had to be at the place in half an hour. The answer was laconic: "Already there."
Deciding that he should talk to the prisoners first, Nemo went to the far corner of the hangar for a portable spotlight.
Both captured raiders had long been dragged into two utility rooms, which, ideally, should have stored something more valuable than two petty bandits. But the inhabitants of Smugglers' Moon had a different opinion on this matter, and therefore there was nothing there except bare walls.
The future test subjects were placed so that the light from the opening door fell on their faces. To enhance the effect, the counter set up the spotlight, for starters, opposite the left door. According to his calculations, both should have already woken up, and were now undoubtedly trying to free themselves from their bonds. But he considered it necessary to check through the Force whether a surprise awaited him in the first utility room. A light touch of the prisoner's mind, just to see what his plans were for the near future.
There were no surprises. No plans either. There was a mixture of fear and malice. They dared to touch him. To snatch prey from his hands, which he already held by the throat. This caused rage. This also caused apprehension, as animalistic as the malice. They dared - which meant they were that strong?
Pressing the door opening button, Nemo let the prisoner enjoy the bright light after the darkness, and five seconds later entered himself. Protected by his visor, he was completely indifferent to the bright light.
"Good day," he said, although it was late evening outside. There was clear irony mixed with sarcasm in his voice.
"What the..." the prisoner rasped. He visibly cheered up: when people talk, there's always a chance to negotiate.
"So, now that verbal contact has been established," Nemo spoke slowly so that every word reached the listener, "tell me, what is your name?"
A clear wave of bewilderment emanated from the prisoner. After a few seconds, it dawned on him.
"Hey, are you one of those guys? From the special forces? You should have said so... We don't interfere with your operations, it's more expensive for us."
Nemo said nothing. He raised his right hand so that the raider could see it, and placed his index finger on his left hand, simultaneously slightly stimulating the pain receptors through the Force.
A flash of pain. Then - horror, primal, animalistic. All the impudent confidence that he could get out of it just by agreeing not to claim the prey, like a bantha swallowed. The utility room was filled with a desperate scream.
Nemo stepped back a couple of steps, letting his victim scream. His chest ached with what could be called conscience. The process of torture was disgusting to him. Abominable. But he had to get answers, and this was the simplest option. And the fact that he chose it in the first place... This fact scared him.
"I have a neuroglove on my hand," he said just as slowly, "answer my questions. And you won't meet it again. So. What. Is. Your. Name."
Despite all the sensations, he had to dig deeper. He didn't have time to tame this man, which meant the interrogation had to be accelerated. Jetro might not have much time to waste hours on courtesies with his killers. The counter studied. He studied the processes available to him, the emotions, the aspirations flowing in the bandit's head. He was looking for something that could be stimulated, amplified, and get answers. Without torture, without pain, without unnecessary nervousness.
The prisoner didn't believe him. He was so scared he was ready to wet himself - and he didn't believe him. He was familiar with such pain, and he couldn't confuse it with another. Pain also has shades...
"Fiji," the prisoner almost spat out the name, hurrying to say it before the terrible man hiding behind the beam of light decided that he was answering too slowly. "Fiji Howe... Sir."
"Good, Fiji," Nemo was looking for that small area in the Force that would inevitably arise. Satisfaction. From the fact that he wasn't touched. This needed to be developed. So that the desire to answer, to answer truthfully, became the prisoner's only desire. But the next question could knock him off his saddle. "What were you doing in the shop?"
There was no satisfaction. The fear of repeating the pain - much stronger than what he had just experienced - was too great.
"Contract, sir," this answer was just as hurried. And absolutely, extremely sincere. Even excessively so. "We were hired to take this... Duro. Alive, sir."
"Who?" the same indifferent voice.
The pause was short. The remnants of principles - not to give up the client - fought with fear. And lost.
"There's one here... Semon Karvo. A fly. He's a Tydorian, sir. Orders like this come through him. He promised a piece per head for a live one. And to tear off their heads if we kill him."
Four pieces. Not much. Jetro would be upset when he found out how cheaply his skin was valued. Although, on the other hand, four pieces for a beginner is good money. Enough for a new blaster and food until the next contract.
"Good," Nemo said in a satisfied voice, "I believe you. Last question. Do you understand art?"
Misunderstanding. Surprise. Panic.
"S-sir?" the prisoner stammered. He didn't understand what they wanted from him. And he was mortally afraid that he would be punished for this misunderstanding now.
Satisfaction. Joy. Pride. This is what Nemo was experiencing now. And his chest was bursting with these emotions.
"It's a joke," he said. "You'll stay here for now, Fiji."
Nemo left the utility room, closing the door tightly behind him.
A thin howl of despair reached him through the closed door.
He should have shot them...
But then he wouldn't have gotten the client's name. And now... All positive emotions were replaced by a feeling of disgust for everything he had done there. Why did he do it? Because in a fight they would have shot him? Well, yes, and they wouldn't have thought for a moment. But they wouldn't have tortured him. As he did. It got worse because he had a second conversation ahead of him. And it was coming right now.
The plan forming in his head was full of gaps and ill-considered actions. He needed to organize it all, but time was running out. He would have to act randomly, by intuition.
Moving his spotlight to a new location and gathering his strength, he touched the second prisoner to find out how he was feeling.
The Force conveyed tense anticipation. The soundproofing left much to be desired, the prisoner could hear what was happening next door: a desperate scream a few minutes earlier, a howl with which the tormentor was seen off. He didn't expect anything good for himself behind that door.
This time, the counter entered immediately as the door opened.
"Hello," his voice read the disgust that Nemo felt for himself, "I hope you will be more reasonable than your comrades, and we will reach an understanding without unnecessary hassle."
The prisoner swallowed. He took the disgust as being directed at him. The unwillingness to cause trouble - as unwillingness to deal with a stubborn prey.
"What is your name?"
"Willie Wei," he didn't bother to be stubborn or make assumptions.
"Alright, Mr. Wey," Nemo said evenly, "how many people were in your group?"
"How should I know now?" the captive snapped back involuntarily. "There were five... And now, the Hutt knows."
"How many people participated in the raid on the shop?" Nemo found it harder to maintain an even tone, trying to reconstruct the scene in the shop. He had shot two with a stunner, one with a blaster, and got another through the Force. Where, bantha's leg, was the fifth one?!
"Five," the captive grumbled. "Am I an idiot, to go after that fidgety one alone?"
Where, by the Hutt, was the fifth one?!
Nemo closed his eyes for a moment, pushing away the rising panic. Later. Everything later.
"Alright. Who ordered the Duro?" he asked in the same tone.
"Muha," he didn't try to protect the client either. "He's a Tyydorian. Nasty one, with a trunk and wings."
"Thank you for the information," the young man said with deep satisfaction. "You and your companions will be staying here for some time."
He left. The interrogation would have to be postponed. Until he figured out where the fifth one was. Somewhere behind him, the last mercenary with an unfulfilled order was dangling, and everything no longer seemed so simple and rosy.
Closing the door, Nemo's first action was to unbuckle his blaster holster: you never knew with a Sith, the last of that quintet might show up here with a heavy repeater at the ready. Chances of survival in such a case would depend directly on who managed to pull the trigger first. Something suggested that the fifth might be Larius. But that could probably be easily checked, just compare the correspondence from the deck to see who was missing. Considering that Fiji and Willy were already with him, there were two more corpses from the deck, and the name that would be on all devices – that was the fifth. At the same time, he could establish the names of the deceased, just in case. While sorting through the decks, Nemo turned on the latest news on one of them. They should have already written about the raid on the shop.
The bandit turned out to be subscribed to a local channel, on the audio wave. With a flourish and stretching vowels, an invisible announcer spoke about the hot events.
"...for those who like to have a drink or two at old Tseniv's, sad times have come. We have just been informed that Tseniv blew up along with his entire shop and a couple of accidental visitors. Eyewitnesses say there was shooting at the fire, and it wasn't bottles of whiskey. Perhaps it will comfort you to know that the atmosphere of Smuggler's Moon has become richer by several hundred gallons of third-rate whiskey. Good news for those who need work. They say four spots have opened up in old Willy's gang. Evil tongues claim that Willy himself took one of the spots, but we won't believe them, will we? Everyone knows that Willy is a tough guy and won't let anyone fry his own backside so easily. And now for other news…"
His right eyebrow rose. What luck. He had, it turned out, left one of the gang leaders alive.
How lovely... It could be considered separate luck that the counter had dealt with him gently, not even torturing him. He'll sit locked up, think... Maybe he'll become more talkative.
He could, of course, go back to the interrogation. Get all the names out. But if the other guy realized that two of his men were dead, he'd start to wiggle and lie. And that, again, would take time... It would be more reliable to gather all possible information from the decks and comlinks, analyze it, draw conclusions – as quickly as possible. And then go for a repeat interrogation with that.
And, damn it, where to get a doctor? One who wouldn't blab to anyone later.
Someone else, probably, would have called the first doctor they found, let him do his job, and then quietly put him down somewhere in a corner. But the thought of such a thing made his stomach churn unpleasantly.
He wouldn't kill a doctor.