The fugitive SIBO operative took almost an hour to cover two blocks. At least, that's how much time passed before a familiar imprint of presence appeared in the Force, and shuffling footsteps and a trembling, aged voice came from the lobby. Tardis was asking the porter if there was any simple work for him. Taking out the trash, fixing something.
Nemo pondered for about ten seconds, then whistled towards the questioner.
"My outlet has come out of its socket, put it back in place, and I'll give you five," he said, almost indifferently.
Tardis looked back at him, then looked hopefully at the porter. If the old man had gone straight to the guest, he might have been indignant. But he was allowed to feel that he was in charge – and he didn't kick the old man out. Rare generosity for these parts.
"If he steals anything, don't hold us responsible," the porter warned and returned to some game he was playing before the beggar appeared.
Tardis scurried towards Nemo, thanking both "benefactors" on the way.
Nemo didn't respond to the warning at all, letting the "repairman" go ahead of him and closing the door behind him. After scanning the room through the Force, he was once again convinced of the absence of bugs.
"You're recovering much slower than you wore yourself out," he said displeasedly, darkening the windows.
"I can't pull it out of people..." the pilot replied quietly, his keen gaze sweeping the room and heading towards the nearest connector for electronics. In case someone came to check what they were doing here.
"Are you alright?"
"More than alright," Nemo watched Tardis with interest. In his opinion, if you pull a little from people, nothing bad will happen. But everyone has their own view of the world, "we'll be stuck here for at least two weeks, maybe even three, in this condition. They'll find me a ship soon, and I'll make it a gem in that time."
"Do you need help?" the pilot, who had suddenly stopped looking like an old man, asked briefly, sitting on the floor next to the connector.
"I doubt you can help me," he said. In large part, he was a very good repair specialist, and in small part... "You'll help me more if you hire a doctor and go through an intensive course of recovery. Physiotherapy or something."
"I can't show myself," Tardis replied. "A doctor is a trace. And as for repairs, two pairs of hands are always better than one. My pair doesn't seem crooked..."
"I don't dispute that it's not crooked," he was right about that, "but there's nothing to repair yet, and I don't want to expose you to my acquaintances. And I won't. And we still need a doctor. For the team, so I'd say it's the top priority. Ask Jiro, maybe he knows someone who isn't particularly friendly with the Empire."
"I'd like to go somewhere in nature," the pilot sighed. "To the wilderness, a deserted place... No doctors would be needed. But where to find it here... Alright, I'll ask. Are you sure there's no tail on you?"
"I doubt it," Nemo shrugged, "though I'm not an expert. But who would be watching me? Besides, I didn't feel any obvious danger anywhere."
Tardis nodded, closing his eyes. He was checking if anyone's tense interest was nearby regarding this room.
"I don't feel anyone," even this slight effort sharpened his features, which were already sharp enough to shave with. "I'm trying not to use the Force right now... It's very risky."
"Don't use it at all," it was strange. For Nemo, using the Force was often not just low-energy... With the right approach, it relieved fatigue and invigorated. Different approach? Or different influence of the same substance on organisms? The phenomenon required consideration in the foreseeable future, "Sorry, nature is out. The only arboretum attracts too many people. And I don't want to fly to Naboo right now. I understand that you've been stuck in your room and haven't made any preparations for departure?"
"I've been stuck and worked a lot," the pilot turned his head to Nemo. "I had to think through the expedition, the necessary team composition, supplies, equipment, and gear... In short, I wasn't bored."
"Excellent, then quickly sketch out the main directions for me on everything."
"I find it hard to imagine a situation where two gifted individuals can't do more than a doctor," Tardis chuckled at something. "But neither of us has medical education, which is critical. Here I agree with you. A doctor is needed. We also need a scout, if possible – capable of penetrating hard-to-reach places. We need someone small enough, but capable of wearing a spacesuit. There's no air there... Besides, a couple of auxiliary workers, and it would be good if they were familiar with works of art... In terms of cleaning, storage, transportation. You're unlikely to find museum workers here, but who knows what the Force might do... We'll need a food supply for at least six months for a team of five to seven people, emergency life support for the same period, a mobile base deployable on the surface – such as geologists often use. High-protection spacesuits, a mobile laboratory capable of identifying unknown viruses. I'll send the list..."
"All the latter can be replaced by a ship with a large cargo capacity. There are modular freighters, if automated barges. I see no point in splurging on a ground base. But for some reason, I thought there would be an atmosphere..."
Everything else needed to be thought about before speaking.
But instead of a scout, he would have preferred a thief. Experienced enough to pass for one, but not experienced enough to refuse easy money. Regarding the auxiliary workers... That was a snag.
"A ship with a large cargo capacity is difficult to hide and hard to protect by a small group," the pilot stood up. "I'd prefer not to keep it on the surface. The base can be deployed on any spot from which it cannot be detected or dislodged easily. I'm going, time..." he extended his hand, transforming back into an old man before his eyes. "My five credits, mister?"
Nemo paid for the room for two days in advance, then sorted out his thoughts and made a plan for the purchases that needed to be made. Among the ordinary things were some that were difficult to obtain. An hour later, he left the room, handed the key to the manager, and headed for the nearest alley of shops.
What distinguished this place from other levels of Smuggler's Moon? The absence of ordinary robbers and the presence of the same, but legalized and called merchants. And there were also flocks of beggars, and their older brethren – con artists. There was also fish of another family here – pickpockets, instigators, money changers.
Nemo was a big fish, and everyone dreamed of stripping him. But the small fry tried to avoid him, seeing the scar on his face and the blaster in his holster. The con artists ignored him, and the pickpockets and instigators, seeing his hand on the blaster, his closed pockets, and each time meeting their reflection in his visor, tried not to touch the incomprehensible technician.
The first thing he bought was a set of electronics, four decks, a powerful interface. After a small negotiation, a set of electronic lockpicks was laid on the table along with the repair kit. Next, the purchases included spare power cells and gas cartridges for the blaster, several electronic modules, and other items necessary to turn a stock deck into a normal working machine.
All that remained was to buy one more thing, a substance. Nemo knew it was available, the question was whether he would find the right store...
Three hours of wasted time later, the shop was found. It was an unremarkable shop, with a crowd of people milling around it. Nemo approached the shop, named the preparation, the vendor-gand took an unremarkable box from under the counter, and after taking the money, returned to his other customers.
What was in the box? A complex chemical composition in the form of an ointment and tablets. When the tablets were used, vegetation began to grow wildly on the places where the ointment was applied. A thick beard could be obtained in three to four days. After buying hair dye at the next shop, Kontr headed back to the hotel to Jetro.
Nemo returned to the hotel seven or eight hours later. Opening his room with his card, he quickly scanned the room for Jetro. The pirate was not there. However, there was a certain picturesque mess. It was still a long way to the Duro's cabin, but it was already possible to say with a considerable degree of certainty that in some time there would be almost no difference.
The pilot's deck lying on the table winked with an incoming message indicator.
Pulling his overalls down to his waist, as is often seen in various films, Nemo unfastened the concealed holster with the trophy pistol and, reasoning that the pirate would not have left his deck just like that, pressed the message. The backpack, meanwhile, was carefully placed on the bed. The file turned out to be audio. A vaguely familiar voice with a barely perceptible hoarseness spoke in the silence of the empty room:
"Jetro, bad news. You shouldn't have left your room today. If I find out more about who took down Clark, I'll let you know."
Nemo very calmly uttered a single word, which generally expressed only the emotional state of the speaker at that moment. Jetro had still left his deck just like that and could pay for it. Ripping the packaging off his new comlink, he quickly dialed the pirate's number. Maybe nothing terrible, but it was necessary to warn the Duro.
The pirate answered. With his characteristic laziness.
"Ah, it's you. Just in time. I was just going into the shop. What are we having for dinner?"
"You were asked not to leave your room," Nemo calmed down a little, "so watch your back, and what shop are you in?"
"Nearby, on the corner," some noise arose in the background. "Who asked?"
A deafening roar drowned out the Duro's voice. The conversation was interrupted.
Nemo drew "Kilan" from his hip holster on the move, slamming the door. On the run, he plunged into the Force: an explosion, if it was nearby, should have echoed in it and indicated where to run.
Somewhere nearby, about a hundred meters away, fear, pain, and rage were indeed felt. A small crowd of onlookers had already gathered at the hotel entrance. They were looking at the smoke billowing over the corner building. A moment later, a blaster shot flashed there.
Pushing through the crowd was not part of the guy's plan, so he sent a wave of fear ahead of him to make them part, and rushed towards the smoke, fumbling for the activation button of his stealth belt with his free hand.
The belt worked, and so did the Force. The onlookers scattered like frightened minnows from a predatory fish, not having time to realize what had scared them.
All that remained was to get to the scene, look around, and join the fight, starting to shoot everything that could threaten his friend.
From the shop, essentially, only ruins remained. The broken windows and the door that had flown to the other side of the street eloquently testified to the force of the explosion. Someone was squealing thinly under the door. Smoke billowed from the openings - a fire was starting inside. But there were survivors there: a bolt flew out of a hole left by a window.
Scooping up hot coals with your hands is one of those traits of his profession that he disliked. He didn't want to rush into the inferno, but he had to. Not that Jetro was his best friend, or that he would have rushed into the inferno for him. But it had to be done.
The onlookers remained at a safe distance, Nemo, plunging deeper into the Force, deactivated his visor, set his installed camera to record, and peered into the haze. He needed the location of living beings in the room to at least accurately determine where it would be safe to enter.
Inside the exploded shop, flames and passions raged. Fear. Pain. Rage. Predatory, animalistic anticipation. Like an ice shard - infinitely patient waiting.
A familiar imprint in the Force was found deep inside. Jetro was alive, very angry, and wounded. Closer to the doors, several more living beings were felt. And one - behind.
Concentrating, realizing that there was not much time left before the stealth generator of the belt deactivated, he rushed inside. His heavy blaster had only two dozen shots, spare power cells were left in the room, and he really didn't want to use the trophy one, he hadn't managed to check it yet.
Nemo rushed to the shop, burst inside, where there should have been no one. He switched the blaster to stun mode, found the nearest target, and shot at the center of the figure. The stun bolt didn't care where it hit, as long as the creature wasn't armored.
The living target had no protection. But a bluish flash revealed the presence of an invisible person. Hiding behind an overturned counter, the man stretched out on the floor covered with broken plaster, and a muffled exclamation came from the left. And several bolts immediately hit the counter.
Standing still after a shot would have been the height of stupidity. After a shot fired at full height, Nemo went down and waited for a few moments in the middle of the shelf. Rising a couple of meters from the first shot, to deprive one of the opponents of the protection of his cover, he fired again, moving aside again.
"There's an invisible person here!" someone roared after another body stopped moving. The Force conveyed a cold attention.
Nemo switched the blaster to combat mode and decided that the overly loud subject should be silenced. And preferably forever. He fired in the hope that the powerful charge of "Kilan" would penetrate any obstacle, and fired at the speaker's head, diving aside again.
The Force responded with the same cold approval. And with hope flaring from Jetro's side. Four people remained in the shop: Nemo, the Duro, a starting-to-panic raider... And someone else, carefully observing the situation from a safe hiding place behind a heavy vault.
Nemo didn't talk. Simply because he already had two languages. Simply because Jetro had a wound. Now the last raider was not a living being. He was a target, an obstacle, a deadly one, but still an obstacle. He didn't stick out, catching the enemy in a Force grip, and just like a few hours ago in the wagon, he struck all his nerve endings. Only the blow was several times stronger. The enemy was too close to Jetro to use a blaster or be more humane. And what kind of humanity could there be when they blew up part of the shop?
Silent approval and another motionless body on the floor. And silence, broken only by the crackling of fire. Finally, a quiet call came from the warehouse door:
"Hey, guy, is that you?"
"It's me," Nemo agreed, carefully probing the third active person in the shop. First of all, he was interested in whether he was dangerous and armed.
No traces of power cells were visible on the observer. Only a faint spark of a battery glowed - a comlink or a deck. He didn't move, didn't show any anxiety, and of all the emotions, only satisfaction could be perceived.
Movement appeared behind the warehouse door. The Duro, limping awkwardly, appeared in the opening, holding onto the jamb.
"Two corpses, two unconscious," Nemo reported, deactivating the stealth generator. "I decided you might have an information hunger. How's the wound?"
"A fragment," Jetro winced. "I've bandaged my leg, but I'll need a doctor... You're in time, wizard..."
Dragging his wounded leg, the Duro hobbled to the first body, stopped, and looked him in the face.
"A nasty death..."
"What kind of person, such a death," Nemo said. He felt no pangs of conscience. Not even regret. There was a fight, he used what was most effective in the current situation. And that's all. When two lives are at stake, and one of them is yours, it's simply foolish to restrain yourself within the bounds of morality or decency. He looked at his leg. If Jetro were human... Unfortunately, he didn't understand the physiology of Duro, and he couldn't do anything about it. "We'll organize everything now."
He knocked on the vault wall.
"Hey, owner, come out," he said, then stepped aside, not forgetting to keep an eye on the two stunned people, "I promise there's no threat to life here."
"That's not the owner..." Jetro said dully, looking somewhere to the side. "Grab whoever you managed to subdue, and let's get out of here. There's plenty of whiskey in the warehouse. It'll blow up soon."
There was one trait that both annoyed Nemo himself and made him proudly puff out his chest from time to time - he didn't kill without specific conditions. He couldn't or didn't want to - it didn't matter. What mattered was that the person or non-person who was now on the other side of the armor... Was not a threat to anyone, and he couldn't kill him like that. But he remembered the aura, the imprint by which he would distinguish him from a hundred, if necessary.
"I'll regret this later."
He grabbed the first bag he found and, quickly searching the two corpses, began to dump all their belongings into it, counting the seconds.
"You're slower than me, go ahead," he threw the stealth generator to the Duro. After all, the target was Jetro, not himself.
The unknown person did not react in any way, did not answer, and did not try to get out of cover. Jetro caught the belt and hobbled out, leaving Nemo to collect trophies. Weapons, a little cash, documents, fake even at first glance, a bag of drugs, a worn-out keychain, a massive ring, reminiscent of some pirate loot... Nothing special.
A shadow of light amusement could be imagined.
Having finished with the dead, Nemo looked at the stunned people, collected their weapons, and, grabbing one by the scruff of his neck, dragged him towards the exit, taking the second one along the way. He wasn't worried about them getting hurt in the process. The main thing was to get outside, everything else later.
A metallic crash came from behind the door. The squealing stopped. When Nemo reached the opening with his cargo, the overturned door and a flickering silhouette nearby became visible.
"Where?" Nemo said it so that only his comrade could hear. He didn't know this area at all and had to rely on him. More precisely, he could get to the hotel and the hangar. But that was all his exhaustive knowledge.
"To the hangar," the Duro croaked. "To 'The Patch'."
The answer was a nod. Nemo didn't intend to waste energy on conversation.
Dragging two bodies in silence was somewhat... burdensome.