He couldn’t voice the rest of his thought out loud. Tomorrow, Mace Windu would be dead. Boba would be long gone from here. Supreme Chancellor Palpatine would be addressing the Senate in an urgent emergency meeting to share with them the secret that Boba had shared with him - that Dooku and Tyranus were the same person.
One who wanted the Republic to fall.
“The Senate Building, that’s right,” said Elan. He barely gave the huge domed edifice a second look. “That’s where all the galaxy’s most important official business takes place. But where we’re going - “
The airspeeder gave a sudden lurch. Without warning it dived straight down between kilometer-high buildings, as though it was plunging into a shining abyss.
“Watch it!” shouted Boba as another speeder streaked right toward them. He grabbed the controls from Elan. “We’re going to crash right into - “
At the last possible moment, Boba got their speeder to veer sharply to one side. He had a glimpse of the angry, white-faced pilot of the other speeder glaring at Elan’s bright-red one.
Then Elan calmly removed Boba’s hands from the controls.
“Where we’re going,” Elan went on as though nothing had happened, “is where the galaxy’s most important unofficial business takes
place. Coruscant underground!”
“You’re talking about the gangland underworld,” Boba said. He watched as they sped down, down toward the garishly lit lower levels of Galactic City. “Hat Lo’s territory.”
“And mine!” Elan said in a wounded tone. “I happen to be the provider of the very finest death sticks in the galaxy, very reasonably priced, very - “
“Stop!” shouted Boba. “Get me to the TriForked Tongue. NOW!”
The rest of their trip passed in near silence. Now and then Elan sighed noisily. And his antennae never stopped wriggling, as though they were trying to sell Boba on some highly illegal Nkllonian Lava Extract, one hundred percent pure.
But at last the red airspeeder began to slow. Ahead of them beckoned a brilliant entryway, lit by gaudy purple and green zeon light-tubes. The VR image of a slithering Monga serpent repeatedly rose and seemed to strike, its mouth opening to display three long furling orange tongues.
“The Sign of the TriForked Tongue,” Elan announced. He sounded bored. “I don’t know why you’re bothering with this place. No one goes here anymore.”
“Well, I do,” snapped Boba.
He extricated himself from the airspeeder. In the shadows, a slavering corridor ghoul crouched, looking for unwary visitors to prey on. A group of sinister-looking, emaciated mutants stood near the club’s entrance, playing pillel-dice. It seemed like an unpromising place to obtain illegal weapons.
But Boba had no time to look for a better one. He wanted Mace Windu dead - tonight.
“My card,” said Elan. He handed Boba a shining strip of crimson emblazoned with the words ELAN SLEAZEBAGGANO: WHEN ONLY THE BEST AND SLIMIEST WILL DO!
“In the event that Hat Lo is unable to provide you with what you need, please don’t hesitate to call me.”
“Unlikely,” retorted Boba.
But he took the card.
The airspeeder roared off, careering wildly between alarmed passersby. Boba turned and looked at the seedy club before him.
Hat Lo better be there! he thought grimly. I can’t afford to waste any more time.
He entered the Sign of the TriForked Tongue. Inside was even dimmer and grimier than the colorful VR sign had promised. Underfoot, something sticky and unpleasant clung to Boba’s boots.
“Ugh!” he said, kicking at a small pulsating object - a young granite slug. The slug exploded with a blubbering sound. Bits of goo flecked the walls.
Boba grimaced. “Great. This isn’t a very good start.”
A few meters farther on, a burly figure blocked a doorway, a six-limbed alien with protruding eyes. Beside it stood a slender Twi’lek, yawning.
“I’m here to see Hat Lo,” Boba announced gruffly. The tan-and-brown-striped Twi’lek blinked, then quietly slipped away. The alien bouncer glanced at a list in one of its hands and waved Boba in.
The Sign of the TriForked Tongue was dim and smoky. It was filled with small tables where Coruscant’s riffraff sat, gambling and arranging illegal deals, angrily settling old scores and making new ones.
“There he is,” Boba muttered.
He spotted Hat Lo at a table in the corner. The would-be crime boss was surrounded by five Codru-Ji bodyguards. Two of them were adults, in their four-armed, humanoid mode. The remaining three were juveniles, in the Codru-Ji’s distinctive four-legged wyrwulf stage.
None of them appeared to be very happy to see Boba approaching their boss’s table.