Of course they weren’t. This woman had come to him with the news that he, Captain Siron Tawaler, was under consideration to be the telbun of a lady-to be the consort chosen to father her child in the ancient tradition of the great ruling merchant houses of Kuat. His intelligence, his personal strength, his determination had brought him to her attention … and somehow she had looked past the indifferent service reports that had been written about him, had dismissed the petty jealousy and backstabbing competition that had led superior officer after superior officer to label him as “unmotivated” and “adequate.” His personal and financial success, and those of his family, were now assured, despite the curiously low regard with which the people of other worlds viewed the role of telbun.
But first, he had to pass a test of loyalty. He had to help this grand lady preserve her house by eliminating the rogue Jedi assigned to kill her.
Why Jedi would want to kill a Kuat mercantile princess was beyond Tawaler. But that was all right. His specialty was point security, not anticipatory security. Besides, he didn’t like the Jedi. They strutted around without any respect for security or authority, they dressed like beggars or hermits when everyone knew they were rich-and the quality of their boots gave them away every time: the poor couldn’t afford high-grade footwear-and they lorded it over normal folk with their so-called mystical powers. Unacceptable, unacceptable.
Tawaler again felt a moment of unease. The woman leaning over his shoulder had presented documents proving her identity as a representative of a great house, but at this precise moment he couldn’t remember the exact content of those documents-just that he had accepted them without question, had accepted the woman’s explanation and mission without hesitation.
Well … just more proof that Tawaler wasn’t unmotivated, was far above adequate. He was decisive and bold, as he was demonstrating now, as he would demonstrate from now on in his new position. His fate was assured.
His eyes were drawn to a constantly updated readout on the first information screen. “Four minutes until dock,” he said.
“Good. Let’s go meet them.”
There were twenty of them, all human, men and a few women uniformed in gleaming black body armor. The chest plates were rigid carapaces, the helmets narrower than pilots’ protective gear. Upper arms, legs, and hands were protected by a mesh-like material, heavy but flexible; lower arms and legs were encased in the same heavy material as torsos. They carried gleaming black rifles of types unfamiliar to Tawaler, three different designs, all of them curiously oversized, one of them intended, as the placement of the padding and sights indicated, for shoulder-mount use.
And their faces-Tawaler didn’t know what to make of their faces. Slightly obscured as they were behind the amber faceplates of the helmets, they seemed just a little wrong. The analytical portion of his brain went to work on the problem even as the men and women began streaming in through the air lock.
Age range: thirty to sixty, he estimated, older than ordinary recruits, averaging older even than a standard unit of elites. Planets of origin: it was never easy to calculate such a thing, but a certain characteristic leanness of features and the way they made eye contact suggested Corellia. Yet in other ways their mannerisms were strikingly non-Corellian; Tawaler saw none of the good cheer and cockiness that usually characterized the soldiers and citizens of that system.
And there was something wrong with them, a hollowness to their cheeks, an odd intensity to their expressions.
“They’re dying.” The woman whispered the words in Tawaler’s ear as if answering his unspoken question. “Each of them, from various wasting diseases that medicine can’t arrest. They’re all still at something like full strength, with painkillers to keep them that way for a while, and they have no worries about mortality to hold them back. It’s delicious, isn’t it?”
Tawaler tried to suppress a shudder and did not entirely succeed. “Delicious,” he repeated, as if agreeing.
The woman shut the air lock, then held up a datapad and moved to stand at the head of the column of armored soldiers. “I’m transmitting the station plans and the locations of your targets. This information should be appearing in the heads-up displays of your helmet visors.”
Tawaler saw dimly glowing green shapes flickering over the visors, and several of the soldiers nodded. None spoke.
The woman’s lean features twisted up into a smile. “Good. Get to it.”
In two columns, silent except for the faint creaking of their armor, the soldiers passed to either side of the woman and headed down the passageway. The passageway’s curve soon took them out of Tawaler’s sight. He was glad to see them gone.