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When Drezo Freezes Over - COUNT Deguello
The sound of the buzzer preceded the hunter’s snarl by a second or less, and the flashing red light turned his scowl into a demonic mask. The doorman, impeccably turned out in formal evening clothes, was unfazed. Smiling pleasantly from the other side of the transparisteel door, he said, “Good evening, Baron Deguello. You appear to have forgotten to check your personal weapons with the entrance droid. Please do so now, so that I can welcome you to the Shaak Kabal Cantina. The Kabal Chief awaits your arrival within.”
Biting back the obscene response that came immediately to mind, Deguello turned to the small droid next to the entrance, grimaced, and removed the Kylan-3 from his gun belt holster, the PPG from his shoulder holster, the vibroblade from his boot sheath, and the ELG-3A from its compact holster at the small of his back. Placing them carefully in the droid’s open cargo compartment, he turned back to the cantina entrance.
“The jeweled knives also, if you would be so kind, sir.” His smile unchanged, the doorman was looking down at a display embedded in the top of the small desk next to him.
The Dragon Kabal hunter muttered “Scanner…” and hesitated, teeth clenched, considering whether he should retrieve his weapons and walk away. After a moment’s pause, he drew a deep breath, withdrew his Teta’s Knives from their forearm sheaths and set them, too, in the droid’s open bin before flicking a glare at the man beyond the door. The droid’s bin closed, the door slid open, and the beaming functionary beckoned Deguello in with a sweeping gesture.
A young woman glided up, her expression mirroring the doorman’s immutable smile, and said, “This way please, Baron Deguello. Chief Dewbright is expecting you.”
The hunter allowed himself to be led away among the tables, each covered in snowy white cloth setting off the bright varicolored floral displays centered on it. Music was just barely audible, issuing apparently from concealed speakers. What he could hear of it discouraged him from listening closer: it was undistinguished, cloying, and repetitive. Something about it tugged at his memory, though, and as he looked up at the wide expanse of window toward which he was being led, the rosy sunset tint of the sky combined with the nearly monotonic, bubbly background music to momentarily disorient him.
Bubbles…pink haze…flying…floating…peaceful…warm…
“Are you alright, sir? Would you like me to take your jacket to the cloak room? Some sentients find it too warm here for outerwear.” The woman’s expression slipped briefly into a moue of concern before returning to its default professional smile.
Blinking and shaking his head slightly to clear it, the hunter said, “No, thank you. That won’t be necessary; I’m fine. Lead on.” Having been forced to divest himself of his weapons, he stubbornly clung to his armorweave jacket.
As they passed among the tables Deguello noted that the few patrons sat in widely scattered groups of two and three at the tables, voices low in quiet conversation, all sitting up straight, none lounging or slumped in their seats, all apparently unarmed. The bar at the far end of the room was devoid of customers.
At last his guide stopped and moved aside, gesturing gracefully at the woman seated before him, her back to the window and her features hard to discern in the backlighting of the setting sun. A rich contralto voice came from the near-silhouette saying, “Good evening, Baron Deguello. Please have a seat.”
The Dragonite very deliberately moved the indicated chair partway around the table before seating himself: He would not sit with his back to the entrance, and neither would he play along with the Shaak Kabal Chief’s obvious ploy to discomfit him visually. From this angle, he saw a human female, still young but no longer a girl. Mid-thirties, perhaps, or a bit older, she wore a sleeveless frock of some billowy, delicate-looking turquoise colored material, and her slight smile and barely raised eyebrow acknowledged his deliberate re-positioning of the chair.
“Thank you for coming. I assure you that you have nothing to fear here in Shaak Kabal’s cantina. I am told that you have a reputation as a very cautious man. It appears that the accounts are true.” Her deep blue eyes held his in their cold gaze as she continued, “Some people would find it insulting to have an invited guest show up heavily armed for an informal meeting, however.”
“It appears, Chief Dewbright,” he replied evenly, “that while I may have noting to fear, you do. In Apocalypse’s cantina we do not require that weapons be checked at the door. Indeed, most or all Dragon Kabal hunters would consider it insulting to require that our guests do so. Of course, one must make allowances for differences in Kabal traditions and customs. Then, too, Apocalypse is rather more isolated than your facility here. And,” he ended blandly, “we own the facility outright; we do not rent it as I understand you do here.”
“We find it more cost effective to rent space than to buy or build our own, and your point about different customs is well taken. That is one of the things that I wished to discuss with you. Before that, however, perhaps you would like some refreshment? I can have a menu brought, if you like, but I think that you will find that pretty much everything is available. Except alcoholic, narcotic, psychedelic, stimulant, or similar drinks, that is, and any animal-related food products. We have a very extensive collection of fruit and vegetable juices and dishes, and some unusual items made from various kinds of nuts, grains, and fungi.”
“Thank you, no. I do not require anything at the moment. The selection sounds very…healthy. I have heard that your Kabal emphasizes its hunters’ physical condition, and it appears that the accounts are accurate.”
“Exactly,” the Kabal chief replied, “we require our hunters to maintain themselves in the peak of physical condition, and of course diet and lifestyle are an indispensable part of that. In addition, we expect all hunters in our Kabal to have the utmost respect for animal rights. Are you sure that I can’t interest you in some juice, at least? This that I am drinking, for example, is made from a rare fruit, very rich in vitamins and minerals, an excellent source of dietary fiber, too.” She held up her glass, the pink liquid swirling slightly, thickly, the crystal goblet glinting.
Slow, slightly turgid swirling…barely visible reflection from a faintly pink-tinged crystalline surface…something tugged at his memory, but the voice demanded his attention…
“It’s really very good, and one of the more popular items here. Or, if you prefer, there’s the…”
“I’m sure it is, but I’ll pass, thanks. I imagine that your policies make it a bit inconvenient for some races. Devaronians, for instance, or Shistavanen, or Trandoshan, or many of the other carnivorous sentients.”
“If a prospective member of the Kabal is unwilling to abide by our rules,” she replied primly, “we must reject their application for membership. It would be unseemly and set a bad precedent to do otherwise. We pride ourselves here in Shaak Kabal on our highly civilized standards.”
“I see. Well, as I said, customs differ. In any case, your message mentioned wanting to speak with me about a matter ‘potentially to our mutual benefit and profit’. Perhaps we should get down to business. Just what is it that you invited me here to discuss with you?”
“I have been following your career in the Guild with interest. You have been quite successful, and have risen through the ranks quite quickly. So far, you have neither failed nor declined any contracts, and you demonstrate a very admirable persistence. Some of your missions have been marked with a certain innovative flair in their execution. You also seem to possess a quite extensive set of contacts, but inside and outside of the Emperor’s Hammer. However, you have remained in Dragon Kabal as a hunter since you entered the Guild. It occurs to me that you might be interested in a change. In short, I would like you to consider transferring to Shaak Kabal. I believe that we would both benefit thereby. I further believe that you would find our Kabal a much more salubrious place for one of your talents and inclinations.”
Deguello kept his expression impassive, and replied quietly, “I have been a loyal member of Dragon Kabal for quite some time, as you say. I’m afraid that I may not be as well informed as I should be about your Kabal. What would I gain if I were to transfer to Shaak Kabal? And what would the benefit be to you, specifically?”
“You would enjoy all of the advantages of a much more civilized and sensitive group of colleagues, for one thing. All of our hunters are trained to be in touch with their true inner selves, and encouraged to express those kinder, gentler emotions that many of the other Kabals’ hunters tend to suppress out of some antiquated desire to appear ‘tough’ or ‘dangerous’. Offensive language is banned, as well: not only obscenity but also profanity and expressions that might be construed as offensive or hurtful to individuals or specific groups are strictly forbidden. Our hunters are barred from accepting contracts calling for the death of the quarry, as well; we believe that so-called ‘criminals’ are merely misunderstood, often the victims themselves of an uncaring society or an unfortunate upbringing, and can all be rehabilitated. Thus, you would not have to worry about the danger of carrying deadly weapons: only stunners or non-damaging capture equipment are acceptable, and then only in self-defense. We discourage the wearing of armor, too, since it may be intimidating and traumatic to the quarry. We are trying to eliminate the image of bounty hunters as—please pardon the expression—‘scum’. You could be a part of this exciting new trend in what we like to call ‘caring law enforcement’. No longer would you be involved in barbaric violence like that which you experienced in your most recent mission. I understand,” she frowned disapprovingly, her mouth puckered in distaste and her voice dripping with disgust, “that you were involved in a space battle, followed by a running gunfight with blasters and grenades through a facility which you had entered without permission of the owners.”
The images came unbidden: fiery lances of destruction crossing one another’s paths and splashing sparking from the metal walls, shouts of anger and shrieks of pain, and the fast-blooming deadly flower of the explosion, hot orange at the edges and a deadly glowing pink at the center. He remembered being flung flying by the blast…and pink washing over him…and flying became floating…and the only sound that of the bubbles, slowly rising…
The Dragonite blinked and glanced around him, momentarily confused, but quickly re-gathered the threads of the conversation. “Well, yes. It was a pirate base,” he said dryly, “and they were…ah…resisting my entry rather strenuously, after having tried unsuccessfully to blow my ship out of space. No doubt they had unhappy childhoods. I digress, however. In what way do you think your Kabal could profit by my presence if I were to agree to transfer? My erstwhile methods seem somewhat different than those that you espouse.”
Smiling brightly, the woman said, “Well, aside from the forty percent Kabal tithe collected on your contract earnings, the rent for your quarters, and the nominal docking fees charged for keeping any personal vessels in the Kabal’s hangar, we would of course benefit from your experience and expertise.” She paused and sipped daintily at her juice before continuing, “Our Kabal has recently been experiencing some minor difficulties; it has become somewhat difficult to motivate some of our hunters to take contracts, and our income has been falling off as a result. Although your career has been stained by quite a few deaths and some lamentable destruction of property, my research also shows that you have a laudable percentage of live captures, some of them made even when the contract allowed, or even stipulated, the quarry’s death. I think that, if you could work a bit harder at curbing your destructive urges, you could be an excellent example to those of our hunters who have lapsed in enthusiasm lately. I am offering you the opportunity to become CRA of the Shaak Kabal!”
“What of your current CRA? I’ve forgotten his name, I’m afraid, but I seem to recall that he’s a particularly good pilot. He’s from Corellia, is he not?”
Dewbright’s features assumed a mournful expression and her tone completed the image of a tragic heroine as she answered, “Vann Broklin was a Corellian, and a fine pilot, and a great aide. Alas, he is missing and presumed dead since the wreckage of his ship was found a few days ago. He was so brave, and such a splendid role model for the younger members of the Kabal. Why, when nobody would accept my mission to put an end to the smuggling of salt to the poor Arcona addicts, Vann courageously volunteered to capture Korsk and his band, boldly vowing to prove to all of the pessimists that a single man and his ship, armed with a full battery of ion cannons, and with justice on his side, could prevail. How sad it is that a cruel fate overtook him.”
“Am I to assume, Chief Dewbright, that Shaak Kabal’s prohibition against deadly weapons extends to ships, as well? No weapons other than ion cannons are allowed? I know of Korsk, the Trandoshan smuggler and pirate, and his squadron of armed freighters, missile boats, and fighters. It would have been…difficult…to take them on in a ship armed only with ion cannons.” Deguello struggled to keep his stunned disbelief out of his voice.
“I’m sure that had you been in his place, you would have striven valiantly, and prevailed. You have a history of pulling off successful hunts despite severe odds and in difficult conditions. That’s why I’m making you this offer. Leave that group of dissolute thugs and cutthroats in Dragon and join Shaak as my CRA. Together, we can show the Guild the beginning of a new era in bounty hunting. Why, I’m even prepared to reduce the standard tithe and fees by ten percent for the first month for you. What do you say?” Beaming enthusiastically, she looked expectantly at the Dragonite hunter.
“Madam,” he replied gravely, expression inscrutable, “you have painted me a picture of a Bounty Hunters Guild Kabal which prohibits deadly force and allows only non-lethal weapons even in self-defense, and which demands live capture in all cases regardless of the quarry, even if that means putting the hunter—unarmored also by Kabal rules--into grave danger. Your Kabal espouses rehabilitation for all the criminals whom are hunted, regardless of their crimes. In addition, the Kabal you describe prohibits all forms of recreational drug including alcohol, and requires its members to be vegetarians, barring them also from using even offensive language. Your Kabal charges its members rent for their quarters and their ships’ berthing, in addition to levying a forty percent tithe on their earnings, while maintaining only rented facilities in order to cut costs. You are asking me to seriously consider abandoning the best Kabal in the Guild to come join yours, in order to motivate the other members of your bastion of gentility.”
The hunter stopped to draw a long breath before continuing. Seeing her about to reply, he cut her off. “Madam, I shall give your proposal careful thought…when Drezo freezes over! Meanwhile, I suggest that you seek professional help for your mental state.”
Pushing back his chair, he was starting to rise when she threw the remaining juice in her glass into his face. The pink liquid sluiced toward his eyes, and filled his vision as he ducked…
Pink liquid…crystal glints…monotonous bubbly sound…something clamored deep in his mind, demanding attention, forcing him out of his comfortable oblivion…pink liquid…Bacta! He struggled to open eyes he had not realized were shut, fought to throw off the blanket of blissful unconsciousness, confused by the images of white tablecloths and flowers, of a bizarre interview with a smiling lunatic…
His eyes opened as his body shuddered, sending sluggish ripples through the fluid in which he floated. He gazed out through the curving transparency of the tank, relief flowing through his mind as he saw Doc, his medical droid, and Minerva, his Kabal Chief, gazing at him.
Minerva spoke first, concern furrowing her brow, “Deg, are you alright? I came by to pay you a visit and was about to leave when Doc here started muttering about unusual brain activity, and you began thrashing about in there. I thought that you had just about recovered from that fracas with the pirates, and was expecting you to be…ah…decanted soon. What’s wrong?” Turning to the medical droid, she asked something softly, but the immersed hunter thought he caught the words “brain damage”.
“Min, I’m fine. I was just having a bad dream. A very bad dream. A real nightmare, about an impossible Kabal. But I’m fine now. And Min…I appreciate you more than ever. You’re a great Chief. I’ll be out of here in no time. I haven’t felt this good in a long time, in fact. Thanks, Min. And you too, Doc.”
“Sure. Whatever. When you’re ready to come out of there, I’ll buy you a drink in the cantina and you can tell me about this nightmare of yours.”
“A drink? Yes, I’d like that. Something that’s not pink. Rum, maybe, or Corellian ale. And no tablecloths…”
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