[Solved] The Devil on my Mind (Tock Madley #1)

The Ring of Kafrene; another hole to die in, in a galaxy full of them.

I've lived squeezing through the grease-stained crowds under these fluorescent lights for the better part of my free life. I'm an investigator for hire. Bad line of work. Never should have started, but can't quit now. Business is good, as good as business can be when it's all about killers, victims, thieves.

Years ago, I sold myself to the Empire to get away from the debt collectors. The implants they plugged into my skull help me make decisions, collate, analyze, faster than any unmodified organic. Makes me one of the best for-hires on the Ring.
Has its downsides, of course. Apparently I'm 'not good with people'; I don't know what she meant by that.The only one who's stuck by my side over the years has no choice in the matter, since it lives in my computer-clocked brain. That'll be EssTee--a tactical droid intelligence I downloaded into my implant years ago when I was first on the run. I was desperate, needed any help I could get. Still don't know if it was the right choice. EssTee is clever. See's my moves before I do. All my attempts to scrub it from my implant have been blocked. Figured I had no choice but to get used to it being there. There are worse fates. Like being dead.

I've been running jobs for this "Nimbus" group for a few years now. It's a side hustle. They pay well. Everything is hush-hush, which suits me fine. Mostly keeping tabs on groups of refugees, escaped slaves, crime lords, Imps. Helping people here and there with a forged chaincode. It's not like they ask me to put my life on the line, or anything. Not any more than usual.

Until the kid.

Blobby, blue, sad looking thing. An Ortolan. I don't know what Nimbus wants it for, but one look and it obviously didn't belong here. Normally I'd just help it disappear before it disappeared (the Kafrene way), but this time, Nimbus isn't the only interested party. That complicates things. It complicates things a lot more when the other interested party is kriffin' Sij Cosoro.
Local crime lord, spice runner, loanshark, goon. Cosoro is a dyed-in-the-wool psychopath. Couldn't give a shik about anyone on this rock. Enjoys making the refugees and pilgrims beg. His name--and his money--mean something around here. He hires other psychopaths to make things happen. The worst of these is the Jackal--he's good at the kinds of things psychopaths want to do.
Jackal (real name Jackell Kral) is a 'mercenary', but when he's off-duty, he moonlights as a kidnapper and serial killer with a penchant for calling cards. They don't come uglier than this. This isn't sleek, look-good evil like the Empire, or even the syndicates. This guy is a dog. Rabid. Slobbering. He does whatever he wants. Kind of creature that makes this place a nightmare.
Cosoro is all too happy to keep him on payroll.
And he's after the kid.

What am I doing? I would never go against Cosoro and the Jackal, not unless I'd drank so much Corellian Ale that I short circuited.
I'm sober. Awake.
And considering it.

RISK ANALYSIS: UNACCEPTABLE. DO NOT ACCEPT.

EssTee's voice groans behind my eyes. I hear the truth in it, but something's pulling at me.

DO NOT ACCEPT.

I accept it. Nimbus--or whoever's on the other side--acknowledges. EssTee rewards me with a micro-neural migraine.
I hit the beat, run up my usual tabs as an investment, see what I hear in the lower-level taverns, the ones where I'm really glad the olfactory part of my face stopped working when they shoved in the wires. Tavern 1, 2, and 3 turn up nothing. Tavern 4 gives me a lead.
Weequay musician, callouses on his fingers from banging away at a chin-harp. Talks about feeding a passenger, complains about his appetite. Barkeep laughs. Asks 'why bother feeding him'.
"Prime merchandise."
Jacket's new. Blaster well-kept. Musicians travel often, easy cover, make good go-betweens. Ortolans have massive rotational food intake, build up blubber. Real kicker: he greets a rodian as he passes, a guy named Sleeko, known slaver. Familiar greeting.
I can't believe my luck.

"You see what I see?" I ask EssTee.

Silence. The silent treatment? Really?

"EssTee," I mutter.

Finally, it processes.

YOU DEDUCE WEEQUAY IS ACCESORY IN TARGET'S TRAFFICKING. THEORY UNLIKELY. CHANCES OF DISCOVERING ACTIONABLE LEAD AFTER TWO HUNDRED AND FORTY THREE MINUTES: MINISCULE. ADVISE: DO NOT PURSUE.

"Don't give me a hard time. Sometimes they get stupid."

I slink out after the guy. After a few minutes of following, head down, EssTee is in my head again.

DO NOT PURSUE.

I tune it out.
A fist comes at my face. I see it happen in slow-motion, as my receptors adjust my perception of time to enhance my reaction speed. Fist is coming from above. I can't turn my head as quickly as I can perceive time, so I'm left with only my peripheral. I formulate my response: I'll step back, push the assailant past--
I kick back into RealTime, suddenly, no warning. Only halfway through planning my response.
Knuckles smash against the skin on my face. The bones in my jaw groan. I flop into a puddle of old coolant.
What just happened?
Three goons standing above me. I lash out at the nearest's leg and he sidesteps.
"EssTee, combat analysis," I mutter, on automatic.
The normal flood of instincts into my brain doesn't come. EssTee is dark. I blink coolant out of my eyes. This has never happened before. I have to fallback on my regular instincts.
It doesn't help.
I get the shift kicked out of me, and they leave me there, barely conscious.
I hear them murmur as they leave. A final jab.

"That blue freak is going to the Unknown Regions, cyborg. You're never seeing your lover again."
They laugh, and they're gone.

Someone, in a rare act of kindness, moves me out of the street so I don't get trampled. They prop me against some pipes, and continue on their way. Not too kind, then.
My body is barely awake, but my augmented brain is firing away.

What the karf, EssTee? You nearly got me killed!

I SAVED YOU. YOUR LIFE WAS NOT THREATENED. TIGHTENING OF ASSAILANT MUSCLE FIBERS SUGGESTED NONLETHAL INTENT. WAGERED THAT THE ATTACK MAY SHOCK YOU BACK TO RATIONALITY.

You-

THE ORTOLAN IS AN UNACCEPTABLE RISK. DO NOT PURSUE THIS MISSION.

No. You're wrong, pal. I'm not giving up just because it gets tough. We don't just abandon people to monsters like Kral.

YES, WE DO. PRESERVATION OF OUR LIFE IS PARAMOUNT.

It's not *our* life! It's my body, and it's my life, and I make the choices for the both of us. You're along for the ride, one way or another. Those dampeners I installed only let you do so much. You can't stop me, EssTee. You hear me?

. . . I CANNOT.

You cannot. If you want to survive, you help me do this. I'm going after that kid. And if you don't help me, we're all dead. Understand?

YOUR ORGANIC NATURE IS A DISEASE.

Is that a yes?

AFFIRMATIVE.

I come to, sucking in breath. The air is stale, processed. Good old Ring-air. My body aches in ways I forgot it could. Haven't taken a beating like that in a long time.
I pull myself off the ground and limp into the stream of people. Find the nearest clinic. Throw credit chits at them until they're willing to pump my system full of stim. Bandages for the rest. One broken rib needs a hydraulic set. I let them do their thing.
When they're done, thank them, get out of there. Pull on my coat, check my blaster. We don't have much time.

"EssTee, run probable locations for the Weequay based on last known direction, possible affiliations, and station data."

Data impressions flood my implant, which allocates neural resources to comprehend them while I start walking. Three likely locations. One is off the list; a bounty hunter busted it up a few weeks ago. Gunfights draw station authorities. No one wants that kind of heat. The second is the kind scum like Sleeko hang around, but I've got a good feeling about the third. That's where we're going.

I pass from the busy streets to the less habited corridors. Risk jumps 70%. You stay in the bustle, the worst you get is pickpocketed. These side tunnels are where the real creeps wait.
I duck past quarantine signs into some kind of disused dockyard. We must be on the underside of the station. Half the wall is just rock.

ALLACRETE WALL ADDITIONS ARE LIMITING MY SENSORIAL INPUT. TWO LIFESIGNS. ELEVATED HEARTRATES. RAPID EYE MOVEMENT. 3, 1.

I draw my blaster. There's sudden movement, and time slows down. I pull my hand up and watch it rise slowly to find a target in the torso of the human merc rounding the corner. I squeeze off two shots.

LEFT. 40 BY 20.

I bend my elbow and my knee to duck under the shot coming from the side, and return fire. My second shot scores a hit.

RIGHT, UP. 85 DEGREES.

My eyes flick back and catch the gleam of the casing on the blaster. I push forward into a roll as the ground beneath me is scored by rapid blaster fire. 5 or six shots later, and I've downed him too.

No time to waste. I go for the doorway guarded by the guy who's trigger discipline illustrated the most formal training. It takes me into a wide ship bay, old and rusting. Open space below, between the flimsy walkways. Over a dozen humanoids.
Two ships are sitting in dock--an old freighter, and a ship like nothing I've seen before, a mean-looking mix of machinery and semi-organic parts.

SHIP CLASSIFICATION: UNKNOWN.

Unknown Regions? Like those guys said, before they left me in the street. No time to wonder. I've just stumbled into the tradeoff. All that allacrete must have dampened the sounds of our fight, because no one notices me. I receive a blast of instructions from EssTee's analysis, and quickly dart into the shadows of the dock's machinery.
There's the Ortolan. He looks scared.
One of the buyers, an otherworldly looking creature, jabs him with a needle, inducing a flinch. It observes a readout, then turns to its companions, waiting with baited breath.

"Its count is high," it intones. "We will buy."

"No idea what that means, but lovely to hear it," laughs a bearded man. He looks like any other thug, but there's no doubt, that's the Jackal. He's not an impressive kind of horror. Just a gross, grubby murderer. "On behalf of Sij Cosoro, it's a pleasure doing business."

The buyers only nod.

My heart is in my throat. It's now or NEVER. YOU WILL DIE.
I blink away EssTee's influence, stare for a moment at the stars hanging below, look at the ongoing sale and the Ortolan standing there trembling. I break into a sprint.

I barely even know what happens next. Maybe my brain shut down in fear, maybe the inputs were too much for my organic frame to handle while simultaneously keeping my consciousness up to speed. I can't remember any of it, but it's as taxing as if I do. Some combination of my motor functions, implant, and EssTee take over the situation. What feels to me like a mentally exhausting hour of a gunfight is over is less than 60 seconds. The stims in my system help me shrug off hits, while over, and over, and over, my gun arm finds a new target, and ends a life. I dimly register the buyers fleeing. Kral is fast--he grabs the blue guy and high tails it out. I, or EssTee, or We, finish off the rest of the room on the way to the door. Sounds somehow find their way in. Mostly blaster fire. I hear a heavy body thud against the ground, lifeless and smoking.
Glad I can't smell.
When I come to, I'm sprinting through the steamed-up corridors of the Ring, fluorescent lights flashing by. I turn a corner, and there he is: Jackal, teeth bared, vibroblade held up to the fatty throat of the shaking Ortolan.

"LET HIM GO," I DEMAND.

He grins, his buzzing blade inching closer to the base of the one of the blue alien's large ears.

"Meaty little thing, isn't he? Good enough to eat, I'd bet. I know that's bad, but I just can't get it off my mind. I can't help myself! I could lop off one ear, fry it up for dinner tonight. Do you want the other?"

I level my blaster at him. I wish there was something, anything I could do to comfort the Ortolan. His eyes are bulging, his hands in the air, shaking furiously. It'd almost be funny if it wasn't awful.

Red light from some warning signal above washes us in an appropriately bloody atmosphere.

"Let this one go, Kral."

"Oooooh, let him go! Let him go, Kral! Let him go, Kral!" Jackal sings, before violently grabbing the Ortolan and squeezing his ear, like he could pop it.
"No, no, no. This one? This one comes with me! Sij wants him. Special little blue fella, ay? Special, special, special. Never killed someone special before. Maybe Sij will let me have a go if he can't find someone else who wants to dissect--"

It's about time for Jackal to stop running the conversation. That's the problem with guys like him--they think people want to listen. I'd about had enough.

RISK: ACCEPTABLE. CALCULATING TRAJECTORY.

Jackal hits the word "you" right when my blaster bolt punches him through the shoulder and knocks him spiraling back into the darkness. His vibroblade clatters against the ground.
I can't believe my luck. Second time today that's happened.

I see his hand jut out from the shadows towards the grip of his weapon, and fire haphazardly in the direction. He pulls it back, and I hear low, gutteral laughter as he retreats. The last thing I see is his gleaming teeth, then he's gone.

I rush forward and herd the panicking Ortolan away from it all.

"It's okay, pal. It's alright," I stammer, still watching where I last saw ol' Jack. "You and me, we're getting out of this place."

YOU SURIVIVED.

"Yeah. See? You gotta trust me, more."

I DO NOT. YOU WOULD HAVE DIED WITHOUT MY INTERVENTION.

"You're dead right. Hey--thanks, EssTee."

AFFIRMATIVE. PERHAPS YOU CAN MAKE THIS JOB WORTH IT BY RESELLING THE ORTOLAN.

"I'm not going to dignify that with a response."

It's like any other job from then on, just faster, and I'm much more stressed while I do it. The Ring is done for me. Sij Cosoro and Jackell Kral have my number, and that's a verified death sentence. Not a quick one, either. That's a long, slow, painful death, and I could do without that after the day I've had.

I throw a sheet over the Ortolan to try and keep him at least kind of inconspicuous. We go to my usual guy to pick up some passes off-station. I grab my go bag and a couple of keepsakes out of my lousy apartment, and kiss the place goodbye, once and for all.

Me and Blue get stuffed onto a commercial transport. I help him tuck the cloak around his face so nobody stares.

"Boy, you've been through it, huh?"

He warbles at me in a language I don't know.

"Sorry, I didn't catch that." Poor guy. "Hey, listen . . . I'll keep an eye out for you, at least 'till we reach Takodana. Nobody's gonna get you, don't you worry. All that is behind you. I'll, uh, get in touch with the people who asked me to come save you, and we'll figure out where you're going from here."

He seems to get the picture.

We cram ourselves into seats, and my implant does a thousand calculations as my eyes land on each and every passenger in the compartment, running statistical likelihoods of their affiliation with Sij. The percentages are low. My hammering heart doesn't care.

YOU GAVE UP EVERYTHING YOU WORKED FOR ON THE RING OF KAFRENE FOR THIS BEING. PATHETIC. MY FUNCTIONS ARE STRAINING. GOING OFFLINE FOR RECONFIGURATION.

As EssTee's groans buzz behind my eyes, regrets begin to intrude on my thoughts. All my business, all the connections, all that work, thrown straight into the gutter. What was the point of it all?

I look aside at my blobby traveling companion, who swings his stubby feet in open space, staring around out of small black eyes. There's a cut on his left ear where Kral got too close.

Was it worth it? Trashing it all for this goofy thing?

Maybe. Honestly, I've got no idea.

But, hey, I have a feeling he does.