Light of the Jedi(44)
Every Nihil was expected to contribute. Either you made the organization richer, or you made it stronger. And one way to make something stronger…was by removing what was weak.
A body drifted away into the void of No-Space, still moving. Not for long.
Pan Eyta turned back to the Nihil. He spread his arms, taking them all in, while gesturing simultaneously at the feast tables and fountains filled with various intoxicants, and death sticks and piles of uppowder and downfire.
“Now enjoy yourselves, my friends,” he said. “You’ve earned this.”
He stepped down from the table as the Nihil resumed their celebrations. If any of them harbored misgivings about what had just occurred, they kept it hidden, behind masks and fistfuls of food and sniffs of powder. Music kicked up—loud, with a sound like sheets of metal being hammered in complex polyrhythms.
“We need to talk,” Marchion Ro said, looking at the three Tempest Runners.
Kassav frowned. “It’s a party, Marchion. Didn’t you hear Pan? Lots to celebrate. Why don’t you just relax?”
Marchion Ro stared at the man for a full three seconds.
“There’s business to discuss,” he said. “It’s important, and I want to talk about it while we’re all in the same place, and before you three get too drunk to think.”
The Tempest Runners looked at one another, none of them happy.
Lourna Dee shrugged. “Fine, Marchion, fine. Let’s go on back.”
Marchion Ro stepped down off the raised platform and walked toward the far end of the platform, the Tempest Runners falling in at his side. Nihil at all levels reached out to them, offering hands in greeting, desperate to make some connection with the organization’s leadership.
The group reached a small structure built at the far end of the Great Hall; it housed the air lock and docking mechanisms, as well as a small complex of rooms that offered privacy, when required. Two droid sentries guarded its entrance, and bowed their heads as Marchion and the Tempest Runners passed. The droids were well over two meters tall, matte-black, and in lieu of even rudimentary features, the three lightning bolts of the Nihil glowed on their faceplates in sharp blue-white. They carried no weapons, and needed none. Their limbs and bodies were studded with sharp spikes, their hands set in fists made of heavy alloys that could smash bone and tissue into pulp.
Inside, once the entry portal had sealed, Marchion turned to face Kassav, Lourna Dee, and Pan Eyta, each solely responsible for and with complete authority over a Tempest, one of the three great divisions of the Nihil.
“Good party,” Kassav said.
Kassav was always the first to talk. Predictable as the sunrise. Either he hated silence, or he was pathologically focused on ensuring no one ever forgot he was there.
Marchion Ro pulled off his mask, reaching up and running a hand through his long, dark hair, untangling it. The energy in the room changed, even though the Tempest Runners had seen Marchion unmasked many times. His appearance tended to have a particular effect on those around him—slate-gray skin, wholly black eyes, a certain angular leanness to his physique…for many of the galaxy’s species, the features of Marchion’s people meant predator, on some deep instinctive level.
“Is it a good party, Kassav?” Marchion said. “All I saw was a big party. Numbers. Lots of new faces out there. From all three of your Tempests.”
“We always need new blood,” Pan Eyta said. His voice was so low, some of his syllables dropped into subsonic ranges, giving him a wavery, resonant tone. “Strikes find other people to join, and when they get enough of a group under them, they move up to become a Cloud. If they make their name, they get to be a Storm. That’s the way it works, since always. You know this. Been like that since back when your father was the Eye.”
Marchion Ro was more than a little certain that one of the three people standing before him had murdered his father—Asgar Ro. Custodian of the Paths and Eye of the Nihil until Marchion inherited the position and all that went with it on Asgar’s death. But he didn’t know which of the Tempest Runners had done the killing, and he was just the Eye. They were the bosses and had a thousand soldiers each. He only had one real ally, and she wouldn’t be much good in a fight.
“I know the way it works, Pan,” Marchion said. “But the Paths aren’t a limitless resource. Too many people means we can get spread too thin. We need to slow things down.”
“No one’s gonna like that,” Lourna Dee said. “We don’t slow down. We’re the Nihil.”
Marchion placed his index finger on his helmet.
“The Paths come from me. So now I’m saying we need to be a little careful about the next stage. That’s all.”
“Is this about the Republic again?” Pan Eyta said. “We’ve been over that. We know they’re opening that station, that Starlight Beacon thing, but that doesn’t mean they’ll be coming after us. They think we’re small time. They’ve never bothered us before, and they don’t even have a military. How would they get us, anyway? We’ve got your Paths, right?”
The Dowutin adjusted his suit again—that polished turquoise leather. Pan was particular in his tastes. Everything was well chosen, from his clothes to the food he ate to the music he listened to. The Nihil in his Tempest tended to be the same way. From the beginning, Pan had chosen his first Strikes, and they had chosen theirs, and like called to like.