The first thing you notice about Coruscant is the smell.
The holonovels — especially those trashy romances Chalil churns out — always make a big deal out of the lights, but let’s be honest, who
hasn’t seen lights before? Coruscant is pretty much like any city on any planet, just bigger. It’s just that once you actually set foot on the
planet, you get a whiff of that unique bouquet — an indescribable blend of the sweat and scent of trillions of beings from a hundred thousand
different species, the steam and exhaust of billions of ’pulserlifts, the smoke of the factories and the byproducts of the recycleries, all that. It’s
not exactly unpleasant — there must be a billion tons of perfume on the planet, for one thing — but it’s not exactly pleasant, either. It’s
unique. It smells like... well, I suppose it smells like Coruscant.
I wasn’t there to take in the sights or the smells. I berthed my boat and called for a taxi, and headed toward Unity Gardens.
I’d been to Unity Gardens a hundred times, but it’s still some sort of big thrill to people when they hear you’re going there on business. The
perpetual mystique of the Navy, I suppose. As far as architecture goes, it’s pretty impressive, I’ll admit that. Certainly not up to the
standards of the Imperial Palace, but then that’s why the Palace is one of the Twenty Wonders of the Galaxy and Unity Gardens... isn’t.
Fortunately for the Navy, its complex at Unity Gardens is far enough down Glitannai Esplanade that its architecture doesn’t automatically
draw unfavorable comparisons between it and the Palace. When you sweep up into that main plaza, with the giant silver-blue buildings
towering over you on either side and that huge zero-g fountain in the middle... I’ve got to be honest, it’s hard not to be impressed. And there’s
a very good reason the complex is named after the gardens out there. They say the Purple Twin designed the gardens himself. If it’s true, then
there’s no wonder he’s the Black Twin’s alter ego. The man’s got an amazing eye for details.
I passed under the colossal arch with the words HEADQUARTERS NAVY COMMAND MINISTRY OF THE NAVY in ten-meter-tall
letters emblazoned across it and entered the main lobby, with that huge Navy crest lasered onto the marble floor, surrounded by the age-old
motto SERVICE FEALTY FIDELITY in gleaming letters. The entire complex was laid out in pure Imperial style, with the intent of
overwhelming the observer with its grandeur and the bold, sweeping lines that speak of the vast power of the Empire. Not baroque, but who
needs to be baroque when you can use simple geometry to make people feel microscopically tiny and insignificant? Standard Imperial
philosophy at work, there. You can see it in millions of Imperial buildings throughout the galaxy, from the local garrison all the way up to the
Imperial Palace. The idea is that the architecture of the Empire should give the viewer an accurate sense of how insignificant he is before the
power and glory of the Galactic Empire.
The receptionist who spoke to me was a pretty young thing in a gray Civil Servant’s uniform, rather than a Navy one. She took my name told
me someone would be along to escort me to Lieutenant Commander Purkins’s office in a few minutes. The Navy doesn’t let anybody wander
around Unity Gardens without an escort, not even Senators, and certainly not people flashing badges. They say it’s for security purposes, and
to help ensure that people don’t get lost. That’s probably true enough. I once had to chase a man for half an hour inside Trommer Hall, and not
even once did we pass through the same corridor twice.
Trommer Hall’s not even the biggest building at Unity Gardens.
There’s something insufferably smug about the Navy. Probably because they’re the single biggest item in the Imperial annual budget, even
bigger if you count the rest of the Naval Service. Any civics class teacher will tell you responsibility for space is split up among the three
ministries, Space, the Navy, and Intergalactic Transit, but it’s the First Space Lord and Chief of Naval Operations that’s the real king of space.
In theory the Minister President appoints the 1SL/CNO and all the other senior officers, including the Commodore IFA and the Scoutmaster
General. In reality, Navy Command usually tells the Minister President who’s going to be sporting the Admiral of the Navy’s collar devices,
and he’s going to tell his “boss” who’ll be taking the other offices. Remember what I said about perverse influences?
Don’t get me wrong, the 1SL/CNO doesn’t have total control of the Navy, not by a long shot. Not with all the Moffs and Grand Moffs
controlling the Sector and Regional and Oversector Commands out there. Ultimately, the grandees of the Privy Council have the last say about
most of the fleet’s affairs outside of the Oversectors and the strategic reserves. But let’s be realistic: Every single 1SL/CNO in the Empire’s
history has been a member of the Privy Council. And not even one 1SL/CNO has been sacked in years, but there’ve been plenty of Navy,
Space, and IGT Ministers in that time. Remember a couple of years back when the Admiral of the Navy spat in the Minister of Space’s face
during the New Year Fête? It certainly wasn’t Terrinald Screed that got fired, it was the Rodrigo Rendar.
A master at arms in a black Navy uniform showed up and led me through the labyrinthine halls of Unity Gardens — “passageways,” the Navy
calls them (or just “P-ways,” if you’re a fan of brevity). I entered the office and identified myself to the man seated behind the desk. He didn’t
rise to greet me. Lieutenant Commander Purkins already didn’t like me, that much was clear, even if he was being polite about it. It was nothing
personal. He and I had never met; in that respect we were like two hawkbats who’d also never met. It was professional; he was one of those
arrogant types who disliked everyone who was beneath him and everyone who was above him. Probably didn’t go dancing much.
“What can I do for you, Detective?” he said, setting his stylus down on the desk and folding his hands in front of himself. He didn’t have to
minimize the window he’d been working in before I’d interrupted him. Like almost all government screens, it wasn’t two-way; I couldn’t see
what he was working on even if I’d been interested — which I wasn’t.
“I’ve been assigned to investigate the disappearance of a briefcase,” I said, after identifying myself and showing him my credentials.
“Oh, stars, not that again,” he said, pushing his chair away from his desk and moving toward his office window. “Don’t you people talk to
each other? I’ve already answered all of your questions about this.”
“Please just humor me, Commander,” I said, dropping my hat onto his desk and drawing my datapad out from my overcoat. We went over all
the usual questions, and he stonewalled on almost everything. I have to admit, I was pretty impressed by his performance; he managed to give
me all the details I need without telling me even one detail I didn’t need or wasn’t cleared for. By the time I was done asking questions, I had all
the basic facts about the briefcase and the circumstances under which it’d gone missing, without even knowing the name of the office it’d gone
missing from. A subsequent background check on Purkins confirmed my suspicion; he’d spent a few years in the office of the Navy’s Chief of
Legislative Liaison. Spend a few years lying to the Senate, and you get to be pretty good at answering questions without answering them.
One of the things you learn in my line of work is that you can’t take things at face value. You can’t trust people to tell you the truth, no matter
what species they are, and no matter what you think you know about their cultures or their backgrounds. That doesn’t meant that whatever it
is that they’re telling you isn’t true. It just means that you can’t trust them to tell you the truth. Just because somebody says something
definitely doesn’t make it true. Just because you see something doesn’t make it true, either. Your eyes can deceive you.
“Commander, there’s some gentlemen here to see you,” said Purkins’s writer through his office intercom. He leaned over his chair to touch the
intercom key.
“Who is it?”
There was a slight pause, and the yeoman’s voice came back. “Sir, there are two gentlemen here from Naval Intelligence, and two gentlemen
from the OCI.”
Purkins’s blue eyes snapped up sharply to look at me again. He had the pale complexion of a man who spent most of his time indoors under
artificial light — fairly common among Navy types, especially those at Unity Gardens — and like many of the officers that command desks
instead of ships, he had a slight paunch that came from working out only sporadically, in preparation for the semiannual physical readiness
test. “Who did you say you’re with, Detective?”
I hate it when that happens. I was surprised that 1030 Glitannai’s grayshirts were only now showing up to talk to Purkins; that meant
whoever had come to see him before — he’d said “not that again,” you might recall — was with somebody else.
“I didn’t,” I said. He’d made a very simple mistake; he saw my badge and heard the word “detective,” and just assumed that I was OCI. Not all
of them wear uniforms, and I usually wear a suit that any respectable businessman or civil servant could wear to work in good conscience. It’s
an easy mistake to make, and one that’s helped me out more than once. Thing is, I’m not the one responsible for checking my credentials. I’m
required by law to show them, not to hold people’s hands while they examine them. They don’t read the fine print? Not my problem.
“I’m a private eye,” I said brusquely, rising from the chair and tucking my datapad back into my overcoat’s inner pocket. I picked up my hat
and turned toward the door when I felt Lieutenant Commander Purkins lay hands on me.
I’m not so naïf that I’m surprised when people get angry with me, but my dear old grandmother didn’t raise me in a barn, and I believe in good
manners. I expressed to Purkins my opinion that he should behave himself like an officer and a gentleman, and deposited him — uniform
slightly rumpled — back in his chair. “Been a real pleasure, Commander,” I said, picking up my hat and dusting it off.
I stepped out of the office and bumped into my opposite numbers, Detectives Iosif Lestrade and Davin Stebbins from 1030 Glitannai. Both of
them were wearing the gray Civil Servant’s uniforms with the OCI pin on the left breast, over the rank badge.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Lestrade said drily.
“Detective Lestrade, Detective Stebbins,” I said, nodding in greeting. “He’s all yours, gentlemen, but I warn you that he’s both good at lying
and bad at judging when he’s bitten off more than he can chew. He’s probably in a bad mood.”
Stebbins masticated fiercely on the unlit and mangled cigarra in his mouth, a habit he’d picked up long ago from his days as a beat cop in the
meaner streets of Imperial City. He grinned wolfishly at me. “Let me guess. The old ‘I’m a detective’ routine?”
“One of these days you’re going to get busted for impersonating an officer of the law,” Lestrade said, not even a ghost of a smile on his lips. He
was a good, solid policeman; he respected me and I respected him, but he didn’t approve of my methods.
“I never claimed to be a grayshirt, Ios’,” I said. “Not my fault if people jump to conclusions. Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have to be
going. Spaceman Drovis, if you’d be so kind?” The master at arms escorted me back to the main lobby, and I caught a taxi from there to Vanesa
District and the public records building. I spent quite a few long hours there, headed over to my office on Upherholt Avenue, and did some
more snooping on the subnets. I don’t live on Coruscant, but it pays to keep an office there. Especially since my generous patron (who shall
remain nameless) had seen fit to provide me with access to the secure nets used by Triumph House, Unity Gardens, and the Panopticon. It’s
nice to know what the Army, Navy, and Intelligence are talking about. Don’t need a linkup to the Central Office; if I want to know what the
ISB is up to, I can just check with the Ubiqtorate. I love it fraternal distrust makes my job easier.
Sometimes I thought about letting an apartment, too, but ultimately I could never justify the expense. I prefer to sleep in my boat when I’m
not at home, anyway. After a brief stopover in the undercity, I caught a taxi back to Westport, where I’d docked my boat. I removed my coat
and waistcoat and tossed my datapad onto my rack. I lit a cigarette and had a seat.
Time to do some review.
The holonovels — especially those trashy romances Chalil churns out — always make a big deal out of the lights, but let’s be honest, who
hasn’t seen lights before? Coruscant is pretty much like any city on any planet, just bigger. It’s just that once you actually set foot on the
planet, you get a whiff of that unique bouquet — an indescribable blend of the sweat and scent of trillions of beings from a hundred thousand
different species, the steam and exhaust of billions of ’pulserlifts, the smoke of the factories and the byproducts of the recycleries, all that. It’s
not exactly unpleasant — there must be a billion tons of perfume on the planet, for one thing — but it’s not exactly pleasant, either. It’s
unique. It smells like... well, I suppose it smells like Coruscant.
I wasn’t there to take in the sights or the smells. I berthed my boat and called for a taxi, and headed toward Unity Gardens.
I’d been to Unity Gardens a hundred times, but it’s still some sort of big thrill to people when they hear you’re going there on business. The
perpetual mystique of the Navy, I suppose. As far as architecture goes, it’s pretty impressive, I’ll admit that. Certainly not up to the
standards of the Imperial Palace, but then that’s why the Palace is one of the Twenty Wonders of the Galaxy and Unity Gardens... isn’t.
Fortunately for the Navy, its complex at Unity Gardens is far enough down Glitannai Esplanade that its architecture doesn’t automatically
draw unfavorable comparisons between it and the Palace. When you sweep up into that main plaza, with the giant silver-blue buildings
towering over you on either side and that huge zero-g fountain in the middle... I’ve got to be honest, it’s hard not to be impressed. And there’s
a very good reason the complex is named after the gardens out there. They say the Purple Twin designed the gardens himself. If it’s true, then
there’s no wonder he’s the Black Twin’s alter ego. The man’s got an amazing eye for details.
I passed under the colossal arch with the words HEADQUARTERS NAVY COMMAND MINISTRY OF THE NAVY in ten-meter-tall
letters emblazoned across it and entered the main lobby, with that huge Navy crest lasered onto the marble floor, surrounded by the age-old
motto SERVICE FEALTY FIDELITY in gleaming letters. The entire complex was laid out in pure Imperial style, with the intent of
overwhelming the observer with its grandeur and the bold, sweeping lines that speak of the vast power of the Empire. Not baroque, but who
needs to be baroque when you can use simple geometry to make people feel microscopically tiny and insignificant? Standard Imperial
philosophy at work, there. You can see it in millions of Imperial buildings throughout the galaxy, from the local garrison all the way up to the
Imperial Palace. The idea is that the architecture of the Empire should give the viewer an accurate sense of how insignificant he is before the
power and glory of the Galactic Empire.
The receptionist who spoke to me was a pretty young thing in a gray Civil Servant’s uniform, rather than a Navy one. She took my name told
me someone would be along to escort me to Lieutenant Commander Purkins’s office in a few minutes. The Navy doesn’t let anybody wander
around Unity Gardens without an escort, not even Senators, and certainly not people flashing badges. They say it’s for security purposes, and
to help ensure that people don’t get lost. That’s probably true enough. I once had to chase a man for half an hour inside Trommer Hall, and not
even once did we pass through the same corridor twice.
Trommer Hall’s not even the biggest building at Unity Gardens.
There’s something insufferably smug about the Navy. Probably because they’re the single biggest item in the Imperial annual budget, even
bigger if you count the rest of the Naval Service. Any civics class teacher will tell you responsibility for space is split up among the three
ministries, Space, the Navy, and Intergalactic Transit, but it’s the First Space Lord and Chief of Naval Operations that’s the real king of space.
In theory the Minister President appoints the 1SL/CNO and all the other senior officers, including the Commodore IFA and the Scoutmaster
General. In reality, Navy Command usually tells the Minister President who’s going to be sporting the Admiral of the Navy’s collar devices,
and he’s going to tell his “boss” who’ll be taking the other offices. Remember what I said about perverse influences?
Don’t get me wrong, the 1SL/CNO doesn’t have total control of the Navy, not by a long shot. Not with all the Moffs and Grand Moffs
controlling the Sector and Regional and Oversector Commands out there. Ultimately, the grandees of the Privy Council have the last say about
most of the fleet’s affairs outside of the Oversectors and the strategic reserves. But let’s be realistic: Every single 1SL/CNO in the Empire’s
history has been a member of the Privy Council. And not even one 1SL/CNO has been sacked in years, but there’ve been plenty of Navy,
Space, and IGT Ministers in that time. Remember a couple of years back when the Admiral of the Navy spat in the Minister of Space’s face
during the New Year Fête? It certainly wasn’t Terrinald Screed that got fired, it was the Rodrigo Rendar.
A master at arms in a black Navy uniform showed up and led me through the labyrinthine halls of Unity Gardens — “passageways,” the Navy
calls them (or just “P-ways,” if you’re a fan of brevity). I entered the office and identified myself to the man seated behind the desk. He didn’t
rise to greet me. Lieutenant Commander Purkins already didn’t like me, that much was clear, even if he was being polite about it. It was nothing
personal. He and I had never met; in that respect we were like two hawkbats who’d also never met. It was professional; he was one of those
arrogant types who disliked everyone who was beneath him and everyone who was above him. Probably didn’t go dancing much.
“What can I do for you, Detective?” he said, setting his stylus down on the desk and folding his hands in front of himself. He didn’t have to
minimize the window he’d been working in before I’d interrupted him. Like almost all government screens, it wasn’t two-way; I couldn’t see
what he was working on even if I’d been interested — which I wasn’t.
“I’ve been assigned to investigate the disappearance of a briefcase,” I said, after identifying myself and showing him my credentials.
“Oh, stars, not that again,” he said, pushing his chair away from his desk and moving toward his office window. “Don’t you people talk to
each other? I’ve already answered all of your questions about this.”
“Please just humor me, Commander,” I said, dropping my hat onto his desk and drawing my datapad out from my overcoat. We went over all
the usual questions, and he stonewalled on almost everything. I have to admit, I was pretty impressed by his performance; he managed to give
me all the details I need without telling me even one detail I didn’t need or wasn’t cleared for. By the time I was done asking questions, I had all
the basic facts about the briefcase and the circumstances under which it’d gone missing, without even knowing the name of the office it’d gone
missing from. A subsequent background check on Purkins confirmed my suspicion; he’d spent a few years in the office of the Navy’s Chief of
Legislative Liaison. Spend a few years lying to the Senate, and you get to be pretty good at answering questions without answering them.
One of the things you learn in my line of work is that you can’t take things at face value. You can’t trust people to tell you the truth, no matter
what species they are, and no matter what you think you know about their cultures or their backgrounds. That doesn’t meant that whatever it
is that they’re telling you isn’t true. It just means that you can’t trust them to tell you the truth. Just because somebody says something
definitely doesn’t make it true. Just because you see something doesn’t make it true, either. Your eyes can deceive you.
“Commander, there’s some gentlemen here to see you,” said Purkins’s writer through his office intercom. He leaned over his chair to touch the
intercom key.
“Who is it?”
There was a slight pause, and the yeoman’s voice came back. “Sir, there are two gentlemen here from Naval Intelligence, and two gentlemen
from the OCI.”
Purkins’s blue eyes snapped up sharply to look at me again. He had the pale complexion of a man who spent most of his time indoors under
artificial light — fairly common among Navy types, especially those at Unity Gardens — and like many of the officers that command desks
instead of ships, he had a slight paunch that came from working out only sporadically, in preparation for the semiannual physical readiness
test. “Who did you say you’re with, Detective?”
I hate it when that happens. I was surprised that 1030 Glitannai’s grayshirts were only now showing up to talk to Purkins; that meant
whoever had come to see him before — he’d said “not that again,” you might recall — was with somebody else.
“I didn’t,” I said. He’d made a very simple mistake; he saw my badge and heard the word “detective,” and just assumed that I was OCI. Not all
of them wear uniforms, and I usually wear a suit that any respectable businessman or civil servant could wear to work in good conscience. It’s
an easy mistake to make, and one that’s helped me out more than once. Thing is, I’m not the one responsible for checking my credentials. I’m
required by law to show them, not to hold people’s hands while they examine them. They don’t read the fine print? Not my problem.
“I’m a private eye,” I said brusquely, rising from the chair and tucking my datapad back into my overcoat’s inner pocket. I picked up my hat
and turned toward the door when I felt Lieutenant Commander Purkins lay hands on me.
I’m not so naïf that I’m surprised when people get angry with me, but my dear old grandmother didn’t raise me in a barn, and I believe in good
manners. I expressed to Purkins my opinion that he should behave himself like an officer and a gentleman, and deposited him — uniform
slightly rumpled — back in his chair. “Been a real pleasure, Commander,” I said, picking up my hat and dusting it off.
I stepped out of the office and bumped into my opposite numbers, Detectives Iosif Lestrade and Davin Stebbins from 1030 Glitannai. Both of
them were wearing the gray Civil Servant’s uniforms with the OCI pin on the left breast, over the rank badge.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Lestrade said drily.
“Detective Lestrade, Detective Stebbins,” I said, nodding in greeting. “He’s all yours, gentlemen, but I warn you that he’s both good at lying
and bad at judging when he’s bitten off more than he can chew. He’s probably in a bad mood.”
Stebbins masticated fiercely on the unlit and mangled cigarra in his mouth, a habit he’d picked up long ago from his days as a beat cop in the
meaner streets of Imperial City. He grinned wolfishly at me. “Let me guess. The old ‘I’m a detective’ routine?”
“One of these days you’re going to get busted for impersonating an officer of the law,” Lestrade said, not even a ghost of a smile on his lips. He
was a good, solid policeman; he respected me and I respected him, but he didn’t approve of my methods.
“I never claimed to be a grayshirt, Ios’,” I said. “Not my fault if people jump to conclusions. Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have to be
going. Spaceman Drovis, if you’d be so kind?” The master at arms escorted me back to the main lobby, and I caught a taxi from there to Vanesa
District and the public records building. I spent quite a few long hours there, headed over to my office on Upherholt Avenue, and did some
more snooping on the subnets. I don’t live on Coruscant, but it pays to keep an office there. Especially since my generous patron (who shall
remain nameless) had seen fit to provide me with access to the secure nets used by Triumph House, Unity Gardens, and the Panopticon. It’s
nice to know what the Army, Navy, and Intelligence are talking about. Don’t need a linkup to the Central Office; if I want to know what the
ISB is up to, I can just check with the Ubiqtorate. I love it fraternal distrust makes my job easier.
Sometimes I thought about letting an apartment, too, but ultimately I could never justify the expense. I prefer to sleep in my boat when I’m
not at home, anyway. After a brief stopover in the undercity, I caught a taxi back to Westport, where I’d docked my boat. I removed my coat
and waistcoat and tossed my datapad onto my rack. I lit a cigarette and had a seat.
Time to do some review.
Domus Publica
| Lost and Found: A Study in Corruption |
 |  |
| III. |
This short story was originally published (under the title “Lost and Found: A Study in Noir”) on 28 September 2006 as a post on Mr.
Michael Wong’s StarDestroyer.Net (SD.N) forums. It was republished on 2 February 2007.
Michael Wong’s StarDestroyer.Net (SD.N) forums. It was republished on 2 February 2007.
| This site is for informational and entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement of any kind is intended. Star Wars and related materials are © Lucasfilm Ltd., which reserves all rights thereto. All original material is © Julius Sykes. Please do not use without permission. |