by Timothy Zahn
“No, it’s crankapacky,” Tavia repeated. “Just hurry it up.”
The safe was harder to crack than the window, but not seriously so. Bink had it open in two minutes flat, clucking disapprovingly under her breath the whole time. Some people just didn’t deserve to be rich.
The plan had been to take a few minutes to size up the safe’s contents, picking and choosing which gems were worth taking and which would be too easy for the governor’s soon-to-be-outraged chief accountant to track down. But with Tavia’s startled exclamation ringing through her mind, Bink decided she would just grab what she could inside of a twenty-count and then call it a night. Snapping open the gem boxes at random, mindful that such boxes were usually tagged and couldn’t be taken as is, she started shoveling their contents into her hip pouch. One of the more interesting-looking boxes had a lock of its own, which the fingersnips attached to the undersides of her fingernails made quick work of.
Her twenty-count ran to zero. Closing the safe, she hurried back to the window and made her exit.
The plan had been for her to return to the roof and exit as she’d arrived, via the building’s stairway. But the rooftop anchors were expendable, her syntherope dispenser had more than enough line to reach the street, and suddenly she wasn’t feeling like hanging around this neighborhood any longer than she had to. Closing the window behind her, she released the lock on the dispenser and rappelled her way down the side of the building.
Halfway to the ground, she drew her blaster. Just in case.
Tavia, as expected, had spotted the unplanned descent and was waiting when Bink came to a smooth halt on the walkway. “What happened?” she asked anxiously. “I thought you were going back to the roof.”
“You and your startled yelp happened,” Bink said. “I thought I’d better expedite matters.”
“I said crankapacky.”
“I heard you say crankapacky,” Bink agreed, looking around. A figure had appeared from the doorway where Tavia had been handling her groundliner sentry duty and was striding toward them. He was human and male, and even with the streetlight throwing his face into shadow he seemed familiar. He continued his approach, his swinging hand brushing past a holstered blaster with each step. Bink tightened her grip on her own weapon …
And then, as the man passed through the light of a home security lamp, she got a clear look at his face. She exhaled in a puff, feeling the tension drain into limp relief. No wonder Tavia had been startled. And no wonder she’d said crankapacky. “Hey, Solo,” she greeted the newcomer. “What are you doing on Kailor?”
“Looking for you, Bink,” Solo said calmly. “Nice to see you’re keeping busy.”
“We are,” Bink said. “Only I’m Tavia, not Bink. We decided I finally needed to learn the dirty part of the job.”
For a long second he looked like he was going to buy it. His eyes flicked between the women’s faces, searching for a clue as to which face belonged to which twin.
He wouldn’t find one, of course. Not even if they’d been standing in a brightly lit room instead of a nighttime city street. Bink and Tavia had pulled this same trick countless times over the years, and their past was strewn with the red faces of those who’d fallen for it.
But Solo was smarter than most. And if he couldn’t find any visible proof that Bink was lying, he knew her well enough to make an educated guess. “Good idea,” he said, looking her straight in the eye. “I need you and Tavia for a job on Wukkar. Interested?”
“Could be,” Bink said. “Decent payoff?”
“Very decent,” Solo confirmed. “Come on back to the Falcon and we’ll talk about it.”
“Let’s meet at our ship instead,” Bink suggested. “Docking bay twenty-two. Go on in and make yourselves comfortable. We’ll be there soon—got a stop to make first.”
“Make it quick,” Solo warned. “We’re on a tight schedule.”
He turned and strode off into the night. As he approached the end of the block, another figure, this one taller and shaggier, stepped into view. Chewbacca, playing his usual backup.
Smuggling partnerships didn’t always last, Bink knew, and when they ended they usually ended violently. It was nice to see that this one was still holding together.
“We should go,” Tavia said, her voice even more disapproving than usual.
“Right.” Bink used her fingersnips to cut the syntherope free from her harness, and they headed for the spot where they’d parked their landspeeder.
“You going to take the job?” Tavia asked as they walked.
“Probably,” Bink said. “We’ll hear him out first, of course. But probably.”
“You realize that the payoff’s probably not nearly as big as he implied,” Tavia warned. “Things like this practically beg to be exaggerated.”
“I know,” Bink said. “But we’ve got nothing else planned, and pickup jobs can be fun.” She shrugged. “Besides, it’s Solo. What could go wrong?”
Tavia snorted. “You want me to give you a list?”
“No need,” Bink said ruefully. “I’ve got my own.”
The grand market at Jho-kang’ma was known mainly for two things: the freshest produce and animal products on the planet—due to the army of indentured farmers and herdsmen held in thrall just beyond the hills bordering the market—and the number and quality of performers hired to stroll through the grounds for the shoppers’ amusement.
There were a lot of them out today, Han noted as he and Chewbacca walked along the wide straw-covered corridors between the vending tents. There were jugglers, musicians, ribbon dancers, and one large being who seemed to be eating and then spitting low-power blaster bolts. That was one Han hadn’t seen before.
But the most popular acts, certainly the ones that seemed to draw the biggest crowds of chattering children, were the magicians.
Some of them had little movable stands that they would set up in out-of-the-way corners for a five- or ten-minute performance. Others simply wandered around with their entire show in pocket or hip pouch, making coins appear and disappear, creating living plants that grew and flowered from pots that also appeared from thin air, creating and releasing small birds, or doing simple but bewildering tricks with decks of sabacc cards.
They found Zerba Cher’dak in the center of one of the largest crowds, dressed in a bright yellow clown-type suit with a brown vest over it, flipping small sticks between his hands and making them change color or length seemingly at will. Like most Balosars Han had seen on human-run worlds, Zerba had retracted his antennapalps and concealed them within the fluffed waves and heavy lacquering of his hair to blend in better with the dominant population.
Chewbacca rumbled a comment.
“One of the best,” Han agreed as Zerba continued to play with the sticks, occasionally turning one of them into a glittering gemstone to the giggling delight of his audience. “At least, the best we could get.”
Chewbacca rumbled again.
“No, I’m not going to tell him that,” Han promised patiently. He did know how to use tact, despite what Chewbacca seemed to think.
The show ended, and with a final flourish of twin fistfuls of sticks Zerba waved the children back to their parents. The audience melted away, and Zerba stuck his hands in his vest pockets and strolled over to Han and Chewbacca.
“If it isn’t the notorious Han Solo,” Zerba said, inclining his head in greeting. “I was just thinking about you.” He touched the spot on his petrified hair where his antennapalps were hidden. “We’re very sensitive to evil and criminal thoughts, you know.”
“I’ve heard that,” Han said. “I figure your ears work pretty good, too. Let me guess: Jabba refreshed the bounty on me?”
“Basically,” Zerba said, sounding a little deflated. “If you’re looking for somewhere to hide out, this place is an excellent choice.” He looked Han up and down. “Though without any entertainment skills, you’d probably be set to work with the herds. Still, I know at least three other Wookiees who
help manage—”
“We’re not here to hide,” Han interrupted him. “We’re here to offer you a job. A big one.”
“Really?” Zerba asked, clearly surprised. “You want me?”
For half a second Han was tempted to go ahead and tell Zerba that he was actually number eight on his particular skill list, just to see how the other would react. But he pushed the thought aside. Zerba probably didn’t have a ship of his own, and Han had no desire to have a depressed Balosar moping around underfoot the whole way back to Wukkar. “Absolutely,” he said instead. “I’ve been working on a few different plans for this thing, and all of them will need sleight of hand, a quick-change artist, or something else in your bag of tricks. So. Interested?”
“Yes, of course.” Zerba looked furtively around. “Is this job, ah, off-world?”
Han nodded. “Wukkar, to be exact.”
“Ah.” Zerba pursed his lips. “The thing is, as I may have implied earlier, I’m lying low at the moment. But that security comes at a bit of a cost.”
Han rolled his eyes. “Let me guess. Your current employers won’t let you leave.”
“Let’s just say they like keeping track of me.” Zerba waved a hand over his yellow outfit. “Hence the chicken suit. They take the indentured nature of their performers very seriously.”
Han looked at Chewbacca, saw his same thought reflected in the Wookiee’s face. They’d already worked their way down to number eight on the list. They really couldn’t afford to work it down any farther. “How much will it take?” he asked.
“Oh, it’s not a matter of credits,” Zerba said, slipping out of his vest. “But thank you for offering. Here, take this, will you? Any chance you could give me transport? I don’t have a ship of my own.”
“Sure,” Han said, frowning as he took the vest. It was heavier than it looked. Probably filled to the top of each pocket with Zerba’s magic stuff. “But you just said—”
“Wonderful,” Zerba interrupted, taking off the multipocket belt that had been concealed under the vest and handing it to Chewbacca. “Let me collect my things and I’ll meet you at the spaceport.”
Chewbacca rumbled a question.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Zerba said. “They don’t watch me that closely. And I’ve been prepared for this day for quite a while.” He looked around. “I just need to make sure none of them is right here.…”
“One other thing,” Han said. “The things you’ll be collecting include that old lightsaber you used to have, right?”
Zerba’s head snapped back, his eyes darting between Han and Chewbacca. “Wait a minute,” he said suspiciously. “Is that what this is about? All you need is my lightsaber?”
“No, we need you, too,” Han hastened to assure him. “Besides, if I wanted a real lightsaber, I know another guy who’s got one.”
“What do you mean, a real lightsaber?” Zerba huffed. “Mine cuts as well as anything else you can find out there.”
“I mean a lightsaber with a blade longer than this,” Han said, holding his hands twenty centimeters apart. “Yours is more like a lightdagger. Or a light-breadknife.”
“Yet it seems to be worth you coming all this way to get it,” Zerba countered. “Why? What do you want with it?”
“To cut something,” Han said, fighting back his impatience. This wasn’t exactly the right time or place for this conversation. “I don’t know what yet. But there’s always something that needs cutting.”
For a long moment Zerba stared at him in silence. Han stared back, trying to remember where exactly number nine on their list was at the moment.
Then, to his relief, Zerba nodded. “Of course,” he said. “And yes, I still have it. Though the blade length’s down to about fifteen centimeters now. I don’t know why it keeps shrinking.”
“That should be fine,” Han assured him. So Zerba wouldn’t be moping, but he’d probably be paranoid and suspicious the whole way back. Not much of a gain. “You with us or not?”
“I’m with you,” Zerba said. He glanced around one final time, then reached into his pocket and pulled out something the size and shape of a small egg—
And in a single blink of an eye, his yellow suit turned into a long, dark red jacket, a patterned blue shirt, and baggy tan trousers.
Chewbacca barked a startled expletive.
Zerba smiled and cocked his head in an abbreviated nod. “Like I said, I’ve been ready,” he said. Turning, he disappeared into the crowd of shoppers.
Chewbacca rumbled again.
“Hadn’t seen that one before, huh?” Han asked as he headed off through the crowd in the opposite direction. “Someone told me once that it’s just a silk outfit with tear-away seams and connecting threads that yank all the pieces off and into that egg thing he was holding.”
Chewbacca seemed to think that one over a moment. Then he growled again.
“Well, yeah, I’m sure it sounds easier than it really is,” Han said. “Boil it down, and all we do is move cargo from one place to another.”
Chewbacca rumbled.
“Right,” Han conceded. “Without getting caught.”
The big, burly man was too far away across the spaceport landing field for Han to hear what he was saying. But from the way his arms were waving as he faced the Rodian half of the conversation, he wasn’t very happy.
Judging by the way the Rodian’s green-scaled hand was resting on the grip of his holstered blaster, it didn’t look like he was very happy, either.
Beside Han, Chewbacca growled a question.
“Because we need a front man,” Han told him. “Someone who can pitch a good story and make him believe it.” He nodded toward the arguing duo. “Dozer’s got the presence, the confidence, and even a hint of a Corellian accent.”
Chewbacca rumbled an objection.
“Yeah, but thug is the look we’re going for,” Han reminded him. “He’s a little rough, but he could pass as someone who’s worked his way up through the ranks. Besides, none of my other choices was available.”
Chewbacca rumbled again.
Han got a firm grip on his temper. Was Chewie never going to drop this subject? “Sure, Lando could probably do it better,” he said with forced patience. “And no, we’re not calling him. End of subject.” He glared up at the Wookiee’s stubborn expression. “And I mean end of subject. Got it?”
Glowering, Chewbacca rumbled a grouchy affirmative. Han turned his attention back to the distant and, from the looks of things, increasingly turbulent conversation.
The really irritating part was that Chewbacca was right. Lando Calrissian would be the perfect front man for the scheme he had in mind—no Corellian accent, but smoother and more urbane than Dozer Creed could manage on even his best day. But after the Ylesia incident, Lando had told Han in no uncertain terms that he never wanted to see him again. The fiasco with the Yavin Vassilika statue had done nothing but strengthen that animosity.
Maybe Lando would eventually cool off. Maybe he wouldn’t. Only time would tell, and Han wasn’t in any hurry to find out.
The conversation across the landing field was growing louder. Han watched Dozer’s wildly waving arms, wondering if it was time for him and Chewbacca to step in. If either party decided to raise the stakes by drawing, this thing could run flat into a wall in record time.
And then, suddenly, it was over. The Rodian handed Dozer a small pouch, Dozer picked up the travel case beside him and handed it to the Rodian, and both turned and headed off their separate ways.
“See?” Han said, gesturing toward the big man. “No problem—just talked his way through it. Come on, let’s see if he’s free.” He started toward Dozer—
And stopped in his tracks as something hard dug into his back.
“Don’t turn around,” a quiet voice came from behind him, just in case the blaster barrel hadn’t been enough of a message.
Han stopped, exhaling a little sigh. He should have guessed it wouldn’t be this simple. “Take it easy,” he s
oothed the man behind him as he slowly moved his hands away from his sides. “We’re just passing through.”
“Maybe,” the man said. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to wait, nice and quiet, until that thieving son of a Ranat comes over here. And don’t even think about trying to warn him.”
“Hey, no problem,” Han assured him. Across the field, Dozer had spotted his visitors and changed direction toward them. “What happens then?”
“Then he gives me my ship back,” the man said. “Or I kill him.”
“Fair enough,” Han said, studying Dozer’s face. The other was watching Han and Chewbacca—mostly Chewbacca, really—with a slight frown on his face. But it was a curious frown, without any alarm or suspicion mixed in.
Which meant he hadn’t noticed the gunman behind them. “You sure he’s the one who did whatever it was that happened to your ship?” Han asked, listening carefully.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t ask too many questions,” the man advised. “If I get even a hint you’re working with him, you might not walk away from this.”
“Yeah, got it,” Han growled. He’d been right: the voice was definitely coming from his left and a couple of centimeters above his ear. Which meant the man was too tall to be hiding behind him.
Which meant he was hiding behind Chewbacca.
“And go easy on the threats, okay?” he continued. “The Wookiee here has a bad heart, and excitement isn’t good for him. Too much of it and he might have an attack.”
“Yeah, right,” the man said sarcastically. “I hear about Wookiees with heart trouble all the time.”
“I’m not kidding,” Han insisted. “He had seumadic fever when he was a kid.” He reached up and touched Chewbacca’s arm. “You okay?”
Chewbacca gave a plaintive trill and rocked a little on his feet. Good—he was on to the plan. “Hang on, buddy, hang on,” Han urged. “Can I at least get him his medicine?” Without waiting for an answer he dug into his side vest pocket.
And froze as the blaster again jabbed into his back. “Hands at your sides,” the man snapped. “You—Wookiee—stand still. Blast it, stand still!”