by Timothy Zahn
He wasn’t alone in his activities, either. Lots of others were doing exactly the same thing, and Han usually found himself in the middle of a small crowd as he snapped his pretend holos. Most of those crowds involved families with younglings, all of whom treated the miniature storms with a combination of amazement, delight, and solemnity that only very young children could pull off. The more adventurous of the younglings dared to step closer, a few recklessly, the rest cautiously, reaching out to touch the edge of the swirling sand and then rushing, giggling, back to their parents. The parents, for their part, seemed to trust Villachor’s engineering, assuming that the tornadoes’ designers had made sure the tethering and repulsor-field encasing would keep the sand from leaking out and endangering their offspring.
They were mostly right. The first four tornadoes Han checked out were as isolated and protected as if they were just holos floating above the ground. The children could still get to the spinning sand, but each touch released only a few grains from the fields, which dropped harmlessly to scatter across the ground. Han spent as little time at each of those as he figured he could get away with, considering his role as holo-crazy tourist, before moving on to the next.
It was at the fifth tornado that he finally hit pay dirt.
Literally.
Something had gone wrong with that display’s confinement field. Not seriously wrong, not even all that obviously wrong. But whereas the ground by each of the others showed only the light scattering of sand released by the probing of small human and alien fingers, this one had an obvious ring of escaped material that had gathered about a meter away from the tornado’s edge.
The ring wouldn’t be there long, he knew, not with cam droids floating past overhead and security men roaming the grounds. Sooner or later, someone would spot the problem and call it in, and maintenance droids dressed in those ridiculous moving-stone outfits would hurry out to fix the leak and clean up the sand.
But the ring was here now, and that was all Han needed.
He’d made sure to keep track of the time he’d spent at the other displays, and had no intention of drawing attention by spending significantly more or less at this one. But this time he eased his way a little closer to the tornado as he took his pretend holos, listening closely to the chatter of conversation around him.
Just to his left was a middle-grade child asking her parents for permission to touch the tornado. Still snapping away with his holocamera, Han edged closer to the child. The parents discussed the matter briefly, then gave their permission. The girl scampered adventurously forward—
And as she brushed past Han’s elbow, he jerked his hands as if she’d slammed into his arm, losing his grip on the holocamera and sending it arcing right into the middle of the ring of sand.
“Meelee!” the girl’s mother gasped. “Look what you did!”
“It’s okay,” Han hastened to assure her as he stepped forward and knelt down by the holocamera. The girl, for her part, had already stopped and turned around, clearly confused by the outlandish result of what she knew had been barely a sleeve-on-sleeve touch, and equally confused by the grief she was getting for it. “Don’t worry—these things hold together real good,” he added. He reached down and got his hand on the holocamera.
And as he closed his fingers around it, he surreptitiously pressed the hidden button.
He’d told Chewbacca to make the vacuum pump quiet, and as usual the Wookiee had taken him at his word. Even kneeling directly above the device Han could barely hear the scratching noise of the sand being sucked in through the baffle vent, and the pump itself was completely inaudible. The rest of the crowd, three meters or more away, couldn’t have heard a thing.
“See?” he said, picking up the device and turning back to the anxious parents. As he did so, he moved one foot casually across the sand, erasing all signs of the small crater the pump had made in the neat ring. “No problem. It’s fine.”
And with a friendly smile at the still confused girl, he slipped through the crowd and strode casually away.
He visited two more of the volcanoes, just to clear his backtrail, then headed off for his rendezvous with Kell.
He found the kid waiting in a seating area between two of the pavilions near the northern end of the mansion and Villachor’s oversized landspeeder and airspeeder garage. “Any trouble?” Kell asked as Han came up and sat down across the table from him.
“Nope,” Han said, patting the vest pocket where he’d stashed the holocamera. “You ready?”
In his opinion, Kell still didn’t look ready to knock over a child’s coin bank, let alone a crime lord’s private vault. But his nod was firm enough. “Let’s do it.”
“Okay,” Han said, reminding himself yet again that Mazzic had vouched for the kid. He looked around and spotted a pair of droids busily collecting discarded plates and cups from one of the nearby tables. “Give me a five-count lead,” he instructed. “And watch your timing.”
The droids were still clearing the table when he got there. “Hey,” he said, coming up to one of them. “Can you tell me when they stop serving lunch stuff and switch to a dinner menu?”
“There is no set time for food exchange,” the droid said, turning its hooded face toward Han as it continued to gather the tableware. The cowl covering its face fluttered in the breeze, giving an unsettling masquerade-type atmosphere to the conversation. “The various dishes change at different times throughout the day. If you wish, the servers in the pavilions can provide you with a schedule for each switchover.”
“Yeah, well, I’m mostly looking to see if you’re going to have braised kiemple,” Han said. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Kell approaching the table from his right. “You know what that is? Never mind,” he said before the droid could answer. “I’ve got a holo here somewhere from last year’s Festival,” he went on, pulling out his holocamera and fighting back a sudden surge of doubt.
I can do this, he told himself firmly. The timing was going to be close, but he and Chewbacca ran close timing every time they flew the Falcon. This would be like a normal smuggling day. “Here it is,” he continued, thrusting the holocamera in front of the droid’s mask. Beside him, Kell stepped up to the table.
And as the kid reached past the plate the droid was aiming for, Han tapped the holocamera’s release and dumped the sand he’d collected straight down the droid’s glove. As the hand closed around the plate and Kell’s wrist there was a soft crunching noise—
“Hey!” Kell protested. “Let go.” He grabbed the hand, as if trying to pull it off, but instead squeezed the mechanical fingers tighter together around his wrist. He yanked his arm back, jerking the droid along with him. “Let go.”
“Oh, dear,” the droid said in a pained voice. “I’m terribly sorry, but I appear to be stuck.”
“Great,” Kell growled. “Hey—you.”
“What? Me?” Han asked.
“Yes, you,” Kell said. “Go find someone to get this thing off me, will you?”
“Is there a problem here?” a new voice put in.
Han turned. One of Villachor’s security types was striding toward them, his eyes flicking over the scene.
“Yes, there’s a problem,” Kell bit out. “I was trying to get to my cup there and this thing grabbed me and won’t let go.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” the droid said again. “My gears appear to be jammed.”
“Yeah,” the security man said, gingerly pulling the edge of the droid’s glove away from the arm and peering down it. “Probably got sand in there—there’s sure enough of it flying around.”
“Great,” Kell muttered. “So what do we do?”
“We get it off,” the guard said calmly, gesturing toward the mansion. “Come on—there’s a droid repair room right off the garage.”
They headed off, Kell grumping, the droid apologizing, and the guard probably wishing his shift had ended half an hour earlier. Han watched them go, a glow of satisfaction running through him.
Like he always said, it was all in the timing.
The room Villachor led Lando to was small and windowless, and contained possibly the most intimidating working desk Lando had ever seen. Two more guards were waiting just inside the door, bringing the grand total of armed men up to six. “Sit down,” Villachor said, pointing Lando toward a large padded chair in front of the desk as he walked around behind it. “Perhaps you’d like a little refreshment?”
It was probably a genuine offer, Lando knew. But it was also a test. Villachor was prodding at him, trying to get a feel for his speech, reactions, manners, and patterns. It was the same genteel dance that also accompanied every game of sabacc, and Lando was used to it.
It was just that the stakes usually weren’t this high.
“No, thank you,” he said, easing down into the chair. It was even more comfortable than it looked, the soft arms and cushions yielding to his weight and settling in around him. If he’d been planning a quick, unexpected exit, he would have been out of luck. Probably the reason for the chair’s design in the first place. “I know your time is valuable.”
“Indeed it is,” Villachor said, settling into his own chair.
“But more valuable even than time is information,” Lando continued. “And I’m fairly certain you don’t want what I’m about to tell you to be heard by anyone except your closest, most trusted people.”
Villachor smiled thinly. “If I didn’t trust these men, they’d have been gone long ago.”
“Of course,” Lando said. “But there’s trust, and then there’s trust.”
For a moment Villachor eyed him thoughtfully. Across the room the door opened, and the man Rachele’s data pulls had identified as the security chief, Sheqoa, entered. Villachor glanced at him, looked back at Lando. “Fine,” he said. “Tawb, Manning—wait outside. The rest of you, return to your duties. Sheqoa, you’re with me.”
As silently as Sheqoa had entered, the rest of the guards filed out. Villachor waited until the door was again closed, then gestured for Sheqoa to go stand behind Lando. “All right, you have your privacy,” he said. “Rest assured that if this is some kind of bad joke, my face will be the last thing your eyes will ever see.”
“No joke,” Lando assured him. He was used to being threatened, but there was something in Villachor’s voice that sent a chill up his back. “Let me begin by telling you a few things you already know. You’re a high-ranking member of Black Sun, you’re playing host to an even higher-ranking member, a vigo named Qazadi, and Master Qazadi has a set of blackmail files you’re using to gain or cement leverage on various Wukkar citizens and probably some of the off world visitors to the Festival.” He paused for air.
“You’re at the very least an amusing storyteller,” Villachor commented, his face giving nothing away. “Please, continue.”
“The blackmail files are, of course, heavily encrypted,” Lando said. “The device used to decrypt them is called a cryodex. Alderaanian by design, and only a few still exist.”
“Or possibly none at all,” Villachor suggested.
“No, there are at least two,” Lando assured him. “Master Qazadi has one.” He cocked his head. “I have another.”
Villachor’s eyes flicked to Sheqoa, then back to Lando. “I gather from your overly dramatic tone that you expect that to mean something to me.”
“I do,” Lando agreed. “And since we’ve both agreed that time is valuable, let me set my cards on the table. I represent a group of people who’ve taken on the task of scouring the Empire for those of like mind whose talents and ambitions are being underused or, in some cases, completely wasted. When such people are found, this group offers them better situations. Sometimes this involves a position with a different organization, one that values them more. Other times it means assisting them to strike out on their own. Sometimes a middle road is indicated, an indenture-ship or perhaps chartered autonomy.”
“And if the person is perfectly happy where he is?” Villachor asked.
Lando gave a small shrug. “In my experience, no one who’s working beneath his abilities is ever perfectly happy.”
“Unless he knows that his current situation is the best he’s ever likely to have.”
“There’s always something better,” Lando said. “It’s simply a matter of recognizing the opportunity when it comes along.”
“You make it sound so easy,” Villachor said dryly. “And so lacking in potential danger. Tell me about this supposed cryodex of yours.”
“As I said, the cryodex is the key to reading the blackmail files currently stored in your vault,” Lando said, keeping his voice steady. Han’s whole plan depended on him selling this. “Those files would be of immeasurable value to the people I represent.”
Villachor’s smile was dark, brittle. “And all I have to do is hand over the files and wonderful opportunities will descend on me from the sky?”
“Wonderful opportunities, indeed,” Lando confirmed. “You’d literally be able to command your own chosen price.” He shook his head. “But we both know it wouldn’t be just opportunities that would descend. Prince Xizor himself would likely lead the expedition that came for your head.”
“And yours,” Villachor pointed out. “Because they would certainly pull every name, face, and memory from me before I was permitted to die.”
“Oh, I have no doubt,” Lando agreed grimly. “Which is why you’d be a fool to steal the files, and why I would be a fool to suggest it.”
A slight frown creased Villachor’s forehead. “In that case, why exactly are you here?”
“To offer a safer alternative,” Lando said. “Not to steal the files, but to copy them.”
Again Villachor’s eyes flicked to Sheqoa. “Copy them,” he repeated flatly.
“Exactly,” Lando said. “You have the files; I have the cryodex. We meet in your vault, decrypt the files, and copy them onto standard data cards, perhaps overlaid with our own chosen encryptions.”
“Our encryptions?”
Lando held up a hand. “A slip of the tongue. Your encryptions, of course.”
“That’s good,” Villachor said, in a voice that once again sent a chill up Lando’s back. “Because any attempt by you to make a copy for yourself would require me to kill you on the spot. For the sake of argument, suppose I had copies of the files. What then?”
“I’d introduce you to the gentlemen of whom I spoke,” Lando managed, his throat suddenly dry. “You’ll work out a mutually satisfactory deal, and your rise to your full potential will have begun.”
“Yes,” Villachor said thoughtfully. “Let me tell you what I think. I think you’ve never even seen a cryodex, let alone possess one. I think you have no organization behind you, certainly no one with any power. I think you’re here purely as a test to see if my loyalty to Black Sun can be swayed by such a ridiculous and simple-minded story. And I think that, just to be on the safe side, I’m going to have you killed.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Let’s try it again. Who are you, and who do you work for?”
“There’s no need for threats,” Lando protested mildly, some of the tension draining from him. The threat was real; but oddly enough, that was actually a good sign. If Villachor hadn’t been interested or at least intrigued by the offer, he would simply have had Sheqoa throw him out. “My name is unimportant, but you can call me Kwerve. As for my employers—” He shrugged. “For the moment they must remain anonymous.”
“Too bad,” Villachor said. There might have been a twitch of his eyebrow at the name, but it was small enough that Lando might have simply imagined it. “It would have been useful to know where to ship your body.”
“Of course you don’t wish to make any commitments now,” Lando continued. “I wouldn’t expect that. Let me make a suggestion and an offer. Two days from now is the Honoring of Moving Air. At that time I’ll bring my cryodex to show you. You can select one of the blackmail data cards, and I’ll decrypt one of the files for you. After th
at, we’ll talk further.”
“Assuming we’re both still able to converse?”
“Why shouldn’t we be?” Lando countered reasonably. “You’ve made no statements and taken no action that’s in any way disloyal to your Black Sun masters. All you’ve agreed to do is see if a stranger claiming to have a valuable artifact does indeed have it. If I do, it could easily be that your intent is to purchase the artifact and send it to Imperial Center as a gift for Prince Xizor’s collection of rarities.”
“Perhaps,” Villachor said, his eyes probing Lando’s face. Lando sat quietly, waiting for him to work it through.
When it happened, it happened suddenly. “The day after tomorrow, fifth hour past midday,” Villachor said abruptly. “The bound tempest will be presented at that time, drawing the visitors’ attention to the northwest part of the grounds. You’ll come to the door you’re about to leave through and wait until it’s opened to you. You will, of course, bring the cryodex.”
“Of course,” Lando said. He started to stand up, wiggling his hips to extricate himself from the overstuffed chair arms.
And abruptly dropped back as Sheqoa’s hand pushed down hard on his shoulder. “If you plan betrayal,” Villachor continued, his voice low and deadly, “I strongly urge you to instead leave Wukkar by the earliest transport.”
“Understood,” Lando said. “I’ll see you the day after tomorrow at five hours past mid.” He craned his neck to look up at Sheqoa. “May I?”
For a moment the big man just stared down at him, his expression wooden. Then he released his grip on Lando’s shoulder. With more effort and wiggling, Lando finally got free of the chair.
“The men outside will see you out,” Villachor said, remaining seated. “Until then, Master Kwerve.”