Scoundrels

by Timothy Zahn

  Her smile faded. Trust. That was indeed the duracrete foundation of every organization. Along with commitment, trust was what ultimately defined whether a group rose to victory or fell to destruction.

  She trusted her friends and associates in the Rebel Alliance. Trusted them implicitly. Could she say the same about this assemblage of thieves and scoundrels that Han and Rachele had put together?

  She smiled again, a very private smile this time. Yes, she could trust them.

  Because Han was more than he seemed. Much more. And before this was over, she promised herself, she would make sure she got the whole story.

  “What’s happening?” Rachele asked.

  “He’s out,” Winter said. “They’re—looks like they’re sending someone outside the gate to see if they can spot him.”

  Zerba snorted. “Fat chance of that.”

  “Not with the zigzag he set up to get back,” Rachele said, breathing out an audible sigh. “That was close.”

  “And we’re all glad it’s over,” Zerba said, starting to sound testy again. “Now, will you please kindly hold still?”

  “Think of it as an insurance policy,” Han said. “Your own set of blackmail files, already decrypted and ready for your personal use.”

  “You mean for my personal execution,” Villachor said darkly. “If I had such copies and Black Sun ever found out, I’d be dead within hours. Possibly within minutes.”

  “Probably,” Han agreed. Villachor had mentioned Black Sun’s quick retribution twice already in this conversation. From the rumors Han had heard over the years, he was pretty sure that was no exaggeration.

  But Villachor was still listening.

  “On the other hand, there’s no reason they ever have to find out,” Han went on. “I bring the cryodex in, we make copies, and you put the copies someplace secure. Maybe mix them in with all your other encrypted documents.”

  “Yes,” Villachor murmured. “You realize, I presume, that your associate Kwerve has already made that suggestion.”

  “I know,” Han said. “I thought it was worth making again.”

  “Worthwhile from my point of view, perhaps,” Villachor said. “You offer what appears to be an attractive deal, yet ask nothing in return?”

  Han shrugged. “It’s a good-faith gesture,” he said. “Sure, we’re interested in the files, but we’re much more interested in you personally. If that kind of deal gets you to join us, we’ll figure it was a worthwhile long-term investment.”

  They walked a few more steps before Villachor spoke again. “Let me offer a compromise,” he suggested. “When you bring your boss, you also bring the cryodex. I’ll watch it work once more and allow you to make copies of five files, which you may take with you.” He smiled thinly. “Consider that my good-faith gesture.”

  “That sounds reasonable,” Han said, nodding slowly as if thinking it over. The cracks were starting to form in Villachor’s resolve—he could hear that much in the man’s voice.

  But those cracks weren’t very big. Unless something drastic happened in the next two days, there was no way Villachor was going to be ready to desert Black Sun, or even move the blackmail files out of the vault.

  Which meant they were going to have to go through with the original plan after all. Eanjer would be pleased by that.

  “All right,” he said. “Let me consult with my boss and see what he says.”

  Villachor snorted. “More delays.”

  “Can’t be helped,” Han said. “If it helps any, we’re as anxious to wrap this up as you are.”

  “I’m sure you are.” Villachor exhaled loudly as he came to a stop. “I trust you’ll have some word for me by the Honoring of Moving Fire the day after tomorrow?”

  “Absolutely,” Han promised. “If I can’t bring the boss to see you then, I’ll at least bring an offer on when you two can meet.”

  “Very well,” Villachor said. He looked into Han’s eyes, and for a moment Han was startled by the intensity there. “We stand on the edge, my friend. Riches and power beyond compare, or a long and terrifying death. Be very certain you wish to continue.”

  With an effort, Han matched the other’s gaze. No, he didn’t want death, fast or slow. But he didn’t want riches and power, either, at least not the kind Villachor was talking about. All he wanted was to be free of Jabba, and then to be free to do what he pleased.

  But this was still the path to that goal. “I am,” he said firmly.

  “Good.” The laser intensity of Villachor’s gaze faded away. “Until the Honoring of Moving Fire, then.”

  Han nodded. “Good day, Master Villachor.”

  He forced himself to walk sedately the whole way back to the gate. The security guards there obviously had been alerted, and they watched Han closely as he passed. But none of them made any move to stop him.

  Just the same, he was careful to follow the zigzag path that Dozer had created for travel back to the suite. Just in case.

  Sheqoa tried to hide it, but from the changes in his expression over the past hour, Bink knew the afternoon had been a bust.

  Not that she was really surprised. She and Lando had played their parts perfectly, walking the balance bar between guilty recognition and the opposite but equally suspicious complete ignoring of each other. She’d had some concerns about Sheqoa throwing her at Dozer, but from what she’d been able to glean from Sheqoa’s side of his comlink communications it sounded like Dozer had made it out of Marblewood before anyone could pin him down.

  Given Sheqoa’s increasingly dark mood, Bink decided as she babbled away cheerfully, he would probably appreciate a good, warm hug.

  “So anyway—oh, my stars, look at the time,” she said, peering at her watch. “I’m sorry, Lapis, but I have to go. My boss has some Anomid clients in town and wants me to help take them to a high-class restaurant. You know how curious Anomids are about new cultures.”

  “If he wants to show them Wukkar culture, he should bring them here,” Sheqoa said, his mind clearly on other things.

  “That’s what I said,” Bink said, waggling a finger for emphasis. “But he’s stubborn, and he’s always looking for an excuse to eat fancy. You’ll be around for the Honoring of Moving Fire, won’t you?”

  With a clear effort, Sheqoa brought his eyes and attention back to her. “Of course,” he said, giving her a faint smile. “Will you?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the galaxy,” Bink promised. “I’ll see you in a couple of days, then.” Stepping close, she wrapped her arms around him—making sure not to pin his right arm—and pressed herself against his chest. “I had a wonderful day,” she murmured into his neck. “Thanks for everything.”

  His first reflex was to go stiff with surprise. His next, a fraction of a second later, was to start to relax and enjoy her touch. His third, an even shorter fraction of a second after that, was to remember he was on duty and gently but firmly push her away.

  And in and among all those reactions, she finally tracked down the scent she’d noticed earlier.

  “I’ll see you then,” he said, his hands on her shoulders as he held her at arm’s length. For a moment he gazed at her, then turned and disappeared into the crowd.

  Bink turned, too, and headed for the gate. So along with not trusting her—which he certainly shouldn’t—Sheqoa had decided to go all cute on her. The smell she’d picked up had been tracking dye, an invisible coating of stain that would leave indelible splotches on wandering fingers that would blaze into view under ultraviolet light.

  Not surprisingly, Sheqoa suspected that her rapt attention was solely so that she could get hold of the key pendant on the choker chain around his neck, and he intended to have proof of her guilt if and when she made a grab for it. Simple, diabolical, and virtually foolproof.

  Bink smiled to herself. In some ways, she almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

  The grand finale was in full swing, the thundering corkscrews of water roiling and cascading over the cheering crowd filling the
Marblewood grounds. The sparkles and glitters in the streams flashed and glowed and erupted, foreshadowing the huge fireworks display that would highlight the Honoring of Moving Fire at the conclusion of the Festival in two days. The fountains and tendrils leapt halfway to the sky, shot out to the sides and back in again, all of it carefully controlled and contained by the shifting repulsor fields that ensured that not a single drop fell on the audience below.

  Standing on the presentation balcony, drinking in the noise and sights, Villachor permitted himself a moment of quiet gloating. So Kwerve and his secret organization were dragging their feet, were they? Hoping, no doubt, that the temptation of their cryodex, combined with the pressure from Qazadi, would force him into a swamp from which there was only a single means of escape. Theirs.

  But they were wrong. So was Qazadi. Villachor didn’t have to choose between the known power and ruthlessness of Black Sun and the ambiguous power and freedom of Kwerve and his group of unknowns.

  Because there was, in fact, a third route. A path that neither of them would ever dream he might travel.

  For that matter, he wasn’t convinced himself that he wanted to travel it, let alone that he needed to. But options were life, and this was a path that basic caution insisted he at least explore.

  He waited until the very climax of the water show, when virtually all eyes and thoughts across Iltarr City were focused on his presentation and the similar ones at the other Festival venues. Then he pulled out his comlink and punched in a number.

  It took Donnal Cuciv nearly half a minute to answer. Probably busy watching a similar ceremony at one of the other venues across town. “Cuciv.”

  “Avrak Villachor,” Villachor identified himself. “You may remember our conversation of a few days ago.”

  The silence was just long enough to confirm that Cuciv did indeed remember that awkward, embarrassing, painful session. Villachor had seen blackmail victims respond with fury, embarrassment, and terror, but he’d never seen one who had left Marblewood so completely and hopelessly broken.

  Qazadi had speculated at the time that Cuciv would simply go home and kill himself, though the Falleen hadn’t sounded like he really cared one way or the other. Villachor had reminded him that suicide was a shameful act in Wukkar culture and that Cuciv would never add such additional debasement to his name. So far, Villachor was right.

  “I remember,” Cuciv said, his voice strained but steady. Apparently he’d made peace with his situation and had resigned himself to the fact that he’d be spending the rest of his life beneath Black Sun’s hammer. “What do you want?”

  “Something quite small, I assure you,” Villachor said. “I’ve heard that a member of the Imperial court is in Iltarr City. I want everything you have on him: his name, his precise rank and position, his means of arrival, his current location, and the best way to contact him privately.”

  There was another pause. Across the grounds, a giant waterspout formed, then split into five branches, each with its own color of flashing sparkles. “What are you going to do to him?” Cuciv asked at last.

  “That’s not your concern,” Villachor told him. “You just get me the information.”

  He heard Cuciv’s sigh even over the crowd. “You want it tonight, I suppose?”

  “Tomorrow will be soon enough,” Villachor said. “Just make sure it’s accurate.”

  “Everything I do is accurate,” Cuciv said, professional pride momentarily eclipsing his shame and resentment.

  “Good,” Villachor said. “Tomorrow, then.”

  He closed down the comlink and put it away, permitting himself a small smile. Yes, Kwerve might think his cryodex was the ultimate lure. Qazadi might think Black Sun was the ultimate threat.

  But there was another hand in this game. A hand that almost certainly would outlast them both.

  Because if it came down to life or death, Villachor could do worse than abandon Black Sun, bring his knowledge of the organization to the Imperials, and see what kind of protection they could give him.

  It was time to see what sort of bargain Lord Vader would be willing to offer.

  The recording of the comlink conversation ended, and Dayja looked up from his datapad. “You must be joking,” he said flatly. “He must be joking.”

  “It does sound like a joke, doesn’t it?” d’Ashewl replied thoughtfully. “But if it’s not, this could be the beginning of the end for Black Sun. A sector chief like Villachor will know all sorts of dirty secrets. And if he can bring Qazadi’s blackmail files with him …” He raised his eyebrows.

  “Maybe,” Dayja said warily, staring down at the datapad. It couldn’t be this easy. There was a hidden claw in this somewhere. “I notice that for all the words he spouted, there’s a distinct lack of any solid statements or promises.”

  “Which isn’t unreasonable for someone who’s merely testing the waters,” d’Ashewl said.

  “Or someone angling for a one-sided deal,” Dayja said. “This could also be a ploy to get us looking in the wrong direction.”

  “Possible,” d’Ashewl agreed. “But whatever’s going on, we have to treat it as if it’s a genuine offer.” He smiled tightly. “If only because the deeper we get into whatever scheme he’s working, the more of it we’ll see and the better our chances of turning it back on him.”

  “Unless the scheme is to draw out and kill a couple of Intelligence officers,” Dayja warned.

  “I never said I actually trusted the man,” d’Ashewl said with a shrug. “I’ve already sent the recall order to Captain Worhven. He and the Dominator should be here by nightfall.”

  “And then?”

  D’Ashewl pursed his lips. “Given that Villachor still doesn’t know about the connection between us, I’m thinking it might be time for the two of you to have a face-to-face. Possibly as part of the glitterstim scam you’ve already set up.”

  Dayja thought it over. “Maybe,” he said. “Though that might bump into whatever Eanjer and his team are up to.”

  D’Ashewl snorted. “If Villachor comes over, we’ll have no need of Eanjer and his collection of scoundrels.”

  “If Villachor’s just blowing soap bubbles, we might,” Dayja countered.

  D’Ashewl waved a hand. “You’re the agent on the ground,” he said. “Whatever you want to do about Eanjer, I won’t second-guess you.”

  “Thank you,” Dayja said. D’Ashewl was right, of course. This was Dayja’s mission, with d’Ashewl only along for support and camouflage. All decisions were ultimately his.

  So were the consequences of those decisions.

  “Who are you calling?” d’Ashewl asked as Dayja pulled out his comlink.

  “Eanjer,” Dayja said, keying for echo to d’Ashewl’s comlink and then punching in the number. “I can’t believe Villachor just woke up this morning and decided he was tired of working for Black Sun. If he’s being pushed, maybe Eanjer’s team is doing the pushing. It might be a good idea to find out what exactly they’ve been up to.”

  The comlink made the connection. “Yes?” Eanjer said.

  “It’s Dayja,” Dayja identified himself. “Can you talk?”

  “Just a moment.” The comlink went dead for a moment, then came back on. “All right, I’m clear,” Eanjer said, his voice gone quiet.

  “I’m calling for an update,” Dayja said. “And to deliver a possible warning.”

  “What kind of warning?”

  “You first,” Dayja said.

  “As far as I can tell, the plan’s moving along properly,” Eanjer said. “There’s some talk about trying to push Villachor into moving the files elsewhere on Wukkar, but I can’t see him panicking enough to go that route. Failing that, we’ll have to go ahead and break into the vault.”

  “I see,” Dayja said, smiling grimly to himself. So that was the angle Villachor was playing. “The Honoring should certainly provide enough distractions for a job like that.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Eanjer said. “Now, what
’s this about a warning?”

  “Villachor may be trying to do an end sweep around you,” Dayja said. “He’s been making overtures to a member of the Imperial court who’s currently in town. If he actually decides to defect, whatever lure or press you’re prodding him with will suddenly become irrelevant. When that happens, you and your team may be in trouble.”

  “I see,” Eanjer said slowly. “Thank you for the heads-up. When will you know whether or not that’s going to happen?”

  “So far they’re in the very preliminary verbal dance,” Dayja said. “If anything changes, I’ll let you know.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Eanjer said. “Got to go. I’ll talk to you later.”

  The connection broke.

  “Interesting,” d’Ashewl said, lowering his own comlink.

  “Indeed,” Dayja agreed. “And suddenly Villachor’s offer has a whole second thread attached.”

  “He’s thinking about moving the files, all right,” d’Ashewl said. “But he knows better than to move them without adequate security.”

  Dayja nodded. “And what better security than a full Imperial escort?”

  “What better security, indeed?” d’Ashewl agreed. “So he pretends to defect, has us escort some trivial equipment or personal items elsewhere, and then suddenly changes his mind.”

  “And since there’s no way he can do that without Qazadi misinterpreting his move and taking his head off halfway along,” Dayja added, “it follows that Qazadi is also in on the plan.”

  “So the files get moved and secured, and Eanjer’s team is left empty-handed,” d’Ashewl concluded. “And as a bonus for Black Sun, a couple of Intelligence agents are tagged.”

  “And possibly dealt with in their traditional pleasant manner,” Dayja said sourly. “So much for Eanjer’s approach.”

  “So it would seem,” d’Ashewl agreed. “Question is, do you restart yours?”

  Dayja tapped at his lip. “I suppose I have to,” he said. “If Villachor is really planning to defect, it doesn’t make much sense to muddy the water further. But if it’s just a scam to get us to do the heavy lifting for him, then we’ll still need a vector into Marblewood.”