by Timothy Zahn
Jydor sat up a bit straighter. “She’s dead? How?”
Lando shifted his attention to Chumu. There was just the hint of a satisfied smile playing at the corners of the manager’s lips.
“It was suicide, sir,” Stenberk said. “She shot herself with a blaster.”
The smile on Chumu’s face vanished. “Suicide?” he gasped. “But … how do you know?”
“She left a note,” Stenberk said, turning to face him. “More precisely, she had it transmitted to us.”
“There was a—” Chumu clamped his mouth shut. “I mean …”
“The reason we’re here, sir,” Stenberk continued, looking back up at Jydor, “is that Lady Vanq also possessed a Tchine statue like yours. Under the circumstances—I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course,” Jydor said. “I’ll have Master Chumu get my certificate of purchase and authenticity.”
“That would be very helpful, sir,” Stenberk said. “We’ll also want—a moment, please,” he interrupted himself, pulling out his comlink. “Stenberk.”
There was a moment of silence as he listened. “Understood,” he said. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
He put the comlink away. “It turns out the certificate won’t be necessary after all,” he told Jydor. “We’ve now been allowed into Lady Vanq’s safe, and her Tchine is there.”
Chumu’s eyes were bulging now, his breath quick and shallow, his face tight with utter bewilderment. “Are you sure it isn’t—” He broke off. “I understand some collectors make copies of their artworks,” he continued, his voice strained, his words obviously being chosen very carefully. “Are you sure the Tchine you found isn’t something like that?”
“Quite sure,” Stenberk said, eyeing Chumu thoughtfully. “The sensor profile precisely matches that of a genuine Tchine.” He looked at Jydor again. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, sir.” He started to turn away.
“Hold it!” Zerba snapped, jabbing a finger at Phramp. “What the—that’s a skifter. You’ve got a skifter!”
“What are you talking about?” Phramp demanded, frowning at his cards. “I don’t use skifters.”
“Like hell you don’t.” Zerba gestured emphatically at Stenberk. “You—Lieutenant. Come up here. I want a witness.”
“Master Jydor?” Stenberk asked.
“Of course,” Jydor said, gesturing to the lieutenant as he stared hard at Phramp. “Let’s have a look.”
He stepped over behind Phramp as Stenberk climbed the steps. Lando looked at Chumu again, to see that the manager’s earlier bewilderment had turned to frozen horror.
Stenberk stepped behind Phramp and plucked the cards from his hand. He touched each corner in turn—“He’s right,” he told Jydor, offering the other one of the cards. “It’s a skifter.”
“That’s impossible,” Phramp protested. “It must have been planted on me.”
“How?” Jydor asked. “You dealt that hand.”
“I—” Phramp sputtered, looking around the table in bewilderment. “I don’t know. But it must have been.”
“Get out of here,” Jydor said, his voice deadly soft. “I don’t ever want to see you in the High Card again.”
Silently, his face a mass of confusion and anger, Phramp stood up and headed down the steps, moving like a man in a bad dream.
“Do you want me to arrest him?” Stenberk asked.
“Don’t bother,” Jydor said, watching Phramp as he moved through the crowd toward the exit. “Someone paid ten million credits to get him into the game. I doubt the punishment he’ll receive from his patron for his failure will be easier than the legal penalty for cheating at sabacc.”
“You’re probably right,” Stenberk agreed. “Speaking of sabacc, I’d best let you get on with your tournament. Sorry to have interrupted.”
“Not a problem,” Jydor said, his eyes still on Phramp. Lando turned to look at Chumu again.
This time, Chumu was looking back at him. And there was murder in those eyes.
Time for Lando to make himself scarce. Standing up, he turned his back on Chumu and headed across the ballroom.
But not toward the main entrance, the direction Phramp had gone. For the next few minutes, that area might not be healthy for Lando to be in.
Fortunately, there was another option. The previous night at this time, he’d noticed that one of the large side chambers separated from the main ballroom by a high archway had been closed for cleaning. Cleaning schedules being the rigid things they often were, there was a good chance it would be closed now, as well.
It was. Slipping past the simple rope barrier that had been set up between the chamber and the ballroom, he picked up his pace, making for the emergency exit at the far end.
“Stop.”
Lando allowed himself two more steps before coming to a halt. Keeping his hands visible, he turned around.
Chumu was striding toward him, his face thunderous, a small hold-out blaster gripped in his hand.
“I’d think you’d have better things to do right now,” Lando suggested. “Finding a way to clean up your mess, for starters.”
“The mess is yours, not mine,” Chumu retorted, stopping three paces away and leveling the gun at Lando’s stomach. “Who are you? Who are you working for?”
“My name’s on the tournament application,” Lando said. “And I’m not working for anyone.”
“No, of course you’re not,” Chumu ground out sarcastically. “You just happened to stumble on my plans and decide to spit on them?”
“Actually, that’s pretty much exactly what happened,” Lando conceded. “Though I suppose in your place I wouldn’t believe it, either.” He nodded toward the blaster. “You’re not seriously thinking about going the revenge route, are you? I doubt the police will believe two blaster suicides in the same day.”
“Oh, and that was especially cute,” Chumu growled. “What did you do, slice into Rovi’s droid-block programming and change the message?”
“Basically,” Lando said. “It was a great plan, though. Really. Freezing Jydor out of his own operation while simultaneously taking down his two biggest competitors was sheer genius. Winner take all, just as Jydor announced at the beginning.” He considered. “Though now, I suppose, it’s more like winner lose all.”
Chumu snorted. “What makes you think I’ve lost?”
“Please,” Lando said disdainfully. “What are you going to do, find another of Jydor’s rivals you can kill and frame him for? Police do know how to look for patterns, you know.”
“What pattern?” Chumu countered. “There’s no pattern here. Thanks to you, Vanq’s death will go into the data list as a suicide.” He raised the blaster a little higher. “And you’re right about two suicides looking suspicious. I guess we’ll have to kill you in self-defense.”
“We meaning you and Rovi?” Lando asked. “Or do you just mean Rovi? Generally, you mastermind types don’t handle any of the actual killing yourselves.”
“Not normally, no,” Chumu agreed. “But in your case, I think I’ll make an exception.” With his free hand he pulled out another hold-out blaster and tossed it onto the floor at Lando’s feet. “Pick it up.”
“I don’t think so,” Lando said, making no move toward the weapon. “I’d hate there to be any misunderstandings when the police arrive.”
Chumu shook his head. “Nice try, but the police all went in the other direction.”
“They’ll be back,” Lando assured him. “Right now, they’re probably just enjoying the show.”
Chumu frowned. “What show?”
“That one.” Smiling, Lando raised his hand and pointed upward …
… at the cam droid that Tavia had retasked with the job of following Lando around. “Winner lose all,” Lando said quietly. “And my friend is right. You really do need to pay better attention to your surroundings.”
Chumu was standing motionless, apparently with nothing left to say, when Stenberk and his men arrived.
�
�So how does it feel?” Tavia asked as the police escorted Chumu through the murmuring crowd and out through the ballroom exit. “Doing the right thing, I mean?”
A flip, slightly sarcastic answer popped into Lando’s mind. But Tavia deserved better than that. “It feels good,” he admitted. He looked back at the platform where the tournament was already in progress again. “It also feels expensive.”
“You wouldn’t have won,” Bink reminded him. “You know that, right?”
“Maybe,” Lando said. “Probably.” He exhaled a sigh. “You know the worst thing about being a gambler? It’s all the wondering about what might have been. How a different play—a different card—a different hand might have made all the difference in the universe.”
Bink gave a little snort. “I’ve got news for you, Lando. That’s not a gambler’s problem. That’s life, for everyone.”
“She’s right,” Tavia said soberly. “Once you make a decision, you can never go back and change it. Sometimes, farther down the line, you have a chance to alter its effects. But the original decision is there forever.”
“And we all have those wonderings and regrets,” Bink agreed. “There’s really only one way to soothe them.”
“Time?”
She smiled. “Money.” Taking his hand, she pressed something into it. “Here’s the ten thousand credits Chumu paid me to tell him the Tchine was a fake.”
Lando frowned. “For me? Shouldn’t we split it four ways?”
“We should,” Bink agreed. “But we aren’t going to.”
“After all, we dragged you into this,” Tavia reminded him. “It’s not like winning a forty-million-credit figurine, but it should at least get you off the planet and someplace more promising.”
“But—”
“And don’t worry about us,” Bink admonished, closing Lando’s fingers firmly over the credit tab. “If I know Zerba, he’s off looking for another job as we speak.”
“Or going through other people’s pockets,” Tavia said disapprovingly.
“Either way, we’ll be fine,” Bink said. “So go. Shoo.”
Lando made a face. But there was a time to object, and a time to simply accept something with thanks.
And it wasn’t like he hadn’t earned it. “You two take care,” he said. Scooping up their right hands, he lifted them to his lips for a quick kiss each.
“We will,” Tavia said.
“Until the next job,” Bink added with a roguish smile.
“Which will probably be a long time coming,” Lando warned.
Bink shrugged. “Maybe. But you never know.”
Read on for an excerpt from
STAR WARS: Crucible
by Troy Denning
Published by Del Rey Books
With lowlifes of every species from three-eyed Gran to four-armed Hekto standing belly-to-bar, the Red Ronto reminded Han Solo of that cantina back on Mos Eisley, the one where he had first met Luke and Obi-Wan all those years ago. Smoke hung in the air so thick and green he could taste it, and the bartender was pulling drinks from a tangle of pipes and spigots more complicated than a hyperdrive unit. There was even an all-Bith band up on stage—though instead of upbeat jatz, they were blasting the room with outdated smazzo.
Usually, the raucous music made Han think of banging coolant lines. But today he was feeling it—that driving bass and stabbing wailhorn … and why not? This trip promised to be more getaway than mission, and he was looking forward to seeing Lando again.
“I don’t like it, Han,” Leia said, raising her voice over the music. “It’s not like Lando to be so late.”
Han turned to look across the table, where Leia sat with a fogblaster in front of her; the glass was barely half-empty. Wearing a gray gunner’s jacket over a white flight suit, she was—as always—the classiest female in the joint … and, despite a few laugh lines, still the most beautiful. He thumbed a control pad on the edge of the table, and the faint yellow radiance of a tranquility screen rose around their booth. The screen was a rare touch of quality for a place like the Red Ronto, but it was one Han appreciated as the raucous music faded to a muffled booming.
“Relax,” Han said. “When has Lando ever missed a rendezvous?”
“My point exactly. Maybe that problem is more dangerous than he thought.” Leia nodded toward the entrance. “And take a look at that miner over there. His Force-aura is filled with anxiety.”
Han followed her gaze toward a swarthy young human dressed in the dust-caked safety boots and molytex jumpsuit of an asteroid miner. With a nose just crooked enough to be rakish and a T-6 blaster pistol hanging from his side, the kid was clearly no stranger to a fight. But he was not exactly streetwise, either. He was just standing there in the doorway, squinting into dark corners, while he remained silhouetted against the light behind him.
“He doesn’t look like much of a threat,” Han said. Still, he dropped a hand to his thigh holster and undid the retention strap. As a Jedi Knight, Leia felt things through the Force that Han could not sense at all, and he had long ago learned to trust her instincts. “Probably just some crew chief looking for new hires.”
The miner’s gaze stopped at the Solos’ booth. He flashed a brash smile, then said something to the bartender and raised three fingers.
“I don’t think he’s looking for new hires, Han,” Leia said. “He’s looking for us. This must have something to do with Lando and his pirate problem.”
“Could be,” Han allowed, but he hoped Leia was wrong. Missed rendezvouses and strange messengers were never good signs.
Any lingering doubt about the miner’s intention vanished when the bartender handed him three glasses and a bottle of Corellian Reserve, and he started in their direction. There was something in his bold stride and cocky grin that set Han on edge.
“Whoever he is, I don’t like him,” Han said. “He’s way too sure of himself.”
Leia smiled. “Actually, I like him already,” she said. “He reminds me of you at that age.”
Han shot her a scowl meant to suggest she needed an eye exam, and then the newcomer was at their table, stepping through the tranquility screen. He placed the glasses on the table and opened the bottle.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, pouring. “But they keep a case of Reserve on hand for Lando, and I thought you might prefer it to the usual swill around here.”
“You were right,” Leia said, visibly relaxing at the mention of Lando’s name. “Whom shall I thank?”
The miner placed a hand on his chest. “Omad Kaeg at your service,” he said, bowing. “Captain Omad Kaeg, owner and operator of the Joyous Roamer, one of the oldest and most profitable asteroid tugs in the Rift.”
Han rolled his eyes at the overblown introduction, but Leia smiled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Captain Kaeg.” She motioned at the table. “Won’t you join us?”
Kaeg flashed his brash smile again. “It would be an honor.”
Instead of taking a seat where Leia had indicated, Kaeg leaned across the table to set his glass in the shadows on the far side of the booth—an obvious attempt to position himself where he could watch the door. Han quickly rose and allowed Kaeg into the back of the booth. If a stranger wanted to place himself in a crossfire zone between two Solos, Han wasn’t going to argue.
“So, how do you know Lando?” he asked, resuming his seat. “And where is he?”
“I know Lando from the miner’s cooperative—and, of course, I supply his asteroid refinery on Sarnus.” Kaeg’s gray eyes slid toward the still empty entrance, then back again. “I think he’s at the refinery now. At least, that’s where he wants you to meet him.”
Han scowled. “On Sarnus?” The planet lay hidden deep in the Chiloon Rift—one of the densest, most difficult-to-navigate nebulas in the galaxy—and its actual coordinates were a matter of debate. “How the blazes does he expect us to find it?”
“That’s why Lando sent me,” Kaeg said. “To help.”
Kaeg’s hand drop
ped toward his thigh pocket, causing Han to draw his blaster and aim it at the kid’s belly under the table. He wasn’t taking any chances.
But Kaeg was only reaching for a portable holopad projector, which he placed on the table. “Let me show you what you’ll be facing.”
“Why not?” Han waved at the holopad with his free hand.
Kaeg tapped a command into the controls, and a two-meter band of braided shadow appeared above the pad. Shaped like a narrow wedge, the braid appeared to be coming undone in places, with wild blue wisps dangling down toward the corrosion-pitted tabletop and even into Han’s ale tankard.
“This, of course, is a chart of the Chiloon Rift,” Kaeg said.
He tapped another command, and a red dash appeared in the holo-map, marking the cantina’s location on Brink Station just outside the Rift. The dash quickly stretched into a line and began to coil through the tangled wisps of hot plasma that gave the Chiloon Rift its distinctive array of blue hues. Before long, it had twisted itself into a confusing snarl that ran vaguely toward the center of the nebula.
“And this is the best route to Lando’s refinery on Sarnus,” Kaeg said. “I’ve been doing my best to keep the charts accurate, but I’m afraid the last update was two standard days ago.”
“Two days?” Han asked. With three kinds of hot plasma rolling around at near light speed, hyperspace lanes inside the Rift tended to open and close quickly—sometimes in hours. “That’s the best you can do?”
“I’m sorry, but yes,” Kaeg said. “It’s important to take it slow and careful in there. If you were to leave a hyperspace lane and punch through a plasma cloud, you would fry every circuit on your ship—including your navigation sensors.”
“You don’t say,” Han said. Hitting a plasma-pocket was one of the most basic dangers of nebula-running, so it seemed to him that Kaeg was working way too hard to make sure he knew how dangerous Rift travel was. “Thanks for the warning.”
“No problem.” Kaeg grinned, then let his gaze drift back toward the cantina door. “Any friend of Lando Calrissian’s is a friend of mine.”