Star Wars: Shadow Games

by Michael Reaves

  “Which would throw you off schedule.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, it would.” She was looking at her hands folded on the table—smoothing the gleaming, light-emitting fingernails she affected.

  “Is that a big deal?”

  “Are you kidding?” asked Spike. “We’d lose millions of credits. Ticket refunds, pay-or-play for venues we didn’t use, possibly having to rent them again for a makeup performance—if that was even possible. There’s no telling how the promoters and shareholders in the enterprise might react. Plus, it would be a public relations disaster.”

  “Oh, c’mon,” Dash objected. “I’m sure you could spin it so that Javul’s adoring public would just be glad she was alive. Stealth attacks on your ship, equipment tampering, black lilies—even I can see value in that sort of publicity.”

  “We have to keep to our schedule,” Javul said adamantly. “If we don’t—the saboteur wins.”

  There was a measured silence, broken when Eaden said, “It appears we can’t even be certain of the motive or motives for this continued sabotage, let alone the perpetrator. Is the saboteur among us, or hiding aboard somewhere—or, having done his work, has he simply gone on his way?”

  If only, Dash thought, it could be that simple.

  “I saw you sniffing around over there,” he told the Nautolan later. “You get anything from the room?”

  “Just a sense that almost everyone in it was concealing something.”

  “Almost? Who’s not concealing something?”

  “Han Solo. His attraction to Javul Charn is palpable.”

  “Great. That makes me feel so much better.”

  EIGHTEEN

  THEY REACHED CHRISTOPHSIS WITHOUT FURTHER INCIDENT. Leebo and Oto found no more dampers or other surprises in the Millennium Falcon’s systems. Did that mean, Dash wondered, that the saboteur had been left behind on Tatooine—or that the saboteur merely wanted them to think that?

  He’d asked everyone aboard—one by one—if they’d observed any other members of the Nova’s Heart crew near the Falcon’s berth on Tatooine before they lifted off. The results were inconclusive. Arruna had been there—Dash had seen that—but he’d swear she’d done nothing but fraternize with Eaden. And Dara had acknowledged that Captain Marrak had “been around.” But being “around” and getting access to the secondary engineering terminal were two different things.

  Christophsis was one of Dash’s favorite ports of call, despite the fact that it was an Imperial mining hub. He liked the scenery. The entire surface of the planet was covered with huge crystals upon, within, and around which the major cities were built. He also liked the underground. He’d smuggled cargoes of raw crystals and ore out of Crystal City in the Outrider more than once. The thought made him wistful for his ship. He was beginning to wonder if he’d ever fly the old girl again.

  Javul’s concert was set in an amphitheater in the capital city of Chaleydonia, otherwise known as Crystal City. There they reunited with the rest of the tour—something that made Dash’s stomach feel as if it were trying to eat itself from the inside out. He assigned Leebo and Oto to keep an eye on things, and oversaw Leebo’s reprogramming of the cargo droids to be especially aware of the actions of any sentients within range of their optics and aural units. He even ordered them to keep their olfactory detectors at maximum, and to report anything that smelled funny.

  The venue was a wonderland, Dash had to admit. The entire amphitheater was constructed out of the native crystal—including the encircling fence of spires. Lit by Javul’s light show and used as a backdrop for her holograms, those spires shimmered and pulsed, reaching toward the sky and seeming, sometimes, to connect with space itself. The sense of being planetbound evaporated, leaving the audience gasping as Javul floated, flew, and walked among stars and planets, a creature of light and mist.

  The performances among the soaring blue crystals were exhilarating, mesmerizing, awe inspiring—and blessedly uneventful. Dash didn’t know if that was because of the precautions he’d taken, and he didn’t care. At the end of three nights, Javul was still alive. Nothing had blown up, nothing had fallen apart, and no one had been caught where they didn’t belong. Nothing, in short, had gone wrong.

  Dash wasn’t nearly as relieved as he’d hoped to be. It could just be part of the pattern—the pattern Eaden saw but couldn’t define. It could mean that one or both of their saboteurs were trying to lull them into a false sense of security. Or it could mean that they were waiting until Dash and his trusted agents were looking the other way. Or it could mean they were trying to dream up a scheme that wouldn’t point a finger right at them. Or …

  Dash was fairly certain that, after a few more days of stress at this level, his brain would go nova.

  The last hypothesis made the most sense, but it also raised a number of uncomfortable questions, not the least of which was: if there were two independent and different parties involved in the sabotage, why would they both lay off at the same time?

  While Javul danced and sang and acted and flew her way through her performances, Dash sat down with Eaden and went through every incident they knew about. They fell into two categories—remote attacks (or at least attacks that seemed to be remote) like the one in Rodian space, and attacks that had to have come from inside, like the failure of Javul’s harness on Rodia. Dash had hoped that the potentially lethal attacks would fall to one side of the scale or the other, but his hope was in vain.

  They loaded the ships to leave Christophsis immediately after the final performance. Dash wanted to take no chances by lingering. Falleen was their next stop, though Dash had tried with every tool at his disposal to get Javul to cancel the performance scheduled to take place in the planetary capital—named, with the characteristic hubris of the species, Falleen Throne.

  As Han oversaw the cargo crew’s reloading of the Millennium Falcon, Dash decided to take one more shot at convincing his boss to cancel this leg of the tour. He headed for Javul’s dressing room within the opulent venue’s backstage complex. Approaching it, he heard raised voices—Javul’s and a man’s. He didn’t recognize the male voice at first, but didn’t think it was a member of the crew. He slowed his pace, made his steps on the crystalline floor slower, softer. Just short of the half-open portal, he stopped.

  “… what you’re doing,” the male voice said.

  “What I do is none of your affair anymore,” said Javul, in a tone that said they’d been over this point at least once already.

  “I beg to differ. Anything that affects the security and economy of Black Sun is my affair.”

  Kris. Had to be. Dash fought the urge to barge into the room and send the Vigo packing, but he’d probably just get himself killed. He suspected he’d learn more—and live longer—if he continued to eavesdrop.

  “Anything that affects your own economy, you mean. Come on, Hitch. This thing between you and me has never been about Black Sun. It was your own sub rosa dealings you were protecting. The only time you’ve cared for anything beyond that was when Xizor leaned on you.”

  “Mm. And he leaned on me, as you put it, because of you. He wanted you dead, you know. I only barely talked him out of taking out a contract on you by assuring him I could control you better.”

  Javul’s laugh was a full-throated trill of apparent delight. “You can’t control me at all.”

  “Can’t I?” The tone was sly, suggestive. There was a moment of profound silence during which Dash wished he could suddenly be granted X-ray vision. He moved a little closer to the half-open portal, in an agony of suspense.

  “I assume,” Javul said at last, “that you’re talking about your little sneak attacks and sabotage.”

  “They’ve had their effect.”

  “But not the effect you wanted, I’d guess.”

  “And what effect is that?”

  “I’m still alive. That’s got to be a huge disappointment.”

  When Kris spoke again, his voice was subtly changed. Darker somehow, and with an
undercurrent of strong emotion. “No, Alai, never that. I would never want you dead. As little as you believe it, I still love you. Still have hope of getting you back. Yes, it’s slender, but it’s hope nonetheless. Yet it’s futile if you make yourself the target of forces I can’t control.”

  Dash heard Javul move restively. He crept forward a bit farther and saw her take a seat on the edge of her long, low vanity console. He could just see Kris’s right side. The big Mandalorian stood with his back to the door, his right hand clenched into a tight fist. So much for the calm, cool underworld Vigo. This guy obviously had some serious impulse control issues.

  “I got a full report on what happened before your performance on Rodia. You were very nearly killed.”

  “And you’re trying to tell me that wasn’t your intent?”

  Kris took a step toward her, his fist still at his side, but working now, clenching and unclenching like the beat of the Vigo’s heart—if he had one. “I told you, Alai. That wasn’t me. Wasn’t my work. Wasn’t my intent. The power outage, yes, that was me. And yes, I meant to frighten you. But what it triggered—and the failure of your antigrav harness—no, that was not supposed to happen. I swear to you by any power you wish to invoke that I was not responsible for that.”

  “Any power, Hitch? All right. Your power. It’s the only thing you care about. The only thing you respect.”

  “Not the only thing. But if that’s what it takes, yes, I swear by everything I hold—everything I am and hope to become—that I have done nothing to harm you.”

  “The failure we experienced coming into Rodia? That wasn’t you?”

  Kris moved again, another step closer. “What failure?”

  Ask him about the hit we took that put us back on Tatooine, Dash thought. That should be interesting.

  Javul didn’t ask. Instead she rose, shook her head, and moved out of Dash’s line of sight. “Not important,” she said. “What is important is that you understand I’m not coming back. Not to you, and not to your … organization.”

  “If you don’t, I can’t protect you.”

  “I don’t need your protection. I just need you to butt out.”

  “Is it that lump of brainless muscle you’ve hired as your security chief? That Rendar character? Is he why you think you don’t need me? Don’t want me?”

  Javul emitted a huge sigh. “I hate to sound prosaic and trite, but this isn’t about you.”

  “Is it about him?”

  Yeah, Dash thought, straining to hear. Is it about me?

  “No, it … Fine. If it pleases you to think so, then, yes. It’s about Dash. I trust him. I don’t trust you. Now I have a tour to rejoin. We need to be on Falleen in six days.”

  “Alai, no.” The words were quiet, but delivered with force. “Falleen is the last place in the galaxy you need to be.”

  “Tell that to my underwriters, Hitch. I have commitments to keep. I’ve had this contract to perform in Falleen Throne for over a year.”

  “Falleen is dangerous to your health, Alai. You can’t go there.”

  “Are you suggesting that Prince Xizor is lying in wait for me?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me, considering what you did to his organization. You crippled his hold on the Corellian Trade Spine.”

  Dash exhaled slowly. Crippled his hold on the Trade Spine? That had significantly more impact than ratting out a few Vigos. How many layers of half-truths was the real Javul Charn/Alai Jance hiding behind?

  “Prince Xizor is on Imperial Center,” she said.

  “Where he is physically is irrelevant and you know it,” Kris replied. “You can’t go to Falleen.”

  “Are you going to stop me?”

  There was an undercurrent of nervousness to Javul’s voice that Dash found unsettling.

  “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you from … doing something stupid.” Hitch Kris moved again, this time directly toward Javul.

  “Don’t touch me!” she snarled, and Dash stepped quickly into the chamber.

  “Hey, baby, the rest of the crew is waiting on you,” he said, then froze in mock surprise at beholding Hitch Kris in gripping Javul’s arm. “Problems?”

  “Only one, and it was just leaving,” said Javul. She pulled away from Kris and moved to pick up her gig bag.

  Glowering, the Mandalorian grabbed her again. “You are not going to Falleen.”

  “I am. Now let go of my arm.”

  “No. You’re coming with me. Back to Rodia.”

  “You got a problem with Basic?” Dash drew his blaster and pointed it at Kris’s midsection. “Let her go.”

  The Vigo spoke to Dash, but kept his gaze on Javul. “If you care at all what happens to her—”

  “What—like you do? Real convincing way to show your regard, sabotage.”

  Kris let go of Javul’s arm, started to step behind her, then spun back to face Dash, a small blaster suddenly in his hand. Dash, despicable as he found the man, had to admire his moves—Kris’s hand had been concealed behind Javul only a split second, yet he’d managed to pull a blaster on Dash during that time. Dash snorted. “What’s this—a Mandalorian stand-off?”

  Kris shook his head, his gaze flickering to the doorway. “More like a Mandalorian ambush.”

  Javul’s gaze followed, her face paling, panic surging in her eyes. “No, Hitch!”

  A frisson of awareness tickled the back of Dash’s neck. He knew, without turning, that there was someone standing behind him. He turned his head slightly, staring not back over his shoulder, but beyond Javul’s, to the polished surface of a large, ornamental urn. Yep, there they were. Two huge goons in body armor, framed in the doorway. Though the urn’s surface was too warped to make a good mirror, he had no trouble recognizing the species—a Trandoshan and a Shistavanen. Both had blasters, big DL-44s, aimed at his back. An itch sprouted between Dash’s shoulder blades and he felt suddenly naked.

  “Okay,” he said to Kris. “It seems you have the drop on me. So I’m going to ask you—one civilized man to another—to let her go.”

  Kris smiled. It was a nasty smile. “And I’m going to tell you—one civilized man to another—that I won’t. I can’t. Now put down your weapon, or—”

  “Put down yours, or your bullyboys are cooked meat.”

  Dash had never expected to be glad to hear that particular voice. He glanced at the urn again. Han Solo stood in the corridor just outside the dressing room, a blaster rifle—a modified DC-15A, capable of punching a hole through both the reptiloid’s and the lupinoid’s armor—in his hands. Eaden and Mel stood flanking Han, both armed.

  Han grinned. “I like to think of this as a Corellian squeeze play. Guns placed slowly and carefully on the floor, gentlebeings. Barrels aimed toward the wall, if you please.”

  Kris, his big jaw flexing in silent fury, nodded and put his weapon down. His bodyguards followed suit.

  “Javul, sweetheart,” said Han, “why don’t you pick up Kris’s blaster and come on out into the hallway.”

  Glancing from Kris to Dash and back again, Javul disengaged from her ex-beau, picked up his blaster, and moved to Dash, who encircled her with a protective arm and backed them both between Kris’s guards and out the door, pausing only to kick the fallen weapons out into the corridor, where Eaden scooped them up.

  “Get her to the ship,” Han said quietly as they drew level with him. “Kris,” he continued in a louder tone, “I want you and your buddies over on the other side of the room, if you don’t mind.”

  Dash kept Javul moving as Han saw Kris and his thugs move to the far side of the dressing room, then punched the door shut.

  Han caught up with them as they reached the outer doors and flanked Javul during their swift trip to the venue’s landing pad, where the Millennium Falcon awaited them. The Deep Core had already lifted off.

  “Not that I’m objecting—I’m perfectly fine with somebody else saving the day for a change—but to what do we owe the show of force?” Dash asked Han as they hust
led Javul up the landing ramp.

  “Kind of hard to hide those big, armor-plated thugs he hauls around with him,” Han replied. “Plus, Shistavenens and Trandoshans aren’t the most fragrant of species at the best of times, and when they’re pumped up, anticipating mayhem …” Han waved a hand in front of his face. “Wooee! Worse’n a Wookiee on a rainy day. So we knew they were there, and lookin’ to be bad. When they slipped inside the stage door all of a sudden, we got suspicious.”

  “Thanks,” Dash said. “Had the situation under control, but—”

  “You’re joking, right? You barely had your bladder under control. Not that I blame you.” Han paused inside the air lock and met Dash’s eyes. “Don’t mention it.” His look turned serious. “Really. Don’t. Not to anybody who knows me.”

  “What? You don’t wanna be a hero—the guy who rescued Javul Charn from the big bad Vigo?”

  “Nope. Bad for my image.” He hit the hatch controls, withdrawing the ramp.

  Eaden and Mel had gone to their stations: Javul stood in the main corridor, waiting, her arms crossed over her chest. Her narrowed gaze settled on Han. “ ‘Sweetheart’?”

  “Hey.” Han raised his hands in mock surrender. “Just making sure old Hitch didn’t get the idea that you’ve been pining away for him.”

  She turned her gaze to Dash. “ ‘Baby’?”

  “I was just following your lead. Figured if he thought you were involved with another man he might not be so sure you were … uh …”

  “Pining,” Han supplied.

  “Look, I don’t approve of Kris’s methods,” Dash admitted, “but I can’t argue with his conclusions. You shouldn’t go anywhere near Falleen and you know it. If you were smart—” Her eyes narrowed further, and he hastily amended, “—smarter, you’d have Han take a detour and go straight to Bannistar Station.”

  Han glanced between the two. “Why? Why shouldn’t she go to Falleen? Hitch’s power center is on Rodia.”

  Javul sent Dash a questioning look. Should they let Han in on the deeper ramifications of going to Prince Xizor’s homeworld?