Her dismissal from the nightclub was not a dismissal from service. She has much to do before she returns to her temporary keepers. She knows, by this point, that they intend to release her, and this resort is certainly an excellent place to be let go; she thinks she can be happy here, can make herself useful and increase the level of her credit. Maybe, after a few cycles here, she could even go home. The idea is more appealing now than it was before the sisters came. After all, she has gambled so many times on Canto Bight, and she has lost every attempt. It is time to try something new.
It’s time to try getting out.
She opens the datapad Rhomby handed her before she left to gather Derla and Ubialla. She reads its contents silently before looking at the bromeliad again.
She smiles.
—
“Well?” says Ubialla. “Have you lost understanding of language in your shock? Have you become unable to speak?” The blaster is in her hand again, barrel terrifyingly large as it swings from one person at the table to the next. With her free hand she reaches out and snatches Derla’s wine away. “Where is it?”
“We do not know,” says Parallela.
“We are as shocked by this violation of our persons as you are,” says Rhomby.
“Do your customers risk robbery often?” asks Parallela.
“Perhaps we have chosen poorly,” says Rhomby.
“I’ll say you have,” snarls Ubialla. She stands, blaster still aimed at the others. “Security!”
They appear out of the shadows as if they have been waiting for this call all night—and perhaps they have been. This is Ubialla’s place, after all, and she has shown interest in a specific table. Such things are all too often signs of danger.
Derla recognizes half of the bulky forms now towering over her as the bouncers from before. She looks regretfully at the Wookiee. He turns his eyes away, not making a sound.
“My colleagues seem to have misplaced an extremely valuable bottle of wine,” says Ubialla, ice in every syllable. “You will be locking the doors and keeping everyone inside until it is retrieved and brought to me. Do I make myself clear?”
“The clientele—” begins a guard.
“Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear.” Ubialla swings her blaster around to aim at the center of his chest.
He nods quickly. “Perfectly,” he says.
The guards disperse. Ubialla swings her blaster back to the table.
“Now,” she says. “You will find what I want. You will bring it back here. And you will give it to me. The negotiation is over. Your compensation will be your lives. I trust that is sufficient to put me at the head of the current offerings. I find the dead have little need for material goods, and rarely can they spend what they have earned. Do we have a deal?”
“Your world is very violent,” says Parallela. She stands as gracefully as a reed bending with the wind. “I would consider that a failing were it not so clearly beneficial to your survival. A pity.”
“You are not the sort of person we will choose to do business with more than once,” says Rhomby. She follows her sister to her feet. “We hope you have considered the ramifications of your actions.”
“I don’t care about the ramifications of my actions,” says Ubialla. “I care about the wine.”
Before Derla can stand, Ubialla brings her blaster around, muzzle aimed directly at the sommelier’s chest. Elsewhere in the club, people are beginning to complain loudly, the reality of their confinement sinking in.
“She stays,” says Ubialla. “I want my bottle. Understand?”
“Of course,” say the sisters in eerie unison, and ghost away into the crowd.
Derla spreads her empty hands in supplication. “Please, Ubialla,” she says. “We’ve known each other for so long. You know you don’t have to do this. You know I won’t run—and they have no reason to care one way or the other. They could slip away while you’re focused on me.”
“You tried to set this up under my nose,” snaps Ubialla. “You knew I needed this wine. What do you think happens to me if I let a prize like this escape from the planet? What do you think happens when he learns that it was sold right here in my club, and I didn’t bother to acquire it for him? Do you think I get forgiven for being outwitted by an offworld merchant? Or do you think I pay for my failures?”
“I think it is unfair to expect you to know everything that happens in Canto Bight,” says Derla calmly. This is not the first time she’s been held at blasterpoint: It will not, luck willing, be the last. Her line of work brings her into contact with people from all ways of life. It’s the money that matters. And the super-rich, or their hired help, do not take well to being told no.
She has refused to sell senators wines that would set off allergic cascades guaranteed to kill them, has refused to trade intoxicants with mercenaries and bounty hunters whose reputations painted them as somewhat more vicious than her reputation can afford. Her legend says that she can get anything, that she will do business with anyone who trades in good faith, but a part of good faith is protecting herself from having too many dealings with the truly dangerous, the truly foolish, and the truly corrupt. A few threats are a natural consequence of conducting business as she does. If the threats stop, it is a sign that she has lost her edge, and everything else will soon stop as well.
Ubialla laughs, thin and bitter. “Listen to you, talking about fair and unfair like they mean something. This is Canto Bight. We make our own reality, and there’s no room in it for fairness. It would get in the way of the dice.”
“Be that as it may. I don’t think I can be blamed for putting my business ahead of your ambition.”
“And look where it’s got you,” says Ubialla. “If they don’t find that wine, you’re dead. You know that, don’t you?”
“I knew when the first glass was poured,” says Derla, and settles back to wait.
RHOMBY AND PARALLELA MOVE DEEPER into the bar, side by side, as they almost always are. It’s important to make the best possible first impression, and being seen as a matching pair helps with that, it genuinely does. Alone, they are faces in a crowd, plain, dismissible. Together, they are rare and strange in this largely singular place.
They lie so often that sometimes even they lose track of where the truth is waiting—and this, too, is to their benefit; a lie told as the absolute truth is far more powerful than a lie told to deceive—but in this they are always honest: It is still so strange to walk in places where most require a mirror to see their own face. They have encountered twins, even triplets, as they traveled through the galaxy, but they are so rare that they are almost an aberration, and none of them have chosen the polite unity of matching, or even complementary, attire. To stand so distinct from one’s twin…the thought is abhorrent.
Ubialla’s security is fanning out through the bar. Rhomby watches as one of the men grabs the handbag of a human dressed for some sort of sporting event, short skirt and attractive but supportive top. The woman objects loudly, demanding to speak to the manager. Her words go unheeded. Parallela watches as the Wookiee more deferentially approaches a table of off-duty jockeys, their shoulders slumped with exhaustion, their eyes glittering with the memory of stimulants and the roaring crowd. They object to his presence, snapping and shooing him away. One even throws the decorative garnish from his drink at the Wookiee’s chest, where it sticks in the heavy fur like some sort of badge of shame. The Wookiee snarls. The table quiets, allowing him to search their bags.
Neither security guard finds anything worth reporting to Ubialla. A few illegal drugs; a few even more illegal weapons. Nothing of sufficient interest to involve confiscation, much less the authorities, although one bouncer does get a lead on a new supplier for his own extracurricular interests. They move on. The sisters exchange a glance and do the same.
“Sorry, so very sorry,” says Rhomby, approaching the table with the qianball player. She slips her hand inside her dress momentarily as she walks, pulling it out with a thin, caustic slime on h
er fingertips. “Did they bother you? Oh, I am so very sorry. These are people with no manners, none at all.”
The qianball player sniffs, plainly offended. “What do you expect from this sort of two-bit tourist attraction? I can’t believe I ever thought this place was worth my time. As soon as those doors open, Ubialla can find herself someone else to fill my table.”
“Of course, of course,” says Rhomby soothingly. She brushes her fingers across the label of the wine bottle sitting unguarded on the table. The label comes away with the motion, sticking to the translucent slime. She moves her hand behind her back before the qianball player can see. “I heard—forgive me if I am incorrect, but—I heard the southern door had been left unlocked for the truly important patrons.”
The woman’s eyes widen. She is on her feet like a shot, disappearing deeper into the club without so much as a word. A cry of “Out of my way!” drifts back, accompanied by irritated shouts and objections. Rhomby does not smile, but anyone who knew her would be able to see the satisfaction in her stride.
Parallela drifts toward the table of jockeys and asks them, in a dreamy voice, “Is it true? Have we been locked in here because there’s to be some sort of raid? I heard they were planning to do drug tests on the spot. Any of us who have a legal substance with restricted uses in our bloodstream could face penalties, depending on the nature of our professions. Can they do that? Is it legal?”
Her fingertips, when she pulls them from behind her back, are coated in the same gleaming substance. As the jockeys exchange horrified looks she moves, brushing her fingers across two of their wide collection of bottles, and whisks the chemically loosened labels away behind her back.
“There’s a secret door at the back of one of the closets, from back when they had raids all the time,” says one of the jockeys. “Come on.” They vanish with remarkable speed, these agile athletes, and Parallela is left alone with her prizes dangling from her fingertips. Serene as always—there is power in serenity, in the ability to step back and let the scene unfold around her, its participants unaware that without that seed of calm, the chaos would be unable to bloom—she walks toward the bar.
The bartenders who should be seeing to this stretch are elsewhere, distracted by a shouting qianball pro, a group of jockeys trying to sneak into a janitor’s closet, a model having a fit of claustrophobia, and a dozen other problems and complications. The bar is, for the moment, unattended. Parallela slips behind it, doing her best to seem innocent and lost even as she begins to move her hands across the bottles. Labels come away like leaves falling from a tree, only to re-adhere when she presses them into their new homes. Brandies become rums become wines of a dozen different kinds. When she steps away, moving back into the public area, she leaves a jumble of mislabeled bottles behind her, and her hands are empty.
Rhomby is on her way to another stretch of bar when a hand grabs her shoulder and whips her around. She stares into the face of the unfamiliar human behind her, a man in gray-and-white clothing tailored to look shabby—but not shabby at all, not really. It is a clever illusion, which makes this man a liar before he has even said a word. Fascinating.
“Did you do this?” he demands.
Slowly, she blinks at him, putting every shred of confusion she can muster into the expression. “What do you mean, sir?” she asks. “I don’t know you. I can’t possibly have done anything to you. Whatever has been done to you, you must have done it yourself.”
“The doors,” he says. “They’re locked.”
“I believe security did that, sir. I do not have access to the keys.”
“Ubialla has never locked the doors before.”
A regular, then, someone who comes here often enough to understand the place and its rhythms. Rhomby looks at him more carefully, as behind her something smashes and another voice screeches anger and disapproval. Oh, the chaos here is winding up nicely, twisting and turning and becoming a delightful sculpture that this city will gaze upon for years and years to come. They may not be able to return to Canto Bight for a while after this night’s work, and won’t that be lovely? A world that doesn’t want you back is a world that has been well and truly enjoyed.
“You’re a thief,” she says, with pleased wonder in her tone. “An actual thief, inside the bar. Oh, you’re in a great deal of trouble, sir, should Ubialla realize who and what and where you are. Something she wants very badly has gone missing, you see, and you’ll make a splendid target for her anger. I would run, if I were you. I would run so far and so fast and so hard that there was no chance of my ever being found again. I might even go so far as to quit this world altogether. There are so many other stars in the sky. Go and orbit one of them for a time, and see whether the long hands of the wronged come reaching for you there.”
The thief stares at her, releasing her shoulder and taking a step back. “What are you saying? I’m no thief. I’m an honest dealer for a local casino. My tables are clean.”
“Your clothing is expensive. Good fabric, careful tailoring. The sort of thing one wears when the goal is never needing to do repairs on the run. But you’ve chosen a style that looks cheap, that came into your hands already tattered and stained in ways that have nothing to do with wear. You have too many pockets. Your hands are too strong, and your fingers move like a hummer’s wings, almost faster than my eyes can follow—and my eyes are very good. There’s no shame in thievery. It’s a profession like any other, and you’re not to be blamed if the world disapproves. It’s simply that Ubialla has lost something that, as I said before, she wants very badly. The doors are locked because there has been a theft. You are a thief. You are inside. Can you see the connections as I draw them? You’ll be held as proof that no fault attaches to her, and I doubt you’ll survive it, or enjoy it if you do.” Rhomby shakes her head in apparent sorrow. “There are those who say there is no justice on Canto Bight. I say there is. It’s simply justice with teeth, which is the most terrible kind of all.”
The man—the thief—takes a step backward. “What are you?”
“A friend. An artist. A sister most of all, which is why I do each and every thing I do. Run. I’ll tell no one that I saw you, nor which way you’ve gone, and you’ll be clear of this place before anyone knows you were here.” Rhomby tilts her head slightly to the side, that impossible angle that is neither mammal nor bird, but something awful and in-between. “I doubt Ubialla will make such a generous offer.”
“So why do you?” he asks warily.
“It suits me to have the mystery stand a little longer. Run away while you can.”
The thief hesitates. Finally, he turns on his heel and is gone, racing into the dark of the bar. Rhomby waits where she is for several seconds before drifting after him, trying to look unconcerned.
Parallela is better at this part of the game than she is, always has been: Her sister has amazingly clever hands, and an air of controlled helplessness that can buy her access to the most restricted of areas. As long as she continues to work quickly, she can pull off the confusion entirely on her own, if necessary. Soon the people trapped inside will begin queuing up at the bar, demanding recompense for their lost evening. Ubialla doesn’t know it yet, but she’ll be pouring a great many free drinks tonight—first to keep her patrons calm and happy, and then to replace the drinks they receive but did not order. It would be a fascinating exercise to calculate how much money the woman is going to lose.
This part of the plan was optional, one more way of increasing chaos and keeping the club off balance. Had Ubialla not decided to enter the negotiations in the most hostile way possible, they might have spared her profits somewhat. Then again, they might not have. They have found her to be oily and somewhat cruel, unnecessarily so. There is value to kindness, even when it is a deceitful thing.
The thief heads for a small door in the wall, and past it, pressing his hands against what appears to be a flat section. After glancing around to see if he is being watched—an ineffective precaution; he does not see Rh
omby, hanging back unobtrusively and pretending to study the ceiling—he pushes inward, and the wall slides away, making a hole he can pass through. He does, and he is gone.
“Interesting,” says Rhomby. She glides to the nearest rack of bottles, swapping several labels in quick succession. When she looks up, a table full of ruffled, displeased-looking models is watching her. She raises a finger to her lips, signaling that they should be silent. They exchange glances with one another before nodding, accepting her offer of conspiracy.
Yes. Ubialla should really have learned to be kinder. But then, this plan would never work if she had.
—
The Wookiee returns, hands empty and expression downcast. He makes an apologetic statement in his own language, guttural and lovely, like the song of a bright, beautiful bird. Derla regrets that she has never learned Shyriiwook. It is such a gorgeous method of communication.
Ubialla stares at him for a moment, her blaster wavering, before she snaps, “Keep her here. If she moves, rip her arms off.”
She strides away into the club, leaving Derla and the Wookiee alone. Silence falls between them, broken by the occasional shouts, screams, and other exclamations from the rest of the club.
Finally, Derla speaks. “I would like to stand, if you don’t mind,” she says. “My back is stiff from sitting here too long. I was not expecting our negotiations to last more than a short time. Please?”
The Wookiee hesitates, clearly torn between his desire to be kind to a woman who has never been cruel to him and his desire to follow the instructions of his employer. Finally, he makes a resigned growling sound and gestures for Derla to rise.
She stands smoothly, wiping the wrinkles from her dress with the heels of her hands before she lifts her head and closes her upper eyes in polite acknowledgment. “Thank you. I appreciate this act of kindness. I am so very sorry that we cannot converse more easily; your language, while lovely, does not come easily to my tongue, and I have never been one who could understand languages I cannot also practice. A sincere pity. The wines of Kashyyyk have always struck me as among the most interesting in the galaxy. Their density of flavor is unmatched by virtually all other worlds.”
Canto Bight [Star Wars] Page 11