Heir to the Empire

C H A P T E R 20

“No, I assure you, everything is fine,” Threepio said in Leia’s voice, looking just about as unhappy beneath his headset as a droid could possibly look. “Han and I decided that as long as we were out this way we might as well take a look around the Abregado system.”

“I understand, Your Highness,” Winter’s voice came back over the Falcon’s speaker. To Han, she sounded tired. Tired, and more than a little tense. “May I recommend, though, that you don’t stay away too much longer.”

Threepio looked helplessly at Han. “We’ll be back soon,” Han muttered into his comlink.

“We’ll be back soon,” Threepio echoed into the Falcon’s mike.

“I just want to check out—”

“I just want to check out—”

“—the Gados’s—”

“—the Gados’s—”

“—manufacturing infrastructure.”

“—manufacturing infrastructure.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Winter said. “I’ll pass that information on to the Council. I’m sure they’ll be pleased to hear it.” She paused, just noticeably. “I wonder if I might be permitted to speak with Captain Solo for a moment.”

Across the cockpit, Lando grimaced. She knows, he mouthed silently.

No kidding, Han mouthed back. He caught Threepio’s eye and nodded. “Of course,” the droid said, sagging with obvious relief. “Han—?”

Han switched his comlink over. “I’m here, Winter. What’s up?”

“I wanted to know if you had any idea yet when you and Princess Leia would be returning,” she said. “Admiral Ackbar, particularly, has been asking about you.”

Han frowned at the comlink. Ackbar probably hadn’t spoken two words to him outside of official business since he’d resigned his general’s commission a few months back. “You’ll have to thank the Admiral for his interest,” he told Winter, picking his words carefully. “I trust he’s doing all right himself?”

“About as usual,” Winter said. “He’s having some problems with his family, though, now that school is in full swing.”

“A little squabbling among the children?” Han suggested.

“Bedtime arguments, mainly,” she said. “Problems with the little one over who’s going to get to stay up and read—that sort of thing. You understand.”

“Yeah,” Han said. “I know the kids pretty well. How about the neighbors? He still having trouble with them?”

There was a brief pause. “I’m … not exactly sure,” she said. “He hasn’t mentioned anything about them to me. I can ask, if you’d like.”

“It’s no big deal,” Han said. “As long as the family’s doing okay—that’s the important thing.”

“I agree. At any rate, I think he mainly just wanted to be remembered to you.”

“Thanks for passing on the message.” He threw Lando a look. “Go ahead and tell him that we won’t be out here too much longer. We’ll go to Abregado and maybe look in on a couple of others and then head back.”

“All right,” Winter said. “Anything else?”

“No—yes,” Han corrected himself. “What’s the latest on the Bpfasshi recovery program?”

“Those three systems the Imperials hit?”

“Right.” And where he and Leia had had their second brush with those gray-skinned alien kidnappers; but there was no point in dwelling on that.

“Let me call up the proper file,” Winter said. “… It’s coming along reasonably well. There were some problems with supply shipments, but the material seems to be moving well enough now.”

Han frowned at the speaker. “What did Ackbar do, dig up some mothballed container ships from somewhere?”

“Actually, he made his own,” Winter came back dryly. “He’s taken some capital ships—Star Cruisers and Attack Frigates, mostly—cut the crews back to skeleton size and put in extra droids, and turned them into cargo ships.”

Han grimaced. “I hope he’s got some good escorts along with them. Empty Star Cruisers would make great target practice for the Imperials.”

“I’m sure he’s thought of that,” Winter assured him. “And the orbit dock and shipyards at Sluis Van are very well defended.”

“I’m not sure anything’s really well defended these days,” Han returned sourly. “Not with the Imperials running loose like they are. Anyway. Got to go; talk to you later.”

“Enjoy your trip. Your Highness? Good-bye.”

Lando snapped his fingers at Threepio. “Good-bye, Winter,” the droid said.

Han made a slashing motion across his throat, and Lando shut off the transmitter. “If those Star Cruisers had been built with proper slave circuits, they wouldn’t have to load them with droids to make container ships out of them,” he pointed out innocently.

“Yeah.” Han nodded, his mind just barely registering Lando’s words. “Come on—we’ve got to cut this short and get back.” He climbed out of the cockpit seat and checked his blaster. “Something’s about to burn through on Coruscant.”

“You mean all that stuff about Ackbar’s family?” Lando asked, standing up.

“Right,” Han said, heading back toward the Falcon’s hatchway. “If I’m reading Winter right, it sounds like Fey’lya has started a major push toward Ackbar’s territory. Come on, Threepio—you need to lock up behind us.”

“Captain Solo, I must once again protest this whole arrangement,” the droid said plaintively, scuttling up behind Han. “I really feel that to impersonate Princess Leia—”

“All right, all right,” Han cut him off. “As soon as we get back, I’ll have Lando undo the programming.”

“It’s over already?” Lando asked, pushing past Threepio to join Han at the lock. “I thought you told Winter—”

“That was for the benefit of anyone tapping in,” Han said. “As soon as we’ve worked through this contact, we’re going to head back. Maybe even stop by Kashyyyk on the way and pick up Leia.”

Lando whistled softly. “That bad, huh?”

“It’s hard to say, exactly,” Han had to admit as he slapped the release. The ramp dropped smoothly down to the dusty permcrete beneath them. “That ‘staying up late to read’ is the part I don’t understand. I suppose it could mean some of the intelligence work that Ackbar’s been doing along with the Supreme Commander position. Or worse—maybe Fey’lya’s going for the whole sabacc pot.”

“You and Winter should have worked out a better verbal code,” Lando said as they started down the ramp.

“We should have worked out a verbal code, period,” Han growled back. “I’ve been meaning for three years to sit down with her and Leia and set one up. Never got around to it.”¹

“Well, if it helps, the analysis makes sense,” Lando offered, glancing around the docking pit. “It fits the rumors I’ve heard, anyway. I take it the neighbors you referred to are the Empire?”

“Right. Winter should have heard something about it if Ackbar had had any luck plugging the security leaks.”

“Won’t that make it dangerous to go back, then?” Lando asked as they started toward the exit.

“Yeah,” Han agreed, feeling his lip twist. “But we’re going to have to risk it. Without Leia there to play peacemaker, Fey’lya might just be able to beg or bully the rest of the Council into giving him whatever it is he wants.”

“Mmm.” Lando paused at the bottom of the ramp leading to the docking pit exit and looked up. “Let’s hope this is the last contact in the line.”

“Let’s hope first that the guy shows,” Han countered, heading up the ramp.

The Abregado-rae Spaceport had had a terrible reputation among the pilots Han had flown with in his smuggling days, ranking right down at the bottom with places like the Mos Eisley port on Tatooine. It was therefore something of a shock, though a pleasant one, to find a bright, clean cityscape waiting for them when they stepped through the landing pit door. “Well, well,” Lando murmured from beside him. “Has civilization finally come to Abregado?”

“Stranger things have happened,” Han agreed, looking around. Clean and almost painfully neat, yet with that same unmistakable air that every general freight port seemed to have. That air of the not-entirely tame …

“Uh-oh,” Lando said quietly, his eyes on something past Han’s shoulder. “Looks like someone’s just bought the heavy end of the hammer.”

Han turned. Fifty meters down the port perimeter street, a small group of uniformed men with light-armor vests and blaster rifles had gathered at one of the other landing pit entrances. Even as Han watched, half of them slipped inside, leaving the rest on guard in the street. “That’s the hammer, all right,” Han agreed, craning his neck to try to read the number above the door. Sixty-three. “Let’s hope that’s not our contact in there. Where are we meeting him, anyway?”

“Right over there,” Lando said, pointing to a small windowless building built in the gap between two much older ones. A carved wooden plank with the single word “LoBue”² hung over the door. “We’re supposed to take one of the tables near the bar and the casino area and wait. He’ll contact us there.”

The LoBue was surprisingly large, given its modest street front, extending both back from the street and also into the older building to its left. Just inside the entrance were a group of conversation-oriented tables overlooking a small but elaborate dance floor, the latter deserted but with some annoying variety of taped music playing in the background.³ On the far side of the dance floor were a group of private booths, too dark for Han to see into. Off to the left, up a few steps and separated from the dance floor by a transparent etched plastic wall, was the casino area. “I think I see the bar up there,” Lando murmured. “Just back of the sabacc tables to the left. That’s probably where he wants us.”

“You ever been here before?” Han asked over his shoulder as they skirted the conversation tables and headed up the steps.

“Not this place, no. Last time I was at Abregado-rae was years ago. It was worse than Mos Eisley, and I didn’t stay long.” Lando shook his head. “Whatever problems you might have with the new government here, you have to admit they’ve done a good job of cleaning the planet up.”

“Yeah, well, whatever problems you have with the new government, let’s keep them quiet, okay?” Han warned. “Just for once, I’d like to keep a low profile.”

Lando chuckled. “Whatever you say.”

The lighting in the bar area was lower than that in the casino proper, but not so low that seeing was difficult. Choosing a table near the gaming tables, they sat down. A holo of an attractive girl rose from the center of the table as they did so. “Good day, gentles,” she said in pleasantly accented Basic. “How may I serve?”

“Do you have any Necr’ygor Omic⁴ wine?” Lando asked.

“We do, indeed: ’47, ’49, ’50, and ’52.”

“We’ll have a half carafe of the ’49,”⁵ Lando told her.

“Thank you, gentles,” she said, and the holo vanished.

“Was that part of the countersign?” Han asked, letting his gaze drift around the casino. It was only the middle of the afternoon, local time, but even so over half the tables were occupied. The bar area, in contrast, was nearly empty, with only a handful of humans and aliens scattered around. Drinking, apparently, ranked much lower than gambling on the list of popular Gado vices.

“Actually, he didn’t say anything about what we should order,” Lando said. “But since I happen to like a good Necr’ygor Omic wine—”

“And since Coruscant will be picking up the tab for it?”

“Something like that.”

The wine arrived on a tray delivered through a slide-hatch in the center of the table. “Will there be anything else, gentles?” the holo girl asked.

Lando shook his head, picking up the carafe and the two glasses that had come with it. “Not right now, thank you.”

“Thank you.” She and the tray disappeared.

“So,” Lando said, pouring the wine. “I guess we wait.”

“Well, while you’re busy waiting, do a casual one-eighty,” Han said. “Third sabacc table back—five men and a woman. Tell me if the guy second from the right is who I think it is.”

Lifting his wineglass, Lando held it up to the light, as if studying its color. In the process he turned halfway around—“Not Fynn Torve?”

“Sure looks like him to me,” Han agreed. “I figured you’d probably seen him more recently than I have.”

“Not since the last Kessel run you and I did together.” Lando cocked an eyebrow at Han. “Just before that other big sabacc table,” he added dryly.

Han gave him an injured look. “You’re not still sore about the Falcon, are you?”

“Now …” Lando considered. “No, probably not. No sorer than I was at losing the game to an amateur like you in the first place.”

“Amateur?”

“—but I’ll admit there were times right afterward when I lay awake at night plotting elaborate revenge. Good thing I never got around to doing any of it.”

Han looked back at the sabacc table. “If it makes you feel any better … if you hadn’t lost the Falcon to me, we probably wouldn’t be sitting here right now. The Empire’s first Death Star would have taken out Yavin and then picked the Alliance apart planet by planet. And that would have been the end of it.”

Lando shrugged. “Maybe; maybe not. With people like Ackbar and Leia running things—”

“Leia would have been dead,” Han cut him off. “She was already slated for execution when Luke, Chewie, and I pulled her out of the Death Star.” A shiver ran through him at the memory. He’d been that close to losing her forever. And would never even have known what he’d missed.

And now that he knew … he might still lose her.

“She’ll be okay, Han,” Lando said quietly. “Don’t worry.” He shook his head. “I just wish we knew what the Imperials wanted with her.”

“I know what they want,” Han growled. “They want the twins.”

Lando stared at him, a startled look on his face. “Are you sure?”

“As sure as I am of any of this,” Han said. “Why else didn’t they just use stun weapons on us in that Bpfassh ambush? Because the things have a better than fifty-fifty chance of sparking a miscarriage, that’s why.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Lando agreed grimly. “Does Leia know?”

“I don’t know. Probably.”

He looked at the sabacc tables, the cheerful decadence of the whole scene suddenly grating against his mood. If Torve really was Karrde’s contact man, he wished the other would quit this nonsense and get on with it. It wasn’t like there were a lot of possibilities hanging around here to choose from.

His eyes drifted away from the casino, into the bar area … and stopped. There, sitting at a shadowy table at the far end, were three men.

There was an unmistakable air about a general freight port, a combination of sounds and smells and vibrations that every pilot who’d been in the business long enough knew instantly. There was an equally unmistakable air about planetary security officers. “Uh-oh,” he muttered.

“What?” Lando asked, throwing a casual glance of his own around the room. The glance reached the far table—“Uh-oh, indeed,” he agreed soberly. “Offhand, I’d say that explains why Torve’s hiding at a sabacc table.”

“And doing his best to ignore us,” Han said, watching the security agents out of the corner of his eye and trying to gauge the focus of their attention. If they’d tumbled to this whole contact meeting there probably wasn’t much he could do about it, short of hauling out his New Republic ID and trying to pull rank on them. Which might or might not work; and he could just hear the polite screaming fit Fey’lya would have over it either way.

But if they were just after Torve, maybe as part of that landing pit raid he and Lando had seen on the way in …

It was worth the gamble. Reaching over, he tapped the center of the table. “Attendant?”

The holo reappeared. “Yes, gentles?”

“Give me twenty sabacc chips, will you?”

“Certainly,” she said, and vanished.

“Wait a minute,” Lando said cautiously as Han drained his glass. “You’re not going to go over there, are you?”

“You got a better idea?” Han countered, reaching down to resettle his blaster in its holster. “If he’s our contact, I sure don’t want to lose him now.”

Lando gave a sigh of resignation. “So much for keeping a low profile. What do you want me to do?”

“Be ready to run some interference.” The center of the table opened up and a neat stack of sabacc chips arrived. “So far it looks like they’re just watching him—maybe we can get him out of here before their pals arrive in force.”

“If not?”

Han collected the chips and got to his feet. “Then I’ll try to create a diversion, and meet you back at the Falcon.”

“Right. Good luck.”

There were two seats not quite halfway across the sabacc table from Torve. Han chose one and sat down, dropping his stack of chips onto the table with a metallic thud. “Deal me in,” he said.

The others looked up at him, their expressions varying from surprised to annoyed. Torve himself glanced up, came back for another look. Han cocked an eyebrow at him. “You the dealer, sonny? Come on, deal me in.”⁶

“Ah—no, it’s not my deal,” Torve said, his eyes flicking to the pudgy man on his right.

“And we’ve already started,” the pudgy man said, his voice surly. “Wait until the next game.”

“What, you haven’t all even bet yet,” Han countered, gesturing toward the handful of chips in the hand pot. The sabacc pot, in contrast, was pretty rich—the session must have been going for a couple of hours at least. Probably one reason the dealer didn’t want fresh blood in the game who might conceivably win it all. “Come on, give me my cards,” he told the other, tossing a chip into the hand pot.

Slowly, glaring the whole time, the dealer peeled the top two cards off the deck and slid them over. “That’s more like it,” Han said approvingly. “Brings back memories, this does. I used to drop the heavy end of the hammer on the guys back home all the time.”

Torve looked at him sharply, his expression freezing to stone. “Did you, now,” he said, his voice deliberately casual. “Well, you’re playing with the big boys here, not the little people. You may not find the sort of rewards you’re used to.”

“I’m not exactly an amateur myself,” Han said airily. The locals at the spaceport had been raiding landing pit sixty-three … “I’ve won—oh, probably sixty-three⁷ games in the last month alone.”

Another flicker of recognition crossed Torve’s face. So it was his landing pit. “Lot of rewards in numbers like that,” he murmured, letting one hand drop beneath the level of the table. Han tensed, but the hand came back up empty. Torve’s eyes flicked around the room once, lingering for a second on the table where Lando was sitting before turning back to Han. “You willing to put your money where your mouth is?”

Han met his gaze evenly. “I’ll meet anything you’ve got.”

Torve nodded slowly. “I may just take you up on it.”

“This is all very interesting, I’m sure,” one of the other players spoke up. “Some of us would like to play cards, though.”

Torve raised his eyebrows at Han. “The bet’s at four,” he invited.

Han glanced at his cards: the Mistress of Staves and the four of Coins. “Sure,” he said, lifting six chips from his stack and dropping them into the hand pot. “I’ll see the four, and raise you two.” There was a rustle of air behind him—

“Cheater!” a deep voice bellowed in his ear.

Han jumped and spun around, reaching reflexively toward his blaster, but even as he did so a large hand shot over his shoulder to snatch the two cards from his other hand. “You are a cheater, sir,” the voice bellowed again.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Han said, craning his neck up to get a look at his assailant.

He was almost sorry he had. Towering over him like a bushy-bearded thundercloud twice his own size, the man was glaring down at him with an expression that could only be described as enflamed with religious fervor. “You know full well what I’m talking about,” the man said, biting out each word. “This card”—he waved one of Han’s cards—“is a skifter.”⁸

Han blinked. “It is not,” he protested. A crowd was rapidly gathering around the table: casino security and other employees, curious onlookers, and probably a few who were hoping to see a little blood. “It’s the same card I was dealt.”

“Oh, is it?” The man cupped the card in one massive hand, held it in front of Han’s face, and touched the corner with a fingertip.

The Mistress of Staves abruptly became the six of Sabres. The man tapped the corner again and it became the Moderation face card. And then the eight of Flasks … and then the Idiot face card … and then the Commander of Coins …

“That’s the card I was dealt,” Han repeated, feeling sweat starting to collect under his collar. So much, indeed, for keeping a low profile. “If it’s a skifter, it’s not my fault.”

A short man with a hard-bitten face elbowed past the bearded man. “Keep your hands on the table,” he ordered Han in a voice that matched his face. “Move aside, Reverend—we’ll handle this.”

Reverend? Han looked up at the glowering thundercloud again, and this time he saw the black, crystal-embedded band nestled against the tufts of hair at the other’s throat. “Reverend, huh?” he said with a sinking feeling. There were extreme religious groups all over the galaxy, he’d found, whose main passion in life seemed to be the elimination of all forms of gambling. And all forms of gamblers.

“Hands on the table, I said,” the security man snapped, reaching over to pluck the suspect card from the Reverend’s hand. He glanced at it, tried it himself, and nodded. “Cute skifter, con,” he said, giving Han what was probably his best scowl.

“He must have palmed the card he was dealt,” the Reverend put in. He hadn’t budged from his place at Han’s side. “Where is it, cheater?”

“The card I was dealt is right there in your friend’s hand,” Han snapped back. “I don’t need a skifter to win at sabacc. If I had one, it’s because it was dealt to me.”

“Oh, really?” Without warning, the Reverend abruptly turned to face the pudgy sabacc dealer, still sitting at the table but almost lost in the hovering crowd. “Your cards, sir, if you don’t mind,” he said, holding out his hand.

The other’s jaw dropped. “What are you talking about? Why would I give someone else a skifter? Anyway, it’s a house deck—see?”

“Well, there’s one way to be sure, isn’t there?” the Reverend said, reaching over to scoop up the deck. “And then you—and you”—he leveled fingers at the dealer and Han—“can be scanned to see who’s hiding an extra card. I dare say that would settle the issue, wouldn’t you, Kampl?” he added, looking down at the scowling security man.

“Don’t tell us our job, Reverend,” Kampl growled. “Cyru—get that scanner over here, will you?”

The scanner was a small palm-fitting job, obviously designed for surreptitious operation. “That one first,” Kampl ordered, pointing at Han.

“Right.” Expertly, the other circled Han with the instrument. “Nothing.”

The first touch of uncertainty cracked through Kampl’s scowl. “Try it again.”

The other did so. “Still nothing. He’s got a blaster, comlink, and ID, and that’s it.”

For a long moment Kampl continued staring at Han. Then, reluctantly, he turned to the sabacc dealer. “I protest!” the dealer sputtered, pushing himself to his feet. “I’m a Class Double-A citizen—you have no right to put me through this sort of totally unfounded accusation.”

“You do it here or down at the station,” Kampl snarled. “Your choice.”

The dealer threw a look at Han that was pure venom, but he stood in stiff silence while the security tech scanned him down. “He’s clean, too,” the other reported, a slight frown on his face.

“Scan around the floor,” Kampl ordered. “See if someone ditched it.”

“And count the cards still in the deck,” the Reverend spoke up.

Kampl spun to face him. “For the last time—”

“Because if all we have here are the requisite seventy-six cards,” the Reverend cut him off, his voice heavy with suspicion, “perhaps what we’re really looking at is a fixed deck.”

Kampl jerked as if he’d been stung. “We don’t fix decks in here,” he insisted.

“No?” the Reverend glared. “Not even when special people are sitting in on the game? People who might know to look for a special card when it comes up?”

“That’s ridiculous,” Kampl snarled, taking a step toward him. “The LoBue is a respectable and perfectly legal establishment. None of these players has any connection with—”

“Hey!” the pudgy dealer said suddenly. “The guy who was sitting next to me—where’d he go?”

The Reverend snorted. “So. None of them has any connection with you, do they?”

Someone swore violently and started pushing his way through the crowd—one of the three planetary security types who’d been watching the table. Kampl watched him go, took a deep breath, and turned to glare at Han. “You want to tell me your partner’s name?”

“He wasn’t my partner,” Han said. “And I was not cheating. You want to make a formal accusation, take me down to the station and do it there. If you don’t”—he got to his feet, scooping up his remaining chips in the process—“then I’m leaving.”

For a long moment he thought Kampl was going to call his bluff. But the other had no real evidence, and he knew it; and apparently he had better things to do than indulge in what would be really nothing more than petty harassment. “Sure—get out of here,” the other snarled. “Don’t ever come back.”

“Don’t worry,” Han told him.

The crowd was starting to dissolve, and he had no trouble making his way back to his table. Lando, not surprisingly, was long gone. What was surprising was that he’d settled the bill before he had left.

“That was quick,” Lando greeted him from the top of the Falcon’s entry ramp. “I wasn’t expecting them to turn you loose for at least an hour.”

“They didn’t have much of a case,” Han said, climbing up the ramp and slapping the hatch button. “I hope Torve didn’t give you the slip.”

Lando shook his head. “He’s waiting in the lounge.” He raised his eyebrows. “And considers himself in our debt.”

“That could be useful,” Han agreed, heading down the curved corridor.

Torve was seated at the lounge holo board, three small datapads spread out in front of him. “Good to see you again, Torve,” Han said as he stepped in.

“You, too, Solo,” the other said gravely, getting to his feet and offering Han his hand. “I’ve thanked Calrissian already, but I wanted to thank you, too. Both for the warning and for helping me get out of there. I’m in your debt.”

“No problem,” Han waved the thanks away. “I take it that is your ship in pit sixty-three?”

“My employer’s ship, yes,” Torve said, grimacing. “Fortunately, there’s nothing contraband in it at the moment—I’ve already off-loaded. They obviously suspect me, though.”

“What kind of contraband were you running?” Lando asked, coming up behind Han. “If it’s not a secret, that is?”

Torve cocked an eyebrow. “No secret, but you’re not going to believe it. I was running food.”

“You’re right,” Lando said. “I don’t believe it.”

Torve nodded vaguely off to one side. “I didn’t either, at first. Seems there’s a clan of people living off in the southern hills who don’t find much about the new government to appreciate.”

“Rebels?”

“No, and that’s what’s strange about it,” Torve said. “They’re not rebelling or making trouble or even sitting on vital resources. They’re simple people, and all they want is to be left alone to continue living that way. The government’s apparently decided to make an example of them, and among other things has cut off all food and medical supplies going that way until they agree to fall into step like everyone else.”

“That sounds like this government,” Lando agreed heavily. “Not much into regional autonomy of any kind.”

“Hence, we smuggle in food,”⁹ Torve concluded. “Crazy business. Anyway, it’s nice to see you two again. Nice to see you’re still working together, too. So many teams have broken up over the past few years, especially since Jabba bought the really heavy end of the hammer.”

Han exchanged glances with Lando. “Well, it’s actually more like we’re back together,” he corrected Torve. “We sort of wound up on the same side during the war. Up till then …”

“Up till then I wanted to kill him,” Lando explained helpfully. “No big deal, really.”

“Sure,” Torve said guardedly, looking back and forth between them. “Let me guess: the Falcon, right? I remember hearing rumors that you stole it.”

Han looked at Lando, eyebrows raised. “Stole it?”

“Like I said, I was mad.” Lando shrugged. “It wasn’t an out-and-out theft, actually, though it came pretty close. I had a little semilegit clearinghouse for used ships at the time, and I ran short of money in a sabacc game Han and I were playing. I offered him his pick of any of my ships if he won.” He threw Han a mock glare. “He was supposed to go for one of the flashy chrome-plate yachts that had been collecting dust on the front row, not the freighter I’d been quietly upgrading on the side for myself.”

“You did a good job, too,” Han said. “Though Chewie and I wound up pulling a lot of the stuff out and redoing it ourselves.”

“Nice,” Lando growled. “Another crack like that and I may just take it back.”

“Chewie would probably take great exception to that,” Han said. He fixed Torve with a hard look. “Of course, you knew all this already, didn’t you.”

Torve grinned. “No offense, Solo. I like to feel out my customers before we do business—get an idea of whether I can expect ’em to play straight with me. People who lie about their history usually lie about the job, too.”

“I trust we passed?”

“Like babes in the tall grass.” Torve nodded, still grinning. “So. What can Talon Karrde do for you?”

Han took a careful breath. Finally. Now all he had to worry about was fouling this up. “I want to offer Karrde a deal: the chance to work directly with the New Republic.”

Torve nodded. “I’d heard that you were going around trying to push that scheme with other smuggling groups. The general feeling is that you’re trying to set them up for Ackbar to take down.”

“I’m not,” Han assured him. “Ackbar’s not exactly thrilled at the idea, but he’s accepted it. We need to get more shipping capacity from somewhere, and smugglers are the logical supply to tap.”

Torve pursed his lips. “From what I’ve heard it sounds like an interesting offer. ’Course, I’m not the one who makes decisions like that.”

“So take us to Karrde,” Lando suggested. “Let Han talk to him directly.”

“Sorry, but he’s at the main base at the moment,” Torve said, shaking his head. “I can’t take you there.”

“Why not?”

“Because we don’t let strangers just flit in and out,” Torve said patiently. “We don’t have anything like the kind of massive, overbearing security Jabba had on Tatooine, for starters.”

“We’re not exactly—” Lando began.

Han cut him off with a gesture. “All right, then,” he said to Torve. “How are you going to get back there?”

Torve opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I guess I’ll have to figure out a way to get my ship out of impoundment, won’t I?”

“That’ll take time,” Han pointed out. “Besides which, you’re known here. On the other hand, someone who showed up with the proper credentials could probably pry it loose before anyone knew what had happened.”

Torve cocked an eyebrow. “You, for instance?”

Han shrugged. “I might be able to. After that thing at the LoBue I probably should lie low, too. But I’m sure I could set it up.”

“I’m sure,” Torve said, heavily sardonic. “And the catch …?”

“No catch,” Han told him. “All I want in return is for you to let us give you a lift back to your base, and then have fifteen minutes to talk with Karrde.”

Torve gazed at him, his mouth tight. “I’ll get in trouble if I do this. You know that.”

“We’re not exactly random strangers,” Lando reminded him. “Karrde met me once, and both Han and I kept major military secrets for the Alliance for years. We’ve got a good record of people being able to trust us.”

Torve looked at Lando. Looked again at Han. “I’ll get in trouble,” he repeated with a sigh. “But I guess I really do owe you. One condition, though: I do all the navigation on the way in, and set it up in a coded, erasable module. Whether you have to do the same thing on the way out will be up to Karrde.”

“Good enough,” Han agreed. Paranoia was a common enough ailment among smugglers. Anyway, he had no particular interest in knowing where Karrde had set up shop. “When can we leave?”

“As soon as you’re ready.” Torve nodded at the sabacc chips cupped in Han’s hand. “Unless you want to go back to the LoBue and play those,” he added.

Han had forgotten he was still holding the chips. “Forget it,” he growled, dropping the stack onto the holo board. “I try not to play sabacc when there are fanatics breathing down my neck.”

“Yes, the Reverend put on a good show, didn’t he?” Torve agreed. “Don’t know what we would have done without him.”

“Wait a minute,” Lando put in. “You know him?”

“Sure.” Torve grinned. “He’s my contact with the hill clan. He couldn’t have made nearly so much fuss without a stranger like you there for him to pick on, though.”

“Why, that rotten—” Han clamped his teeth together. “I suppose that was his skifter, huh?”

“Sure was.” Torve looked innocently at Han. “What are you complaining about? You got what you wanted—I’m taking you to see Karrde. Right?”

Han thought about it. Torve was right, of course. But still … “Right,” he conceded. “So much for heroics, I guess.”

Torve snorted gently. “Tell me about it. Come on, let’s get into your computer and start coding up a nav module.”