by Timothy Zahn
Or so the designers and their backers had thought. Unfortunately, they’d rather overlooked three points: first, that such a place was almost by definition a tourist attraction, dependent on the vagaries of that market; second, that once the charm of the Whirlpool itself wore off, the centralized design pretty well precluded remodeling the place for any other type of entertainment; and, third, that even if such remodeling had occurred, the racket from the miniature breakers in the Drinking Cup would probably have drowned it out anyway.
The people of the Calius saj Leeloo on Berchest had turned their fizzled tourist attraction into a trade center. The people of Trogan had simply abandoned the Whistler’s Whirlpool.
“I keep expecting someone to buy this place and refurbish it,” Karrde commented, looking around at the empty seats and tables as he and Aves walked down one of the aisles toward the Drinking Cup and the figure waiting there for them. The years of neglect showed, certainly, but the place wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been.
“I always liked it myself,” Aves agreed. “Kind of noisy, but you get that almost everywhere you go these days.”
“Certainly made eavesdropping between tables difficult,” Karrde said. “That alone made the place worthwhile. Hello, Gillespee.”
“Karrde.” Gillespee nodded in greeting, getting up from his table and offering his hand. “I was starting to wonder if you were really going to show.”
“The meeting’s not for another two hours,” Aves reminded him.
“Oh, come on,” Gillespee said with a sly grin. “Since when does Talon Karrde ever arrive anywhere on time? Though you could have saved yourself the trouble—my people have already checked things out.”
“I appreciate the effort,” Karrde said. Which was not to say, of course, that he was going to pull his own people off that same job. With the Empire breathing down his neck and an Imperial garrison only twenty kilometers away, a little extra security wouldn’t hurt. “You have the guest list?”
“Right here,” Gillespee said, picking up a data pad and handing it over. “Afraid it’s not as long as I’d hoped.”
“That’s all right,” Karrde assured him, running his eyes down the list. Small, certainly, but highly select, with some of the biggest names in smuggling coming personally. Brasck, Par’tah, Ellor, Dravis—that would be Billey’s group; Billey himself didn’t get around too much anymore—Mazzic, Clyngunn the ZeHethbra, Ferrier—
He looked up sharply. “Ferrier?” he asked. “Niles Ferrier, the spaceship thief?”
“Yeah, that’s him,” Gillespee nodded, frowning. “He does smuggling, too.”
“He also works for the Empire,” Karrde countered.
“So do we,” Gillespee shrugged. “Last I heard, so did you.”
“I’m not talking about smuggling merchandise to or from Imperial worlds,” Karrde said. “I’m talking about working directly for Grand Admiral Thrawn. Doing such minor jobs as snatching the man who located the Katana fleet for him.”
Gillespee’s face tightened, just noticeably. Remembering, perhaps, his mad scramble off Ukio one step ahead of the Imperial invasion force in those same Katana-fleet ships. “Ferrier did that?”
“And seemed to enjoy doing it,” Karrde told him, pulling out his comlink and thumbing it on. “Lachton?”
“Right here,” Lachton’s voice came promptly from the comlink.
“How do things look at the garrison?”
“Like a morgue on its day off,” Lachton said wryly. “There hasn’t been any movement in or out of the place for at least three hours.”
Karrde cocked an eyebrow. “Indeed. That’s very interesting. How about flights in or out? Or activity within the garrison grounds themselves?”
“Nothing of either,” Lachton said. “No kidding, Karrde, the place looks completely dead. Must have gotten some new training holos in or something.”
Karrde smiled tightly. “Yes, I’m sure that’s it. All right, keep on them. Let me know immediately if there’s activity of any sort.”
“You got it. Out.”
Karrde thumbed off the comlink and returned it to his belt. “The Imperials aren’t moving from their garrison,” he told the others. “Apparently not at all.”
“Isn’t that the way we want it?” Gillespee asked. “They can’t drop a hammer on the party if they’re snugged up there in their barracks.”
“Agreed,” Karrde nodded. “On the other hand, I’ve never yet heard of an Imperial garrison simply taking a day off.”
“Point,” Gillespee admitted. “Unless this big campaign of Thrawn’s has all these third-rate garrisons undermanned.”
“All the more reason for them to be running daily patrols as a visible show of force,” Karrde said. “A man like Grand Admiral Thrawn counts on his opponents’ perceptions to fill in the gaps in his actual strength.”
“Maybe we should cancel the meeting,” Aves suggested, looking uneasily back at the entrance. “Could be they’re setting us up.”
Karrde looked past Gillespee to the churning water sloshing up the walls of the Drinking Cup. In just under two hours, the water would be at its lowest and quietest level, which was why he’d arranged the meeting for then. If he called it off now—admitted to all these big-time smugglers that the Empire had Talon Karrde jumping at shadows …“No,” he said slowly. “We’ll stay. Our guests won’t exactly be sitting here helpless, after all. And we should have adequate warning of any official moves against us.” He smiled thinly. “Actually, it’s almost worth the risk just to see what they have in mind.”
Gillespee shrugged. “Maybe they’re not planning anything at all. Maybe we chicaned Imperial Intelligence so good that they missed this completely.”
“That hardly sounds like the Imperial Intelligence we all know and love,” Karrde said, looking around. “Still, we have two hours before the meeting. Let’s see what we can arrange, shall we?”
They sat there in silence, each of the individuals and small groups sitting around its own table, while he made his pitch … and as he finished and looked around at them, Karrde knew they weren’t convinced.
Brasck made it official. “You speak well, Karrde,” the Brubb said, his thin tongue flicking out between his lips as he tasted the air. “One might say passionately, if such a word could ever be said to apply to you. But you do not persuade.”
“Do I truly not persuade, Brasck?” Karrde countered. “Or do I merely fail to overcome your reluctance to stand up to the Empire?”
Brasck’s expression didn’t change, but the pitted gray-green skin of his face—about all of him that was visible outside his body armor—turned a little grayer. “The Empire pays well for smuggled goods,” he said.
[And for slaves as well?] Par’tah demanded in the singsong Ho’Din language. Her snakelike head appendages bounced gently as she snapped her mouth in a Ho’Din gesture of contempt. [And for viyctiyms of kiydnap? You are no better than was the Hutt.]
One of Brasck’s bodyguards shifted in his seat—a man, Karrde knew, who had escaped with Brasck from Jabba the Hutt’s indentured servitude when Luke Skywalker and his allies had chopped off the head of that organization. “No one who knew the Hutt would say that,” he growled, jabbing a stiff finger on the table beside him for emphasis.
“We’re not here to argue,” Karrde said before Par’tah or any of her entourage could respond.
“Why are we here?” Mazzic spoke up, lounging in his seat between a horn-headed Gotal and a decorative but vacant-faced woman with her hair done up in elaborate plaitlets around half a dozen large enameled needles. “You’ll forgive me, Karrde, but this sounds very much like a New Republic recruitment speech.”
“Yeah, and Han Solo’s already pitched that one to us,” Dravis agreed, propping his feet up on his table. “Billey’s already said he wasn’t interested in hauling the New Republic’s cargo.”
“Too dangerous,” Clyngunn put in, shaking his shaggy black-and-white-striped mane. “Far too dangerous.”
“Really?” Karrde said, feigning surprise. “Why is it dangerous?”
“You must be joking,” the ZeHethbra rumbled, shaking his mane again. “With Imperial harassment of New Republic shipping as it is, you take your life in clawgrip every time you lift off.”
“So what you’re saying,” Karrde suggested, “is that Imperial strength is becoming increasingly dangerous to our business activities?”
“Oh, no you don’t, Karrde,” Brasck said, waving a large finger toward him. “You’re not going to persuade us into going along with this scheme by twisting our words.”
“I haven’t suggested any schemes, Brasck,” Karrde said. “All I’ve suggested is that we provide the New Republic with any useful information we might happen to come across in the course of our activities.”
“And you don’t think the Empire would find this activity unacceptable?” Brasck asked.
[Siynce when do we care what the Empiyre thiynks?] Par’tah countered.
“Since Grand Admiral Thrawn took command,” Brasck said bluntly. “I’ve heard stories of this warlord, Par’tah. It was he who forced my world under the Imperial shroud.”
“That ought to be a good reason for you to stand up to him,” Gillespee pointed out. “If you’re afraid of what Thrawn might do to you now, just think what’ll happen to you if he gets the whole galaxy under the Imperial shroud again.”
“Nothing will happen to us if we don’t oppose him,” Brasck insisted. “They need our services too much for that.”
“That’s a nice theory,” a voice spoke up from near the back of the group. “But I can tell you right now it won’t hold a mug’s worth of vacuum.”
Karrde focused on the speaker. He was a big, thick-built human with dark hair and a beard, a thin unlit cigarra clenched in his teeth. “And you are …?” Karrde asked, though he was pretty sure he knew.
“Niles Ferrier,” the other identified himself. “And I can tell you flat out that minding your own business isn’t going to do you a blame bit of good if Thrawn decides he wants you.”
“And yet he pays well,” Mazzic said, idly stroking the hand of his female companion. “Or so I’ve heard.”
“You’ve heard that, huh?” Ferrier growled. “Have you also heard that he grabbed me off New Cov and confiscated my ship? And then ordered me out on a nasty little errand for him aboard a bomb-rigged Intelligence bucket? Oh, and go ahead and guess what the penalty was going to be if we couldn’t do it.”
Karrde looked around the room, listening to the gently sloshing water in the Drinking Cup behind him and holding his silence. This was hardly the way Solo had described Ferrier’s involvement; and all other things being equal, he would probably trust Solo’s rendition over the ship thief's. Still, it was always possible Solo had misinterpreted things. And if Ferrier’s story helped convince the others that the Empire had to be opposed …
“Were you paid for all your trouble?” Mazzic asked.
“ ’Course I was paid,” Ferrier sniffed. “That’s not the point.”
“It is for me,” Mazzic said, turning back to look at Karrde. “Sorry, Karrde, but I still haven’t heard any good reason for me to stick my neck out this way.”
“What about the Empire’s new traffic in clones?” Karrde reminded him. “Doesn’t that worry you?”
“I’m not especially happy about it, no,” Mazzic conceded. “But I figure that’s the New Republic’s problem, not ours.”
[When does iyt become our problem?] Par’tah demanded. [When the Empiyre has replaced all smugglers wiyth these clones?]
“No one’s going to replace us with clones,” Dravis said. “You know, Brasck is right, Karrde. The Empire needs us too much to bother us … provided we don’t take sides.”
“Exactly,” Mazzic said. “We’re businessmen, pure and simple; and I for one intend to stay that way. If the New Republic can outbid the Empire for information, I’ll be happy to sell it to them. If not—” He shrugged.
Karrde nodded, privately conceding defeat. Par’tah might be willing to discuss the matter further, and possibly one or two of the others. Ellor, perhaps—the Duro had so far stayed out of the conversation, which with his species was often a sign of agreement. But none of the rest were convinced, and pushing them further at this point would only annoy them. Later, perhaps, they might be willing to accept the realities of the Empire’s threat. “Very well,” he said. “I think it’s clear now where all of you stand on this. Thank you for your time. Perhaps we can plan to meet again after—”
And without warning, the back of the Whistler’s Whirlpool blew in.
“Stay where you are!” an amplified voice shouted through the din. “Face forward—no one move. Everyone here is under Imperial detention.”
Karrde squinted over the heads of his suddenly frozen audience to the rear of the building. Through the smoke and dust he could see a double line of about thirty Imperial army troops crunching their way across the debris where the back wall had been, their flanks protected by two pair of white-armored stormtroopers. Behind them, almost obscured by the haze, he could see two Chariot command speeders hovering in backup positions. “So they came to the party after all,” he murmured.
“With a big hammer,” Gillespee agreed tightly from beside him. “Looks like you were right about Ferrier.”
“Perhaps.” Karrde looked over at Ferrier, half expecting to see a triumphant smirk on the big man’s face.
But Ferrier wasn’t looking at him. His attention was slightly off to the side; not looking at the approaching troopers, but at a section of wall to the right of the new hole. Karrde followed the line of his gaze—
Just in time to see a solid black shadow detach itself from the wall and move silently up behind one set of flanking stormtroopers.
“On the other hand, perhaps not,” he told Gillespee, nodding slightly toward the shadow. “Take a look—just past Ellor’s shoulder.”
Gillespee inhaled sharply. “What in hell’s name is that?”
“Ferrier’s pet Defel, I think,” Karrde said. “Sometimes called wraiths—Solo told me about him. This is it. Everyone ready?”
“We’re ready,” Gillespee said, and there were echoing murmurs from behind them. Karrde swept his gaze across his fellow smugglers and their aides, catching each pair of eyes in turn. They gazed back, their shock at the ambush rapidly turning to a cold anger … and they, too, were ready. The shadow of Ferrier’s Defel reached the end of the approaching line of Imperials; and suddenly one of the stormtroopers was hurled bodily off his feet to slam crosswise into his companion. The nearest troopers reacted instantly, swinging their weapons to the side as they searched for the unseen attacker.
“Now,” Karrde murmured.
And from the corner of his eye he saw the long muzzles of two BlasTech A280 blaster rifles swing up over the rim of the Drinking Cup and open fire.
The first salvo cut through the center of the line, taking out a handful of the Imperials before the rest were able to dive for cover among the empty tables and chairs. Karrde took a long step forward, tipping over the nearest table and dropping to one knee behind it.
An almost unnecessary precaution. The Imperials’ attention had been distracted away from their intended prisoners for a fatal half-second … and even as Karrde yanked out his weapon the entire room exploded into blaster fire.
Brasck and his bodyguards took out an entire squad of the troopers in the first five seconds, with a synchronized fire that showed the Brubb hadn’t forgotten his mercenary background. Par’tah’s entourage was concentrating on the other end of the line, their weapons smaller and less devastating than Brasck’s heavy blaster pistols but more than enough to keep the Imperials pinned down. Dravis, Ellor, and Clyngunn were taking advantage of that cover fire to pick off the remaining troopers one by one. Mazzic, in contrast, was ignoring the nearer threat of the troopers to blast away at the Chariot command speeders outside.
A good idea, actually. “Aves! Fei
n!” Karrde shouted over the din. “Concentrate fire on the Chariots.”
There were shouts of acknowledgment from the edge of the Drinking Cup behind him, and the rifle blasts sizzling past his shoulder shifted their aim. Karrde eased a little over his table, caught a glimpse of Mazzic’s female companion—her plaited hair down around her shoulders now and her face no longer blank—as she hurled the last of her enameled needles with lethal accuracy at one of the troopers. Another Imperial lunged up out of cover, bringing his rifle to bear on her, falling backward again as Karrde’s shot caught him square in the torso. A pair of shots hit his cover table, sending clouds of splinters into the air and forcing him to drop to the floor. From outside came the sound of a massive explosion, echoed an instant later by a second blast.
And then, suddenly, it was all over.
Carefully, Karrde eased up over his table again. The others were doing likewise, weapons held at the ready as they surveyed the wreckage around them. Clyngunn was holding an arm gingerly out from his body as he dug in his beltpack for a bandage; Brasck’s tunic was burned away in several places, the body armor beneath it blackened and blistered. “Everyone all right?” Karrde called.
Mazzic straightened up. Even at this distance Karrde could see the white knuckles gripping his blaster. “They got Lishma,” he said, his voice deadly quiet. “He wasn’t even shooting.”
Karrde dropped his gaze to the broken table at Mazzic’s feet and the Gotal lying motionless and half hidden beneath it. “I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it. He’d always rather liked the Gotal people.
“I’m sorry, too,” Mazzic said, jamming his blaster back into its holster and looking at Karrde with smoldering eyes. “But the Empire’s going to be a lot sorrier. Okay, Karrde; I’m convinced. Where do I sign up?”
“Somewhere far away from here, I think,” Karrde said, peering out the shattered wall at the burning Chariots as he pulled out his comlink. No one was moving out there, but that wouldn’t last. “They’ll surely have backup on the way. Lachton, Torve—you there?”
