by Paul S. Kemp
Yinta Lake had begun as an unnamed winter getaway for the planet’s wealthy—those who’d made their fortunes in arms manufacturing—the mansions forming a thin ring around the lakeshore. Back then, the ring had been called the wealth belt.
Over time, the presence of the wealthy had attracted a middling-sized spaceport to bring offworld goods to the onworld money. That had brought workers, then merchants, then the not-so-wealthy, then the very poor.
And by then the unnamed vacation spot had become Yinta, a town, and it had not stopped growing since. Now it was a metropolis—Yinta Lake—an accretion disk of people and buildings that collected around the gravitational pull of the lake.
In time, shipping had polluted the lake’s water, the wealthy had mostly fled, and the city had begun a slow spiral into decrepitude. The once grand mansions on the shore of the lake had been sold off to developers and converted to cheap housing. The wealth belt had become slums and loading docks.
Zeerid had grown up in the slums, smelling the acrid, rotting odor of the lake every day of his childhood. He had provided better for his daughter, but not by much.
The deep, bass boom of a horn carried across the city, the call of one of the enormous flatbed cargo ships that moved goods and people across the lake and up and down the river that fed it. Zeerid smiled when he heard it. He’d awakened to that sound almost every day of his childhood.
He stepped into the tumult, feeling oddly at home and very much looking forward to seeing his daughter.
FROM THE HAIRCUT, muscular build, and upright posture, Vrath made the pilot as former military. Vrath, too, was ex-military, having served in the Imperial infantry.
The man smiled as he walked and Vrath found that he liked the man immediately.
Too bad he’d probably have to kill him.
Holding the nanodroid solution dispenser in a slack arm, Vrath knifed through the crowd toward the pilot. He cut in front of him, slowing him, just another body in the press, and squeezed a dollop of the suspension on the ground at their feet.
Vrath pasted on a fake grin and held up his other hand in a frantic wave to no one.
“Rober! Rober, over here!”
He hurried off as if to meet someone but watched the pilot sidelong throughout.
The pilot never even looked down, did not seem to notice Vrath at all. Suspecting nothing, the man stepped in the oily suspension Vrath had left on the floor before him. Others stepped in it afterward, but that would not matter. In moments all traces of it were gone.
Vrath fell in behind the pilot and took the targeted nano-activator from his pack.
ZEERID SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN SMILING, and certainly should not have been at ease. He knew, as he always did, that he was one mistake, one unlucky break away from someone discovering Arra and using her against him. Or worse, harming her. The thought made him sick to his stomach.
He could not let himself get sloppy.
He hopped on the back of a droid-driven cargo cart and rode it until he neared one of the port’s exits. The spaceport and all the vehicles in it rusted in the moisture-rich air of Yinta Lake; the brown smears on walls and in corners looked like bloodstains.
The exit doors slid open, and he hopped off the cargo cart. The collective voice of the streets hit him immediately. The shouts of air taxi drivers vying for fares—Yinta Lake had to have more taxis than any other city in the Mid Rim—street vendors hawking all manner of foods, vehicle horns, the rush of engines.
“Heading to the inner ring, sir?” said one of the taxi drivers, a tiny slip of a man. “Hop right in.”
“Lowest rates in Yinta, sir,” said another, a gray-haired old-timer, cutting in front of the first.
“Vinefish fresh off the grill,” shouted a vendor. “Right here. Right here, sir.”
To his right, a Zeltron woman, perhaps lovely once, but now just haggard, leaned against a wall. When she smiled, she showed the stained teeth of a spice addict.
He winced. Shame warmed his cheeks.
Only the hundred thousand in his pocket and what it could do for Arra kept him on course.
Aircars and speeders lined the street, even a few wheeled vehicles. He pushed through the throng of pedestrians and picked his way through the buzz of traffic to a public comm station across the street.
ONCE THE PILOT HAD CLEARED THE SPACEPORT, Vrath surreptitiously pointed the activator at him and powered it on. The nanodroids adhering to the pilot’s boot came to life.
The press of another button synced the activator to the particular signature of the droids on the pilot and only those droids. He did not want to pick up any of the others that had adhered to other pedestrians.
The bodies of the tracking nanodroids, about the size of a single cell and engineered in a hook shape, would contract to embed themselves in the pilot’s boot sole. From there, they would respond to Vrath’s ping from a distance of up to ten kilometers. Their power cells would keep them responsive for three standard days.
More than enough, Vrath knew. The Exchange had to get the engspice to Coruscant quickly or the market would be lost. He’d be surprised if they didn’t try to move the spice tonight.
He watched the pilot cross the street and head to a public comm station. Turning his ear in the direction of the station, Vrath activated his audio implant.
ZEERID CLOSED THE DOORS of the station for privacy, cutting off the outside noise, and tapped in Nat’s number. He never called her from his ship’s comm unit or his personal comlink for fear that someone in The Exchange was monitoring him. An excess of paranoia had saved his life more than once, most recently on Ord Mantell.
Nat did not answer so he left her a message.
“Nat, it’s Zeerid. I’m onplanet. If you get this soon, bring Arra and meet me at Karson’s Park in an hour. I can’t wait to see you both.”
He disconnected and hailed a taxi.
A thin Bothan driver, his face reminiscent of an equine, stared at him in the rearview mirror.
“Where to?”
“Just drive. Stay low.”
“Your credits, pal.”
EVEN FROM AFAR, Vrath was able to listen through the synthplas walls of the commstation. By the time the call was finished, he had a name for the pilot—Zeerid—and names of people the pilot appeared to care about—Nat and Arra.
He climbed into an air taxi and monitored the tracking droid activator. The droid driver looked back at him.
“Where to, sir?”
“Karson’s Park, eventually,” Vrath said. “But for now, follow my instructions precisely.”
“Yes, sir.”
Zeerid had shown discretion in calling Nat from a public comm station, so Vrath expected him to take a winding route, maybe change vehicles a few times. He settled in for a long ride.
Even if he lost him, he knew how to find him again.
THE AIRCAR LIFTED OFF THE GROUND and merged with traffic. Zeerid had the driver take a series of abrupt turns for about ten minutes. Throughout, he kept his eyes behind him, trying to see if anyone was following. For a time, he thought another taxi might have been tailing him, but it fell away and did not return.
The glowing sign for a casino he knew, the Silver Falcon, shone ahead.
“Right here, driver.”
He paid the Bothan, hopped out, headed into the casino’s front door and out its back. There, he hailed another taxi and went through the same exercise.
Still no one that he could see. He breathed easier.
He hailed another taxi, one that could house a hoverchair, this one droid-driven.
“Where to, sir?”
Even the droid showed some rust from the air. Its head squeaked when it turned.
“I need to purchase a hoverchair.”
The droid paused for a moment while its processors searched the city directory.
“Of course, sir.”
The taxi lifted off and took him to a medical supply reseller. Medical devices filled the cavernous warehouse, tended to by a sing
le elderly man who reminded Zeerid of a scarecrow.
There, eighty-seven thousand credits got Zeerid a used hoverchair sized for a seven-year-old and a crash course on how to operate it. Zeerid could not stop smiling while the wholesaler’s utility droid loaded the chair in the back of the taxi.
“Don’t see bearer cards all that often,” the old man said, eyeing Zeerid’s method of payment.
“Credits are credits,” Zeerid said. He knew what the man must have been thinking.
“True. I used to be a nurse, you know. That chair is a good device.”
“She’ll love it,” Zeerid said.
The old man rubbed his hands together. “If that’s all then, sir. I’ll just need you to fill out a few forms. The bearer card is untraceable, as you know.”
“Can we do it another time?” Zeerid said, and started walking for the door. “I really have to go.”
The old man tried his best to keep up the pace. “But sir, this is a regulated medical device. Even for resale I need your name and an onplanet address. “Sir! Please, sir!”
Zeerid hopped into the taxi.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said, and closed the cab door. “Karson’s Park,” he said to the droid.
“Very good, sir.”
THROUGH THE WINDOW OF THE TAXI, Zeerid saw Karson’s Park below. Benches surrounded a large pond in which greenbeaks swam. Walking paths zagged through a small wood. Picnic tables dotted the grass here and there. Public athletic courts, most of them cracked but still usable, formed the geometric meeting grounds where the neighborhood’s youth met and played.
Zeerid checked his chrono as the aircar set down. Right on time.
He paid the driver, threw on a billed hat, unloaded the hoverchair, and pushed it before him as he entered the park. The chair felt light in his hands, though he thought he might just have been excited. He headed straight for the walkway and benches around the pond.
Ahead, he saw Nat pushing Arra in her wheelchair. Arra was tossing to the greenbeaks the processed feed sold by the utility droids that cleaned the park. She laughed as the greenbeaks quacked and squabbled over the feed nuggets. To Zeerid, the sound of her joy was like music.
He spared a quick glance around, seeing many pedestrians and a few droids but nothing that gave him concern.
“Nat!” he called, and waved to them. “Arra!”
He thought his voice sounded different planetside than it did on Fatman, and he approved of the change. It wasn’t the voice of a spicerunner, not even the voice of a soldier. Instead, it was the gentle voice of a father who loved his daughter. Arra made him better. He knew that. And he needed to make sure he saw her more often.
Nat turned Arra’s chair and both of their eyes widened at the sight.
“Daddy!” Arra said.
Of all the words in the galaxy, that was the one he liked to hear most. She wheeled toward him, leaving Nat and the still-squabbling greenbeaks behind.
“What is that?” she asked as she came closer. Her eyes were wide, her smile bright.
He knelt down and scooped her out of her chair in a hug. She felt tiny.
“It is my surprise for you,” he said.
Arra’s face pinched in a question. “And what is that?” she asked, tapping the armor vest he wore under his clothes.
He felt his cheeks warm. “Something for work. That’s all.”
She seemed to accept that. “Look, Aunt Nat. A hoverchair!”
“So I see,” said Nat, walking up behind her.
“Is it for me?” Arra asked.
“Of course it is!” Zeerid answered.
Arra squealed and gave Zeerid another hug, dislodging his hat. “You are the best, Daddy. Can I try it out right now?”
“Sure,” Zeerid said, and set her down in it. “The controls are right here. They’re intuitive, so—”
She manipulated the controls and was off and flying before he could say another word. He just watched her go, smiling.
“Hello, Nat,” he said.
His sister-in-law looked worn, too young for the lines on her face, the circles under her eyes. She wore her brown hair in a style even Zeerid knew was five years out of date. Zeerid wondered how he must look to her. Probably just as worn.
“Zeerid. That was very nice. The chair, I mean.”
“Yeah,” Zeerid said. “She seems to be enjoying it.”
Arra flew the hoverchair after some greenbeaks and they fled into the water.
“Careful, Arra!” he called.
“I’m fine, Daddy,” she said.
He and Nat stood there, next to each other but with an abyss between them.
“Been a while,” Nat said. “She needs to see you more often.”
“I know. I’m trying.”
She seemed to want to say something but held off.
“How’s work?”
“I am a waitress in a casino, Zeerid,” she scoffed. “An old waitress. Work is hard. My feet hurt. My back hurts. I’m tired. And our apartment is the size of an aircar.”
He could not help but take all of it personally. “I will try to send more.”
“No, no.” She waved to punctuate the words. “If it wasn’t for the credits you do send, we’d go hungry. It’s not that. I just … feel like I’m on a treadmill, you know? Can’t stop running but I’m going nowhere.”
He nodded. “I hear you.”
Arra called to him. “Look, Daddy!”
She flew the hoverchair in a tight circle, laughing the whole way.
“Careful, Arra,” he said, but smiled.
“Wait until you’ve got the hang of that, Peashooter,” Nat said.
They stood together in silence for a time. Then Nat’s voice turned serious. “How did you afford the chair, Zeerid?”
He did not look at her, fearful that she’d see the ambivalence in his face.
“Work. What else?”
“What kind of work?”
He did not like the tone of the question. “Same as always.”
She turned on him, and the stern expression on her face channeled Val so well he almost crumbled.
“You’ve been sending us one hundred, two hundred credits a month for almost a year now. Today you show up with a hoverchair that I know costs more than the aircar I drive.”
“Nat—”
“What are you into, Zeerid? You have this ridiculous hat on, armor.”
“The same—”
“Do you think I’m blind? Stupid?”
“No, of course not.”
“I can guess at what you do, Zeerid. Arra has already lost her mother. She can’t lose her father, too. It will crush her.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.
“You’re not hearing me. You think she’d rather have legs than have her father? That hoverchair more than you? She glows when she knows you are coming to see us. Listen to me, Zeerid. Whatever you’re doing, give it up. Sell that ship of yours, take a job planetside, and just be a father to your daughter.”
He wished he could. “I can’t, Nat. Not yet.” He turned to face her. “One more run and everything changes. One more.”
She stared back at him, her skin pale from too little sun and inadequate nutrition. “I told her not to marry a soldier, much less a pilot.”
“Val?”
“Yes, Val.”
“Nat—”
“You don’t know when to stop, Zeerid. You never have. All of you, you put on that armor, get in that cockpit, and you think you’re invulnerable, that a blaster can’t kill you, that your ship can’t get shot out of the sky. It can, Zeerid. And if yours does, it’ll hurt Arra more than the accident that took her legs.”
He could think of nothing to say because he knew she was right. “I’m going to buy her a sweet ice. You want one?”
She shook her head and he walked toward the concession stand. He felt Nat’s eyes on his back the whole way.
VRATH WATCHED ZEERID walk away from the woman, his sister-in-law, and head
to the vendor stands to get a sweet ice for his daughter.
His daughter.
Small wonder that Zeerid operated with such concern for being followed. Vrath knew what an organization like The Exchange, or one like the Hutts, could do to a man with a family. A young child was a lever waiting to be pulled, the marionette strings to make a man dance.
A man living the life Zeerid and Vrath lived had to have either enough power—or a patron with enough power—to protect his family, or his family was at risk. Zeerid had neither power nor patron. Vrath respected the fact that Zeerid had managed to keep his daughter out of the game for so long. No mean feat.
But now she was in it, a piece on the board.
Vrath would not use her, of course. As a matter of professional pride, Vrath never resorted to threats or harm to a man’s family, much less a child. It lacked precision, something a bomber pilot would do, not a sniper.
And Vrath was still a sniper in his soul. One shot, one kill, no collaterals.
He turned away from Nat and Arra to locate Zeerid and found him standing directly behind him, a red sweet ice in one hand, a green in the other, and eyes like spears.
“Do I know you, friend?” Zeerid said. His eyes took in Vrath’s clothes, his bearing.
Vrath slouched some, adopted as harmless a look as he could. “I don’t think so. You from around here?”
Zeerid took a step closer, angling his body for a strike.
Vrath had to fight down the instinct to shift his own stance to eliminate the off-angle of Zeerid’s approach. Zeerid would recognize it. And Vrath could not afford to kill Zeerid now, not until he used Zeerid to locate the engspice.
“What were you looking at, friend?” Zeerid asked.
“Daddy!” Arra called, but Zeerid’s eyes never left Vrath’s face.
“I was just watching the greenbeaks. I like to feed ’em.” He reached into his pocket and grabbed a handful of the feed pellets he’d purchased from one of the park’s droids.
