Scoundrels

by Timothy Zahn

  “Any idea how many cards there are in the set?” Han asked.

  “My contact says there are supposed to be five, tucked away in some kind of fancy hand-enameled wooden box that no one outside Black Sun has ever seen,” Eanjer said. “The whole thing should be small enough to fit in a satchel or even a hip pouch. Like Bink says, easily portable.”

  “It explains the cryodex, too,” Winter said. “Perfect, unreadable encryption, and the only time you need to bring the two together is when you want to show someone the specific dirt you have on them.”

  “So why keep the cryodex in a downtown hotel instead of in Villachor’s vault with the files themselves?” Zerba asked. “Bink just proved how much less secure it is there.”

  “Like I said: keeping them apart means no one knows where to go looking,” Bink said. “You always want to keep the key and the lock away from each other if you can.”

  “And in this case, no one even knows what they’re looking for,” Eanjer added. “I’m pretty sure even my informant doesn’t have the slightest idea there’s a cryodex involved.”

  “There may be another reason for keeping the cryodex there,” Han said, a new and interesting idea starting to form in the back of his mind. If the cryodex was being kept away from Villachor’s place because the Falleen didn’t trust him, an entirely different angle might be opening up in front of them. “Winter, could you make us a cryodex of our own? Not one that works, just something that looks right?”

  “Certainly,” Winter said, eyeing him thoughtfully. “It would be a relatively simple modification of an old Comp600 datapad, assuming we can find one.”

  “Bound to be a few around town somewhere,” Rachele said. “I’ll hunt one down for you.”

  “Wait a second,” Tavia spoke up warningly. “If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, the answer is no. Bink’s not going back in there. Not after Kell and Zerba’s little bouncy-ball game out in the hallway.”

  “Too bad she didn’t grab it when she could,” Kell murmured.

  “She couldn’t,” Tavia said. “The power sensors, remember?”

  “She could have pulled out the power cell.”

  “We didn’t know, it’s too late now, and we’re not going to talk about it,” Han said firmly.

  “And it wouldn’t have mattered if she had,” Lando said. “Half an hour after the cryodex disappeared, the files would have been off Wukkar and heading back to Imperial Center.”

  “At least they wouldn’t have been able to use the files against anyone else,” Kell pointed out.

  “Of course they would,” Lando scoffed. “You think Xizor’s dumb enough to keep all his barks in one kennel? He’s bound to have a backup cryodex squirreled away somewhere.”

  “There was only one reported stolen,” Winter reminded him.

  Lando shrugged. “So?”

  “Which is why we’re going to concentrate on the files and not the cryodex,” Han said. “Tavia, how fast could you put together a full-spec spit-mitter, and how small could you make it?”

  Tavia shrugged. “Couple of days. How small do you need it?”

  “The size of a data card,” Han said.

  “That’s pretty small,” Tavia said, frowning off into space. “But I think I can make it work. Of course, for something that size the receiver will have to be pretty close. A hundred meters, maybe less.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” Han assured her. “Now—”

  “What’s a full-spec spit-mitter?” Eanjer asked.

  “Full-spectrum sensor cluster with integrated recorder and burst transmitter,” Bink told him. “You slip one inside the place you want to burgle, and it spits you out the relevant details about security, guard stations, and everything else. If you pick your frequency right, the signal will slip right through the target’s sensor-block fields.”

  “And by sending it in a short burst you don’t have to worry about a transmission net catching it,” Tavia added, her eyes steady on Han. “Of course, it does have to be inside the vault to do any good. You got some idea how to pull that off?”

  “I’m working on it,” Han assured her. “Okay. First job is to find out what these data cards look like. Rachele, you said you knew some of the people who’ve been going in and out of Marblewood over the past few days. Anyone there you might be able to get talking?”

  “I don’t think so,” Rachele said, wrinkling her nose. “Most of them I only know by sight.”

  “I may know one of them,” Eanjer offered. “What were some of the names?”

  “Well, there was Tark Kisima,” Rachele said, her eyes defocusing slightly as she thought back. “He was one of the first. I also saw Alu Cymmuj, Donnal Cuciv—”

  “Donnal Cuciv—I know him,” Eanjer interrupted.

  “Who is he?” Dozer asked.

  “The man in overall charge of incoming passenger and shipping lists at the Iltarr City Spaceport,” Rachele said. “Supposed to be a pretty upright citizen. I wonder what Villachor has on him.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Eanjer said. “I know him, and I’m sure I can get him to talk to me.”

  “Can you get him to talk about the data cards without tipping him off?” Han asked.

  “Especially without him going straight to Villachor about it?” Lando added.

  “Leave it to me,” Eanjer said, standing up.

  “Sure,” Han said, frowning. It couldn’t possibly be this easy. Could it? “Chewie, Dozer—you go with him.”

  “No,” Eanjer said, shaking his head. “Sorry, but I need to do this alone. Donnal’s a very private person. He’s not going to say a single word if there’s anyone there except me.”

  “You should at least have someone along for the ride,” Rachele said. “You’re probably still on Villachor’s hunt list.”

  “Don’t worry, I know how to stay out of Villachor’s way,” Eanjer said, his voice edged with bitterness. “I’ll be fine.”

  Han looked at Chewbacca, but the Wookiee just rumbled a reluctant agreement. “Just make sure you keep your comlink on,” Han said. “And call if you even think there might be a problem. You said this informant of yours doesn’t know about the cryodex?”

  “Correct,” Eanjer said. “Actually, I don’t think he’s got the slightest idea how the system works. All he knows is that the files are probably here, and if they are, then Qazadi’s got them.”

  “Good,” Han said. “Let’s keep it that way.”

  “Right.” Eanjer turned and headed toward the door.

  “Just a minute,” Dozer said suddenly. “Before he goes, I want to get something straight.”

  “Sure,” Han said, motioning for Eanjer to stop. “What?”

  Dozer’s lips compressed. “I want to make sure we’re all still in this together,” he said. “I mean, we’re talking Black Sun. That’s not what any of us signed up for.”

  “Fair enough,” Han agreed, looking around the room. And here was where it all either held together or fell apart. “Anyone want to say something?”

  There was a brief silence. “There’s still a hundred sixty-three million in the vault, right?” Bink asked at last.

  “Of course,” Eanjer said.

  “Then we’re still in,” Bink said. She nudged her sister. “Right?”

  Tavia didn’t look very happy, but she gave a dutiful nod. “Right.”

  “Plus whatever the blackmail files are worth,” Winter spoke up. “Depending on who we can attract as a buyer, that could easily triple our final take.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” Zerba said.

  “Me too,” Kell seconded.

  Han looked at Lando, who nodded silently. “That just leaves you, Dozer,” he said. “If you’re having trouble with this, now’s the time to say so.”

  Dozer’s gaze flicked around the room. Then, lowering his eyes, he hissed a breath out between his teeth. “No,” he said reluctantly. “If everyone else is on board, I guess I am, too.”

  “You don’t h
ave to be,” Han said. “You want to bail, no one’s stopping you.”

  “No,” Dozer said, more firmly this time. “Besides, I need the credits.”

  “So we’re settled?” Eanjer said impatiently. “Wonderful. Can I go now?”

  Han waved permission. Eanjer turned back to the door, and a moment later was gone.

  “We’d better get to work on that spit-mitter,” Bink said, standing up and motioning Tavia to follow. “Chewie, you want to give us a hand?”

  The Wookiee warbled assent, and the three of them headed to the twins’ room for Tavia’s gear. As if their departure had been the signal for the party to break up, Winter, Kell, Rachele, and Zerba also rose from their seats, said a mutual round of good-nights, and headed toward their own rooms. Dozer followed behind them, not speaking to anyone as he made his brooding exit.

  Leaving Han and Lando alone.

  “He didn’t sound convinced,” Lando commented.

  “He’ll be okay,” Han said, peering off in the direction Dozer had gone. But Lando was right. Dozer was running shaky—shakier than Han had ever seen him. “That thing with the Falleen has him a little rattled, that’s all.”

  “You know him pretty well?”

  “Well enough,” Han said, looking back at Lando. “I thought you knew him, too.”

  Lando shrugged, gently swirling the remains of his drink. “We’ve crossed paths a couple of times, but that’s about it. Zerba I only worked with once, on that Tchine thing. Winter and Kell I don’t know at all.”

  “Mazzic recommends them.”

  “Mazzic’s been wrong before.”

  “They’re okay,” Han insisted. “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

  “I like it here.” Lando smiled faintly. “Besides, you need me.”

  Han thought about denying it. But unfortunately, it was the truth. “So what have you been up to lately?”

  “Not much,” Lando said, waving a hand vaguely. “Winning some, losing some. You?”

  Han shrugged. I picked up some crazy passengers, rescued a princess, fought stormtroopers and TIE fighters, helped save the galaxy, and got my reward snatched right off my ship by pirates. “Not much,” he said aloud. “Why are you here?”

  “Rachele said you invited me.”

  “Yeah. Why are you here?”

  Lando pursed his lips. “To be honest, I’ve been thinking about … you know. All the stuff that went down between us. I’ve been thinking that maybe it wasn’t as much your fault as I thought at the time. That it wasn’t so much you deliberately stiffing us, but more like you just being rotten at picking the people you could trust.”

  Han grimaced. “Yeah. I have that problem sometimes,” he admitted.

  “I’ve noticed.” Lando nodded toward the door. “How well do you know this Eanjer character?”

  “Met him for the first time eight days ago. But Rachele looked into his story. Seems solid enough.”

  “Did he ever mention that Villachor was Black Sun?” Lando asked pointedly. “Or did that part somehow get forgotten?”

  “He didn’t say anything about it,” Han said. “But you heard Rachele. Even the top locals didn’t know. He probably didn’t, either.”

  “Maybe,” Lando said. “But we know now. You still want to do this?”

  “It’d be nice to have Jabba off my back for a change,” Han said. “Credits are the only thing that’ll do that.”

  “So you’re going to trade angry Hutts for angry Falleen.” Lando shook his head. “Not sure how good a deal that is.”

  “You play the hand you’ve got the best you can,” Han said, frowning. “You trying to get me to bail on the job?”

  “I’m trying to make sure you’re not in over your head,” Lando said. “You’re a smuggler, Han. I’m a gambler. We’re not con artists or thieves.” He jerked his thumb toward the other end of the suite. “As far as I know, none of them has ever done anything on this scale, either.”

  He was right, Han knew. This whole thing was rapidly climbing to heights he’d never dreamed of when he’d gotten it rolling. The fact that he was having to trust this many other people to know what they were doing just made it worse.

  Still, it wasn’t the first time he’d had to trust people. Usually it worked out all right.

  Usually.

  “Maybe not,” he conceded. “But together we’ve got all the skills we need to pull it off. All we need is the right plan, and a little confidence.”

  “Both of which you’re going to supply?”

  “With help from Chewie and Rachele and Bink,” Han said. “And you, if you want to put in your half credit’s worth.”

  “Of course,” Lando said with one of those innocent looks he did so well. “We’re old friends here to do a job together, right?” He lifted a finger. “One other thing, before I forget. Assuming everything goes according to plan, I want the blackmail files as my share.”

  Han stared. “You want what?”

  “You heard me,” Lando said. “I know a guy who’ll pay good money for them.”

  “We won’t have a cryodex to toss in with the deal,” Han warned.

  “He won’t care,” Lando assured him. “But the guy’s a little touchy. It’d be better for me to approach him alone than for us to do it as a group.”

  “Uh-huh,” Han said, nodding as the pieces fell together. “So which Hutt is it?”

  Lando made a face. “Durga, if you must know,” he said reluctantly. “He’s still pretty steamed at Xizor and Black Sun over the whole Ylesia thing.”

  “That happened a lot at Ylesia.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Lando said with only a hint of sarcasm. “Deal?”

  Han thought it over. Even given Durga’s humiliation at Ylesia, he seriously doubted the Hutt would pay more than a few thousand credits for a set of unreadable data cards.

  But it was entirely possible that Lando knew more about Durga’s current situation and mood than he did. If he thought his chances were worth giving up his share of Eanjer’s millions, he was welcome to give it a shot. Han certainly had no interest in adding another Hutt to his own list of potentially unsatisfied customers. “Sure, why not?” he said. “Cards instead of credits.”

  “Thanks,” Lando said. He took a last swallow from his mug and leaned back. “So. Tell me about this plan.”

  It had been a long day, and as was his custom, Villachor had gone outside onto the balcony of his private suite for a few minutes of quiet and relaxation.

  It was a cool, calm night, with no clouds and only a fitful breeze. The lights of Iltarr City glittered around him—around and above, since most of the buildings at the edges of his estate were much taller than his own modest four-story mansion. On most nights he reveled in the view, imagining himself to be on the dais in some Old Republic fortress, giving orders to an army of retainers standing around him in their humble silence.

  Tonight, though, the dark light-flecked towers seemed to brood down on him. And instead of a lordly master, he felt like a target in the center of the practice range.

  Something was going on out there. Something was lurking in the city streets, perhaps gazing at one of his gates at this very moment. Something that could potentially bring down everything he’d bribed and blackmailed and murdered to create on this world and in this sector.

  And he had no idea what it was.

  The indicator panel on his railing blinked a request: Sheqoa, his head of security, was at the door to his suite, requesting admittance. Flipping up the top of his armrest, Villachor keyed him in, making his usual private bet with himself that this time he would hear the man’s entry onto the balcony behind him.

  Once again he lost the bet. Former Imperial shock troopers, after all, weren’t known for making unnecessary noise.

  “I have a report from Riston, sir,” Sheqoa said, his voice coming from barely two meters away. He’d reached the balcony, and then some. “He says Crovendif’s glitterstim is the genuine article, and he’s p
retty sure it didn’t come from Kessel.”

  “Pretty sure?” Villachor countered. “What is this pretty sure Sithspit?”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Sheqoa said, his voice respectful but firm. “But Riston says there’s no way to be a hundred percent sure, not with something grown organically. Too much variation in the spiders themselves. All he can get is an eighty-five-percent certainty.”

  Villachor scowled, his first impulse to get up, march down to Riston’s precious little lab, and shake the analyst’s thin neck until he came up with something more useful.

  But that wouldn’t gain him anything more than momentary satisfaction. Sheqoa’s primary job was Villachor’s protection, but over the years the big ex-commando had also taken on the unofficial task of acting as buffer between his boss and the rest of the staff.

  Which was probably a good thing. When there was something to be gained by threats or violence, Sheqoa was right there at Villachor’s side, handing him weapons or doing the job himself. But when there wasn’t, he would likewise be there to keep his boss from wasting people. Especially competent people.

  If Riston said there was nothing more to be gleaned from Crovendif’s sample, he was probably right.

  With an effort, Villachor forced away his reflexive thoughts of murder. “What about Crovendif himself?” he asked instead.

  “He’s worked for us for ten years, eight as a seller, two as a street manager,” Sheqoa said. “Decent record. Nothing spectacular.”

  “Smart enough to pull a scam like this by himself?”

  He could feel Sheqoa’s frown. “He’s barely bright enough to pull his correct percentage,” the big man said. “You think this is a scam?”

  “I think the timing is highly suspicious,” Villachor growled. “Vigo Qazadi shows up; and then, barely nine days later, someone pops up and offers to sell us glitterstim below Black Sun’s rates?”

  Sheqoa was silent a moment, apparently trying to digest that. “Got to be the galaxy’s unluckiest scammer,” he said slowly. “Odds of that happening are … really low.”

  Villachor glared out at the city lights around him, once again forcing down the urge to strangle. He hadn’t expected Sheqoa to understand the subtleties of the situation, and the security chief had lived right down to his expectations.