by Timothy Zahn
This wasn’t coincidence. Not a chance. Either someone was tweaking Qazadi and Black Sun, which was an extraordinarily foolish thing to do … or else the mysterious stranger was one of Qazadi’s people, and the glitterstim offer was a test.
A shiver ran up Villachor’s back. A test. But a test of what? Villachor’s loyalty? Fine—Villachor could pass any such test.
But which direction was he expected to jump? Was he supposed to tell Qazadi about the glitterstim peddler and wait for the vigo to tell him what to do? That might show weakness and indecision on Villachor’s part, hardly qualities Prince Xizor wanted in one of his sector chiefs. Should he instead look into the matter privately, bringing it to Qazadi’s attention only after the investigation was complete? But if Qazadi caught him midway through the process, it could look as if he were planning to make a deal behind Black Sun’s back. That would be the path to a quick, anonymous grave.
What if there was no right answer? What if Xizor had already passed judgment on him and this glitterstim test was nothing more than a way of letting Villachor choose the path of his own entrapment? Xizor hardly needed an excuse to eliminate one of his subordinates, but he might do it like this purely for the entertainment of watching the doomed man squirm in a net from which there was no escape.
Such thoughts should never be simply dismissed, Qazadi had said about Villachor’s qualms at their first meeting, for I do not leave Imperial Center without great cause.
Villachor scowled. Qazadi had explained that the reasons for his visit were threefold: to remove the blackmail files from Imperial Center, thereby throwing off Vader and Xizor’s other enemies; to get Qazadi himself out of range of various intrigues those same enemies were preparing to launch; and to use the files to generate a few more reluctant slaves from among Iltarr City’s elite and the dignitaries who would soon be arriving on Wukkar for the Festival of Four Honorings.
Three reasons to make the trip from Imperial Center. If there were three, why not four? Could the fourth reason be to engineer Villachor’s destruction?
And then there was the incident at the Lulina Crown Hotel, where Qazadi’s assistant Aziel had been at the center of some strange semi-attack. “Is there anything new on the Lulina Crown incident?” he asked.
“No, sir,” Sheqoa said, his tone oddly reluctant. “Not really.”
“Not really?” Villachor echoed sharply. “What does not really mean?”
“The police have closed the file,” Sheqoa said, sounding pained. “They’ve written it off as a prank.”
Villachor shifted halfway around in his chair and glared up at the other. “A prank?” he demanded. “A bomb goes off in a hotel hallway and it’s a prank?” He turned back around, glaring at the city lights as he pulled out his comlink. Apparently it was time to remind Police Commissioner Hildebron of the level of service that Black Sun’s bribe credits had bought from him.
“It was Commissioner Hildebron’s order,” Sheqoa said doggedly. “After he received a call from Master Qazadi.”
Villachor froze, the comlink halfway to his lips. “Master Qazadi called off the investigation?”
“So it appears.”
Slowly, Villachor returned the comlink to his belt. But that was insane. Why in the galaxy would Qazadi call off the investigators? Aziel was a fellow Black Sun official, a close colleague, and—as far as Villachor had been able to tell—as close to a friend as Falleen ever got. By all logic, Qazadi should be down at police HQ right now, pumping Hildebron’s office full of pheromones and insisting that the threat against his colleague and the cryodex key codes be neutralized—
Villachor’s throat tightened. Of course. The cryodex codes.
Because being a Black Sun boughtman didn’t mean Hildebron wasn’t good at his job. He was. And a truly proper investigation might easily expose the fact that Aziel was in Iltarr City as guardian of half of the key codes that activated the cryodex Qazadi had locked up in his suite.
Of course, an improper investigation might lead to the theft of those same codes if whoever was trying to steal them decided to give it another try. But apparently Qazadi was willing to risk that.
Maybe he was right to do so. Aziel had to come to Marblewood to assist Qazadi in activating the cryodex before each of Villachor’s blackmail sessions, but the cryodex and the files themselves were never at any risk. If Aziel’s codes were stolen or destroyed, it would simply mean Villachor couldn’t use the files against potential targets. An inconvenience, but hardly a serious problem.
But whether the attack had failed or been a prank, the fact of the matter was that a Black Sun official had had his evening ruined in the middle of Villachor’s territory. That wasn’t something that could simply be ignored or swept away.
And if the glitterstim was a test, maybe this was, too. “Do we have anyone over at the hotel?” he asked.
“No,” Sheqoa said. “I thought Master Qazadi ordered us to stay away.”
“That was before his people were attacked,” Villachor growled. “I want a squad in place over there by midnight. Put at least two men on that same floor and the others in whatever rooms they can get above and below Lord Aziel’s suite.”
“Yes, sir,” Sheqoa said hesitantly. “May I remind you, sir, that we’re going to be stretched thin as it is for Festival crowd control? Removing a full squad from our roster will make it worse.”
“I don’t care,” Villachor said tartly. “As long as we keep a full quota on the vault, that’s all that matters. If someone wants to use the Festival as cover to sneak into the house and steal a few spoons, he’s welcome to try. Anything like that can be dealt with later.”
“Understood,” Sheqoa said, clearly still not happy but knowing not to argue the point further. “I don’t suppose you could persuade Master Qazadi to bring Aziel and the others here instead? It would make security a lot easier.”
Villachor felt his stomach tighten. Yes, it certainly would. Villachor had in fact pointed out that very fact to Qazadi at their first meeting.
But Qazadi had brushed off the suggestion, invoking a Black Sun policy of keeping the blackmail files and the cryodex coding separated unless one of the files was in the process of being read. Villachor had listened to that reasoning, nodded politely, and pretended to accept it, even though he wasn’t any more satisfied than Sheqoa was. It had always struck him as less an explanation than a thinly plated excuse.
Maybe there was another reason for Qazadi to keep Aziel away from Marblewood. Maybe Aziel wasn’t just here to handle the key codes, but was also waiting in the wings to move in and take over as Villachor’s successor once Villachor failed Qazadi’s test.
If that was the case, it would hardly be in Villachor’s best interests to knock himself out stretching his resources to protect Aziel.
Tests within tests within tests. And Villachor still didn’t know which way Qazadi wanted him to jump.
But there was one thing he was sure of: if Qazadi was hoping for a quiet and civilized transfer of power, he could forget it. “Go back to Riston,” he ordered Sheqoa. “Tell him I want him to keep running tests until he can tell me with certainty where that glitterstim came from.”
“I don’t think there are any more tests he can run, sir,” Sheqoa said.
“Then he’d better invent a few,” Villachor shot back. “Go.”
“Yes, sir,” Sheqoa said. He didn’t look happy, but he knew an order when he heard it.
“And you’re not to tell Master Qazadi or his people about any of this,” Villachor added. “Not until we’re sure.”
“Yes, sir,” the big man said. “Good night, sir.”
He turned and slipped away as silently as he’d arrived. Villachor turned around again, watching until Sheqoa’s shadow had crossed to the door at the far end of the suite. Then, with a thoughtful hiss, he turned back to the cityscape.
Of course Riston wouldn’t glean anything new. But ordering more tests would buy Villachor some time—enough, he hoped, to sort throu
gh the possible traps that had been laid so tantalizingly in front of him.
Meanwhile, the Festival of Four Honorings would begin in three days, and with it crowds of the great and small of Iltarr City would descend on his grounds and courtyard. Villachor had displays to build, entertainment to prepare, food and drink to coordinate, and a large number of officials to be quietly taken inside his mansion and bribed, threatened, or blackmailed.
By the time the Festival was over, he promised himself, even Xizor would have to concede that Villachor, and Villachor alone, knew best how to run Black Sun’s operations in this sector. If Qazadi’s plan was still to take him down, he would find Villachor a much more difficult target than he’d thought.
And if the glitterstim lure was someone else trying to move in on his territory …
Villachor bared his teeth at the towering lights. If someone out there was really foolish enough to take him on, that someone would regret it. Very, very badly.
The lock clicked and the door opened, and with a weariness Dayja hadn’t permitted himself to feel until that precise moment, he walked into the suite.
D’Ashewl was waiting up for him, sitting at the desk in the office. “How did it go?”
“It worked,” Dayja said, wading through the thick carpet to the closest comfortable chair and dropping gratefully into it. It had been a long, long day. “Master Cuciv never saw me coming, and is currently sleeping off the Speakeasy drug.”
D’Ashewl grunted. “I hope you know the chance you were taking with that,” he warned. “An eighty-percent heart failure rate is not something to be taken lightly.”
“I know,” Dayja said, wincing at the memory of watching the elderly spaceport official fight his way through the drug’s initial surge before his heart finally stabilized. “But there was no choice. We needed to know about the blackmail file data cards, and we couldn’t leave Cuciv with any memory that he’d been questioned about it. That meant interrogation droids were out, along with Bavo Six, OV 600, or any of our other repertoire of drugs.”
“And if he’d died?”
Dayja shrugged. “Eanjer had two other names. One of them probably would have survived the procedure.”
D’Ashewl grunted again. “But you did get it?”
“Yes,” Dayja said. “Standard data card size, matte black, with the Black Sun logo emblazoned across the front in a shiny black.”
“Subtle,” d’Ashewl said wryly. “Artistic, too. Not what you’d expect of Xizor’s thugs. How big is the logo?”
“Well, that’s the one small speck of gree in the grease,” Dayja conceded. “Cuciv was just a hair vague on that point. Eanjer’s going to have his team make up two or three versions and hope one of them is close enough to pass.”
“Not ideal,” d’Ashewl said. “But you can probably make it work.”
For a moment the room was silent. Dayja unloaded his knife, comlink, and hold-out blaster from his pockets onto the low table beside the chair, trying to decide whether he was too tired to eat or too hungry to sleep. The latter, he concluded. Getting back to his feet, he headed toward the food station beside the entertainment cluster at the other end of the office. “Any luck tracking down my new best friends from the holos I sent you?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Not really,” d’Ashewl said. “I never cease to be amazed at how few criminals have anything more than just their names in their police files. Even the ISB records don’t have much.”
“The high-level ones apparently employ slicers with way too much time on their hands,” Dayja agreed.
“So it would seem,” d’Ashewl said. “Has he asked the obvious question yet?”
“Why I don’t just whistle up a legion of stormtroopers and descend on Marblewood in force?” Dayja asked sourly. “Not in so many words, but he’s hinted at it. I’ve tried to give the impression that we’re being required to stick to proper legal procedures. The whole civil liberties and warrants thing.”
D’Ashewl snorted. “Liberties and warrants. Right.” He sighed, the sound audible all the way over at the food station. “I hope you realize how very thin the ice is that we’re walking on, Dayja. The Director is having serious problems with the court right now, and may be on his way out whether we get him the blackmail files or not. If we’re tied to him when he goes over the edge—and as of nine days ago, we are—it won’t be pleasant for any of us.”
“There’s still time,” Dayja said firmly. “If he can find out which of his enemies are on Black Sun’s payroll, he can turn that association against them.”
“Maybe,” d’Ashewl said, not sounding convinced. “But whether he pulls out of his dive or not, our futures are still balanced on the edge. If we get the files, we’ll be heroes. If we can’t, it may not matter whether the Director goes or not. Xizor will be furious that an attempt was even made, and with his blackmail capabilities intact he’ll be a formidable enemy.”
“Life’s a gamble,” Dayja reminded him, keying for something that would be quick to prepare and equally quick to eat. “Intel work even more so. Don’t worry, this will work.”
“I hope you’re right,” d’Ashewl said. “What are you going to do with the glitterstim gambit? That’s already in the works, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but it can be put on pause for a few days,” Dayja said. “No one but that street manager, Crovendif, knows what I look like. As long as I stay off his streets I’ll be fine.”
“So you’re letting Eanjer and his team take point?”
“For now,” Dayja said. “I assume Qazadi will be here for the entire festival. If Eanjer isn’t able to get the blackmail files, I should have time to go back to my original plan.”
“This is an extremely dirty group of hands to be placing our lives into,” d’Ashewl warned.
“It’ll be all right,” Dayja assured him, permitting himself a tight smile.
D’Ashewl’s concern was touching and certainly not misplaced. But they both knew that his choice of pronouns was merely a courtesy. D’Ashewl had been in service long enough and had amassed enough friends and allies that even Xizor would hesitate to take him on. Certainly not over an espionage effort that had ultimately failed.
No, d’Ashewl’s life wasn’t in Eanjer’s hands. But Dayja had no such high-powered backing. What happened over the next few days would make his career or would end it. Permanently.
But the risk had to be taken. Black Sun was an evil that had been gnawing at the roots of the galaxy for a long, long time, and it had to be stopped. If the Emperor wasn’t inclined to take action and Lord Vader was too preoccupied, then the job would fall to lesser men.
And if those lesser men also fell … still, as he’d said, life was a gamble.
The dice had been rolled. He would just have to wait to see how they landed.
For a few minutes after Lando trudged off to his room, Han remained where he was, gazing out the window at the clump of lights of Villachor’s mansion. With the relative darkness of the Marblewood grounds surrounding it, the mansion almost looked like a small star cluster drifting all alone in space.
And every pilot in the galaxy knew how dangerous star clusters were.
Lando was right, of course. Han was a pilot and a smuggler. What did he know about con artistry?
Nothing, really. But he knew people. He knew how people thought and reacted, especially people driven by greed and the lust for power. He’d seen it with Jabba and Batross, he’d watched it happen with Imperial officials, and he’d felt a twinge of it himself on occasion.
Maybe that was what he liked most about Leia. As a princess of Alderaan, she’d had plenty of power, more than most people could ever dream of. Yet she’d tossed it aside for what she considered to be a higher and nobler cause.
Whether it was a higher cause, of course, or whether it was just a fancy way of committing mass suicide still remained to be seen. But that wasn’t Han’s problem. His problem was that he’d more or less promised justice for Eanjer, and shares of 163 mil
lion credits for everyone else.
And Lando was right about another thing. Sometimes Han’s trust in people turned out to be badly misplaced.
He thought about it a while longer. Then, prying himself out of the chair, he went in search of Dozer. Considering how the other had been acting when he’d left the conversation room earlier, there was only one likely place to start looking. He found Dozer in the kitchen, munching on an enormous sandwich.
“Am I interrupting?” Han asked as he walked in and sat down.
“No,” Dozer said. “Is this about Lando being front man? Because if it is, forget everything I said before. Far as I’m concerned, he can have the job.”
“Glad to hear it,” Han said. “Because there’s another job I want you to do for me. Something that might take you a few days.”
Dozer’s eyes narrowed. “You trying to get rid of me?”
“Course not,” Han assured him.
“Because if this is about me being worried about Black Sun earlier, I’m okay with that now,” Dozer persisted.
“I know,” Han said. “This is just something I’ve thought of that we’re going to need, that’s all.”
“Uh-huh,” Dozer said, still looking suspicious. “Does it involve facing that Falleen again?”
“No Falleen,” Han said. “It’ll be a little tricky, but it should be safe enough.”
For another few seconds Dozer continued to study his face. Then he carefully set his sandwich down on the plate and brushed the crumbs off his hands. “Okay,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “Tell me all about it.”
For the next three days the team stayed close to home. The twins’ room quickly became an electronics shop as Bink, Tavia, Chewbacca, and Winter worked to build spit-mitters that would fit into the limited space inside a data card. Unfortunately, Eanjer’s friend Donnal Cuciv hadn’t been able to give them the correct size of the Black Sun logo on the data card that Villachor had showed him, which meant they were going to need at least three and possibly as many as five to safely cover the range of possibilities. With Winter and Chewbacca also building the fake cryodex, the timing was going to be tight.
