by Timothy Zahn
“Until then,” Lando confirmed. “One final observation, if I may. Nothing in this universe lasts forever. Not power, or position, or allies.” He inclined his head. “Not even Black Sun.” He turned the incline into a polite nod. “Good day, Master Villachor.”
Sheqoa walked him to the door and murmured a few words to the bodyguards waiting outside. One of them gestured silently to Lando, and without a word they escorted him along a wide corridor, through a pair of hand-carved doors, and to an unassuming door set in a thick but otherwise unassuming wall. Lando was ushered through it and found himself at the southern end of the mansion’s south wing.
The very door, in fact, where Aziel always made his entrance.
Which meant that, assuming Rachele’s schematic had been correct, he’d walked right past the junior ballroom and Villachor’s vault.
Maybe in two days he’d get to see inside that vault, where even Rachele and her incredible spiderweb of contacts and sources hadn’t yet been able to go.
Maybe in two days he’d be dead.
“Yeah, it’s the sand,” the tech said disgustedly as he led Kell and the droid still clamped to his wrist through a maze of workbenches and waist-high tool cabinets toward an uncluttered bench seat near the back. “Third one today, and the Honoring’s barely even started.” He turned Kell around and sat him down. “You—bend over,” he ordered the droid.
Obediently, the droid bent forward at the waist, putting Kell’s wrist and arm at a more comfortable angle. “At least it’s only one day,” Kell pointed out. “The rest of the Honorings should be easier on them.”
“Don’t you believe it,” the tech grumbled. He peeled away the top of the droid’s glove and peered down at the frozen joint. “The moving air stirs up dirt and dust and whatever sand the EGs didn’t get swept up, the moving water gets places even the sand doesn’t, and don’t even get me started on the fire and the fireworks.” He clucked his tongue. “Yeah, I see it. Hang on—I’ll have you out of there in a jiff.”
He walked over to an open tool cabinet and peered into it, muttering under his breath. As he did so, Kell looked casually around the room.
It was an impressive place, better equipped even than most of the professional droid repair facilities he’d been in and out of over the years. One of the side walls was nothing but high-end Cybot Galactica maintenance equipment, the machines interspersed with spare part bins and tool racks. Hooked into the machines or laid out on the nearby workbenches were partially dismantled sections of 434-FPC personal chefs, EG labor droids, and PD- and 3PO-series protocol droids. The equipment on the other side wall seemed to be dedicated to Industrial Automaton, SoroSuub, Changli, and GlimNova products, with a couple of SE4 servant droids and ASP-15 laborers on the tables. Tucked to one side, looking rather forlorn, was a WA-7 service unit that was probably a leftover from Republic days, most likely awaiting spare parts that Kell guessed were long since out of stock.
More ominously, a whole section of the back wall was devoted to 501-Z police droid equipment. A partially disassembled Zed was stretched out on one of the tables, and Kell took special note of its unusual upper arm, thigh, and waist sheathings.
“Here we go,” the tech said as he plucked a long, thin probe from the cabinet. Returning to Kell, he slipped the probe down the droid’s glove. A few seconds of silent fiddling, and suddenly the grip on Kell’s wrist loosened. The tech pried the mechanical fingers a few centimeters apart, and Kell slipped his hand free.
“Wonderful,” Kell said, massaging his wrist. “Thanks so much—I was afraid I was going to have to spend the whole Honoring stuck in here.”
“No, that would be me,” the tech said sourly. “Next time you see a droid grabbing for something, do me a favor and stay out of its way, okay?”
“You got it,” Kell promised. “That way out, right?”
“Right,” the tech said. “The guard outside will take you back out to the courtyard.”
The grand geyser eruption was the climax of the entire day, and it was as spectacular as the designers and techs had promised it would be. A multiple-stream spewing of sand and small pebbles burst from the largest of the cold-lava volcanoes, the various streams rotating and intermixing, with lights, sparklers, and glowings blazing among them, all to the accompaniment of music specially commissioned for the event. The crowd was as animated as the geyser itself, cheering and clapping and hooting their appreciation for every fresh nuance and unexpected switch-up. It was the crowning glory of the Honoring of Moving Stone, seen by thousands and sure to be talked about by thousands more in the days and months to come.
Standing alone on the presentation balcony, Villachor barely noticed the show.
Kwerve, the mysterious visitor had called himself. An innocuous name, certainly. A name that the vast majority of people wouldn’t find the least bit unusual or interesting.
But Villachor wasn’t most people. He was a Black Sun sector chief, and people in his dark line of work kept close tabs on one another. Bidlo Kwerve had been one of Jabba the Hutt’s top people, until Jabba decided to make him the first official victim of his new rancor pet. A creature, if the stories were true, that Kwerve himself had found and helped present to the corpulent gangster.
So why had Villachor’s visitor chosen that name? Was he saying he was working for the Hutts? That he wasn’t working for the Hutts? That the ultimate goal of this operation was to bring down the Hutts?
If so, was part of that goal to set Villachor up in the organizational vacuum that Jabba’s death would leave?
The insane part was that it would actually be possible. Xizor’s blackmail files were hardly Black Sun’s only weapon, but they were certainly one of the most potent. Being able to tag that population of Xizor’s silent army could give a rival immense leverage, whether that rival chose to draw some of the hapless victims away or merely to expose them and thereby eliminate their usefulness to Black Sun.
Kwerve was right about another thing, too. At the moment, Black Sun was at the height of its power, but that position wouldn’t last forever. Crime lords and organizations rose and fell like the tides, either destroyed by hungry rivals or corrupted and imploded by their own greed. That same chaos and death had brought down Sise Fromm, Alexi Garyn, Jorj Car’das, and countless others. Someday Jabba would fall, too.
As would Prince Xizor himself. Probably even sooner than Jabba, Villachor guessed, given his bitter rivalry with Lord Vader. Many crime lords underestimated Vader, or dismissed him as merely Palpatine’s lap-dog. Villachor knew better.
And when Xizor fell, where would Villachor be?
Alive, well, and someplace safe, he promised himself firmly. He would make sure of that. He would survive Black Sun, and if possible even prosper in the process.
Was Kwerve’s offer the doorway to that freedom? Or was it simply another sadistic test, and its supposed doorway leading nowhere but sudden death?
He didn’t yet know. But he was going to find out.
One way or another, he would end the Festival in a better position than when it began. Either he would have power and freedom or he would have a spare cryodex to offer to his master on Imperial Center. A cryodex, and very likely a freshly severed head.
Let Qazadi dare to test him then.
In the distance, the grand finale of Villachor’s Honoring of Moving Stone was little more than a slightly blurry cloud of twinkling lights. “It’s probably more impressive at ground level,” Eanjer offered.
“Probably,” Han agreed. “You ever been to one?”
“One of Villachor’s?” Eanjer shook his head. “No. Just assuming. I have a question.”
“Go ahead.”
Eanjer paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “I realize that you and the others know more about these things than I do. But it appears to me that there are some serious problems with this plan that you seem to be ignoring.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the fact that this Sheqoa fellow seems to be on t
o Bink,” he said. “She as much as admitted that he’d seen through her act.”
“He’s a security chief,” Han reminded him. “He wouldn’t be very good at his job if he fell for something that obvious.”
“Yes, but—”
“Don’t worry, it’s covered,” Han said. “Whether he falls for the scam or not, he’s still going to play along. That’s all we need.”
“But why?” Eanjer objected. “Why would he do that?”
“Because so far she hasn’t done anything illegal or even threatening,” Han explained patiently. “He’ll want to give her enough line to trip herself up, and hopefully tag whoever she’s working with while she’s at it.”
Eanjer shook his head. “Seems risky.”
“Sure, but that’s how men like that think,” Han said. “Next?”
“Next what?”
“Next problem. You said there were several.”
“Oh. Right.” Eanjer paused again, apparently re-collecting his thoughts. “There’s also the droids. I don’t see why Kell’s so happy about knowing how to disable all the simple ones when he admits we can’t touch the police droids. I mean, it’s not like we’re going to have to fight our way through a phalanx of Three-pee-ohs or something.”
“I hope not,” Han said dryly, thinking back to that first ride with Luke and his two droids. “Three-pee-ohs can be really annoying.”
“I’m serious,” Eanjer growled. “Those Zeds are bound to be Villachor’s first line of defense at his vault. How are we going to get the files and credit tabs with them standing in the way?”
“Easy,” Han soothed. “We’re still in the opening moves, remember? In two days we should have a better idea what we’re up against. Then if you want to panic, you can go ahead.”
Eanjer turned to face him, a baleful look in his eye. “You’re incredibly confident,” he bit out. “You know that? Especially for a small-time smuggler who’s never pulled off a heist like this in his life.”
“Who says I’ve never done this before?” Han countered. He hadn’t, of course, but that was beside the point. “Besides, it’s not about me. It’s about getting the right people for the job.” He gave Eanjer a lopsided smile. “And then giving them good leadership.”
“Joke all you want,” Eanjer growled. “You’re not going to crack Villachor’s vault with charm. Yours or Bink’s.”
“It’s not about charm, either,” Han said, gazing at the half-bandaged face as Lando’s doubts about the man flashed to mind. Eanjer was seeking information and assurances. How much should he give him?
None, he decided. “It’s about information,” he continued. “Dozer and Kell got us some this afternoon. Lando and Zerba will get more in a couple of days. Let’s just hang loose, and not panic, until we see the whole picture. Okay?”
For a long moment Eanjer continued to stare. Then, slowly, he turned back to the window. “I’m not convinced,” he muttered. “But it’s your show. We’ll see if you can pull it off.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Han said, trying to keep most of the sarcasm out of his voice.
Eanjer nodded toward Marblewood. “Looks like they’re done.”
Han turned to look. Sure enough, the distant light show had ended, and the visitors were starting to flow out through the gates. “Yeah,” he agreed. “So tomorrow is breakdown and reset, and then we get the Honoring of Moving Air?”
“And the moment of truth,” Eanjer said grimly. “I just hope Winter and the others will be ready in time.”
“They will,” Han promised. “Like I said, the right people for the job.”
The Honoring of Moving Stone had been impressive. The Honoring of Moving Air, in Lando’s slightly surprised opinion, was even more so.
By all sense and logic, it shouldn’t have been. The Festival’s first Honoring had included a lot of different materials for Villachor to work with: dust, sand, rocks, cold lava, and several motion sculptures that Lando had eventually concluded were stone-layered droids. It was hard to envision how simply moving air around could compete with a hand like that.
But Villachor’s engineers had pulled it off. Part of the trick was to make the air visible, with tiny, glowing particles light enough to be suspended in the forced breezes of the air geysers, twist fountains, and cascaderies. Several of the basic geyser and volcano setups were being reused for those, resources Lando guessed would also be utilized for the other two Honorings.
But the main approach the engineers had used was to also bring the other senses into play. Delectable aromas wafted on the breezes, drifting across the grounds or spinning off the geysers and twist fountains, the mixtures continually changing and always complementary. Sounds had also been added: high-pitched bird calls accompanying the forced-jet cascaderies, complex music compilations from the various air geysers, with the volume and instrument balance shifting depending on where one stood. The sense of touch wasn’t forgotten, and as Lando walked with Zerba toward the house, unexpected puffs of air occasionally tickled the hairs on the back of his neck or played gently across his cheeks and hands.
The droid outfits didn’t look nearly as impressive as the moving-stone ones they’d worn two days earlier. But they made up for that with small air jets and aroma waftings of their own.
The whole show was so obviously designed for humans that Lando found himself wondering how the different aliens in the milling crowd were perceiving it. But as far as he could tell, they were enjoying it as much as he was. The handful of Wookiees towering over everyone else, in particular, seemed to revel in the air jets that ruffled through their fur.
Only later did it occur to him that there were probably color patterns and aromas in the mix designed specifically for aliens, embellishments his human senses were completely unaware of.
Rachele’s data on Villachor had warned that he prized punctuality in his associates and demanded it in his subordinates, and Lando had carefully timed their arrival to be precisely on the five-hour mark that Villachor had specified. They were nearly there, and the crowd at the far end of the mansion had suddenly erupted into excited cheers, when the door swung open to reveal a silently glowering Sheqoa.
He didn’t remain silent for long. “Who’s this?” the big man demanded, his eyes on Zerba as he stepped into the doorway to block Lando’s entrance.
“My assistant,” Lando explained, gesturing behind him. “He carries the item for me.”
Sheqoa’s eyes flicked to the heavy-looking case hanging from Zerba’s hand. “I’ll carry it,” he said, starting forward.
Lando took a quick step to the side, blocking him in turn. “He carries it,” he said firmly. “I’ll explain why once we’re inside.”
For a long moment the two of them locked eyes. Then, reluctantly, Sheqoa moved to the side. “Fine,” he said, gesturing them forward. “For now.”
Lando looked back at Zerba and nodded him forward, and the two of them walked through the doorway. Sheqoa closed the door behind them, cutting off the distant cheers, then brushed past them and led the way along the corridor the other guards had escorted Lando through two days earlier. This time, though, they got barely twenty meters before Sheqoa turned to the right, pushed open another door, and motioned them through.
It was a large room, of the type Lando had seen a thousand times before: wide and open, with curved and exquisitely decorated walls, chandeliers hung from high ceilings, and a hardwood mosaic floor. It was a gathering anteroom, the sort of place the rich and powerful built outside their ballrooms. It was the ideal place for guests to take a break from the music and dancing to chat with friends, renew acquaintances, or perhaps drift off to one of the side rooms for private talks and whispered deals. Virtually every large-scale sabacc tournament Lando had participated in had taken place in someone’s version of a ballroom, and 90 percent of them had included an anteroom like this.
Most of those anterooms, however, hadn’t included a phalanx of ten armored 501-Z police droids standing shoul
der to shoulder, two rows deep, directly in front of the single door leading inward from the anteroom. In fact, now that Lando thought about it, none of them had.
“Who are you?” Villachor’s voice came sharply from the side.
Lando looked over to see the crime lord striding toward them from another door at the north end of the anteroom, Lando’s two guides from his previous visit striding along at his sides. “Master Villachor,” he said, bowing his head. “Your timing is—”
“Who is this?” Villachor cut him off, glaring at Zerba. “You were ordered to come alone.”
“Your pardon, Master Villachor, but I wasn’t,” Lando said, respectful but firm. “And my associate is an important part of the demonstration.” He raised a warning finger. “And I wouldn’t get too close to him if I were you.”
“This is my house,” Villachor retorted. “I make the rules and give the orders, not you.”
“Of course,” Lando said, noting that, despite his bluster, Villachor and his escort chose to stop a cautious five meters away. “My point is simply that I want to make sure my case doesn’t leave here without me. At least, not in one piece.”
In retrospect, he decided, he probably should have eased into the subject in a more diplomatic way. The words were barely out of his mouth when Sheqoa and Villachor’s two bodyguards had their blasters out and pointed at the visitors.
“Easy,” Lando said hastily. “It’s only a small charge, just enough detonite to destroy the case and its contents. Nothing more.” He pursed his lips. “At least, that’s the theory,” he added. “That’s why I have someone else carrying it.”
For a moment he gazed into Villachor’s eyes, trying to ignore the blasters pointing at him. Then Villachor stirred. “Also why you’re not standing too close to him, I assume?”
“Exactly,” Lando said. “There are advantages to rising through the ranks.”
“Indeed,” Villachor murmured. He lifted a finger, and to Lando’s relief the blasters were reluctantly lowered. “Open the case. I want to see it.”
