Star Wars: Shadow Games

by Michael Reaves

  Nani didn’t say anything; she merely sipped her drink and watched Dash over the rim of her cup. If looks could maim, he’d be doing his smuggling from inside a bacta tank.

  “He can’t do it,” said the Toydarian waspishly, glaring at Dash. “You’re wasting my time, Gher. You promised you’d find me a spacer who would undertake—”

  “And I will,” said the little Sullustan, matching his earnest tone with a soulful look from his impossibly large eyes. “Have patience, Unko.”

  “Easy for you to say,” growled the other. “You’re not losing fifteen hundred credits an hour!”

  “Why don’t you and Nani take his job?” Dash asked.

  “We’re otherwise engaged right now. And Unko needs someone who can leave immediately.”

  “Well, then he’s right. Talking to me’s a waste of time. I’m going nowhere.” He sketched a salute at the table and turned to continue his promenade, stewing over the implications of Gher’s words. If a Toydarian was paying someone to help find him a pilot and a ship, the pickings must be vanishingly slim.

  His stroll netted him exactly nothing. Everyone was either engaged, reluctant to go to the Hutt home system, or demanding too many credits. Far too many credits. He reached the back of the room and turned to look at the bar, feeling a bit down. The fact that Eaden hadn’t commed him meant the Nautolan was having no better luck.

  Might as well go for a drink, then … if he could thread his way through the screen of old racer pilots who ringed the central bar trading stories about their glory days.

  Kill me if I’m ever so used up that the most exciting thing I can do is drone on and on about past exploits, Dash thought.

  He managed to force his way to the bar and was surprised to see that Chal himself was tending today. The Wookiee usually spent his “working” hours behind the scenes in his office while his staff tended bar and waited tables. But he had a fondness for Podracing and Podracers, and the bar was full of the latter. He was listening to a pair of the codgers argue some rule or other, and seemed as happy as Dash had ever seen him.

  “Hey, Chal, can I get a drink, or do I have to get me one of those astral badges?”

  The Wookiee looked up and, with a bleat of pleasure, reached across the bar to give Dash an affectionate pat on his shoulder that almost dislocated it. “Whiiinu dasalla?” Chal moaned in his native tongue. What would you like?

  “Corellian ale. And by the way—you know anyone with an empty cargo bay who might be looking for a quick score?” Dash’s gaze was still roaming the crowded room. Chal, setting Dash’s ale before him, harned and moaned to the effect that he just might at that. It was a good thing, Dash reflected, that over the years he had picked up enough of the big furry bipeds’ language to gather the gist of their statements—mostly, anyway. He could still get tripped up by the inflection. Shyriiwook was a tonal language, which meant intonation contour was vitally important. Depending on the phonology, the same phrase could mean either “You honor me with your presence” or “You smell like a dead dewback.”

  He understood the Wookiee’s statement well enough, accompanied as it was with the jerk of a shaggy head toward the nether regions of the cantina. “Really?” He brightened. “Where?”

  In answer Chalmun pointed to a small cubicle on the other side of the bandstand and closest to the rear exit. There was but one table in it and he could see nothing of the individual sitting in it, save for a hand gripping a mug. Several empties already cluttered the tabletop.

  “Thanks, Chal.” He lifted his ale and, sipping it, headed for the corner booth. He could’ve sworn he heard a smothered chuckle from behind him, but when he peered back over his shoulder the big guy was busily serving drinks.

  Just shy of the doorway he bumped into a Kubaz who was nattering at the band to set up faster and begin playing immediately, if not sooner. Dash staggered back a few steps, amazingly spilling none of his ale. Hence the smile he showed his potential mark when he slipped into the cubicle was genuine.

  Genuine or not, it faded just inside the doorway. “Sith spit! You.”

  Han Solo looked up from his drink, his eyes coming into relatively quick focus on Dash’s face. “Oh, nice. Is that any way to greet an old friend, old friend?”

  “Old friend? You’re kidding me, right? I’ve heard all the trash you’ve been talking about me and my ship up and down the space lanes. I seem to recall that the last time we met, you took a swing at my head.”

  “Hey, I was a little drunk. Okay?”

  Dash considered the number of empty glasses on the tabletop. “Not like now, huh?”

  “No, I’m not drunk. Yet. But give me some time and I’ll manage.”

  Frowning, Dash sidled into the booth and sat down. “What’s up? And where’s Chewie?” An uneasy thought made him sit up straighter. “Nothing’s happened to Chewie?”

  Han waved a dismissive hand. “Not unless you consider fatherhood something. He’s back on Kashyyyk with Malla and their new baby boy.”

  “Yeah? What’d they name the kid?”

  “Lumpawarrump,” said Han with some difficulty.

  “Lumpa … Lumpa—?”

  “Yeah, that’s usually as far as I get, too.”

  “So Chewbacca’s home with the family and you’re hanging out at Chal’s drinking yourself under a table?”

  Han gave him a fierce look. “I’m relash—relaxing.”

  “Is that what you humans call it? I had wondered.” Eaden Vrill stood in the cubicle doorway, thumbs tucked into his weapons belt.

  Han smiled broadly. “Vrill, old buddy! Good to see you. Still hanging around with losers, I see.”

  “So it would seem.” Eaden tilted his head toward Dash. “Luck?”

  “None … unless …” Dash regarded Han speculatively. When Solo was this cocky, it usually meant he’d scored some profits. If that were the case, maybe he could be induced to part with a few. Maybe just enough for Dash to complete repairs on Outrider and avoid having to hire another ship.

  “Luck with what?” asked Han.

  “I don’t suppose you could see your way clear to lend me a few credits, old friend.”

  Han poked a finger into his right ear and wiggled it. “Wait a minute, I can’t have heard that right. You’re asking me for a favor? No—better yet—you’re asking me for money? Oh, that’s rich.”

  Dash grabbed hold of his temper with both hands. “Can we be serious for just a moment? The Outrider is out of commission and I’ve got a whole lot of cargo sitting in the hold needing pretty desperately to get to Nal Hutta.”

  “Huh. What’s wrong with the old boat?”

  “Blown hyperdrives.”

  “Both of ’em? How’d you manage that?”

  “We ran into Imperials on the Kessel Run. Almost got blasted out of space, then almost ran into a planetoid, then almost got sucked into the Maw. We fried our primary and secondary drives getting out again.”

  Han sat up straighter and leaned toward Dash across the table. “You’re messing with my head.” He glanced up at Eaden. “Isn’t he? He’s joking, right?”

  “If only. We nearly perished.”

  Han leaned back in his seat again, taking a slug of his drink. “I guess you’re lucky to be here then, aren’t you?”

  “Sure. Except that I’ve got a ship that can’t fly and a cargo to get to Nal Hutta with no way to get it there.” Dash leaned forward, elbows on the table, trying to look earnest. His mom had always fallen for his earnest look. “I just need enough to get the drive up and running …”

  “Even at Kerlew’s best prices that’s gonna come to quite a pile of credits. More than I’ve got. You think I’d be sittin’ here if I had a commishun—com-miss-ion?”

  Unfortunately, Dash’s mom was unique.

  “Just a few credits to—”

  Eaden made a sound like steam venting, then said, “If I may: We have a cargo. Han has a ship. The purchaser has the credits we need so that we can have a ship. Again.”

>   Dash looked at Han. Han looked at Dash. It fried Dash’s circuits to have to hire Han Solo, of all the people in the galaxy, to take his load to Nal Hutta, but—

  Han’s slow smile was crooked. “Sounds like you need me.”

  Dash came to his feet fast enough to reach orbit. “Forget it! I don’t need—” He felt a heavy hand fall on his shoulder.

  “Pride rises before disaster falls,” said the Nautolan philosophically. Then he addressed Solo. “What percentage would you charge to take a full hold to Nal Hutta … and a few items to Nar Shaddaa as well?”

  Han considered. “Forty percent.”

  Now Dash leapt to his feet, fists on the table. “That’s piracy!”

  “It’s business.”

  “It’s space lane robbery! It’s—ow!” Eaden’s fingers had tightened on Dash’s shoulder in painful warning.

  “Twenty percent,” said the Nautolan calmly.

  “I should strangle you with your own tentacles,” Dash muttered.

  “Thirty-five,” said Han.

  Dash exploded anew. “We almost died for that cargo! We dodged Imperial ordnance for that cargo! We flew into the sucking Maw for that cargo! In other words, Han, old friend, we did all the hard work!”

  Han made his eyes as wide and innocent as possible and shrugged eloquently. “All right. All right. Ice it, okay? Always was a sucker for a sob story. Thirty. And I off-load everything on Nar Shaddaa.”

  “Twenty-five,” said Eaden. “And you deliver to Nal Hutta.”

  “Hey, I could be putting my life on the line going back to Nal Hutta right now. Things are kind of tense there, case you hadn’t noticed—what with the assassinations and all. And I hear Jabba’s in a bad mood. Something about a dropped spice shipment.” Han scraped at a smudge on his glass. “Twenty-seven.”

  “Done,” said Eaden and pushed Dash inexorably back into his seat. Dash slumped, defeated.

  Han smiled broadly. “Great. Where’s the old Outrigger stashed?”

  Dash ground his teeth audibly. “It’s Outrider. The usual place—Bay Ninety-two. How soon can you leave?”

  “As soon as you can shift the load.”

  “As soon as we shift it?”

  Han slid out of the booth and stood, polishing off his drink. “Sure. If you’d been able to do thirty percent on the cut I’d’ve been happy to help with the cargo transfer, but I don’t have a first mate right now and you do. So if you don’t mind, I’ll just go and prep the Falcon. Your hold’s full, is it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No problem. The Falcon’ll take that on with room to spare. See you at the docks in a few, boys.” Han sketched a salute at Dash, returned Eaden’s attenuated bow, and left, whistling.

  Dash watched him go, then tilted his head back to look up at Eaden. “Gotta admire your nerve, Eaden. I’d’ve caved at thirty.”

  “Which is why we have our respective roles. I knew he would go lower.” He flexed a couple of his head-tresses to emphasize the point.

  “I thought you said that empathy trick doesn’t always work out of water.”

  Eaden gave the Nautolan version of a shrug—a lifting of side locks. “What can I say? It was a good hair day.”

  FIVE

  “YOU’RE NOT THE LEAST LITTLE BIT NERVOUS?”

  “Nope.”

  Javul Charn adjusted her weapons belt and checked herself in the mirror of her suite aboard the Nova’s Heart. The wide belt had several utility pockets containing stun pellets, a length of monofilament, a limited-range confounder, and other “gadgets,” as Dara disparagingly referred to them. In addition, a customized DH-17 blaster was holstered on one side and a vibroknife on the other, both riding low across her hips. The synthsilk jumpsuit beneath looked like it had been painted on.

  You look bad, she told herself. You look lean and mean.

  In reality, she was distressingly sure that she looked about as dangerous as a Corellian spukamas, no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise. She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt.

  Behind her, Kendara looked on in admiration. “You amaze me, boss,” she said. “I’m a little uneasy about going into that den of thieves and I probably know half of ’em. What if someone recognizes you?”

  “I’ll just say how exciting I think it all is,” said Javul, putting on a look of wide-eyed innocence. “How daring. How I’ve just always wanted to meet a real pirate.”

  Dara raised her hand. “Excuse me? May I just take this opportunity to say that I think you’re more than a little nuts.”

  Javul laughed. “I’m eccentric, not nuts. All celebrities are eccentric. I’m just more adventurous than most, I guess.” And scared. And it wasn’t Dara’s “den of thieves” that scared her. “Besides,” she continued, “you forget my official biography. I was born in the lightless sublevels of Coruscant. Grew up with predatory gangs shooting up the neighborhood.”

  “Which is all poodoo. You know, I find it insulting that our PR guy actually thought an Imperial Center Slum was somehow more respectable than Tatooine.”

  Javul grinned. “Not more respectable. More inspiring. And more dangerous.”

  Dara snorted. “That’s a matter of opinion.”

  Javul settled a bright teal turban over her gleaming silver hair and said, “Let’s go shopping for bodyguards.”

  The news on the Outrider got worse, if that was possible. The engines had not only crispy-fried their various components, but destroyed the housing assembly as well. The cost of total repairs would have taken a healthy bite out of their commission even if they’d managed to retain all of it. Having to pay Han essentially ate up any profits. Worse, the docking fees were more than Dash could afford to squeeze out of his credit account.

  Kerlew, a fellow Corellian, was a good guy and was even willing to make a start on the repairs in his spare time, trusting Dash for the payment, but Dash knew that trust would evaporate quickly if he failed to pay his docking fees. They needed some sort of work—pilot and navigator, trade liaisons, something.

  With that in mind, after seeing Han off for Nal Hutta, Dash and Eaden returned to Chalmun’s day after day, making the rounds of other freighter watering holes as well, looking for a ship sans crew.

  On day three, Dash sauntered into the Cantina to see Dwanar Gher and his lovely associate at their favorite table. He went over to pay a visit.

  “What happened to your being otherwise engaged?” he asked Dwanar.

  The Sullustan blinked at him—an impressive gesture coming from eyes the size of ash angel eggs. “What do you mean?”

  “The last time I saw you, you were entertaining that Toydarian character—what’s his name …”

  “Unko.”

  “Yeah—Unko. You fed him some line about not being available to run his stuff wherever it needed to go.”

  Nanika rolled her eyes. “We weren’t so much unavailable as disinclined,” she said wryly. “He wanted one of us to run some contraband to Imperial Center and we’re both persons of interest to the Imperial Security Bureau right now.”

  “No kidding? How’d you manage that?”

  Nanika and Dwanar shared a glance. The woman shrugged.

  “We’re suspected of having helped remove some wanted criminals from the ISB’s clutches.”

  “Why would you do something like that?”

  “Who said we did?” She smiled at him slyly. He knew that look well enough to distrust it.

  “Is he still looking for a ship?” Dash asked, an idea beginning to form in his head.

  “As far as I know,” Nanika said.

  “Well, I was thinking that, since the Imperials don’t really know me from a mynock’s mother, maybe I could take one of your ships and deliver his goods. We’d split the commission, of course—”

  Nanika laughed brassily. “Oh, c’mon, Dash. I’m not a noob. There is no way I’d let you pilot my ship into Imperial space. They know me, they know the Imp. Dwanar can let you take his boat—”

&nb
sp; “No one will be taking my craft anywhere,” said the Sullustan. “Most especially not you.”

  Dash’s temper flared. “Look, my reputation as a pilot is—”

  “Your reputation as a pilot,” Dwanar informed him, “is that you take risks that are stupid even for a Corellian. You’re not going to play Kick-the-Rancor with my ship.”

  And that was that. After an hour spent in Chalmun’s with no better results, Dash dragged himself to the bar and ordered a Corellian whiskey he couldn’t really afford. When he finished the first, he ordered another and was beginning to feel pleasantly morose when he realized the Rodian bartender was speaking to him.

  “What?” he looked up glaring. “I’m paid up, goggle-eyes.”

  “Hey! Attitude, pink-skin. I’ve done you no grief. I am, in fact, about to do you a favor. You’re looking for a commission?”

  “Yeah, what of it?”

  “Well, a commission is looking for you.”

  Dash’s head cleared at lightspeed. “Where away?”

  The Rodian pointed over Dash’s shoulder. He turned. It was the same booth he’d found Han Solo in only days ago. He closed his eyes, seized by the impression he’d been here before. The Equani had a word for it—Dash frowned, trying to remember it. Ah, yes: çenõ-ka. Maybe he could no longer hold his liquor. Maybe he’d slipped into a temporal loop and was destined to live out the rest of his life in Chalmun’s. Okay, then. He bolted the last of his whiskey, thanked the Rodian, and headed for the booth.

  His surprise when he stepped into the little cubicle was complete. Two women looked up at him. Two young women. Two very human, very beautiful women. One had short spiky hair that was several different and contradictory shades of orange; the other’s hair was concealed beneath a turban of vivid teal.

  His smile was automatic. “Ladies!” He sketched a bow. “My friend Kendo at the bar there tells me you’re looking for a pilot.”

  The two women looked at each other, sequined eyebrows lifting.

  “No,” said the one with the turban. “Actually, we’re looking for a bodyguard.”

  As usual, it took Dash’s brain a moment to catch up with the booze. “A bodyguard,” he repeated stupidly. “Look, I’m a pilot—and a damn good one, at that. I don’t—”