Dash recognized the symbol. It was the sigil of the Equilibrates—believers in Cosmic Balance, a religion-cum-philosophy whose main tenet was that for every action in one place an equal and opposite reaction occurred somewhere else. So one person’s fortune was another’s misfortune and vice versa.
Somehow he had trouble imagining Javul Charn as a devotee. By that theology, what must her massive success have done to some poor shmuck half a galaxy away? He knew Javul well enough by now to suspect that question would nag at her. But maybe the universe was kinder than that; maybe it parceled the bad luck out among millions in some sort of intergalactic insurance policy.
Peering through the silvery rain of beads, Dash could see that the chapel was occupied. Someone dressed entirely in black knelt at the dais. Dash hesitated. He couldn’t tell if that was Javul. She’d been wearing black boots beneath the golden robe, he’d noticed, but other than that he had no clue about her current mode of dress. He started to enter the chapel and stopped as a second figure appeared from the shadows just to the left of the dais.
This person was dressed from head to toe in a hooded robe that seemed to soak up any light that touched it. An Equilibrate monk or priest, Dash guessed. It moved to stand before the kneeling devotee and bent its head toward her, murmuring something Dash couldn’t make out. Nor could he hear the answer given by the kneeling figure, but the voice was female.
He pushed through the silver strands and slid into the shadows of a pillar inside the doorway just as the penitent figure rose, revealing a cascade of gleaming black hair and a very female form.
Dash swallowed. Javul.
And who else?
“What do you seek, my daughter?” The voice was androgynous—rich, deep, and somehow reminiscent of the incense that continued to eddy in the semi-darkness of the chapel.
“I seek the balance,” Javul answered. “The balance of heart and body. The balance of core and flesh. The balance of line and curve. I seek the passage of the night on its way to dawn.”
“This is a hidden way, revealed to few.” The priest—if that’s what this was—made a gesture with both hands. They were gray-green, long-fingered, elegant.
Dash’s heart stuttered. A Falleen. He drew his blaster.
Javul faced the taller figure and made some gesture in return that Dash couldn’t see. The Falleen bowed its head, then reached into the folds of its robe.
Heart thudding, Dash trained his weapon on the Falleen priest, his finger on the trigger—
The elegant hand came free of the robe.
There was no weapon in it. Only something small enough to fit in the palm—a data wafer, maybe.
Dash sagged with relief against the pillar. He couldn’t see what happened to the small object, but he suspected the Falleen had passed it to Javul.
The Falleen raised its head and hesitated before it lifted a hand and pressed its thumb to Javul’s forehead. “I pray you have left nothing behind,” the priest said, then turned, retreating to the shadows once more.
Dash was so intent on watching the Falleen that he didn’t realize Javul had moved until she was halfway up the aisle. He pulled farther back behind his shielding pillar.
She swept past the pillar, but stopped just inside the cascade of silver beads. “You gonna walk me back to the ship or what?” She didn’t even turn her head. She just glanced in his direction, then stepped out into the half-light of the plaza.
He slipped out after her, caught up with her in three strides, and tossed the golden robe over her shoulder.
“Thanks.” She slipped the robe on and strode out into the plaza.
He bit his tongue. There were too many things he wanted to say. To ask. But he knew if he opened his mouth right now, nothing coherent would come out—and it would come out in anger. He was furious with her. Terrified for her. And curious beyond his ability to express it.
They walked in silence back down the length of the plaza. As they crossed the avenue to the spaceport terminal, Javul said, “Are you going to ask?”
He found words. “Hitch is right about you. You do have a death wish.”
“No. I don’t. Trust me.” She stopped to face him. “That was my priest.”
Dash blinked in surprise. “You’re an Equilibrate?”
“I believe in Cosmic Balance, yes.”
“Huh,” Dash said, and shook his head. “I never would’ve thought it.”
“Why not?”
“Your success. I mean, you gotta figure that with all you have, there are a whole lot of have-nots out there that you’re responsible for, right?”
“I’m not responsible for them, Dash, any more than you’re responsible for … ugly men.”
“What?” He glanced sideways at her, saw the curl of her mouth. “Was that a compliment?”
“Yes, it was.”
He let himself be flattered for a second or two, then said, “Don’t try to distract me, Javul. Why did you go there? We were getting ready to dust this dirtball. Your life is very likely in serious danger here and you know it. What kind of vacuum-brained stunt was that to pull?”
“I needed some balance, Dash. Is that so hard to understand? I needed … guidance. A benediction. A path.”
“And is that what the priest gave you on that data wafer?”
“I lost my copy of the Fulcrum. The priest had one for me.”
The Fulcrum was the holy text of the Cosmic Balance. A perfectly reasonable, smooth answer—and yet …
Something was still off center.
They crossed the concourse and entered the lift that would speed them to Level 22 of the huge terminal.
Dash counted to ten, then asked, “What’s really on the wafer, Javul?”
She had no chance to answer. The lift doors slid open. Outside, in the corridor leading to the Millennium Falcon’s berth, was a tall Anomid dressed in some sort of formfitting metalloid body armor. The lower half of his face was concealed by the typical vocalizer mask his species—which had no vocal cords—wore to enable communication with other species. But it was what he carried in one six-fingered hand that caught Dash’s immediate attention: a Kerestian darkstick—its long, sharp-tipped blade curved like the talon of some mythical beast. Nor was that the end of his weaponry. A repulsor razor-thrower and a Wookiee ryyk blade dangled from his belt, and a force pike and a Morgukai cortosis staff were crossed on his back, their handgrips extending up behind his head.
Dash took in all this in a heartbeat, which was all the time he had to shove Javul back into the lift and yell, “Emergency close!” as he dived in behind her. As the door slid shut, he saw the glint in the Anomid’s orange eyes, saw the arc of the Kerestian weapon as the assassin whipped it toward them, heard it strike the door.
The tip punched through the five-centimeter-thick durasteel as if it were paper, driving a good part of its length into the lift, level with Dash’s eyes.
TWENTY
“LEVEL ONE!”
The lift plunged, severing the darkstick’s thick hilt. The blade dropped to the floor at Dash’s feet, reddish, viscous liquid oozing from the tip.
“Wh-who was that?” Javul was huddled in a corner of the lift.
Dash reached down to haul her to her feet, avoiding the dripping tip of the darkstick. “I have no idea. I thought maybe you did.”
“Me? How would I know?” She was terrified—finally, when it might be too late. Her breath was coming in sharp gasps, and all the blood had leached from her face. She was shaking.
Dash pulled her to his side, trying to think fast and well. If they went all the way to the first floor, made their way toward the Falcon’s berth, chose a way up at random …
He pulled out his comlink and hailed Eaden.
“Eaden?”
“Do you have Javul?”
“Yeah, but something almost got us just now. We’re in a turbolift heading down to Level One. There’s an assassin after us, Ead. An Anomid. Armed to the teeth—if Anomids even have teeth. We’re in troub
le here. We need backup. We’ll get to Level One before he does, but—”
Han’s voice broke in. “No, not Level One. Go all the way down to the sublevel and head this way. Don’t come up to the docking level, ’cause for sure that’s where he’ll be, right? We’ll have to find this guy and take him out.”
“Right. Yeah. Sublevel.” He punched the lift button. Made sense. They’d have to get to the Falcon’s docking bay eventually, so the assassin need do no more than go wait there for them, unless … “Han, listen—are there any empty docking bays below or above you?”
“What? Uh, yeah. There’s an empty bay about three levels down. A Bothan freighter just pulled out.”
“What’s that—Level Nineteen?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “Take the Falcon down there and soft-dock. Send someone out to cover us. We’ll be coming in hot.”
“That’s highly irregular, you know. You’re gonna get me in deep banthaflop with the port authority.”
“Han—”
“Kidding! I’m on it.”
At the sublevel landing, Dash held the lift door, then turned to Javul. “You have a weapon on you?”
“Yes.”
Probably some feckless little hold-out blaster. “Get it out.”
He was boggled when she reached beneath her robe and drew a BlasTech Deathhammer 17 from her sash. “Where did you get that?”
“Mel got it for me, if it matters.”
He drew his own primary weapon—a much smaller BlasTech DL-22—which seemed suddenly inadequate. Helluva time for blaster envy, he thought. Aloud, he said, “We’re going to switch lifts, just in case. All right? Here we go. Ready?”
She nodded.
Dash keyed the door open, and they slipped out into the half-light of the empty corridor. Well, almost empty—a small maintenance droid polished the floor in front of one of the other turbolift cars.
Windfall.
Dash picked up the small droid, shoved it into the nearest turbolift, and punched Level 22. Then he hustled Javul into a car across the corridor and keyed it to go to Level 19.
He stared at the ceiling of the lift, taking a series of deep, lung-filling breaths. Beside him, Javul also seemed to be gathering herself.
“As soon as that droid comes out of the lift up there—” Dash started to say.
“Yeah, I know.”
The door of the lift slid open and the two bolted out into the corridor, their boots making the durasteel flooring ring with each step. Bay 6 was third on the right-hand side of the terminal—a distance of over one hundred meters. Dash had to believe they could cover that before their Anomid friend realized he’d been deked. It would take only a glance at the lift control panels for him to see that a second lift had gone up to Level 19.
They pelted down the terminal as if a pack of rabid boarwolves were after them. Dash suspected that the Anomid assassin was much, much deadlier. As they approached Bay 4, Dash saw Eaden and Han step out into the corridor from Bay 6 about fifty meters ahead of them. The two took up flanking positions on each side of the corridor and began moving toward the head of the terminal.
Mel appeared in the lee of the docking port, a blaster rifle in his hands. Dash knew an instant of cold panic at the thought that Yanus Melikan might be their saboteur—might be working with whoever it was that was no doubt pursuing them. But Mel simply took up a defensive position in the alcove, his rifle ready.
Han was waving his arm, gesturing for them to hurry. His gaze was focused on the turbolifts now many meters behind. Then suddenly he was running toward them, his blaster raised, eyes focused on something—or someone—behind them.
Dash felt a riptide of cold, nasty adrenaline wash down his back.
“Fire!” Han yelled. He dropped to one knee and loosed a barrage of blaster bolts past the fleeing couple.
On the opposite side of the corridor, Eaden followed suit.
Dash heard the bolts sizzle past his ears, and could whiff the sharp scent of oxygen atoms being torn apart into reactive ozone. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Javul glance back over her shoulder. She immediately began to struggle out of her billowing robe. What was she doing? He reached over and tried to pull the robe from her hands, but she resisted.
“Just run!” she urged.
He felt rather than saw something whiz between them—something flat, about the size of his head. Only when it flipped over in the air several meters in front of them and began a return trip did he realize that it was the throwing razor he’d last seen on the assassin’s belt. The weapon—which he’d thought only Rodian bounty hunters used—had a jagged triangular blade and a homing beacon that gave it a decidedly nasty boomerang effect. It could get you coming or going … or both.
Dash put on the brakes, skidding on the durasteel surface beneath his boots. He raised his blaster, fired at the razor … and missed. The thing was flying toward him, aimed right at his chest. He flung himself to one side, knowing he was too late. Javul shrieked and a ripple of gold passed before Dash’s face. He felt a solid weight connect with his rib cage. He hit the floor, momentarily winded.
He regained his feet to see the gold robe Javul had been wearing seemingly flee back down the corridor toward the lifts under its own power. As he watched, Javul—running backward—fired her blaster at it. Tangled in the flow of fabric, the razor flipped several times, then hit the deck with a clatter and lay still. Javul turned and bolted toward Bay 6, now only meters away.
A hand gripped Dash’s shoulder. “Run or shoot, take your pick.” As if to illustrate, Han raised his heavy blaster and fired a series of shots down the corridor.
Dash looked up, seeking his target. The assassin had just left the shelter of the Bay 2 docking port and was making his way toward them along the wall. One hand was extended in front of him, palm out. The other was reaching for another of the weapons on his belt. Neither the particle beam from Han’s blaster nor the energy bolts from Eaden’s seemed to have much effect on the Anomid, save to slow him down. As Dash watched, he saw another energy bolt, fired by either Eaden or Mel, hit an invisible something a few centimeters in front of the Anomid’s outstretched palm.
“Personal shield!” shouted Dash over the sound of blaster volleys.
“No, really?” Han glanced over at Eaden. “Gimme more cover.”
The Nautolan nodded.
“What’re you going to do?” Dash asked as Eaden increased the frequency of his shots.
Han grinned. “Watch and learn … but cover me while you’re doing it.”
Dash obliged, fanning his shots as Han dropped to his belly, aiming his blaster along the floor. He could see that the Anomid had a new weapon mounted on the back of his right hand. A flex-tube ran from it down his index finger. It was a dart spitter.
Han fired.
The beam skirted the lower range of the palm shield, connected with the assassin’s left shin guard just above the ankle, and punched his leg out from under him. He hit the floor—yet even as he did, he was pointing his right finger at them and unleashing a barrage of death.
Dash became one with the deck, willing himself to be flat enough to avoid the darts. When they stopped coming, he hauled Han to his feet and ran. Eaden was already in motion, scuttling sideways down the corridor. And now Mel and Javul—who’d reached the relative safety of the docking port—laid down a barrage of fire that might have an effect.
As Dash rounded the corner into the docking ring, he glanced back up the terminal at the fallen Anomid. He’d been hit several more times, and the armor along his back was smoking in places. Blood the color of sunset’s last gasp oozed from the shin guard Han’s careful shot had pierced.
The momentary sense of victory and safety Dash felt was crushed by his last sight of the assassin. He’d raised his pale lavender head from the floor and, just for a second, Dash felt the venom of his gaze. The message conveyed was clear:
This is not over.
TWENTY-ONE
DASH HAD NOT QUITE GOTTE
N HIS OWN INNER TURMOIL put to rest before he became aware that his perpetually calm and rational associate was extremely agitated. Maybe it was the quivering of his tresses or the rapid blinking of the nictitating membrane over his dark eyes. Whatever it was, it set off Dash’s alarms. When they were safely in hyperspace and all had collapsed in the passenger lounge to debrief, he watched his partner with care.
Han had left Leebo in the cockpit to keep an eye on the autopilot and had come back to join the others. On Mel’s orders, Nik had gone up to the cockpit as well, with a vague suggestion that he “learn piloting.”
Han opened their consultations with a reasonable question: “What the hell was that all about?”
When nobody answered, he turned to Dash. “Come on, Dash. Did you have any idea something like this was gonna happen? I mean, how badly does this Hitch guy want her dead?” He jerked a thumb at Javul.
“I don’t know,” Dash said. “After I’d met him, I didn’t think Hitch wanted her dead at all. This was … a big surprise.”
“You got that right,” said Han. “I mean, Anomids have a pretty pacifistic culture. I don’t think I’ve ever even heard of an Anomid assassin or mercenary. Maybe he’s some sort of bounty hunter.” He slanted a glance at Javul. “You been out breaking the law while you’ve been breaking hearts?”
“I’m not a criminal,” she replied. “As far I know, there’s no bounty on my head. As far as I know,” she repeated, and turned an appealing gaze to Dash.
How much of that was true and how much a lie? She’d been telling half-truths since he’d met her. On the other hand, what could be worse than disrupting a Black Sun trade corridor?
He shrugged. “Y’got me. I don’t know who or what—”
“Edge.” The single word came from Eaden Vrill, who stood with his back to one corner of the cramped compartment.
Star Wars: Shadow Games Page 18
