by Troy Denning
“Of course,” the droid responded. “Our equipment here is seldom more than twenty years out of date.”
A band around the middle of the tank turned opaque, concealing Leia from mid-thigh to just below her armpits. An instant later the door to the room slid open, and Han stepped into view. He was not quite hobbling, but he was moving slowly and using a cane. He paused briefly, his eyes betraying his concern as he turned toward the bacta tank. His face was a red mesh of half-healed laceration scars, both eyes were black, and his nose was covered by a protective guard. He gave her a lopsided grin, then stepped over and pressed his palm to the wall of the tank.
“Hi there, Princess.” Han’s voice sounded a bit tired and hollow over the bacta tank’s comm system. “You’re looking good.”
Leia chuckled into her breath mask. “Not if I look anything like you.” Pressing her own hand to the tank interior, she paused to see if Han’s presence triggered the same kind of fear she had experienced in her dream. The only thing she felt was relief at seeing him alive. Whatever the dream was about, it wasn’t him. “Han … how bad is it?”
Han’s expression turned grim. “Leia, we need to get these guys.” He finally removed his hand from the wall of the bacta tank. “They murdered almost thirty thousand beings.”
Leia was stunned. She recalled sensing a certain malevolence in the Qrephs, but she had not realized that they were capable of this magnitude of evil. How could she have missed that? She could not help feeling partly responsible—because she had missed it, and she hadn’t stopped them.
“Count me in,” she said. “But I can’t believe the Qrephs expect Lando—or us—to roll over. Do they really think controlling production in the Rift is worth the trouble they’re bringing down on themselves?”
“Good question. We were just about to discuss that ourselves,” Han said. He turned and motioned toward the door. “Come on in, fellas.”
Lando entered first, looking far less battered than Han, but still moving stiffly and holding a protective arm over his ribs. Omad Kaeg followed behind him, grim but uninjured. Luke followed, looking calm and determined in his gray flight suit, then C-3PO and R2-D2.
“Oh, dear,” C-3PO lamented. “You look absolutely terrible, Princess Leia. I do hope these outdated first-aid droids haven’t been interfering with your recovery.”
The FX droid spun around and shot a burst of static at C-3PO.
“Well, I fail to see why you should be offended,” C-3PO replied. “You are outdated.”
Leia ignored the droids and turned to Luke. “I hope you didn’t come all this way just to send me home to recover,” she said. “Because that’s not going to happen.”
Luke smiled. “The thought never crossed my mind,” he said. “Actually, I came to deliver that background report you and Han wanted on GET. But I think I’m going to stick around and try to figure out what the Qrephs are really doing in the Rift.”
“How so?” Leia asked.
“The Rift is valuable,” Luke replied. “But it’s hardly worth making an enemy of the Jedi.”
“Maybe the Qrephs miscalculated,” Kaeg suggested. “Maybe they thought they wouldn’t be blamed for the sabotage. Or maybe they didn’t realize how the Jedi would react to mass murder.”
“I’m sorry, Captain Kaeg, but that is extremely unlikely,” C-3PO said. “In any intellectual contest, the odds of a Columi miscalculating the opponent’s response are—”
“Thank you, Threepio,” Luke interrupted, “but the odds don’t matter.” He tripped the FX-4’s circuit breaker to prevent it from making a record of their conversation, then assigned R2-D2 to prevent any eavesdropping by the central monitoring computer. “This is about more than trying to corner the Galactic metal markets, I’m very sure. It’s bigger than that.”
“And you’re sure of that why?” Leia asked.
“I’ll fill you in more completely later,” Luke said. “But Lando and I were talking, and I don’t think we can ignore the possibility of Sith involvement. The Ship sighting on Ramook may be nothing more than a coincidence, or it may hint at what’s really going on in the Rift. The only thing we know for sure is that the Qrephs are up to something out here we don’t understand—and we’d better figure it out quick, before it becomes any more of a problem for the rest of the galaxy.”
“More of a problem?” Han asked. “You mean the Rift isn’t the only place they’re blighting?”
“Far from it,” Luke said. “Their holdings in the Galactic Alliance have more than tripled since they relocated to the Chiloon Rift—despite this being a very strange base from which to run a financial empire. The question is, why are they here?”
“You’re suggesting there’s something in the Rift that makes it all possible,” Leia surmised. “And you think it might be Sith.”
“Sith.” Han snorted in disgust. “Well, that might explain why the Qrephs aren’t too worried about Jedi. If they’ve got a bunch of Sith on their side, they might feel pretty confident about dealing with Leia and me.”
Leia frowned. “But it doesn’t explain the Mandalorians and the Nargons,” she said. “First, Mandalorians don’t like Sith any more than they like us. Second, if the Qrephs have an army of Sith at their disposal, why would they pay for mercenaries?”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Lando, who had been standing on the far side of the room listening quietly. “I’ve been running some figures since Luke and I talked. By the time the Qrephs pay for those big asteroid crushers of theirs and an army of Mandalorians to push everyone else around, they’re losing money on their Chiloon operation—and that’s assuming they aren’t paying for the pirates, too.”
“They’re protecting a secret,” Luke said. “That has to be it. If they don’t want anyone to know there are Sith here, they can’t have a security force armed with lightsabers running around, or a bunch of Force-sensitive pirates trying to drive miners out. They need someone else to do that—so they hire the Mandalorians.”
Han’s jaw dropped. “Wait a minute. Are you saying Kesh is in the Rift? Is that their secret?”
“The thought had crossed my mind, but, no,” Luke said. “If Kesh were here, there wouldn’t be any Mandalorians or miners running around the Rift. The Sith would never take that chance.”
“If you say so,” Kaeg said, sounding a little doubtful. “So, what is this Kesh?”
“It’s the homeworld of the Lost Tribe of Sith,” Han explained. “But its location is a big secret, mainly because it’s so far outside the hyperspace lanes that the Lost Tribe was marooned there for five thousand years.”
“I see,” Kaeg said. “Then how unfortunate it is that Kesh cannot be here.”
“Why?” Leia asked.
“Because then we would know why the Qrephs wanted my share of the miners’ support cooperative,” Kaeg explained. “It would give them a seat on the RiftMesh Committee.”
Han frowned. “And that’s important why?”
“Because the RiftMesh isn’t static,” Lando said. “It’s constantly being expanded and repaired—and it’s the ’Mesh Committee that decides when and where.”
“So, if the Qrephs had a seat on the committee, they could influence which beacons to repair—and where to place new ones,” Kaeg said. “And even if they failed to win the vote, they would know the committee’s plans.”
Leia frowned. “I’m still not following,” she said. “How does knowing the committee’s plans keep people away from Kesh—or whatever the Qrephs are trying to protect?”
“Because it’s dangerous to operate beyond the RiftMesh,” Kaeg explained. “Too dangerous. Without a beacon signal, it is easy to lose your way—and it is impossible to summon help.”
“There aren’t many miners who like to operate out of touch in the Rift,” Lando added. “If the Qrephs know where the cooperative is putting new beacons, they can destroy the ones that are too close for comfort. That way, there isn’t much chance a tug captain could stumble across their secret.”
“And if one did, he and his crew would just disappear,” Kaeg said. “It may not be this Kesh that the Qrephs are hiding, but it must be something like it. Something big and immobile. We only need to figure out what.”
“Agreed.” Han nodded, then looked from the bacta tank to Luke and Lando. “I say we do it.”
Leia felt a lump form in her chest. There was a certain glee in Han’s voice that she never liked to hear, a mad enthusiasm that came only when he had decided to attempt something wild and dangerous that he would not be talked out of.
“Do what, exactly?” Leia asked.
Han continued to look at Luke and Lando, awaiting their replies.
“Han,” Leia said, trying not to sound worried. “Do what?”
Han continued to watch Luke and Lando.
At last, Luke shrugged, and Lando nodded.
“I guess I don’t have any better ideas,” Lando said.
“Better than what?” Leia demanded.
Han grinned, then finally looked back to her. “It’s okay,” he said. “I have a plan.”
Nine
With polished larmalstone floors and gold bioluminescent chandeliers hovering in midair, the Blue Star casino was more Lando’s style than Han’s. It was the kind of place where the staff frowned on whooping in delight when you won a fat pot and where they would escort you straight out the door if you cursed a string of bad luck too loudly. But formal attire was required and weapons were restricted, which made it a hard place to flood with hired thugs, and it had top-notch security with state-of-the-art weapon detectors at every door. All in all, Han thought it was a pretty good spot to draw out the enemy—especially since he was still a little too banged up to want another firefight.
A few days of bacta therapy and some close attention from the medical droids had taken care of his superficial wounds and stopped the ringing in his ears, and he could see even better out of his new eye than he could with the one that had gone missing when the astrolith hit. But his bruised chest and ribs were another matter. They had to heal on their own, and, unlike Leia, he couldn’t enter a Jedi healing trance to speed things along. He just had to be patient and try to avoid laughing too hard, or breathing too hard, or lifting too much—or doing any of a dozen things that might drop him to his knees, gasping in pain.
A slender hand touched Han’s shoulder as Dena Yus returned from a break and slipped into the adjacent seat. “This isn’t working,” she said, leaning in close and whispering. “Tharston always went to the Durelium Palace. I think that must be where he met his contact.”
“Yeah, but we’re not supposed to know that, remember?” Han replied.
Dena had been making the same argument since confiding that it might have been her dead lover who helped the Qrephs destroy Lando’s refinery. Her tune was starting to get old. “Relax. Tharston’s handler will find us.”
“I don’t see how,” Dena said. “This isn’t the kind of place where hired thugs hang out—and Valnoos has dozens of other casinos that are.”
“But there’s only one Lando Calrissian and one Han Solo. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re kind of famous around the tables.” Han nodded toward the crowd of local high rollers gathered behind the observation rail, all hoping for a chance to play their local sabacc variant, Riftwalker, against a pair of galactic legends. “Trust me, Tharston’s handler has already heard that we’re here. Sooner or later, he’ll want to know why.”
A card went spinning toward the dealer’s station, and Lando announced, “Discard.” He slid a stack of thousand-credit wagering tokens into the hand pot and another equal stack into the game pot, then leaned back and smiled broadly. “The bet is ten thousand … to each pot.”
Han sighed and glanced over at his friend, who now had only three chip-cards—all locked—on the table before him. There were only two reasons Lando would play with just three cards: either he was bluffing or he had a sure win with the idiot’s array. Like nearly every scheme Lando employed—in business or gambling—it was an effective long-term strategy, designed to present his rivals with an agonizing choice time after time.
Han knew of only one way to prevent that strategy from working. He looked at his chronometer. Seeing that the second counter was on an even number, he locked his own chip-cards and pushed twenty thousand credits into each of the pots.
“I’ll raise,” he said.
The declaration drew an approving murmur from the spectators but groans from two of the other players still in the hand. They discarded their chip-cards without matching Han’s bet, which meant they were no longer eligible to collect either pot.
The third player, Omad Kaeg, smiled broadly.
“I was hoping you would say that, Captain Solo.” He pushed all of his betting tokens into the center of the table, exceeding Han’s bet by two thousand credits. “In fact, I have been waiting for it.”
Instead of replying, Han turned to Lando, who now had to decide whether to match both raises. If Lando called or re-raised, Han would know he was beat and discard his own chip-cards. But if Lando retired from the hand, Han would call Kaeg’s extra two thousand credits. There was a good chance the kid had his own idiot’s array and Han was beat, of course. But Kaeg was young and cocky, and that meant he was likely to mistake good hands for great hands, and great hands for unbeatable hands. Considering the size of the pots—well over a hundred thousand credits—it was worth a couple thousand credits to see what the young asteroid miner was holding.
When Lando took too long thinking, Han knew his friend had been bluffing. “Go ahead and bet everything,” he said, smiling. “I might fold.”
Lando scowled in disgust and threw his chip-cards toward the dealer’s station. “How do you do that?”
Han just smiled and glanced at his wrist. The truth was, his decision had been random chance. Had the second counter on his chronometer been showing an odd number the first time he looked, he would have folded to Lando’s bluff instead of raising it.
“Lucky, I guess.” Han matched Omad’s extra two thousand credits, then turned his four cards faceup, revealing the master of coins, the master of flasks, a star, and the commander of staves. “That’s twenty-three. How about you, Cap’n Kaeg?”
Omad’s face fell. “You have positive sabacc?” He shook his head in disbelief, then tossed his chip-cards toward the dealer’s station and rose. “I’m out.”
“Tough break, kid.” Han’s sympathy was genuine. It might have been Lando’s money that Omad was playing with, but losing big always tore at the guts of a young sabacc player; it was too easy to keep replaying bad decisions and bad breaks. “You’ll do better the next time.”
“Until then, I’ll take the seat.”
The female voice came from the middle of the line, but it was so hard and authoritative that those ahead of her made no objection. Han glanced over to see a pale, compact woman with short brown hair ducking beneath the observation rail. She was dressed simply but formally, with a long black dress that showed flashes of muscular thigh through a high slit and a top that revealed shoulders so strong that Han found himself thinking of one-armed push-ups.
Han turned away and collected his winnings, being sure to leave a nice tip for the dealer, then glanced over at the adjacent table, where Luke and Leia sat disguised as a high-rolling Devaronian tug captain and his Twi’lek companion. Both seemed completely absorbed by their own game, Luke joking as he splashed betting tokens into a sizable pot, Leia laughing and using the Force to animate the fake head-tails hanging down her back. He let his gaze dart toward the approaching woman and saw Leia flutter her eyes in acknowledgment. She was keeping a close eye on Han and Lando and would not hesitate to intervene if something went wrong.
As the newcomer took her seat across from him, Han was surprised to realize he recognized her small oval face.
“Mirta Gev,” Han said, smiling to hide his surprise. Granddaughter to the infamous bounty hunter Boba Fett, Gev had a complicated history with the Solo family.
She had once considered Jaina a friend, but that relationship had gone south after Darth Caedus had tortured her. “I thought you had better taste.”
Gev returned Han’s smile with a cold glare. “You have a problem with halter-necks, Solo?”
“The dress is nice,” Han said. “It’s your bosses I don’t like. The Qrephs—really?”
Gev shrugged. “I should care what a Solo thinks?” She took Omad’s seat, next to Lando. She was careful to avoid looking at Dena Yus, which told Han she knew exactly who Dena was. “Now, what are we doing here?”
“Playing sabacc, I trust,” said the dealer. A tall noseless Duros with red watchful eyes and a droll curl to his lipless mouth, he did not seem to care in the slightest that he was in the presence of two sabacc legends. “The minimum buy-in is twenty thousand credits.”
Gev ignored him and continued to study Han. “You’re already trying my patience, making me come to a place where I have to wear something like this.” She plucked at her clingy dress, then said, “And I’m not fond of Riftwalker, either. You ask me, it’s not even real sabacc.”
“But we like it,” Lando said, giving her a big grin. “If you’re a little bit short of the buy-in, I’d be happy to front you.”
Gev sighed. “That won’t be necessary.” She drew a voucher chip from her clutch and passed it to the dealer. “Give me half.”
The Duros glanced at the voucher chip, then gave an approving nod. He placed the chip facedown on the table, on an interface pad in front of his supply of wagering tokens.
“Purchasing one hundred thousand.” He counted it out in a variety of denominations, then displayed the stacks for the overhead vidcam to record. “Subtract one hundred thousand from the Mirta Gev voucher.”
A confirmation beep arose from the interface pad. The Duros pushed the wagering tokens across the table to Gev, and that was when Han realized there might be a problem. Mirta Gev wasn’t the kind of mercenary who’d walk around carrying two hundred thousand credits in ready gambling funds—especially if she didn’t like playing Riftwalker—and that could mean just one thing. Not only had Gev expected them to come to Valnoos to hunt for Tharston’s contact, she had known they would try to level the odds by choosing the most security-conscious casino on the planet.
