“Please, honors, a small coin left for me?” An individual only as high as Han’s hip plucked at the sleeve of his shirt. A long gray-green pelt concealed the being’s form. “Has it got a coin in its pocketses for me?”
“No, I don’t have any change on me,” Han said. He pushed the long thin fingers, like brittle twigs, away from his pockets.
“Wait,” Luke said. “I have some.” He gave the being a coin. His voice was very gentle when he spoke to the being. The bony fingers snatched the coin, which vanished somewhere beneath the long coarse fur.
The being snuffled and went past them, toward the airlink.
“Other passengers coming?” the being said hopefully.
“Just us,” Han said.
Several other beggars, guides, and tchochke-sellers converged on Han and Luke.
“They’re mine, mine!” the being cried. “Find your own!”
They all ignored the hairy being’s protests.
“No, thanks, we don’t want any,” Han said, sidling through the group and dragging Luke with him. He imagined Luke passing out all the rest of their spare credits before they made it beyond the entryway.
It did not take them long to escape. The beggars, guides, and sellers retreated to their places near the entryway and waited for more receptive customers.
But the hairy being had followed Han and Luke through the crowd. It circled them warily, muttering, “Mine, mine.”
“The droid who came in with us,” Han said. “Did you see him?” He craned his neck to look across the chaos of the welcome dome. In any group of standard humans, Han Solo could look over the heads of most of them. Within the mix of sentient life-forms gathered at Crseih, he was of no more than average height. And he had to remind himself that he was looking for a purple droid, not a gold one.
“Droids never have spare change,” the hairy being said. “Droids never have pocketses. No reason to ask droids.”
“Maybe you could help us,” Luke said. “In another way.”
“Help?” the being asked suspiciously. “Work?”
“Just show. Show us where there’s a good lodge. Help us get our bearings at Crseih Station.”
“I can find us a lodge,” Han said, insulted. “I haven’t been out of touch so long that I can’t even find us a lodge!”
“Shut up!” Luke whispered fiercely.
Startled, Han stopped his protest.
“Lodge, yes, lodge,” the being said. “And places to eat and places to buy nice clothes, specialize in human fit.” The being loped off, its heavy fur bouncing against its sides.
Luke followed it. Han glanced at the ceiling in supplication. As the ceiling neither replied nor did anything to help, he shrugged and went along, muttering, “Damned if I’ll take fashion criticism from a guy in a hairy suit.”
The hairy being led Han and Luke through several airlinks and as many completely different domes. The noise and excitement of the first dome faded away. They passed into a region of huge machines and warehouses, then into a lush park, where alien vegetation clambered up the walls and moderated the whirlpool light with leaves in all the colors of the rainbow.
“Where are we going?” Han demanded. “There’s got to be lodges back in the carnival dome.”
“Not for you,” the hairy being said. “Not good enough for you.”
They traveled farther away from the lights and the noise and the action, into quieter regions. Gardens and low, organically engineered buildings surrounded them. Instead of being excited by the atmosphere, Han felt as if the very air were wrapping him in hot, damp blankets.
“Luke,” he said under his breath, “we’re never going to find anything, out here in the middle of nowhere.”
“Be patient,” Luke said.
“Patient! I’ve been patient! We’ve been walking half the day.”
Except to grin at Han’s exaggeration, Luke ignored the complaints and continued on after the hairy being.
They entered the largest dome so far. The top curved so far overhead that small clouds floated at the apex, and a breeze circulated the heavy warm air. The being led Han and Luke to a building that followed the contour of a crater. The front of the building spilled down to a pool at the crater’s floor, and rose to a tower at the crater’s rim. Two wings of the building followed the rim of the crater.
“Here,” the hairy being said. “Here is perfect.” It pointed through an irregularly arched opening.
Han stepped over the threshold into a cool dim room filled with the sound and scent of running water. He glanced back. Luke stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the harsh light. Han started. For a moment he could see both Obi-wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker, Lord Vader, in Luke’s stance. Luke came toward him, gazing around curiously, and the illusion vanished.
Han returned to the entryway and looked outside. The hairy being had disappeared. He scowled.
“Why’d you want to follow that guy all the way out here?” he asked Luke, who sat on his heels at the edge of the indoor pool, scooped his hand through the running water, smelled then briefly tasted it.
“We needed a native guide.”
“We’re supposed to have one,” Han pointed out.
“And he might be useful to us,” Luke said.
“I doubt it,” Han said.
“And … he reminded me of Yoda.”
“You think he might be one of the Jedi?”
“I thought he might be. Now I don’t think so. But he could have been.”
Han started to make a crack about Luke’s highly honed decision-making abilities, but thought better of it for the moment. Luke’s uncharacteristic lack of composure and self-assurance troubled him.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Anybody here? Is this a lodge or not?” It occurred to him that the place might not be a lodge; the hairy being might have brought them to a business or even a private house as a joke,
“Yes, human being, I am here.”
An image formed above the pond, flickering, reflecting, shooting shards of light throughout the irregular room. Han could not make out a definite shape amid the hypnotic aurora.
“We want three rooms,” Han said. “Two for humans, one fitted for a droid.”
“For what duration?” The musical voice took on color, like the image.
“Well be here indefinitely.”
“Payment two standard days in advance, if you please.”
Han slammed the door as he entered his room. The lodge now possessed all but the very last of his ready cash.
Not that the room wasn’t worth it. It was luxurious, with everything from instant-delivery high cuisine in the alcove to a patio overlooking the spectacular crater lake far below. Nevertheless, if he could not negotiate the letter of resources, he and Luke would be on a dangerously short rein.
He had a bad feeling about the letter of resources. Crseih Station was too far off the spaceways; it had been left too far outside the embrace of the New Republic. The rights and privileges and services he took for granted did not exist here.
Crseih was the kind of place he had known inside out, before he became General Han Solo. The kind of place where he could land the Falcon, walk into any establishment, and blend in or stand out, as he chose. He wondered if he still had that ability.
You’ve gotten too soft, he said to himself. Too complacent, too secure. It’s time to make some changes.
And time to repair our finances.
He knew Luke would disapprove of his plan.
As Han grabbed his jacket and left, Luke knocked on the connecting door between their rooms. Instead of answering, Han left by the front door, closed it softly, and hurried away down the corridor.
The letter of resources was a worthless piece of trash in Han’s pocket. His immediate impulse was to rip it to shreds and throw it into the nearest crater. But that would be stupid as well as impossible. It was printed not on paper, but on a practically indestructible sheet of archival plastic. The edges would cut his skin before they woul
d tear.
As far as he could make out, no one in Crseih Station was the least bit interested in honoring a letter of resources drawn on the assets of the New Republic. One entrepreneur had negotiated to buy it. Han would have had to be a lot more desperate to consummate the deal; the offering price had been ridiculous. It would have been a fine bargain for the entrepreneur, for it was negotiable by the bearer. Negotiable almost anywhere but here.
“Hell with it,” he muttered.
“Have you a spare—”
“No!” he said without looking around. “No spare change!”
“—minute, sir?” The ghostling placed herself in front of him, as delicate as a reed in a spring pond. “I want nothing from you but a moment of your time.”
“Sure,” he said, “I have a minute.” Ghostlings had always mesmerized him. They looked like humans, but were not. Their ethereal beauty tantalized humans and they in their turn were fascinated by human beings. They were as seductive as incubi and succubi, but as fragile as spiderwebs. For a human and a ghostling to enter into a physical relationship meant certain death for a ghostling.
But there’s no harm in looking, Han said to himself.
The ghostling smiled. Her long fine green-gold hair spread around her head like a halo, and her wide black eyes searched his gaze. She touched his hand with her delicate fingertips. Her gilt-tan skin glowed and her golden fingernails dimpled his skin. Han shivered.
“What do you want?” he asked, his tone harsh.
The ghostling smiled. “Nothing. I want to give you something. The route to happiness—”
“To your death!” Han exclaimed.
“No,” she said. “No, I’m not like that, not one of them, I used to—” She broke their gaze and looked at the street, at bits of trash that skittered past her bare feet.
She stood on tiptoe. Her feet had never evolved to stand flat. Her feet and legs were more like those of a faun than a human being.
“I used to plague humans,” the ghostling said. “I was fascinated with your kind. I followed, I teased—you are so exciting!—and I thought, It might be worth it just to partake of a human, even as the last experience of my life.” She smiled again, her expression beatific. “But I saw the error of my ways, of my thoughts, and I’ve dedicated myself to helping others see the truth! The truth that we are all the same, that we may commune in joy if we give ourselves to Waru!”
Han laughed out loud. The ghostling sprang back, at first startled and frightened, then distressed.
“Sir? I’ve said something to amuse you?”
“Something to surprise me,” Han said. He gestured around him, at the dome, the taverns and lights, the establishments at which one could get anything one wished, if one had the price. “I didn’t expect to be proselytized—not here.”
The ghostling smiled again, and moved close. “But where better? Come with me, I’ll show you. We’re the same. Waru will give us joy.”
“Thanks,” Han said. “But, no. Thanks.”
“Perhaps some other time,” the ghostling said, her voice a soft promise. She tiptoed away, waved over her shoulder, and vanished into the crowd.
Han chuckled and strolled into the nearest tavern. He forgot about his encounter with the ghostling, as he had forgotten about every other encounter with a ghostling. It was pointless to remember them, pointless to dwell on the impossibilities.
The tavern was hot and dark and smoky; intoxicant incense tinged the air and mixed with the pungent scent of wine. Han sat at the bar and relaxed. He could identify the homeworlds of about half the customers in the place; the other half were unfamiliar to him.
Borderland, he thought. A real borderland.
He smiled to himself, then laughed again.
It had been too long since he had crossed a border.
“Two-element minimum.”
Han turned to the bar. No one was there. He looked up, then down; still nothing.
A slender tentacle tweaked his cuff.
“Two-element minimum.”
All along the bar, the slender tentacles waved or waited or curved around mugs or wineglasses or flagons. Han rose to look over the edge of the bar, but the slender tentacle stretched before his face and motioned him back.
“If you wish to imbibe, you are in the right place.” The voice sounded like a falling stack of steel rods. “If you wish to indulge your curiosity, may I suggest the museum in the next dome?”
“Sorry,” Han said, offended.
“No offense taken. Two-element minimum.” The tentacle was poised to serve him.
Han subsided onto his barstool. “Then give me two elements,” he said. “How about polonium and plumbum?”
“I serve neither here,” the voice said.
“Two glasses of the local ale will do,” Han said.
“A fine choice for a brave individual.” The tentacle snapped out of sight behind the bar.
Han searched his memory for a shy species with many tentacles, but he came up with no one who would suit. He leaned against the bar, content. When he returned home was plenty of time to research the species he had never met, and perhaps to start an expedition to invite them to join the New Republic.
He scouted out the tavern. This was not a family establishment. The light was low, the intoxicant smoke thick, and small groups of people leaned close together over heavy tables and the occasional meeting pond. Han could hear the low tones of many conversations, none loud enough to make out.
Two glasses of ale thumped on the bar behind him; the serving tentacle vanished before Han turned around. Ale sloshed over the lips of the tankards, splashing on the dented wood.
Han took a gulp of ale, expecting watery swill or throat-stripping solvent, instead, the soft strong ale traced its flavor across his tongue. He swallowed. The ale glowed pleasantly in his stomach. He finished the first tankard and started in on the second, still checking out the patterns of the tavern.
A damp tapping drew his attention. The slender tentacle patted the bar, gently at first, then more insistently, till one of the suckers on the tentacle fastened to the bar and released, over and over, with a loud wet pop.
“Careful, you’re going to get tangled,” Han said. He laughed. The ale warmed him with an agreeable buzz. He could hear the conversations better; he could almost make out the words. He took another gulp of ale.
“You have already proven your bravery, sir human,” the barkeep’s voice said. “No need to push your luck by failing your obligations.”
“My what?” Han said.
“Your obligations! You occupy my space, you ingest my comestibles—”
Han chuckled. “This isn’t your native language, is it?”
“Certainly not,” the barkeep said in a highly insulted tone.
“It works better if you speak plainly.”
“Pay!”
“That’s plain enough,” Han said. He took a coin from his pocket and tossed it on the bar. The tentacle coiled over it, placed one sucker delicately on its surface, and lifted the coin. The tentacle snapped away behind the bar, and when it reappeared, the coin had vanished.
“What do you folks do for entertainment around here?” Han asked.
“We are doing it.” The tentacle waved its tip toward each corner of the room, each table, each meeting pond. “Do you require additional entertainment?”
“I don’t mind a game now and then.”
“Bolo-ball? There is a league.”
“I was thinking of something more sedentary … and riskier.”
The tentacle twisted into a knotted shape, rising over Han’s shoulder, pointing. Han turned around, and ran nose-first into the chest of a giant.
Han looked up. An enhanced human grinned merrily down at him.
“A sporting man?” The enhanced human, her size increased by genetic manipulation and her strength increased by surgery, was a head taller than Chewbacca.
“I’ve been known to place a bet from time to time.”
“Will this suit your fancy?” She opened her hand. In her wide palm lay a deck of cards. A design of complex knots decorated the back. The enhanced human moved her hand, and the deck flipped over. Chance & Hazard, illuminated with gold and emerald paint, topped the stack.
Han grinned. “That will do fine,” he said. “Just fine.”
Chapter 3
Anakin wriggled furiously in Jaina’s arms, trying to get down.
“Bad mens, Jaya!” he said. “Bad mens!”
“Stop wiggling, Anakin,” Jaina said. She hugged her little brother, but that just made him struggle even more. His face was streaked with furious tears. He had stopped crying, but he was still so angry and scared that his whole body trembled.
“Papa!” he shouted. “Papa! I want Papa!” He started to cry again.
Jaina was scared, too, and confused. She pretended not to be.
They were on a perfectly circular patch of Munto Codru feather grass. Jacen and Mr. Chamberlain’s black-furred wyrwulf slept on the grass beside Jaina. Jaina wanted to wake Jacen up. But she had just woken up. Waking up had hurt. It never hurt to wake up before. Never before in her whole life.
The patch of grass was not part of the meadow anymore. It was in a big metal room. It sat in the middle of the metal floor, as if someone had cut it out with a big round cookie-cutter. Metal walls rose very high above, all around. Jaina could not see any doors. She could not see any windows. Big lights glared down at her from the ceiling.
“Don’t cry, Anakin,” Jaina said. “Don’t cry. I’ll take care of you. I’m five, so I’ll take care of you, because you’re only three.”
“Three and a half!” he said.
“Three and a half,” she said.
He sniffled and rubbed his sticky face. “Want Papa,” he said.
Jaina wished Papa was here, too. And Mama. And Winter. And Chewie. But she did not say so. She had to be the adult. She was oldest. She was almost already getting her grown-up teeth. Her right front tooth was really loose. She wiggled it with her tongue while she thought what to do.
The Crystal Star Page 5
