Star Wars: Choices of One

by Timothy Zahn

  “So why do we care about the Golan and Sarissa?” Luke persisted.

  “How should I know?” Han growled. There wasn’t any point in worrying the kid about the Star Destroyer that had just passed through the Poln system. Especially not since it had already left. “You know Cracken. He’s not happy if he doesn’t see at least three threats coming at him from different directions.”

  “I guess,” Luke said, not sounding all that convinced.

  Mentally, Han shook his head. His lying technique must be slipping. “But you know the military,” he said, standing up. “Even Rebel militaries. Show up and do what you’re told.”

  “I suppose,” Luke said, standing up, too.

  “That’s okay—go ahead and finish your game,” Han said, waving him back. “I’ll take us out.”

  “Actually, I can’t go,” Luke said, looking pained. “Axlon called me while you were talking to Leia. He’s going into the palace tomorrow sometime to talk to Ferrouz and wants me standing by in case of trouble.”

  Han frowned, the Star Destroyer visit again flashing to mind. “He’s more paranoid even than Cracken,” he said. “Tell him you’ve got better things to do than sit around and play nursedroid for him.”

  “Sorry,” Luke said. “I can’t.”

  Han grimaced. “Yeah, I know. Show up and do what you’re told. So where are you going to spend the night? In your Z-95?”

  “Luckily, no,” Luke said. “There’s a hotel about a block from where Axlon’s staying. He said he’d booked me a room there.”

  “A cheaper place than his?”

  “Probably,” Luke said. “I was going to finish the game first, but if you need to leave, I’ll just grab my things and get going.”

  “Yeah,” Han said. “Well … watch yourself, okay?”

  A brief frown creased Luke’s forehead. But he just nodded. “You, too,” he said, and headed over to the bunk where his small bag was stowed.

  Han looked back at Chewie; the big Wookiee was gazing knowingly at him. Han shook his head microscopically—they would discuss it after the kid left. Chewie nodded and busied himself with closing down the game. Then, heaving himself off the couch, he warbled a farewell to Luke and headed for the cockpit.

  Ten minutes later, with the Falcon prepped and cleared, they headed out.

  And finally, Chewie asked what was going on.

  “I don’t know,” Han told him. “But strange stuff’s starting to happen. I don’t think this is going to work out as neatly as Axlon thought it would.”

  Chewie muttered something under his breath.

  “Nope,” Han agreed. “It never does, does it?”

  With a sigh, Mara set her datapad on the desk.

  So that was it. A grand total of thirty Rebel ships had landed on Poln Major and Poln Minor over the past three days, including twelve today alone, everything from Z-95 Headhunters and thinly disguised T-65 X-wings all the way up to good-sized GR-75 transports. None of them had even been challenged, let alone stopped or boarded.

  And the orders to let them pass unexamined had come directly from the governor’s palace.

  The Emperor’s information had been correct. Governor Ferrouz was a traitor.

  Mara stepped over to the window, a haze of sadness settling across her mood. Bidor Ferrouz had been one of the best career politicians to come out of Imperial Center in the past ten years, the sort of person Mara always thought about when she heard whisperings from the galaxy’s citizens about the oppressions visited on them by the Empire. With men like Ferrouz in power, she always argued to herself, whatever evils might have found their way into Palpatine’s grand vision of unity and peace would sooner or later be rooted out.

  How could a man like Ferrouz fall so far and so quickly? It was incredible. And yet, somehow, it had happened.

  Or had it?

  Mara raised her eyes from the palace to the dome of white rock behind it, glittering faintly in the lights of the city. She hadn’t proved Ferrouz’s guilt. Not yet. All she’d proved was that someone high up in the palace was cooperating with the Rebels. The most likely candidate was Ferrouz, but it could also be General Ularno, the defense department’s Captain Greterine, or conceivably even one of Ferrouz’s three senior staffers.

  No, Mara couldn’t be absolutely sure Ferrouz was the traitor until she’d gotten into the palace’s own records. And she couldn’t do that until she was inside.

  Which would happen tomorrow.

  She gave the palace one final look, then opaqued the window and started to undress. She would go to bed now and get a good night’s sleep. She would pretend that Ferrouz was still loyal, and this was some serious misreading of the evidence on her part. Tomorrow, once she proved his treason beyond a glimmer of doubt, she would do her job.

  And the Empire would be a better place for it.

  IT WAS ONE OF THE TRUISMS OF THE SPACEFARING LIFE THAT SPACEPORTS seldom slept, and the farther they were from the local sun the less sleep they got.

  In general, Han had pretty much found that to be the case. He’d also added one more observational rule: When the spaceport was a long way from law and order and respectable people, it got even less sleep. Or none at all.

  All of which meant that Poln Minor’s Dankcamp Village, half a kilometer underground and peopled almost entirely by smugglers, mercenaries, wanted criminals, and the people who served them, would probably be up all night. Certainly it hadn’t shown any signs of slowing down during the three hours since he and Chewie had arrived in town, or during the half hour since they’d parked themselves at a table in this particular cantina and ordered yet another round of drinks.

  From one of the cantina’s three entrances across the room came a burst of boisterous laughter. Han looked over as a group of men with identically cut beards, plus a Rodian with an obviously fake one, strode into the room, all of them laughing over some joke. That joke possibly being the Rodian’s beard.

  A distinct possibility; but Han’s brief flicker of hope faded as they came all the way into the room and he got a good look at their sidearms. Most of them were carrying simple sporting blasters, with a couple of old Clone Wars–era DC-15s thrown in. Smugglers, or maybe a skimper or swoop gang. Scowling, he turned back to his drink.

  Chewie rumbled a question.

  “Because they’re smugglers, not mercs,” Han told him patiently. “And because asking questions gets you noticed. We don’t want to be noticed until we’re ready to get the answers we want, and then throttle-burn it out of here. That means we have to wait until we find some mercs, who will know what happens if you run a big armed ship past the Golan and the Sarissa.”

  Chewie growled again.

  “How should I know?” Han growled back. “Okay, okay—if we don’t spot someone in ten more minutes we’ll try that place we saw down the tunnel. If there’s nothing there, we’ll go find some other town.”

  The big Wookiee muttered under his breath.

  “Hey, don’t blame me,” Han protested. “This was you-know-who’s idea.”

  “What sort of someone are you looking for?” a voice from Han’s right asked in Durese.

  Han looked up. A Duros was standing there, a military-grade BlasTech DH-17 belted at his side. Finally. “The sort who knows how things work around here,” Han told him. “You a local, or just passing through?”

  The Duros smiled, his small mouth curling just slightly upward at the corners. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  The skin on the back of Han’s neck began to tingle. His Durese was pretty good, but he was only fair at reading Duros’ facial expressions. This one was either amused or really, really angry. “Should I?” he asked cautiously.

  “I worked for Jabba the Hutt a long season ago,” the Duros said. “You are Solo, are you not?”

  Chewie rumbled warningly.

  “Be of calm mind,” the Duros said hastily, holding both hands up to the Wookiee. “I have no longer a connection to the Hutt cartels, and have no interest i
n seeking the bounty I hear rests on your shoulders.”

  Han grimaced. Even way out here, Jabba had managed to get the word out. Terrific. “But others may not be so picky?” he suggested.

  The Duros’ eyes glittered. “Be of calm mind,” he said again. “Many here have barely even heard of the Hutts, let alone have thoughts or compassion for them.” He cocked his head. “I, for one, find inspiration in finding others who have successfully slipped from Jabba’s grasp.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Han said. “In that case, maybe you can help me. You’re flying with mercs now, right?”

  The Duros shook his head. “A mercenary’s life is not for you, Solo,” he said firmly. “Not unless you’ve learned better how to take orders.”

  “Not a lot,” Han conceded. “What I was looking for—”

  “But there is easier money to be made this night,” the Duros continued. “Do you know how to mount and calibrate Caldorf VII interceptor missiles?”

  Han felt his back stiffen. Caldorf VIIs were medium-range heavy missiles, usually mounted on capital ships. The Alliance had a bunch of them, mostly on escort frigates and a few of their gunships. “Sure,” he said. “I can mount ’em up, anyway,” he amended. “I’ve got a buddy who knows how to calibrate them. What’s up?”

  “An unusual person has been scouring the city for knowledgeable workers who will accept payment and not speak afterward of what they’ve seen,” the Duros said. “I can point him out if he comes in, if you choose.” He cocked his head again. “For, say, two hundred?”

  Han leaned back in his seat. “Seems kind of steep,” he said.

  “The price would of course include my personal recommendation of your skills and discretion.”

  “Your recommendation carries that kind of weight?” Han asked.

  “Several of my group have been already hired,” the Duros said. “But we leave tonight, and our experts depart with us. I assure you, the payment for the work will far exceed your payment to me.”

  “So you’ll be taking off right past the Dreadnought and Golan, huh?” Han asked. “That’s not a problem for you?”

  The Duros waved a hand. “Neither is a threat,” he said. “Do you wish me to point out the employer if he arrives?”

  Han looked across the crowded cantina. “Tell you what,” he said. “For five hundred, how about you go find him and bring him here?”

  The Duros eyed him. “Five hundred?”

  “That’s right,” Han said, digging out a hundred in high-denomination coins and handing them over. “Here’s the upfront. Bring him here, and you’ll get the rest.”

  “Very well.”

  The Duros started to turn away. Han caught his arm. “Of course,” he added, “if you try pulling some scam like bringing in one of your buddies to con me with a dip line, you’ll answer to Chewie.”

  Chewie rumbled, his voice even deeper than usual. “There will be no game,” the Duros promised. “I already have Jabba watching the skies for me. I have no interest in you doing so, as well.”

  “Good,” Han said. “Hurry back.”

  The Duros nodded and headed briskly across the room toward the door. As he walked out into the large cavern that contained the bulk of the village, Han saw him pull out a comlink.

  Chewie gave a contemptuous snort.

  “Of course he’s just going to call around to his buddies until they find the guy for me,” Han said, pulling out his own comlink. “No one works any harder for their money than they have to. But it still buys us some time.”

  At this hour, he expected Leia to be sound asleep. But if she was, it didn’t show in her voice. “You have something?” she asked.

  “Yeah, but not exactly what you’re looking for,” Han said. “Do we have anyone here who can calibrate Caldorf VII interceptors?”

  There was a short pause. “Caldorf VIIs?”

  “Yes or no?” Han growled. “I’ve been offered a job mounting them, but I need someone who can calibrate the things, too.”

  “Yes, we have someone,” Leia said. “Who’s this job for?”

  “No idea,” Han said. “But I figure you could probably undersling a Caldorf VII on an airspeeder without too much refitting.”

  “You mean like the T-47s we found in the cavern?” Leia said doubtfully. “I don’t know. They’re not really designed for that sort of thing.”

  “Well, somebody’s trying to load them on something,” Han said. “If it’s those T-47s, this might be our chance to find out who owns them.”

  “I suppose,” Leia agreed. “Where are you?”

  “Capperling’s Cantina in Dankcamp Village,” Han told her. “You need directions?”

  “We can find it,” Leia said. “How soon do you need someone?”

  “Five minutes ago,” Han said. “No way to know how long it’ll take for my friend to find his contact and get back here.”

  “You have a friend here?”

  “You going to talk, or you going to get your tech over here?” Han growled. “We don’t have time for this.”

  “Expert’s on the way,” Leia assured him. “I’m more interested in this so-called friend you conveniently found.”

  “He’s more like a passing acquaintance,” Han said. “He’s a Duros who used to work for Jabba’s cartel, same as me.”

  “Really,” Leia said suspiciously. “Small universe.”

  “Big cartel,” Han said. “And if I were hiding out from Jabba, this is the kind of place where I’d do it, too.”

  “What if he’s planning to turn you in for the bounty?”

  “Then he wouldn’t have bothered offering me a job,” Han said. “No, I think his plan is to help me make a big enough stack of money that I can keep running. The more I’m out there drawing Jabba’s attention, the less Jabba will be looking for him.”

  “Maybe,” Leia said, still sounding suspicious. “All right, wait there.”

  Han clicked off the comlink, rolling his eyes. Wait here. Like he had anything else to do. “Chewie, go check out that other room back there, will you?” he said, nodding toward an archway that led off the side of the main bar. “If the Duros is thinking about pulling an ambush, that’s where they’ll get everyone organized.”

  Chewie warbled a question.

  “Sure, if you’re still thirsty,” Han told him, experimentally swishing his own half-full cup. “Picking up another bottle will give you a better excuse to go over to the bar anyway. Just get whatever you want for yourself—I’m still okay here.”

  Nodding acknowledgment, Chewie got up and started weaving his way through the tables toward the archway side of the bar. Han watched him for a minute, then looked over at the door where the Duros had disappeared. Coming up with the four hundred he still owed would be a little tricky. Maybe the Duros would accept a little less, or maybe Han could get an advance from this mysterious employer. There was a brush of air as someone stepped over to his table—

  And to Han’s stunned disbelief, Leia dropped into the chair beside him. “That fast enough?” she asked.

  It took Han two tries to get his mouth working. “What are you doing here?”

  “We were checking out the conveyance tunnel that runs along the southern edge of town,” she explained. “The ones designed to accommodate ore freighters. We wanted to confirm that they’re big enough for our transports to use. That could be handy when it comes time to—”

  “What are you doing here?” Han interrupted as patiently as he could. “In this cantina? In that seat?”

  “You wanted someone who can calibrate missiles,” Leia said. “Here I am.”

  “Uh-uh,” Han said firmly. “No.”

  “It’s me or no one,” Leia said, just as firmly. “I’m the only one within half an hour of here who can do it.” Her eyes flicked over Han’s shoulder. “And if that’s your Duros, it looks like I’m just in time.”

  Swallowing a curse, Han turned around in his chair.

  It was the Duros, all right, along with a hum
an and a robed and hooded alien. The alien was humanoid, with black hair and yellow insectoid eyes peeking out from the hood. Even with most of the alien’s face in shadow, Han could see that his skin shimmered with color as he moved, like the rainbow haze from a spray of water.

  Han shifted his eyes to the human … and felt his heart seize up.

  Because it wasn’t just any human. It was Baldy, one of the two men who’d been with Mustache at the Quartzedge Port when Han and Chewie first landed on Poln Minor.

  Han still didn’t know who those men were, or who they were working for. But given that he’d told them he was going to the Anyat-en mines, it was a good bet they knew he and Chewie were with the Alliance.

  It was an even better bet that whoever they were working for wouldn’t want the Alliance knowing about that private stash of weaponry and T-47 airspeeders.

  And depending on how badly they didn’t want the Alliance knowing that, they might open fire right here and now. Baldy’s eyes swept the room and came to a sudden halt, aimed like turbolasers at the bar.

  At the big, shaggy, crowd-towering form of Chewie.

  “Get ready to duck,” Han ordered Leia quietly, slipping his hand casually under the table and getting a grip on his blaster. The minute the Wookiee started back to their table, Baldy would track his vector and spot Han.

  Briefly, Han wondered if there might be time to get Chewie on the comlink, or otherwise wave him off. But there wasn’t, and either activity would probably just draw Baldy’s attention to him that much faster. He looked sideways at the bar, wishing fleetingly that Chewie had some of that Force stuff Luke had.

  But to Han’s surprise, he found that Chewie wasn’t looking back at him. Instead, he was looking at Baldy and his friends. For a couple of seconds he and Baldy seemed to lock eyes. Then, as the bartender set a bottle on the bar in front of him, Chewie turned his back on the three by the door. He gestured, and the bartender pulled two mugs from beneath the bar and set them beside the bottle. Chewie gave Baldy one final look over his shoulder, then picked up the bottle and mugs.