by Timothy Zahn
They passed through one final atrium and reached a section of warehouse-type structures abutting a vast mural that seemed to have been painted directly on the inner city wall. Breil’lya went straight to one of the buildings near the mural and disappeared through the front door.
Han ducked into a convenient doorway about thirty meters down the street from the warehouse. The door Breil’lya had gone through, he could see, carried the faded sign Amethyst Shipping and Storage above it. “I just hope it’s on the map,” he muttered under his breath, pulling his comlink from his belt.
“It is,” a woman’s voice came softly from behind him.
Han froze. “Hello?” he asked tentatively.
“Hello,” she said back. “Turn around, please. Slowly, of course.”
Han did as ordered, the comlink still in hand. “If this is a robbery—”
“Don’t be silly.” The woman was short and slender, perhaps ten years older than him, with close-cut graying hair and a thin face which under other circumstances would look friendly enough. The blaster pointed his direction was some unfamiliar knockoff of a BlasTech DL-18—not nearly as powerful as his own DL-44, but under the circumstances the difference didn’t matter a whole lot. “Put the comlink on the ground,” she continued. “Your blaster, too, as long as you’re down there.”
Silently, Han crouched down, drawing his weapon out with exaggerated caution. Under cover of the motion, with most of her attention hopefully on the blaster, he flicked on the comlink. Laying both on the ground, he straightened and took a step back, just to prove that he knew the proper procedure for prisoners. “Now what?”
“You seem interested in the little get-together yonder,” she said, stooping to retrieve the blaster and comlink. “Perhaps you’d like a guided tour.”
“That would be great,” Han told her, raising his hands and hoping that she wouldn’t think to look at the comlink before putting it away in one of the pockets in her jumpsuit.
She didn’t look at it. She did, however, shut it off. “I think I’m insulted,” she said mildly. “That has to be the oldest trick on the list.”
Han shrugged, determined to maintain at least a little dignity here. “I didn’t have time to come up with any new ones.”
“Apology accepted. Come on, let’s go. And lower your hands—we don’t want any passersby wondering, now, do we?”
“Of course not,” Han said, dropping his hands to his sides.
They were halfway to the Amethyst when, off in the distance, a siren began wailing.
It was, Luke thought as he looked around the Mishra, almost like an inverted replaying of his first visit to the Mos Eisley cantina on Tatooine all those years ago.
True, the Mishra was light-years more sophisticated than that dilapidated place had been, with a correspondingly more upscale clientele. But the bar and tables were crowded with the same wide assortment of humans and aliens, the smells and sounds were equally variegated, and the band off in the corner was playing similar music—a style, obviously, that had been carefully tailored to appeal to a multitude of different races.
There was one other difference, too. Crowded though the place might be, the patrons were leaving Luke a respectful amount of room at the bar.
He took a sip of his drink—a local variant of the hot chocolate Lando had introduced him to, this one with a touch of mint—and glanced over at the entrance. Han and Lando should have been only a couple of hours behind him, which meant they could be walking in at any minute. He hoped so, anyway. He’d understood Han’s reasons for wanting the two ships to come into Ilic separately, but with all the threats that seemed to be hanging over the New Republic, they couldn’t really afford to waste time. He took another sip—
And from behind him came an inhuman bellow.
He spun around, hand automatically yanking his lightsaber from his belt, as the sound of a chair crashing over backwards added an exclamation point to the bellow. Five meters away from him, in the middle of a circle of frozen patrons, a Barabel and a Rodian stood facing each other over a table, both with blasters drawn.
“No blasters! No blasters!” an SE4 servant droid called, waving his arms for emphasis as he scuttled toward the confrontation. In the flick of an eye, the Barabel shifted aim and blew the droid apart, bringing his blaster back to bear on the Rodian before the other could react.
“Hey!” the bartender said indignantly. “That’s going to cost you—”
“Shut up,” the Barabel cut him off with a snarl. “Rodian will pay you. After he pay me.”
The Rodian drew himself up to his full height—which still left him a good half meter shorter than his opponent—and spat something in a language Luke didn’t understand. “You lie,” the Barabel spat back. “You cheat. I know.”
The Rodian said something else. “You no like?” the Barabel countered, his voice haughty. “You do anyway. I call on Jedi for judgment.”
Every eye in the tapcafe had been riveted to the confrontation. Now, in almost perfect unison, the gazes turned to Luke. “What?” he asked cautiously.
“He wants you to settle the dispute,” the bartender said, relief evident in his voice.
A relief that Luke himself was far from feeling. “Me?”
The bartender gave him a strange look. “You’re the Jedi Knight Luke Skywalker, aren’t you?” he asked, gesturing at the lightsaber in Luke’s hand.
“Yes,” Luke admitted.
“Well, then,” the bartender concluded, waving a hand toward the disputants.
Except that, Jedi or no Jedi, Luke didn’t have a drop of legal authority here. He opened his mouth to tell the bartender that—
And then took another look into the other’s eyes.
Slowly, he turned back around, the excuses sticking unsaid in his throat. It wasn’t just the bartender, he saw. Everyone in the tapcafe, it seemed, was looking at him with pretty much the same expression. An expression of expectation and trust. Trust in the judgment of a Jedi.
Taking a quiet breath, sternly ordering his pounding heart to calm down, he started through the crowd toward the confrontation. Ben Kenobi had introduced him to the Force; Yoda had taught him how to use the Force for self-control and self-defense. Neither had ever taught him anything about mediating arguments.
“All right,” he said as he reached the table. “The first thing you’re going to do—both of you—is put away your weapons.”
“Who first?” the Barabel demanded. “Rodians collect bounty—he shoot if I disarm.”
This was certainly getting off to a great start. Suppressing a sigh, Luke ignited his lightsaber, holding it out so that the brilliant green blade was directly between the opposing blasters. “No one is going to shoot anyone,” he said flatly. “Put them away.”
Silently, the Barabel complied. The Rodian hesitated a second longer, then followed suit. “Now tell me the problem,” Luke said, shutting down the lightsaber but keeping it ready in his hand.
“He hire me for tracking job,” the Barabel said, jabbing a keratin-plated finger at the Rodian. “I do what he say. But he no pay me.”
The Rodian said something indignant sounding. “Just a minute—we’ll get to you,” Luke told him, wondering how he was going to handle that part of the cross-examination. “What sort of job was it?”
“He ask me hunt animal nest for him,” the Barabel said. “Animals bothering little ships—eating at sides. I do what he say. He burn animal nest, get money. But then he pay me in no-good money.” He gestured down at a now scattered pile of gold-colored metal chips.
Luke picked one up. It was small and triangular, with an intricate pattern of lines in the center, and inscribed with a small “100” in each corner. “Anyone ever see this currency before?” he called, holding it up.
“It’s new Imperial scrip,” someone dressed in an expensive business coat said with thinly veiled contempt. “You can only spend it on Imperial-held worlds and stations.”
Luke grimaced. Another reminde
r, if he’d needed one, that the war for control of the galaxy was far from over. “Did you tell him beforehand that you’d be paying in this?” he asked the Rodian.
The other said something in his own language. Luke glanced around the circle, wondering if asking for a translator would diminish his perceived status here. “He says that that was how he was paid,” a familiar voice said; and Luke turned to see Lando ease his way to the front of the crowd. “Says he argued about it, but that he didn’t have any choice in the matter.”
“That is how the Empire’s been doing business lately,” someone in the crowd offered. “At least around here.”
The Barabel spun toward the other. “I no want your judgment,” he snarled. “Only Jedi give judgment.”
“All right, calm down,” Luke told him, fingering the chit and wondering what he was going to do. If this really was the way the Rodian had been paid … “Is there any way to convert these into something else?” he asked the Rodian.
The other answered. “He says no,” Lando translated. “You can use them for goods and services on Imperial worlds, but since no one in the New Republic will take them, there’s no official rate of exchange.”
“Right,” Luke said dryly. He might not have Lando’s experience in under-the-plate operations, but he hadn’t been born yesterday, either. “So what’s the unofficial exchange rate?”
“No idea, actually,” Lando said, looking around the crowd. “Must be someone here who works both sides of the street, though.” He raised his voice. “Anyone here do business with the Empire?”
If they did, they were keeping quiet about it. “Shy, aren’t they?” Luke murmured.
“About admitting Imperial dealings to a Jedi?” Lando countered. “I’d be shy, too.”
Luke nodded, feeling a sinking sense in the pit of his stomach as he studied the Rodian’s tapirlike snout and passive, multifaceted eyes. He’d hoped that he could simply smooth out the problem and thereby avoid the need to pass any kind of real judgment. Now, he had no choice but to rule on whether the Rodian was in fact deliberately trying to cheat his partner.
Closing his eyes down to slits, he composed his mind and stretched out his senses. It was a long shot, he knew; but most species showed subtle physiological changes when under stress. If the Rodian was lying about the payment—and if he thought that Luke’s Jedi skills could catch him at it—he might react enough to incriminate himself.
But even as Luke ran through the sensory enhancement techniques, something else caught his attention. It was an odor: a faint whiff of Carababba tabac and armudu. The same combination Lando had called his attention to on the Sluis Van space station …
Luke opened his eyes and looked around the crowd. “Niles Ferrier,” he called. “Will you step forward, please.”
There was a long pause, punctuated only by Lando’s sudden hissing intake of air at Ferrier’s name. Then, with a rustle of movement from one side of the circle, a familiar bulky figure pushed his way to the front. “What do you want?” he demanded, his hand resting on the butt of his holstered blaster.
“I need to know the unofficial exchange rate between Imperial and New Republic currencies,” Luke said. “I thought perhaps you could tell me what it is.”
Ferrier studied him with ill-concealed scorn. “This is your problem, Jedi. Leave me out of it.”
There was a low rumble of displeasure from the crowd. Luke didn’t reply, but held Ferrier in a level gaze; and after a moment, the other’s lip twisted. “The last time I did business on the other side, we settled on a five to four Empire/Republic conversion,” he growled.
“Thank you,” Luke said. “That seems straightforward enough, then,” he continued, turning to the Rodian. “Pay your associate with New Republic currency at a five/four exchange rate and take the Empire scrip back for the next time you work in their territory.”
The Rodian spat something. “That is lie!” the Barabel snarled back.
“He says he doesn’t have enough in New Republic currency,” Lando translated. “Knowing Rodians, I’d tend to agree with the Barabel.”
“Perhaps.” Luke stared hard into the Rodian’s faceted eyes. “Perhaps not. But there might be another way.” He looked back at Ferrier, raised his eyebrows questioningly.
The other was sharp, all right. “Don’t even think it, Jedi,” he warned.
“Why not?” Luke asked. “You work both sides of the border. You’re more likely to be able to spend Imperial scrip than the Barabel could.”
“Suppose I don’t want to?” Ferrier countered. “Suppose I don’t plan to go back any time soon. Or maybe I don’t want to get caught with that much Imperial scrip on me. Fix it yourself, Jedi—I don’t owe you any favors.”
The Barabel whirled on him. “You talk respect,” he snarled. “He is Jedi. You talk respect.”
A low rumble of agreement rippled through the crowd. “Better listen to him,” Lando advised. “I don’t think you’d want to get in a fight here, especially not with a Barabel. They’ve always had a soft spot for Jedi.”
“Yeah—right behind their snouts,” Ferrier retorted. But his eyes were flicking around the crowd now, and Luke caught the subtle shift in his sense as he began to realize just how much in the minority his opinion of Luke was.
Or perhaps he was realizing that winding up in the middle of an official flap might buy him more attention than he really wanted to have. Luke waited, watching the other’s sense flicker with uncertainty, waiting for him to change his mind.
When it happened, it happened quickly. “All right, but it’ll have to be a five/three exchange,” Ferrier insisted. “The five/four was a fluke—no telling if I’ll ever get that again.”
“It is cheat,” the Barabel declared. “I deserve more from Rodian.”
“Yes, you do,” Luke agreed. “But under the circumstances, this is probably the best you’re going to get.” He looked at the Rodian. “If it helps any,” he added to the Barabel, “remember that you can pass a warning to the rest of your people about dealing with this particular Rodian. Not being able to hire expert Barabel hunters will hurt him far more in the long run than he might cost you now.”
The Barabel made a grating noise that was probably the equivalent of a laugh. “Jedi speak truth,” he said. “Punishment is good.”
Luke braced himself. This part the Barabel wasn’t going to be nearly so happy about. “You will, however, have to pay for the repair of the droid you shot. Whatever the Rodian said or did, he is not responsible for that.”
The Barabel stared at Luke, his needle teeth making small, tight biting motions. Luke returned the cold gaze, senses alert to the Force for any intimation of attack. “Jedi again speak truth,” the alien said at last. Reluctantly, but firmly. “I accept judgment.”
Luke let out a quiet sigh of relief. “Then the matter is closed,” he said. He looked at Ferrier, then raised his lightsaber to his forehead in salute to the two aliens and turned away.
“Nicely done,” Lando murmured in his ear as the crowd began to break up.
“Thanks,” Luke murmured, his mouth dry. It had worked, all right … but it had been more luck than skill, and he knew it. If Ferrier hadn’t been there—or if the ship thief hadn’t decided to back down—Luke had no idea how he would have solved the dispute. Leia and her diplomatic training would have done better than he had; even Han and his long experience at hard bargaining would have done as well.
It was an aspect of Jedi responsibility that he’d never considered before. But it was one he’d better start thinking about, and fast.
“Han’s following one of Fey’lya’s Bothan pals up on Level Four,” Lando was saying as they moved through the crowd toward the exit. “Spotted him from the west-central ramp and sent me to—”
He stopped short. From outside the Mishra the sound of wailing sirens had started. “I wonder what that is,” he said, a touch of uneasiness in his voice.
“It’s an alarm,” one of the tapcafe patrons said,
his forehead wrinkled in concentration as he listened. The pitch of the siren changed; changed again … “It’s a raid.”
“A raid?” Luke frowned. He hadn’t heard of any pirate activity in this sector. “Who’s raiding you?”
“Who else?” the man retorted. “The Empire.”
Luke looked at Lando. “Uh-oh,” he said quietly.
“Yeah,” Lando agreed. “Come on.”
They left the Mishra and headed out into the wide avenue. Oddly enough, there were no signs of the panic Luke would have expected to find. On the contrary, the citizens of Ilic seemed to be continuing about their daily business as if nothing untoward was happening. “Maybe they don’t realize what’s going on,” he suggested doubtfully as they headed for one of the spiral ramps.
“Or else they’ve got a quiet agreement with the Empire,” Lando countered sourly. “Maybe the leadership finds it politically handy to align themselves with the New Republic, but they also want to keep in the Empire’s good graces. Since they can’t pay anything as overt as tribute, they instead let the Imperials come in every so often and raid their stocks of refined biomolecules. I’ve seen that sort of thing done before.”
Luke looked around at the unconcerned crowds. “Only this time it might backfire on them.”
“Like if the Imperials spot the Lady Luck and your X-wing on the landing records.”
“Right. Where did you say Han was?”
“Last I saw, he was on Level Four heading west,” Lando said, digging out his comlink. “He told me not to call him, but I think this qualifies as an unforeseen circumstance.”
“Wait a minute,” Luke stopped him. “If he’s anywhere near this aide of Fey’lya’s—and if Fey’lya is working some kind of deal with the Empire …?”
“You’re right.” Lando swore under his breath as he put the comlink away. “So what do we do?”
They’d reached the ramp now and stepped onto the section spiraling upward. “I’ll go find Han,” Luke said. “You get up to the landing area and see what’s happening. If the Imperials haven’t actually landed yet, you might be able to get into the air control computer and erase us from the list. Artoo can help if you can get him out of my X-wing and over to a terminal without being caught.”
