Tatooine Ghost

by Troy Denning

  Mawbo smiled broadly. Seeming to find her own courage again, she looked to the Imperial. “Two hundred seventy-five thousand one hundred to you, Commander Quenton.”

  “Three hundred,” Quenton said quickly.

  The Kubaz said, “Three fifty,” and the auction was off. The amount climbed to a million, then two, and started toward three. The Squibs stood by silently, allowing the auction to seek its own level before they began to bid in earnest. Though Han could not see them through the dense crowd, he imagined they would be playing to type, standing slack-jawed amid the other bidders.

  Her faith renewed by how cleverly the Squibs had outflanked Commander Quenton, Leia watched in patient silence as the amounts climbed toward the astronomical. She seemed to take a secret delight in knowing others valued the piece as much as she did, but when the auction was over, Han knew she would regret every credit that had been diverted from the New Republic’s hard-pressed defense budget.

  The bid hit four million credits, and a small furry hand shot up in front of Kitster Banai’s shoulder.

  “Down here! I have a bid!” Emala jumped so high her pointed ears bobbed into view. “Five million credits!”

  All heads turned toward the Squibs, and Mawbo stepped to the edge of the stage and peered down.

  “Repeat that.”

  “You didn’t hear us the first time?” Grees said from somewhere beside Emala. “Five million New Republic credits. That’s a five with five zeros.”

  “Six,” Emala corrected. “A five with six zeros.”

  As all this was taking place, Sligh came slinking out of the spectator crowd with bulging cheeks. He slipped into Han and Leia’s private booth and ducked under the table, then something began to clatter to the floor. Han looked down to see him spitting out fund transfer chips.

  “You’ll want to dump those down the waste chute,” he said. “Real fast.”

  Sligh winked and departed again, leaving Han staring under the table as Leia’s head appeared opposite his. Her jaw dropped when she saw the pile, then she simply began to scoop chips into her palm. Han joined her, and they dropped the chips down the booth’s waste chute, where they would be drawn along a vacuum duct to a central disintegration unit.

  By the time they returned their attention to the auction, the Rodian security guard was crossing the stage toward Mawbo, coming from the general direction of the VIP booths.

  “What’s going on now?” Leia asked.

  Han could only shake his head. “Probably something to do with those chips we dumped.” He reached under his cape and pulled his belt around where it would be easier to reach his holster. “Better check your blaster.”

  The Rodian whispered into Mawbo’s ear. She looked toward the VIP booths and nodded, then turned to the bidders.

  “In light of the sudden jump in price, the owner has requested funds verification.”

  Han barely noticed the approving grunts from the crowd, or the superior looks the other bidding agents threw in the direction of the Squibs. He was too shocked by what Mawbo had just said.

  “Owner? Threkin Horm is the owner?”

  “We don’t know it’s Threkin in the booth.” Despite her words, Leia’s voice was quavering with rage. “That hand could belong to anybody.”

  “I’m betting on Horm. Didn’t his family control the spaceline that serviced Alderaan?”

  “One of them.”

  “The one Twilight was on?”

  Leia nodded.

  Han rose. “I’d even give you odds.”

  She caught his arm. “Where are you going?”

  “To see a thief.” Even as he said it, Han realized that Tatooine was neither the time nor the place to seek justice. With the Chimaera in orbit, Mawbo’s thugs controlling every door, and an Imperial infiltration squad just meters away on the other side of a mirrfield, the circumstances were hardly ideal for a citizen’s arrest. He sat down and said glumly, “I just wanted to make sure it’s him.”

  “I know.” Leia’s tone suggested she didn’t believe a word. “We’ll take care of Horm on Coruscant. We do know where he lives.”

  “Yeah.” Han returned to his seat. “And how he’s paying for that penthouse of his.”

  At the front of the theater, the Rodian had produced a comm-linked transfer pad and was descending a small lift-platform to the theater floor. Two Gamorreans were already waiting for him beside the stage.

  “Please ready your transfer chips for a validation reading.” Mawbo looked straight at Emala and Grees. “And if you can’t cover a bid of five million credits, save us all time by retiring from the purchasing area now. I’ll buy you a drink later.”

  A number of bidders left immediately, but the Squibs were not among them.

  The Rodian security captain and his guards began to work their way down the line, sending bidder after bidder into the spectator area. An angry rumble built in the front of the room as a handful of agents realized someone had stolen their chips. Mawbo glanced quickly in the direction of the VIP booth, then nodded and reminded the bidders they were responsible for their own security. When a pair of Aqualish took offense and leapt onto the stage, the two humans loosed a flurry of stun bolts and sent them falling back to the floor.

  The incident sped things along. The Rodian continued the verification as a Gamorrean dragged the Aqualish away. Several more bidders failed to find their transfer chips. They left without protest—especially after Mawbo moved the remainder of the Gamorreans down to the theater floor. The Squibs, of course, still had the chip Han and Leia had provided. When Quenton—a by-the-book Imperial officer all the way—discovered that his own funds chip was missing, he simply turned to a bodyguard for the backup. By the time the validation reading was completed, only the Squibs, the Imperials, and twenty minor plutocrats remained in the auction.

  Leia cast a vaguely guilty look toward the disposal chute, but when she spoke, her tone was one of relief. “Our Squibs don’t play fair.”

  “That’s fair for Tatooine.”

  Once Mawbo recovered from the shock of seeing the Squibs still on the floor, she accepted their bid. The price steadily climbed, a quarter million at a time. By ten million, only the Squibs and the Imperials remained. At twelve million, Leia winced visibly, no doubt counting the number of blastboats or assault companies the New Republic would not be arming in order to recover the code key inside Killik Twilight.

  At thirteen million, she bit her lip. “Sweetheart?” Leia removed her hold-out blaster from its thigh holster, then twisted one of her counterfeit lekku free of its collar. “How close would you need to be to hit my painting with that?”

  She pulled a small silver sphere from inside the tentacle and placed it on the table.

  “Oh dear,” C-3PO said. “A thermal detonator.”

  “Relax, Goldenrod. It’s a little one.” Han picked up the detonator and tapped his Devaronian horns with it, then asked in a hurt voice, “How come all I got was vibroknives?”

  “Smaller horns.” Leia’s tone was impatient. “How close?”

  Han gazed through the mirrfield for a moment, pretending to study the situation, but really just thinking. In the unlikely event they survived an assault on the painting, he knew how terribly hurt Leia would be if it was destroyed—especially if she was the one who had directed it. Besides, he wanted her to have it back—if not in their home, then at least in a New Republic museum where she could go and visit it. He tossed the detonator in the air and caught it in his palm.

  “How much time do we have?”

  “The chip is only authorized to fifteen million,” Leia said. “I’m sorry. I never imagined the bidding would go half that high, but with the Imperials here—”

  “Yeah, we’ll have to figure that part out later.” Han tucked the detonator into his pocket, then motioned at the counterfeit lekku on the table. “Better put that back on.”

  Leaving C-3PO to wait behind, Han and Leia—still disguised as a sharp-toothed Devaronian and his Twi’lek c
ompanion—went to Horm’s VIP booth. As soon as they turned toward the mirrfield, a pair of Horm’s human bodyguards stepped out to block their way. Both were resting their hands on their holstered blaster pistols, and they seemed far more comfortable in their shimmersilk suits than Mawbo’s staff.

  The tallest pointed toward the back of the theater. “Refresher’s that way, pal.”

  “The guy I’m looking for wouldn’t fit, pal.” The bid went to fourteen million credits, drawing a gasp from the audience. Han looked past the guards and addressed his own behorned reflection in the mirrfield. “You’d be smart to talk to us inside, Horm, unless you want everyone in the theater to hear who’s selling the painting.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, a pudgy hand emerged from the mirrfield. It waved them inside, where a pale Hutt of a human spilled over the safety rails of his high-capacity repulsor chair. With reddish brown hair cropped short and a nose so fleshy it was almost shapeless, the occupant of the chair was definitely Threkin Horm. He fixed a pair of beady brown eyes on Han and Leia, but showed no hint of recognition.

  “What makes you think anyone here cares where the painting came from?” Horm did not offer them a seat; there were none. The table and couches had been removed to make room for his repulsor chair. “Tatooine is well known for its aversion to questions.”

  “I doubt anyone here does care,” Leia said coolly. “But a certain council on Coruscant would be very interested in knowing what their president is doing with Alderaan’s lost treasures.”

  Horm spread his hands. “The council has its expenses.”

  “Not many.” The tips of Leia’s counterfeit lekku were twitching in anger. “The New Republic grants you office space, and survivor donations far exceed salaries and disbursements.”

  Horm smiled tolerantly, then waved his bodyguards out of the booth and pointed to a switch on the wall. “Activate the sound filter.” Once Leia had done so, his eyes narrowed to slits. “For a Twi’lek, you know a lot about Alderaan’s business.”

  “We do our research,” Han said. With the offer at fourteen and a half million, the auction was about to end. “Now, you have a choice to make.”

  “How much do you want?” Horm asked. “And I should warn you, if the figure is too high—”

  “It won’t be,” Han said. “You keep everything.”

  “Really?” Horm lifted his brow folds. “Then why are you here?”

  “Because the painting shouldn’t go to Imperials,” Leia said. “As an Alderaanian, you must understand that.”

  “You’re appealing to my conscience?” Horm smirked. “Blackmailers?”

  “We’re appealing to your sense of self-preservation,” Leia said. “If the council finds out what you’ve been doing, you’ll face fraud charges.”

  “And if they find out you sold Killik Twilight to Imperials,” Han added, “someone will hire a bounty hunter. So, either you spend the rest of a very short life hiding, or you walk away with”—he listened to the bid amount—“fourteen and three-quarter million. Decide now, because this auction’s almost over.”

  Horm considered Han for a moment, then dipped his chins in a sort of nod. “Very well.” His repulsor chair hissed as it tipped forward so he could extend a beckoning arm through the mirrfield. “I was appalled to see the Imperials here anyway.”

  A bodyguard stepped into the booth. By the time Horm had given him his instructions, the bidding stood at fourteen nine.

  In an overly casual tone, Grees called, “Fifteen—”

  The audience broke into an excited babble, drowning out the remainder of the bid and buying Horm’s guard time to go to the stage. Mawbo raised her hands for quiet, but the crowd was not cooperating. Han thanked them silently.

  The bodyguard went to the rear of the stage, where he was stopped by a Gamorrean who seemed to understand only that his orders were to keep people off the stage. Finally, the Rodian noticed and went over to talk with the bodyguard. By then, Mawbo had quieted the crowd. Ever the show-woman, she paused for dramatic effect, then looked back down to Grees.

  “I think we all know what the bid was, but would you repeat it for the record?”

  “Fifteen million credits.” Grees managed to sound as though he was perfectly willing to go higher. “New Republic, of course.”

  The security captain started across the stage. All eyes shifted toward him, save for those of Kitster Banai, who had not moved his electrobinoculars from Killik Twilight since Celia had brought it out.

  Quenton touched a finger to his ear, then glanced toward Horm’s booth. Someone on his team had figured out what Han and Leia were doing in there.

  Quenton’s hand shot up. “Fifteen million five!”

  Mawbo started to acknowledge the bid, but the Rodian sprang the last few steps and caught her arm. He began whispering into her ear, and the theater broke into an inquisitive drone.

  “Fifteen five,” Quenton repeated.

  When Mawbo did not acknowledge him, Quenton said something into his collar. A dozen fit-looking beings began to move in from the edges of the room, not running, but shouldering and pushing and heading straight for the stage. They were all about the size of large humans and of species with the same general body pattern, and they were all holding one hand beneath a cloak, cape, or jacket loose enough to hide the bulge of a weapon.

  “Back to intimidation tactics,” Han said. He commed Chewie and told him to stay out of sight behind the Imperials, then drew his blaster. “When will they learn?”

  Horm’s eyes went round with fear. “Where… how… You’re not supposed to have weapons!”

  “We’re not?” Leia pulled her hold-out blaster from its hiding place on her thigh. “Remind me next time.”

  In front of the stage, Quenton repeated his bid yet again—this time with the smug air of a threat. “My bid stands at fifteen and a half million, madam.”

  Mawbo glanced down at him, then looked out at the infiltration team pushing its way toward the stage. Her dark eyes flashed in anger, but her expression remained otherwise unreadable as she weighed the costs of defying the Empire against the damage her reputation would sustain by allowing Quenton to push her around. Unable to counter the bid, the Squibs stood by silently, still appearing cocky and confident.

  Mawbo’s face fell, and Han knew which bad choice she had decided would cost her more. She met Quenton’s gaze.

  “I have been directed to accept the Squibs’ last offer.” A collective gasp filled the theater, and Mawbo looked toward Horm’s booth. “The owner has decided it would be an outrage to sell the painting to the same Empire that destroyed Alderaan.”

  The Squibs whooped for joy and huddled in a tight little circle, snickering and chittering in their own language and casting smirks in Quenton’s direction. He glared blaster bolts at them, then spoke into his collar.

  The infiltration squad broke into a run, shoving spectators aside or just kicking them down and running over their backs. The crowd exploded in panic. Spectators began to push for the exits and brought the squad’s progress to a crawl. Towering half a meter above the crowd, Chewbacca managed to look frightened and confused even as he eased forward behind the Imperials.

  Mawbo ordered her Gamorreans to the front of the stage, then turned to Celia.

  “Take the painting to—”

  From somewhere deep behind the stage came a series of low booms, followed quickly by startled cries and the muffled scream of discharging blaster rifles.

  “What’s that?” Horm asked, his repulsor chair hissing as he leaned forward. “Were those explosions?”

  “It wasn’t applause,” Han said. “Quenton has a squad coming the back way.”

  Horm activated a comlink and sent both bodyguards onto the stage to help guard the moss-painting.

  Out on the stage, Mawbo’s face grew stormy with rage. She motioned Celia to wait—needlessly—then turned back to Quenton.

  The Squibs were already taking things into their own hands, darting past
the bodyguards, swarming the commander.

  “Thief!”

  “Our painting!”

  Quenton went down screaming and flailing. His two bodyguards spun to help, their arms extending downward to activate spring-loaded sleeve holsters. Emala reached up and snatched a small silver weapon away as it appeared in the first guard’s hand, then used it on the second one. There was no sound or flash, but the man cried out. He clawed at his throat and collapsed.

  Mawbo watched in horror from the stage. “Stop! Not here!”

  The surviving bodyguard plucked Grees and Sligh off Quenton, shaking them violently, trying to snap their necks. Emala shot him in the knee. He dropped the two Squibs, reached for his leg, pitched over forward, and did not move.

  More fire sounded behind the stage, this time closer. Mawbo’s human guards took their repeating blasters and vanished through the cityscape. A stray bolt came through the holograph and struck the valance above Celia’s head. She screamed and abandoned the painting, rushing to a lift-platform concealed in the floor and descending into the stage.

  Quenton scrambled to his feet, yelling for help and ordering his infiltration squad after the Squibs. Emala whistled, and the rodents scurried out of sight. Mawbo took her lead from Celia and raced for the back of the stage, leaving her Gamorreans to form a perimeter around the apron.

  But a dozen Gamorrean security guards were no match for an Imperial infiltration squad, and Han knew it.

  “Cover me!”

  Han stepped out of the booth, and darts began zipping past his head. He dropped to his knees, still looking for the source of the attack, then heard one thump into his false horn.

  Leia’s hold-out blaster began to spray dashes of color over his shoulder. A small hand grabbed his collar and pulled him back into the booth.

  “What, did I marry a gundark?” Leia asked, crouching next to him.

  More darts hissed over their heads, and Horm cried out several times. Judging by the anguished gasps that followed, the Imperials were using a fast-acting neurotoxin.

  Chewbacca appeared at the edge of the panicked crowd, coming up behind a Kuati aristocrat and her telbun. He slammed their heads together, and they went down with sickening dents in their skulls.