Part 16 (2/2)

Bollux's red photoreceptors came on. ”Why, Captain Solo! Thank you, sir. Does this mean the crisis has pa.s.sed?”

”All but the housework. I got the firefighting outlets shut down, but the s.h.i.+p looks like an explosion in a dessert shop. You can skate from here to the c.o.c.kpit if you want. That was a good move you and Maxie-”

”Blue Max!” Bollux interrupted, a rarity for him. ”Sir, he's not in linkage; I think he's been damaged.”

”We know. His adaptor arm was bent and he took some burnout creepage. Chewie says he can fix him up, though, with components we have onboard. Just leave Max be for now. Can you get up?”

The labor 'droid answered by rising and swinging his chest panel shut over the computer module protectively. ”Blue Max is remarkably resourceful, wouldn't you say, Captain?”

”Bet your anodes. If he had fingers we'd have to start locking up the tableware. You can tell him that for me later, but for now just take it easy.” Han stood and beckoned Chewbacca and the two went aft to the hold again.

The former captives had laid out the bodies of their several dead, those who hadn't survived the terrible ordeal of the slave collars. They were a.s.sembling litters from materials in the hold, which Han had offered them, with which to bear their fellows home.

Han stopped by the corpse of Zlarb. In searching the man a few minutes earlier, he had noticed the hard, rectangular lump of a breast-pocket security case under his thermosuit. Han had seen a few such cases before and knew he had to be careful with it.

Settling down with one of the Falcon's medi-packs, he dug out a flexclamp and a vibroscalpel and began cutting away the tough material of the thermosuit. In the meantime, Chewbacca began cleaning his own wounds with an irrigation bulb and a synth-flesh dispenser. More by fortune than design, neither of the two had received deep wounds from the nashtah's claws.

Han quickly had the security case exposed. It was anch.o.r.ed to the pocket by a slim clip to which it was attached by a fine wire. Han carefully felt for and found the safety, a small b.u.t.ton concealed at the case's lower edge. Pressing it, he disengaged the security circuit. Then he began working the clip loose from the pocket lining with his other hand. To try to remove the case in any other fas.h.i.+on would invite a neuroparalysis charge from the case. A numb arm would be the best he could hope for, depending on the case's setting. Some security cases were capable of giving lethal shocks.

He reprimed the clip, and the case was rendered harmless. Humming a half-remembered tune, he got busy with some fine-work instruments he had fetched from the s.h.i.+p's small but complete tool locker. The lock itself was a fairly common model; the neuroshock was the case's main line of defense. He had it open in fairly short order.

And spat some sizzling Corellian oaths. There was no money.

All the case contained were a data plaque, a message tape, and a smaller case that turned out to be a Malkite poisoner's kit. That Zlarb was a pract.i.tioner of the Malkite poisoner's arts reaffirmed Han's conviction that the universe wouldn't mourn the man's pa.s.sing, but it did little to alleviate his frustration or his financial situation.

He threw aside the security case and glowered at the two surviving human slavers. They both began to quake visibly. ”You have one chance,” he said quietly. ”Somebody owes me money; I have ten thousand credits coming for this run and I want it. Not telling me where I can get it would be the dumbest thing you'll ever do in your lives, and one of the very last.”

”We don't know anything, Solo, we swear,” one of them protested. ”Zlarb hired us on and he arranged everything; he handled the contacts and all the money himself. We never saw anybody else, that's the truth.” His comrade confirmed it energetically.

The ex-slaves had finished their preparations and were ready to depart. Han walked over to where the empty collars and director units lay. ”That's really rotten luck for you two,” he told the slavers and fastened a collar around the neck of each, ignoring their protests. He handed the collar-box to the leader of the ex-slaves and pointed to the bodies of the dead.

The creature understood, patting the case. The slavers would pay for the deaths with their own servitude. How long a sentence they'd have to serve would be entirely up to their one-time captives. Han couldn't have cared less.

”Take your boss's body with you,” he ordered the two. They looked at one another. The creature's finger poised near the controls of their collars. They scrambled to obey, hoisting the late Zlarb between them.

Chewbacca led the way as the ex-slaves, preceded by their new servants, bore their dead from the cargo hold. ”Don't forget to get rid of the other casualties,” Han called after his friend. ”And collar up that other slaver for them. Then bring me a reader!”

Exhausted, he resolutely set to the task of cleaning up his injuries with another irrigation bulb, thinking ominous thoughts about how little money he and Chewbacca had left and wondering if their rotten luck would ever break. Then it occurred to him that Zlarb would undoubtedly have killed him, and Chewbacca as well, if Blue Max and Bollux hadn't given the situation a twist. As it was, he and the Wookiee were alive and free and, with a little cleaning up, would have their stars.h.i.+p in something like running order again very shortly. By the time Chewbacca returned, Han was applying synth-flesh to his wounds and whistling to himself.

The Wookiee was carrying a portable readout. Han shoved the medipack aside and fit the data plaque into the reader. His copilot leaned over his shoulder and together they puzzled over what they saw.

”Date-time coordinates, planetary index numbers,” Han muttered. ”s.h.i.+ps' registry codes and rental agents' IDs. Most of them for a planet called Ammuud.” Chewbacca rumbled his own mystification.

Han again cursed Zlarb. Removing the plaque, he inserted the message tape into the readout's other aperture. On the screen appeared the face of a young, black-haired man. The tight closeup told Han nothing about the man's surroundings, whereabouts, or even the clothing he wore.

The face in the portable readout began speaking. ”The measures you suggested are being taken against the Mor Glayyd on Ammuud. When delivery of your current consignment is made, payment will take place on Bonadan. Be at table 131, main pa.s.senger lounge, Bonadan s.p.a.ceport Southeast II at these coordinates.” Standard date-time coordinates appeared on the screen for a moment, then it cleared.

Han tossed the reader into the air with a burst of laughter. ”If we pour it on, we can still get there in time. Let's get the canopy patched; we can tidy up and see to Bollux and Max while we're in jump.”

He kissed the reader and the Wookiee brayed, muzzle wrinkling, tongue curling, fangs showing. It was time to see about payments due.

III.

HAN Solo was obliged to raise his voice to deliver the punch line. A gargantuan ore barge was settling in with such a booming of brute engines that, even though it was grounding halfway across the vast s.p.a.ceport, it set up tiny wavelets in drinks in the pa.s.senger terminal's main lounge.

The main lounge of Bonadan s.p.a.ceport Southeast II was colossal and, besides the unceasing rumble of arriving and departing s.h.i.+ps, was filled with the conversation of thousands of human and nonhuman customers that overtaxed its sound-muting system. The lounge's transparent dome revealed a sky teeming with s.h.i.+ps of every description, their comings and goings orchestrated by the most advanced control system available. Planetary and solar system shuttles, pa.s.senger liners, the enormous barges carrying food and raw materials, Authority Security Police fleet s.h.i.+ps, and bulk freighters bearing away Bonadan's manufactured goods-all combined to make this one of the busiest ports in the Corporate Sector.

Although it encompa.s.sed tens of thousands of star systems, the Corporate Sector Authority was no more than an isolated cl.u.s.ter among the uncountable suns known to humankind. But there wasn't one native, intelligent life form to be found in this entire part of s.p.a.ce; a number of theories existed to explain why. The Authority had been chartered to exploit the incalculable wealth here. There were those who used words like ”despoil” and ”pillage” for what the Authority did. It maintained absolute control over its provinces and employees, and guarded its prerogatives jealously.

Leaning closer to Chewbacca, Han chuckled. ”So the prospector says-get this, Chewie-the prospector says, ”Well, how do you think my pack-beast got knock-kneed?”

He had timed the delivery just right. Chewbacca had raised a two-liter mug of Ebla beer to his lips and a spasm of laughter caught him right in the middle of a long draught. He choked, snorted, and woofed mightily into his mug. White beer-spume exploded outward. Though they registered displeasure, patrons at nearby tables, inspecting the Wookiee and noting his size and the fierce, fanged visage, refrained from complaining. Han chortled, as he scratched a shoulder made itchy by the somatigenerative effects of the synth-flesh.

Chewbacca uttered a guttural accusation. The pilot raised his eyebrows. ”Of course I timed the punch line that way. Bollux told that joke to me while I was eating and it did the same thing to me.” Chewbacca thought about the joke again and laughed abruptly, something halfway between a grunt and a bark.

Throughout his story and most of the long Bonadan morning Han had kept an eye on table 131. It was still vacant and the little red light over its robo-bartender indicated that it was still reserved. The closest overhead chrono showed that the time for Zlarb's rendezvous with his employer was long past.

The lounge was nearly filled, which tended to be true of this place at any hour of the day or night, what with the number of pa.s.sengers and crew members pa.s.sing through the port in addition to resident personnel. It was a light, airy, and open place constructed in levels of meandering terraces where plants from hundreds of Authority worlds had been nurtured. Though every table had a clear view of the constant traffic above, foliage tended to screen one terrace from the next. The two partners had selected a table from which they could observe table 131 through a lush curtain of D'ian orchid vine freckled with sweet-smelling moss and still remain inconspicuous.

It had been their uncomplicated plan to observe who came to meet Zlarb at the table, follow them out and accost them, collecting their ten thousand by dint of whatever threats or intimidation seemed appropriate. But something was plainly wrong; no one had come.

Han began feeling uneasy despite his joking; neither he nor Chewbacca was armed. Bonadan was a highly industrialized, densely inhabited planet, one of the Authority's foremost factory worlds. With ma.s.ses of humanity and other life forms packed together in such number, the Security Police-”Espos,” as they were called in slang-talk-were at great pains to keep lethal weapons out of the hands and other manipulatory appendages of the populace. Weapons detectors and search-scan monitors were to be found almost everywhere on the planet, including thoroughfares, places of business, stores, and public transportation. And, most particularly, surveillance was maintained at each of Bonadan's ten sprawling s.p.a.ceports, the largest of which was Southeast II.

Carrying a firearm-either blaster or Wookiee bowcaster-would be grounds for immediate arrest, something the two could hardly afford. If their true ident.i.ties and past activities ever came to light, the Corporate Sector Authority's only regret would be that it could only execute them one time apiece. The one positive aspect of this situation, the way Han saw it, was that Zlarb's contact would in all probability be unarmed as well.

Or, would have been. It was beginning to look like their wait had been for nothing.

Chewbacca punched a series of b.u.t.tons on the robo-bartender and fed it some cash, very nearly their last. A panel slid back and a new round of drinks waited. The Wookiee took up a new mug enthusiastically, and for Han there was another half-bottle of a strong local wine. Chewbacca drank deeply and with obvious bliss, eyes closed, lowering the mug at last to wipe the white ring of suds out of his facial hair with the back of one paw. He closed his eyes again and smacked his lips loudly.

Han approached his bottle with less ardor. Not that he didn't like the wine; it was the intrusive nature of this over-civilized planet, as reflected in the design of the bottle, that he abhorred. He pressed hard on the cap's seal with his thumb and the cap popped off. Once off, it was almost impossible to re-affix. Then came the part Han really loathed; breach of the cap triggered the release of a small energy charge. Light-emitting diodes, manufactured into the bottle, began a garish show. Figures and lettering marched around the bottle extolling the virtues of its contents. The LEDs scintillated, giving what were intended to be winning statements about the wine's contents, bouquet, and the high standards of personal hygiene embraced by the bottler's employees and automata. Consumer information appeared, too, though in far smaller letters and less blinding hues.

Han, glaring at the bottle, refusing to touch it as long as it persisted in flaunting itself, thought I should've had some of these back on Kamar. The Badlanders would probably've danced around them holding hands and singing hymns.

After a minute or so the tiny charge was exhausted and the bottle reverted to an unaggressive container. Han's attention was attracted by a conversation going on by table Number 131, only a few meters away on the next terrace down. An a.s.sistant manager, a blue-furred, four-armed native of Pho Ph'eah, was engaged in a difference of opinion with an attractive young female of Han's own species.

The manager was waving all four arms in the air. ”But the table is reserved, human! Can you not see the red courtesy light that so designates it?”

The human appeared to be several years younger than Han. She had straight black hair that fell just below the nape of her slender neck. Her skin was a rich brown, her eyes nearly black, indicating that she came from a world that received a good deal of solar radiation. She had a long, mobile face that showed, Han thought, a sense of humor. She wore an everyday working outfit-a blue one-piece bodysuit and low boots. She stood, hands gracefully on hips, and stared at the Pho Ph'eahian, unconvinced.

Then she contorted her face in a very close imitation of the manager's, waving her arms and shrugging her shoulders in precisely the way he had, though she was a couple of arms short. Han found himself laughing aloud. She heard him, caught his eye and gave him a conspiratorial smile. Then she went back to her dispute.

”But it's been reserved ever since I came in, hasn't it? And n.o.body's claimed it, have they? There're no other small tables and I'm tired of sitting at the bar; I want to wait for my friends right here. Or should we take our business elsewhere? It doesn't look like you're making much money off this table right now, does it?”

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