Star Wars: Shadow Games (4 page)

“Smart guy. Just help me find us a freighter. And a
relatively
honest pilot.”

Eaden moved off with the languid grace that was common to his species, leaving Dash to peruse the side of the room he had assigned himself. A number of spacers were standing clustered in the areas between tables, others were seated at those tables, and still others had sought the more private booths. It would be rude—and dangerous—to poke his nose into those dark little cubbies, but he could chat up any folks in the common room and let himself be seen by those in the booths.

Strolling, trolling, and meeting as many gazes as would allow that privilege, he had gotten about halfway up that side of the large room when he spied a Sullustan spacer of his acquaintance. The Sullustan, Dwanar Gher, saw him at precisely the same moment and waved him over to his table. Seated there as well were a Toydarian Dash didn’t recognize and a human he did—to his considerable chagrin. Her name was Nanika Senoj and they’d had a bit of a thing at one point in time. That had stopped abruptly, for the simple reason that she’d driven him swamp-bat crazy. She was gorgeous, no question about that, with her copper-streaked burgundy hair, milk-pale skin, and big, dark brown eyes. But she also had a competitive nature that was perpetually in hyperdrive. No matter where she was or what she was doing—or who she was with—day or night, awake or asleep, she had to be the
best
.

Seeing her sitting there, smiling at him, chin propped on one fist, he almost excused himself and walked away. That would have been the sane move. But he was a man with a mission. “Hey, Nani. How’s the vacuum treating you?”

“Can’t complain. Except that it’s a bit colder out there without someone to come home to,” she said pointedly. Dash saw Gher turn away to hide a smile.

“Bantha poo,” he said. “You moved on, babe. I heard all about it from Leebo.”

“Leebo?” Her eyes widened. “What’s a droid doing spreading gossip? I would
never
let my droid get away with that—I don’t care who programmed him. And false, malicious gossip at that! I’m telling you,
babe
—”

“Cap it,” Dash said. He looked past her at the Sullustan. “Dwanar, what’s up?”

The Sullustan’s wide mouth turned up in a grin. “My associate here”—he nodded toward the Toydarian, a plump little specimen whose wings Dash doubted could carry him more than ten meters before he dropped dead from exhaustion—“is looking for a pilot of an adventurous bent to take on a particularly lucrative job.”

Dash’s heart rate spiked momentarily. For a second the tantalizing words
lucrative job
had made him forget his circumstances. He shook his head. “Love to oblige you, Dwanar, but the
Outrider
is out of commission at the moment. In fact, I’m looking for someone to take my cargo the rest of the way to Nal Hutta.”

Gher snorted. “I’m trying to steer clear of Huttdom these days. Very unstable situation.”

Nani didn’t say anything; she merely sipped her drink and watched Dash over the rim of her cup. If looks could maim, he’d be doing his smuggling from inside a bacta tank.

“He can’t do it,” said the Toydarian waspishly, glaring at Dash. “You’re wasting my time, Gher. You promised you’d find me a spacer who would undertake—”

“And I will,” said the little Sullustan, matching his earnest tone with a soulful look from his impossibly large eyes. “Have patience, Unko.”

“Easy for you to say,” growled the other. “You’re not losing fifteen hundred credits an hour!”

“Why don’t you and Nani take his job?” Dash asked.

“We’re otherwise engaged right now. And Unko needs someone who can leave immediately.”

“Well, then he’s right. Talking to me’s a waste of time.
I’m going nowhere.” He sketched a salute at the table and turned to continue his promenade, stewing over the implications of Gher’s words. If a Toydarian was paying someone to help
find
him a pilot
and
a ship, the pickings must be vanishingly slim.

His stroll netted him exactly nothing. Everyone was either engaged, reluctant to go to the Hutt home system, or demanding too many credits.
Far
too many credits. He reached the back of the room and turned to look at the bar, feeling a bit down. The fact that Eaden hadn’t commed him meant the Nautolan was having no better luck.

Might as well go for a drink, then … if he could thread his way through the screen of old racer pilots who ringed the central bar trading stories about their glory days.

Kill me if I’m ever so used up that the most exciting thing I can do is drone on and on about past exploits
, Dash thought.

He managed to force his way to the bar and was surprised to see that Chal himself was tending today. The Wookiee usually spent his “working” hours behind the scenes in his office while his staff tended bar and waited tables. But he had a fondness for Podracing and Podracers, and the bar was full of the latter. He was listening to a pair of the codgers argue some rule or other, and seemed as happy as Dash had ever seen him.

“Hey, Chal, can I get a drink, or do I have to get me one of those astral badges?”

The Wookiee looked up and, with a bleat of pleasure, reached across the bar to give Dash an affectionate pat on his shoulder that almost dislocated it. “
Whiiinu dasalla
?” Chal moaned in his native tongue. What would you like?

“Corellian ale. And by the way—you know anyone with an empty cargo bay who might be looking for a quick score?” Dash’s gaze was still roaming the crowded room.
Chal, setting Dash’s ale before him, harned and moaned to the effect that he just might at that. It was a good thing, Dash reflected, that over the years he had picked up enough of the big furry bipeds’ language to gather the gist of their statements—mostly, anyway. He could still get tripped up by the inflection. Shyriiwook was a tonal language, which meant intonation contour was vitally important. Depending on the phonology, the same phrase could mean either “You honor me with your presence” or “You smell like a dead dewback.”

He understood the Wookiee’s statement well enough, accompanied as it was with the jerk of a shaggy head toward the nether regions of the cantina. “Really?” He brightened. “Where?”

In answer Chalmun pointed to a small cubicle on the other side of the bandstand and closest to the rear exit. There was but one table in it and he could see nothing of the individual sitting in it, save for a hand gripping a mug. Several empties already cluttered the tabletop.

“Thanks, Chal.” He lifted his ale and, sipping it, headed for the corner booth. He could’ve sworn he heard a smothered chuckle from behind him, but when he peered back over his shoulder the big guy was busily serving drinks.

Just shy of the doorway he bumped into a Kubaz who was nattering at the band to set up faster and begin playing immediately, if not sooner. Dash staggered back a few steps, amazingly spilling none of his ale. Hence the smile he showed his potential mark when he slipped into the cubicle was genuine.

Genuine or not, it faded just inside the doorway. “Sith spit!
You.
”

Han Solo looked up from his drink, his eyes coming into relatively quick focus on Dash’s face. “Oh,
nice
. Is that any way to greet an old friend, old friend?”

“Old
friend
? You’re kidding me, right? I’ve heard all
the trash you’ve been talking about me and my ship up and down the space lanes. I seem to recall that the last time we met, you took a swing at my head.”

“Hey, I was a little drunk. Okay?”

Dash considered the number of empty glasses on the tabletop. “Not like now, huh?”

“No, I’m not drunk. Yet. But give me some time and I’ll manage.”

Frowning, Dash sidled into the booth and sat down. “What’s up? And where’s Chewie?” An uneasy thought made him sit up straighter. “Nothing’s happened to Chewie?”

Han waved a dismissive hand. “Not unless you consider fatherhood something. He’s back on Kashyyyk with Malla and their new baby boy.”

“Yeah? What’d they name the kid?”

“Lumpawarrump,” said Han with some difficulty.

“Lumpa … Lumpa—?”

“Yeah, that’s usually as far as I get, too.”

“So Chewbacca’s home with the family and you’re hanging out at Chal’s drinking yourself under a table?”

Han gave him a fierce look. “I’m relash—relaxing.”

“Is that what you humans call it? I had wondered.” Eaden Vrill stood in the cubicle doorway, thumbs tucked into his weapons belt.

Han smiled broadly. “Vrill, old buddy! Good to see you. Still hanging around with losers, I see.”

“So it would seem.” Eaden tilted his head toward Dash. “Luck?”

“None … unless …” Dash regarded Han speculatively. When Solo was this cocky, it usually meant he’d scored some profits. If that were the case, maybe he could be induced to part with a few. Maybe just enough for Dash to complete repairs on
Outrider
and avoid having to hire another ship.

“Luck with what?” asked Han.

“I don’t suppose you could see your way clear to lend me a few credits, old friend.”

Han poked a finger into his right ear and wiggled it. “Wait a minute, I can’t have heard that right. You’re asking me for a favor? No—better yet—you’re asking me for money? Oh,
that’s
rich.”

Dash grabbed hold of his temper with both hands. “Can we be serious for just a moment? The
Outrider
is out of commission and I’ve got a whole lot of cargo sitting in the hold needing pretty desperately to get to Nal Hutta.”

“Huh. What’s wrong with the old boat?”

“Blown hyperdrives.”

“Both of ’em? How’d you manage that?”

“We ran into Imperials on the Kessel Run. Almost got blasted out of space, then almost ran into a planetoid, then almost got sucked into the Maw. We fried our primary and secondary drives getting out again.”

Han sat up straighter and leaned toward Dash across the table. “You’re messing with my head.” He glanced up at Eaden. “Isn’t he? He’s joking, right?”

“If only. We nearly perished.”

Han leaned back in his seat again, taking a slug of his drink. “I guess you’re lucky to be here then, aren’t you?”

“Sure. Except that I’ve got a ship that can’t fly and a cargo to get to Nal Hutta with no way to get it there.” Dash leaned forward, elbows on the table, trying to look earnest. His mom had always fallen for his earnest look. “I just need enough to get the drive up and running …”

“Even at Kerlew’s best prices that’s gonna come to quite a pile of credits. More than I’ve got. You think I’d be sittin’ here if I had a commishun—com
-miss
-ion?”

Unfortunately, Dash’s mom was unique.

“Just a few credits to—”

Eaden made a sound like steam venting, then said, “If I may: We have a cargo. Han has a ship. The purchaser
has the credits we need so that
we
can have a ship. Again.”

Dash looked at Han. Han looked at Dash. It fried Dash’s circuits to have to hire Han Solo, of all the people in the galaxy, to take his load to Nal Hutta, but—

Han’s slow smile was crooked. “Sounds like you need me.”

Dash came to his feet fast enough to reach orbit. “Forget it! I don’t need—” He felt a heavy hand fall on his shoulder.

“Pride rises before disaster falls,” said the Nautolan philosophically. Then he addressed Solo. “What percentage would you charge to take a full hold to Nal Hutta … and a few items to Nar Shaddaa as well?”

Han considered. “Forty percent.”

Now Dash leapt to his feet, fists on the table. “That’s piracy!”

“It’s business.”

“It’s space lane robbery! It’s—ow!” Eaden’s fingers had tightened on Dash’s shoulder in painful warning.

“Twenty percent,” said the Nautolan calmly.

“I should strangle you with your own tentacles,” Dash muttered.

“Thirty-five,” said Han.

Dash exploded anew. “We almost
died
for that cargo! We dodged Imperial ordnance for that cargo! We flew into the sucking
Maw
for that cargo! In other words, Han,
old friend
, we did all the hard work!”

Han made his eyes as wide and innocent as possible and shrugged eloquently. “All right. All right. Ice it, okay? Always was a sucker for a sob story. Thirty. And I off-load everything on Nar Shaddaa.”

“Twenty-five,” said Eaden. “And you deliver to Nal Hutta.”

“Hey, I could be putting my life on the line going back to Nal Hutta right now. Things are kind of tense there,
case you hadn’t noticed—what with the assassinations and all. And I hear Jabba’s in a bad mood. Something about a dropped spice shipment.” Han scraped at a smudge on his glass. “Twenty-seven.”

“Done,” said Eaden and pushed Dash inexorably back into his seat. Dash slumped, defeated.

Han smiled broadly. “Great. Where’s the old
Outrigger
stashed?”

Dash ground his teeth audibly. “It’s
Outrider
. The usual place—Bay Ninety-two. How soon can you leave?”

“As soon as you can shift the load.”

“As soon as
we
shift it?”

Han slid out of the booth and stood, polishing off his drink. “Sure. If you’d been able to do thirty percent on the cut I’d’ve been happy to help with the cargo transfer, but I don’t have a first mate right now and you do. So if you don’t mind, I’ll just go and prep the
Falcon
. Your hold’s full, is it?”

“Yeah.”

“No problem. The
Falcon
’ll take that on with room to spare. See you at the docks in a few, boys.” Han sketched a salute at Dash, returned Eaden’s attenuated bow, and left, whistling.

Dash watched him go, then tilted his head back to look up at Eaden. “Gotta admire your nerve, Eaden. I’d’ve caved at thirty.”

“Which is why we have our respective roles. I knew he would go lower.” He flexed a couple of his head-tresses to emphasize the point.

“I thought you said that empathy trick doesn’t always work out of water.”

Eaden gave the Nautolan version of a shrug—a lifting of side locks. “What can I say? It was a good hair day.”

“Y
OU’RE NOT THE LEAST LITTLE BIT NERVOUS
?”