Star Wars: Shadow Games (5 page)

“Nope.”

Javul Charn adjusted her weapons belt and checked herself in the mirror of her suite aboard the
Nova’s Heart
. The wide belt had several utility pockets containing stun pellets, a length of monofilament, a limited-range confounder, and other “gadgets,” as Dara disparagingly referred to them. In addition, a customized DH-17 blaster was holstered on one side and a vibroknife on the other, both riding low across her hips. The synthsilk jumpsuit beneath looked like it had been painted on.

You look bad
, she told herself.
You look lean and mean
.

In reality, she was distressingly sure that she looked about as dangerous as a Corellian spukamas, no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise. She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt.

Behind her, Kendara looked on in admiration. “You amaze me, boss,” she said. “I’m a little uneasy about going into that den of thieves and I probably know half of ’em. What if someone recognizes you?”

“I’ll just say how exciting I think it all is,” said Javul, putting on a look of wide-eyed innocence. “How daring. How I’ve just
always
wanted to meet a real pirate.”

Dara raised her hand. “Excuse me? May I just take this opportunity to say that I think you’re more than a little nuts.”

Javul laughed. “I’m
eccentric
, not nuts. All celebrities
are eccentric. I’m just more adventurous than most, I guess.”
And scared
. And it wasn’t Dara’s “den of thieves” that scared her. “Besides,” she continued, “you forget my official biography. I was born in the lightless sublevels of Coruscant. Grew up with predatory gangs shooting up the neighborhood.”

“Which is all poodoo. You know, I find it insulting that our PR guy actually thought an Imperial Center Slum was somehow more respectable than Tatooine.”

Javul grinned. “Not more respectable. More inspiring. And more dangerous.”

Dara snorted. “That’s a matter of opinion.”

Javul settled a bright teal turban over her gleaming silver hair and said, “Let’s go shopping for bodyguards.”

The news on the
Outrider
got worse, if that was possible. The engines had not only crispy-fried their various components, but destroyed the housing assembly as well. The cost of total repairs would have taken a healthy bite out of their commission even if they’d managed to retain all of it. Having to pay Han essentially ate up any profits. Worse, the docking fees were more than Dash could afford to squeeze out of his credit account.

Kerlew, a fellow Corellian, was a good guy and was even willing to make a start on the repairs in his spare time, trusting Dash for the payment, but Dash knew that trust would evaporate quickly if he failed to pay his docking fees. They needed some sort of work—pilot and navigator, trade liaisons,
something
.

With that in mind, after seeing Han off for Nal Hutta, Dash and Eaden returned to Chalmun’s day after day, making the rounds of other freighter watering holes as well, looking for a ship
sans
crew.

On day three, Dash sauntered into the Cantina to see Dwanar Gher and his lovely associate at their favorite table. He went over to pay a visit.

“What happened to your being otherwise engaged?” he asked Dwanar.

The Sullustan blinked at him—an impressive gesture coming from eyes the size of ash angel eggs. “What do you mean?”

“The last time I saw you, you were entertaining that Toydarian character—what’s his name …”

“Unko.”

“Yeah—Unko. You fed him some line about not being available to run his stuff wherever it needed to go.”

Nanika rolled her eyes. “We weren’t so much unavailable as disinclined,” she said wryly. “He wanted one of us to run some contraband to Imperial Center and we’re both persons of interest to the Imperial Security Bureau right now.”

“No kidding? How’d you manage that?”

Nanika and Dwanar shared a glance. The woman shrugged.

“We’re suspected of having helped remove some wanted criminals from the ISB’s clutches.”

“Why would you do something like that?”

“Who said we did?” She smiled at him slyly. He knew that look well enough to distrust it.

“Is he still looking for a ship?” Dash asked, an idea beginning to form in his head.

“As far as I know,” Nanika said.

“Well, I was thinking that, since the Imperials don’t really know me from a mynock’s mother, maybe I could take one of your ships and deliver his goods. We’d split the commission, of course—”

Nanika laughed brassily. “Oh, c’mon, Dash. I’m not a noob. There is no way I’d let you pilot my ship into Imperial space. They know me, they know the
Imp
. Dwanar can let you take his boat—”

“No one will be taking my craft anywhere,” said the Sullustan. “Most especially not you.”

Dash’s temper flared. “Look, my reputation as a pilot is—”

“Your reputation as a pilot,” Dwanar informed him, “is that you take risks that are stupid even for a Corellian. You’re not going to play Kick-the-Rancor with
my
ship.”

And that was that. After an hour spent in Chalmun’s with no better results, Dash dragged himself to the bar and ordered a Corellian whiskey he couldn’t really afford. When he finished the first, he ordered another and was beginning to feel pleasantly morose when he realized the Rodian bartender was speaking to him.

“What?” he looked up glaring. “I’m paid up, goggle-eyes.”

“Hey! Attitude, pink-skin. I’ve done you no grief. I am, in fact, about to do you a favor. You’re looking for a commission?”

“Yeah, what of it?”

“Well, a commission is looking for you.”

Dash’s head cleared at lightspeed. “Where away?”

The Rodian pointed over Dash’s shoulder. He turned. It was the same booth he’d found Han Solo in only days ago. He closed his eyes, seized by the impression he’d been here before. The Equani had a word for it—Dash frowned, trying to remember it. Ah, yes:
çenõ-ka
. Maybe he could no longer hold his liquor. Maybe he’d slipped into a temporal loop and was destined to live out the rest of his life in Chalmun’s. Okay, then. He bolted the last of his whiskey, thanked the Rodian, and headed for the booth.

His surprise when he stepped into the little cubicle was complete. Two women looked up at him. Two young women. Two very human, very beautiful women. One had short spiky hair that was several different and contradictory shades of orange; the other’s hair was concealed beneath a turban of vivid teal.

His smile was automatic. “Ladies!” He sketched a bow. “My friend Kendo at the bar there tells me you’re looking for a pilot.”

The two women looked at each other, sequined eyebrows lifting.

“No,” said the one with the turban. “Actually, we’re looking for a bodyguard.”

As usual, it took Dash’s brain a moment to catch up with the booze. “A bodyguard,” he repeated stupidly. “Look, I’m a pilot—and a damn good one, at that. I don’t—”

The spiky orange woman said, “And we’re willing to pay handsomely for the service. Money is no object.”

Those last four words went a long way toward clearing the fumes. Maybe money was no object to them, but right now it was Dash’s
only
object. He slid into the booth and studied his prospective employers. Both wore poly-prismatic lenses that cycled a rainbow of colors over the irises of their eyes. There was no telling what color they actually were; nor could he read their expressions clearly. Camouflage, instinct told him. These fems were in disguise. Why?

Maybe the answer was in why they felt the need of a bodyguard.

“I’m listening. Let’s hear your pitch.”

Again the exchange of glances. The spiky one leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Here’s the deal. My boss, here, has picked up a stalker. Probably nothing. Just an overzealous fan. But we’re not willing to take any chances. We need someone to keep an eye on her.” She jerked her head toward the turbaned girl, drawing Dash’s attention to her.

“Overzealous fan? Are you somebody I should know?”

“Only if you’re breathing,” Spike muttered.

“My friend exaggerates,” said the other woman, with a smile that managed somehow to be both coquettish and self-deprecating.

“Are you going to tell me who you are?”

“If you take the job, I’ll have to, I guess.”

Dash couldn’t tell if she was being serious or sarcastic.
Fine
. “So what’s the situation? Where would this guarding take place?”

“Aboard my yacht, mostly. At our ports of call. Wherever I go. This … person … has let it be known that he can get pretty close to me and so you’d have to stay pretty close to me, too.”

“Darlin’, that would
not
be a hardship.” He smiled at her.

“
Pretty
close, she said,” interrupted Spike. “Not skin-close.”

That can change
, Dash thought, his smile never wavering. “Normally,” he said aloud, “I wouldn’t take a job like this—I’m a merchant pilot by trade—but my ship is under repair right now, so I’m at loose ends. Until I can get repairs completed. That’s gonna take a while.”

“How long?”

“I’m flexible.”

“I’ll just bet you are,” said Spike drily.

“So you can start right away?” asked the other.

“Well, actually, it’s not just me. I have a partner. A Nautolan. Who
happens
to be a teräs käsi master.” He watched for the reaction from the two women and was gratified by the response. They apparently knew something of the sort of threat the masters of the “steel hand” discipline represented.

“We can definitely use someone with those talents,” said the turbaned woman. “And it doesn’t hurt that he’s Nautolan. There are rumors that a high percentage of them are a little Force-sensitive.”

“Well, Eaden claims to be able to read emotions even out of the water, but I think he’s just showing off. I also have a droid.”

“Of course you do,” said Spike. “Every pilot I’ve ever known has a droid. You’d all be dirt-fliers without ’em.”

Matching her aggressive, elbows-on-the-table stance, Dash leaned into her across the table. “I beg your pardon, but I’ll have you know that I’ve successfully completed any number of missions without a droid’s assistance. And I’ve gotta say that Leebo’s not much of a space-monkey, but he’s good company, so I keep him around.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. He tells jokes. Not very good ones,” Dash admitted, “but still—the amazing thing is not that he tells them badly, but that he tells them at all.”

The spiky woman snorted. Very unbecoming in a female, Dash decided. At least in a human female. A Zabrak might think it was sexy, though.

“What do you think, JC?” she asked her boss.

“What’s your name?” her boss asked him.

“What’s yours … JC?” he asked in return.

Turban Girl blinked her lenses off and looked out at him through eyes of pale, luminous silver. He almost swallowed his tongue. With an expression that was suddenly deadly serious, she lowered her voice and said, “Javul Charn.”

He sat back in his seat, feeling as if a bantha had just sat on his chest. That name he knew, just as he knew those silver eyes. They’d gazed out at him from so many holoposters and performance vids, he’d lost count. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, suddenly in complete sympathy with the overzealous fan.

“I’m, uh, I’m Dash. Dash Rendar. I’m a pilot.”

“Yeah,” said Spike. “So you said.”

Eaden Vrill was not entirely pleased with their new job. At least Dash didn’t
think
he was. It was hard to tell with teräs käsi adepts—they were so
disciplined
. And a
Nautolan’s huge, dark eyes were hard to read anyway. Standing in the docking bay, he and Leebo listened to Dash’s glowing description of the job in complete silence.

Eaden was stone-still for a full ten seconds, then said, “What will it pay?”

He nodded when Dash named the figure, then turned on his heel and went up into the ship to pack his kit.

Dash turned to Leebo and said, “Well? You gonna say something? Crack a joke? Take a shot at me?”

“Defensive, aren’t we? We needed credits. You got us credits. So you get the credit for getting us the credits.” The droid added an uncannily accurate reproduction of a percussive three-note trap skin riff. Dash rolled his eyes. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard Leebo accentuate jokes in such a manner, nor the hundredth.
But add a few more zeros and we’ll be getting close
, he thought.

Leebo then raised one metal arm, servos whining delicately. “Question.”

“What?”

“We’re going to be working on this woman’s yacht?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s her name?”

“Her name? I told you her name. Javul Charn. You know—Javul Charn, the holostar?”

Leebo made a sound somewhere between a snort and a clatter. “Not the fem. What would I care about a
girl
? The
ship
, protein-brains. What’s the
ship’s
name?”

Dash laughed. “I keep forgetting your taste in females is toward the hard and ion-powered. She’s the
Nova’s Heart
—a SoroSuub PLY-3500.”

“Ooh,” said Leebo, managing to sound rhapsodic, “I’m in love.” He turned and tilted his head toward the
Outrider
, sitting forlornly in the center of the bay. “Don’t worry, old girl. I’m sure they’ll never let me near the engine room.” He returned to the ship himself, then, muttering PLY-3500 specs in a mechanical undertone.
“Twin ion/hyperdrive nacelles … programmable transponders … state-of-the-art gyrostabilizers … be still, my recirculation pump …”

Dash sighed. He’d still rather be piloting the
Outrider
than be a paid passenger on some personal luxury yacht, no matter what the specs. And he somehow suspected that, as bodyguards for the rich and famous, he and Eaden would be more passengers than crew. They would, after all, have to go where the big holostar went, eat where she ate, be quartered close to her. He had no experience in the field to base that on, but he intended to be as professional about this as possible. It might be a nothing job, but he was going to take it seriously.

He’d arranged with his new boss (damn, but it was hard to even
think
that word—he doubted he could say it aloud) to transfer an advance payment to his account, had dispersed some to Eaden, and used most of the remaining credits to pay several weeks of rent on the docking bay with just a little left for Kerlew as a good-faith gesture. When all was arranged, Dash, Eaden, and Leebo reported to the spaceport, where a shuttle waited to take them up to the orbiting yacht. Dash thought it a little odd that the
Nova’s Heart
didn’t dock dirtside, but he supposed that had something to do with Javul Charn’s celebrity status. Maybe she was afraid of calling too much attention to herself—or giving her “overzealous fan” a heads-up that she was on Tatooine. That made sense. Dash Rendar understood well the need to keep a low profile. Over the years he had, perforce, become a master of disguise, subterfuge, and just plain hiding. He had every confidence that between Eaden’s abilities and his own innate wariness, they’d be as good a set of bodyguards as the lovely fem could wish for.