Star Wars: The New Rebellion (16 page)

“Ze foood, it must have a delicate flaavor, no?” Kid said.

“They don’t talk like that on Hapes,” Han said.

“He does,” Zeen said. “He claims he was the favorite chef of the queen mother.”

Han grinned. “Did he have a recommendation from holder?”

“What?”

Han shook his head. His old rival for Leia’s hand had proven yet again to be a man of action and good taste. He had gotten the best of the queen mother once more. “I hope people are checking the cuisine for poison.”

Blue shrugged. “He works with many poisons. We don’t care. Only newcomers eat there, anyway.”

Chewie roared.

Zeen laughed. “No, Chewbacca, we haven’t got rid of the real food. It’s two caverns back.”

Han glanced at his old friend. Chewie looked as if he were about to gnaw the furniture. “I think we’d better go there first.”

“I think we’d better tend to your wound first,” Blue said with a suggestive leer.

“Lay off, Blue,” Han said.

“Testy, testy.” She moved ahead of them, leading the group into a thin passage that wound around Cavern 2 and led directly to Cavern 3. “You were a lot more fun when you were younger, Han.”

“You weren’t interested when I was younger, Blue.”

“You were so naive, untested, good-hearted. I like a man with a bit more experience, Han.”

“And a wife,” Zeen said.

“That’s not true,” Blue said.

“All right, then,” Zeen said, “you prefer men who have other attachments.”

“She’s a smuggler of the heart,” Kid said.

“Cute, boys,” she said as she ducked through the opening in Cavern 3. Han followed her. The cavern smelled of roasting meat, garlic, and onions overlaid with Wookiee warm won-wons and Sullustan stew. The cavern was humid. The walls were coated with liquid and an extra layer or two of blaster resistance.

“I don’t remember this place,” he said.

“It belonged to Boba Fett and five other bounty hunters. Most of Boba Fett’s friends died six years ago, and
we decided to make it into a gourmet area for those of us who frequent this place,” the Kid said.

Han shuddered at the mention of Boba Fett. That little bounty hunter had nearly cost Han his life. He was glad to hear that Fett’s associates were dead.

The cavern showed no signs of having once been a bounty-hunter den. Han counted eighteen cooking stations, with several more disappearing down the back. Each station was set up with a booth that suggested the home planet of the cuisine. The Wookiee station, right near the door, was nestled into a fake (at least he hoped it was fake) wroshyr tree. Chewie let out a delighted roar and hurried over to the Wookiee station. Han searched for—and found—the Correllian booth. It looked like something out of Treasure Ship Row, a bright red, green, and purple tent with an equally gaudy Correllian roasting meat on a spit outside. Han didn’t recognize her, but she recognized Han. That wasn’t a surprise. Most Correllians had heard of him, it seemed. And he didn’t like it. He liked to know who he was talking to.

“Slumming, Solo?” she asked as she carved him several slices of meat.

“Dining,” he said, holding out his hand for the plate. The food smelled wonderful. He hadn’t had a Correllian meal in—well, since before the twins were born, at least.

She added some Correllian greens mixed with charbote root, and a scoop of mounder potato rice.

“Sixteen credits,” she said.

“Sixteen?!” He almost choked on his saliva. “This would cost half a credit on Correllia.”

She grinned. “Been a long time since you’ve been home, hasn’t it, Solo?”

He let the remark pass. “A half-credit,” he said again.

“Fifteen,” she said.

“Two,” he said.

“Ten,” she said.

“Five,” he said.

“Done.”

He paid her, repressing his grin. It had been a long time since he’d bargained for a meal. He took his plate to one of the center tables, where Chewie was already digging into a plate of won-wons. He had five round, greasy won-wons hooked to each claw, and was sliding them down his throat like a delicacy.

Han had had won-wons. They tasted like granite slugs, only slimier. At least won-wons smelled appetizing. He sat next to Chewie—

—then leaped to his feet exclaiming in pain. His wound hurt even worse when he put weight on it.

Blue laughed. She was carrying a plate of Exodeenian pasta. “Told you to put salve on that, Solo.”

“Funny, Blue.”

“There’s an emergency med station over there.” She nodded toward the left with her head. “You might want to buy some salve there.”

“I’m going to put it on myself,” Han said.

She smiled prettily. “I wouldn’t suggest otherwise.”

Kid came over, carrying a cup of steaming Vayerbok. “What, no longer heart smuggling, Blue?”

She shook her head. “No sport in it. Experience hasn’t changed the man. He’s still too good-hearted for me.”

“I would think a good heart is a valuable heart, Blue,” Kid said.

“Probably,” Blue said. “But it’s also the kind that gets all mushy and romantic. Still treat your wife to candlelight dinners, Solo?”

“Of course,” Han said. “The rewards are worth it.” He winked, then sauntered to the med station.

A battered medical droid worked the side. It perfunctorily examined Han’s wound and said to the burly man behind the counter, “Blaster scorch.”

“I could have told him that,” Han said.

“No, you couldn’t,” the droid said. “You’re a smuggler. It takes specialized knowledge to have a medical opinion.”

“I’m sure it does,” Han said. “You weren’t a protocol droid in a previous life, were you?”

“Absolutely not,” the droid said. “I’m an FX droid. I have never been nor do I want to be a protocol droid. It goes against my programming.”

“Obviously,” Han said. He moved away from the medical droid and leaned against the counter.

The burly man slapped a jar of salve on it. “Fifty credits.”

Han grinned. “You have to have a high demand for blaster salve here. I’ll give you five credits.”

From under the counter, the burly man pulled out a blaster and aimed at Han’s chest. “You want me to make the salve really necessary?”

Han took a startled step backward. “I’ll just pay you, how’s that?”

“Fifty credits for the prescription,” the burly man said.

“And fifty more for the diagnosis,” the droid said.

“Nope, no way,” Han said. “I
remember
the blaster shot. I didn’t need your expert opinion.”

The droid turned its silvery face toward the burly man. “It never works,” the droid said, sotto voce.

“Timing’s off,” the burly man said.

Han frowned and yanked his salve off the counter. Then he ducked into the small booth beside the counter and applied the salve, nearly groaning with relief as the jelly relieved the burning.

He came back out, half expecting the burly man to charge him for the use of the booth. But the man didn’t.

Han returned to his chair. Chewie was done with his won-wons, and the other smugglers had returned. Someone
had picked at Han’s mounder potato rice. He didn’t care. He’d always hated the stuff.

He sat—gingerly—and ate. The food was delicious, better than anything he’d had in a long time.

Or maybe it was just the atmosphere, the humid cavern, the voices swearing at each other in a hundred different languages.

“You said you were here on Jarril’s invite,” Kid said.

Han shrugged. “He said there’s money to be made.”

“The husband of a princess doesn’t need money,” Blue said.

“He does if her kingdom was blown up.”

“That was seventeen years ago, Solo,” Zeen said.

“Was it?” Han said. “You apparently don’t get news here.”

Wynni rumbled.

“All right,” Han said. “So you’ve heard about the bombing on Coruscant.”

“The Senate Hall isn’t an entire kingdom,” Kid said.

“You gonna buy her a new one?” Zeen asked.

“Lake you bought Dathomir?” Blue said. She was grinning.

“It worked, Blue.”

“Yeah, I heard how well it worked, Solo,” she said.

He shoved his plate aside. The meal had been good, but he was full.

“So why are you here, Solo?” Zeen asked.

Han glanced at Chewie. Chewie was sucking the remains of the won-won off one claw as if the conversation didn’t concern him at all.

“Jarril disappeared right after the bombing. In fact, he got out of Coruscant’s shield at the last moment. That, and the things he said to me about easy money here, made me wonder if he knew more about the attack than he was saying.”

Seluss stood on a chair at the far end of the table and
chittered angrily at Han. The Sullustan was shaking his blaster emphatically.

Han put his hand on his own blaster. “I told you to take that weapon away from him,” he said to Blue.

“He knows better—”

“Take it.”

“Han, he’s got a point—”

“Take it.”

Seluss chittered louder. With his free paw, Chewbacca slapped the blaster out of Seluss’s hand. The blaster skidded across the floor and slammed into the medical droid. It screamed.

Seluss jumped off the chair as if to go after the blaster. Han raised his weapon above table height. “I wouldn’t do that, chubby cheeks,” Han said. “Sit back down, slow and easy.”

“Han, he’s just distraught,” Blue said.

“And my butt hurts,” Han said. He hadn’t taken his gaze off Seluss. “Sit down.”

Seluss did, looking like a chagrined child.

“Now, in the course of this conversation, I may say things you don’t like. You will listen like an adult, and refute what I have to say, like an adult.” As he spoke, he realized he was using the same tone he took with the children when they’d been particularly wild. “If you don’t like this agreement, if you plan to defend Jarril’s honor with firepower only, tell me now so that I can shoot you and be done with it.”

“Han, he’s an old friend,” Blue said.

“Yours, maybe. Not mine.”

Seluss stared at him, lips pursed.

“I haven’t trusted this twerp since he stole the blueprints for the
Falcon
.”

Seluss chirped indignantly.

“I stand corrected,” Han said. “Since the day Lando told me this twerp stole the blueprints for the
Falcon
.
The details don’t matter, pal. The fact remains that you’re not honest.”

“None of us is,” Blue said.

Chewie roared.

“Oh, please,” Blue said. “Save it for someone who believes it, Chewie.”

“Leave him alone,” Han said. He leaned forward. “I don’t want Seluss shooting at me again. If you can’t handle that, spice brain, I suggest you exit the conversation now.”

Seluss stood and started for the medical station.

“Without the blaster,” Han said.

Seluss chittered at him, but left the cavern.

“You didn’t make him happy,” Zeen said. “He could tell you more about Jarril than any of us.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Han said.

Brakiss’s last known address was on Msst. Msst was a small planet near the Rim Worlds that had once been a major Imperial stronghold. The Empire had theoretically abandoned the place after the truce at Bakura, but Luke knew for a fact that many Imperials still used Msst for rendezvous.

But not recently.

Luke landed unassisted in the milky-white mist that had given the planet its name. The new X-wing had superb guidance powers, but they didn’t make up for the loss of Artoo.

The landing strip on Msst was in one of the few areas where the constant milky whiteness burned off by midday. Although somehow it hadn’t this midday. Luke hated to think that this might be what the records meant by “burned-off.”

The mist was pale, waist-high, and damp. The dampness sent a chill through him. Most of Artoo would have
been lost in the murk. This was where the new X-wings had their biggest failings. Luke flew well enough alone, but landing here, on a planet he had never seen before, without any companionship, seemed wrong. He felt oddly defensive, as if he had no one to watch his back. He hadn’t realized how much he counted on Artoo for the little things: wry observations, quick fixes, and companionship.

Cole Fardreamer had better have the old X-wing in tip-top condition when Luke returned.

A group of buildings rose out of the mist, tall and gray and steely. They had an Imperial seal on them, but time had worn the seal down, made it less ridged, which made it less threatening. The buildings looked abandoned, but he couldn’t be certain.

He half-hoped he would find Brakiss here, but he had no sense of the man. And by now, he would have. He would have known, through the Force, about the presence of someone else with such a natural talent.

Luke thought often about Brakiss—at odd moments, really—and strangely, at times when he thought about Ben. Ben had had a wistfulness, a touch of regret, to him when he spoke of Darth Vader, as if Ben had a certain responsibility in losing Anakin Skywalker to the dark side of the force.

I don’t want to lose you the way I lost Vader
.

Those words had reverberated for Luke as Brakiss ran to his ship, as he escaped Yavin 4, as he tried to flee himself.

I was amazed how strongly the Force was with him. I took it upon myself to train him as a Jedi. I thought that I could instruct him as well as Yoda
.