Star Wars: The New Rebellion (21 page)

Cole looked at Artoo. Artoo moaned softly.

“Yeah. This is a tough one,” Cole said. But before he panicked too much, he would examine the new X-wings. Maybe the problem was only in the reconditioned models.

He stood on the platform and scoured the room, hoping to see a new X-wing. There was only the model in its pristine booth. And since he was working late, he was the only person in the area. The maintenance droids were in the main X-wing assembly area. He hadn’t seen any Kloperians, and all the humans had gone off-shift.

Except him.

He hoped.

“Can you stand guard for me, Artoo?”

The little droid beeped twice in a rather offended tone, although how Cole knew the droid was offended was something he didn’t want to examine. The beep code was something they had worked out that afternoon, almost unconsciously. Clearly the little droid was used to working with people.

“Okay. Let’s go, then.”

Cole got them both off the platform and headed toward the new X-wing. He turned back once to check on Artoo and saw the little droid pick up a few more tools, ones that Cole had forgotten he would need. No wonder Skywalker had been upset about leaving the little creature behind. He was valuable.

“Hurry!” Cole hissed.

He went to the display area and punched in the code to open the door. The computer asked his reason for entry. He typed some gobbledygook about a uniform malfunction on all the new X-wings, and the computer let the door slide open. His hands were shaking. He didn’t know how long it would take before the guards or some of the supervisors would show up.

If they did, he would just explain the nature of the problem, show them the devices, and hope beyond hope that no one on Coruscant was involved with the remains of the Empire.

Because chances were, that was who would respond to his computer notation first.

Cole slid into the cockpit of the new X-wing. These X-wings were configured a little differently from the older model, the T-65C-A2. In the new model, the T-65D-A1, the new computer system could be reached from the cockpit itself, giving the pilot more maneuverability—and more options—while in space.

Still, it wasn’t built for doing maintenance. In fact, the computer was difficult to work on in any position. Cole wedged himself into a corner of the cockpit and detached the light pins. His hands were shaking. He had never done anything he was forbidden to do before.

At least, not on Coruscant. On Tatooine he had occasionally worked on fighters he wasn’t supposed to work on, trying to see how they operated. But on Tatooine, he had been learning, and his supervisors had known that. Here he was investigating the very people who had hired him.

The computer panel fell off into his hands. He peered behind it at circuitry more sophisticated than any he had ever seen in an X-wing. Artoo leaned in as best his cylindrical body would allow. A light came on. Cole looked
up. Artoo was shining a light attached to his head into the opening behind the computer.

“Thanks,” Cole said.

He squinted and looked through the circuitry, careful not to touch anything. For a moment, he thought he would find nothing.

The white and silvery Imperial insignia winked in the light. Cole leaned his head against the metal lip of the computer. These X-wings were designed to blow. Each and every one of them. He didn’t want to think about all the ships he had reconditioned, all the X-wings already flying through space, floating bombs, waiting for the pilot to hit the wrong lever, push the wrong button.

He peered up at the little droid. Artoo shut off his light. “Can you find out quickly how many X-wing accidents have happened after ships left Coruscant?” Cole asked.

Artoo beeped an affirmative.

“Let’s do it, then,” Cole said. He grabbed the edge of the computer, about to replace it, when he heard something crunch.

Artoo eased down onto his wheels. The droid beeped softly, and the sound felt like a warning.

The hair on the back of Cole’s neck rose.

“So the notification was right,” a deep male voice said. “We have a saboteur. Show yourself.”

Artoo moaned. Cole set the edge of the computer down carefully, leaning it against the pilot’s seat, making sure the internal workings touched nothing.

“Show yourself!”

He rose slowly, hands up. Half a dozen security guards surrounded him, their blasters pointed at his head.

Nandreeson leaned back in his baquor-lined couch. The top half had not been properly slimed. It felt damp and cold against his skin. His legs were warm, though. They were underwater. There the couch was covered in algae. That part, at least, had been tempered right.

He had left Skip 6 for three days to investigate the loss of one of his men in the Outer Rim. When he returned to Smuggler’s Run, someone had replaced his old couch with a new one, and had failed to condition it properly. When he was rested, he would check the rest of his quarters to see what other mistakes had been made.

So far things seemed fine. The air was so humid that it was almost visible. Tiny gnats gathered in a cluster, and Eilnian sweet flies swarmed on the far wall. The sweet flies were nearly ripe enough to eat. His mouth burned, just thinking about it.

The lilies had bloomed on top of the pond, and someone had scraped the algae to one side, probably for later conditioning. Bubbles rose in the middle, exploding into the air with the stench of sulfur.

Home. It felt good to be here. In a little while, he would go for a swim through the caverns and see if anyone had disturbed both his egg clusters and his treasure hordes.

First, though, he had business to take care of. He had sent all of his people to their pod beds, except for Iisner. Like Nandreeson, Iisner was a Glottalphib, only his snout was six inches shorter, and his teeth had worn to small nubs. His eyes rested over his snout like small beetles. His small hands floated on top of the water, and his tail was wrapped around the base of the couch. A strand of algae hung from his right nostril, remains of his underwater trip through the pond, making certain no one had poisoned it, bugged it, or rigged it harmfully in any way.
His gills were still opening and closing, as if he couldn’t get enough air.

Nandreeson would have to replace him someday soon. Iisner was getting old. His scales were already falling after two or three days without water. He had built a slime pond into his quarters on the
Silver Egg
so that he wouldn’t lose too many scales during a long space voyage.

“Word is,” Nandreeson said, “Han Solo is on Skip 1.” A tiny flame emerged from the left side of his snout. He was hungrier than he had thought.

“Yes,” Iisner said. “He has quarters there. Jarril sent him.”

“Jarril.” Nandreeson dipped his snout into the warm, slick water. That cooled some of the burning. He didn’t feel like going to the sweet-fly wall and looking for the ripe ones yet. Maybe, when he swam, he would take a caver egg and eat it raw. “Jarril paid his debt to me last week. Thirty thousand credits. I was not pleased.”

“He has come into money, then.”

Nandreeson shook the water off his snout. “Everyone has come into money. I have not made a substantial loan in months. Jarril is one of many who have paid me off. I will have to go into another business if this doesn’t change.”

“Perhaps we should get off the Run,” Iisner said. “It’s changed too much for my tastes. I don’t like rich smugglers. They are no fun.”

Nandreeson smiled. “The challenge is gone, I’ll admit. And if I knew of a better place to go than the Run, I would. But this place still serves us, for now.”

“What about Glottal?” Iisner said.

Nandreeson frowned. His home planet, with its ponds and pads, its fronds and sweet bugs, its dark forests and its sticky, humid air, held a great attraction for him. But on Glottal, he would be one of a thousand rich ’Phibs.
Here, he was the only rich ’Phib, and one of the most powerful crime lords in the galaxy. The second title would mean nothing on Glottal.

“I am not ready to go to Glottal,” he said. He would go there when he was going to die. He would spawn, and leave his fortune to the surviving offspring. “No. I need a new business. And a new diversion.”

“You could start dealing in Imperial equipment.”

Nandreeson swiveled one eye and used it to stare at Iisner. “I prefer credits and glittering treasure. The equipment is a limited market. As soon as the buyer finds what he is searching for, or gets his own factories up and running, this sudden wealth will cease. And a whole group of overextended smugglers will need money again.” He smiled. “Perhaps we are jumping too soon at the vagaries of the market. Patience, my boy. Patience is the watchword of the wise.”

Iisner slipped deeper in the water and swam to the far side of the pond. The hump of his spine rose above the surface, and scales flaked off into the algae. “You’ve never struck me as particularly patient,” he said from the safety of his new position.

Nandreeson’s tongue shot out and scooped a mouthful of gnats. He roasted them with his breath and swallowed, a small, appetizing bite. He would need a large dinner.

“I’m patient,” he said. “I’m very patient. And the patience often pays off. Witness Calrissian.”

“Calrissian hasn’t been near the Run in seventeen years.”

Nandreeson swallowed the last gnat. His stomach rumbled. “But he will be here soon.”

“You don’t know that,” Iisner said.

Nandreeson swiveled his other eye. Iisner slipped into the water until only his eyes and the top of his head showed. “I do know that, and although I appreciate your
counsel, I do not appreciate your doubts. Calrissian will be here because Solo is here.”

Iisner blew water through his nostrils. The piece of algae soared through the air and landed on the moss-covered rocks beside the pond. Then he rose enough to speak. “Solo and Calrissian are not partners. They have never traveled together. Before he married, Solo only traveled with the Wookiee.”

“You do not pay attention.” Nandreeson sank deeper into the warm water. The back of the poorly conditioned couch gave him a chill. “Since Calrissian lost Cloud City, he and Solo have joined forces during each Imperial threat.”

“So?”

“So?” Nandreeson popped a sulfur bubble under the water. It formed several other smaller bubbles that rose to the surface. “So, my dear Iisner, what has changed on the Run?”

Iisner’s mouth opened wide enough to swallow a whole shore of lily pads. “The Imperial equipment.”

“Precisely,” Nandreeson said. “And who in the New Republic knows how to find the Run, besides Solo and his Wookiee?”

“Calrissian.” Iisner breathed the word as if it were sacred. “You have a plan, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Nandreeson said. He smiled, and tongues of flame licked out of the corner of his mouth. “Although, in this case, I may not need one.”

L
ando slowed the
Lady Luck
at the edge of the asteroid belt that housed Smuggler’s Run. If he went any farther, he would be within scanning range. They would know he was nearby. His burst of heroism suddenly seemed like an exercise in stupidity. He had avoided the Run for more than a decade. What made him think he could stroll in there now?

Alone.

All the good intentions in the galaxy wouldn’t save him from Nandreeson. And neither would an apology, or a promise to pay the Glottalphib back. What had seemed a point of pride years ago now seemed like pointless posturing. So he had managed to steal a cache from Nandreeson’s private storeroom. So he had braved the humid, stinky air, the slimy water, the treacherous lily pads. So he had held his breath for nearly four minutes, and pulled out, in the pocket of his wet suit, enough riches to fill his own stash for years.

The last of the money had disappeared when Vader forced him from Cloud City. Lando’s own definition of derring-do had changed since then, as well. It had meant
more to him to succeed at the Battle of Endor than it had to best Nandreeson.

Since Lando had made a home among the Rebels, he had learned that his acts of pirate courage meant nothing when compared with Leia, for example, who had lost her home and her family and still managed to go on, without taking a breath. Or when compared with Luke facing evil in himself over and over again.