Star Wars: The New Rebellion (32 page)

Nandreeson opened his snout; his tongue emerged and snapped up a mouthful of gnats. He swallowed and groaned with delight. “I never said you could leave, either. You are mine now, Calrissian. You had best get used to it.”

“All right,” Lando said. “Get me out of this pond, and we’ll discuss the price of my freedom.”

Flame curled out of Nandreeson’s nostril. Lando had learned a long time ago that tiny fires were the sign of Glottalphib temper. “The price of your freedom, Calrissian, is your death.”

Lando’s arms ached. He stopped moving them, and kept himself afloat by kicking his legs. The water’s viscosity also buoyed him. But if he was going to stay in it much longer, he would have to shed some of his heavier clothing. “You’re being a bit dramatic, Nandreeson. I was a young smuggler trying to prove my worth. I had no idea whom I was stealing from. I’ve tried to pay you back
over the years, but your goons wouldn’t even take the message to you. I’m here now. Let’s talk like reasonable people. I’ll repay what I took from you, plus interest. At ten percent compounded over twenty years, you’ll be making a considerable profit.”

“I’m not interested in profit,” Nandreeson said. The flames licking out of his nose were even longer now.

“Don’t kid me,” Lando said. He had sunk to his chin. He had to crane his neck to keep his mouth out of the water. “You’re always interested in profit.”

“All right.” Nandreeson pulled his long, scaly body out of the water. “I will be honest with you, Calrissian, since you do not have long to live. I
am
interested in profit, and I
will
profit from you. After you die, everything you own will become mine. You have no heirs, no mate, no family. No one will argue with me. No one will dare.”

“I don’t think the New Republic would like that.”

“I don’t think they will interfere.” Nandreeson sat on the slimy rock ledge, his big feet dangling in the water. He picked a fly off the nearby wall with one tiny hand. “They will be too busy fighting a new rebellion.”

Lando began treading water with his hands again. He was in good physical shape, but he hadn’t been in water for a long time. His muscles were already aching from the unfamiliar strain. “New rebellion?”

“Of course.” Nandreeson took down another fly and munched it thoughtfully. “Every government must deal with armed rebellion at some point in its career. For your friends on Coruscant, the rebellion will come sooner rather than later.”

“We’ve been fighting the Imperials since the Empire folded,” Lando said. “They’ll give up soon.”

“I’m sure they will,” Nandreeson said. The flames were gone. He was smiling again. “But I am talking of a rebellion, Calrissian. From the inside. You remember.
The way your friend Leia Organa Solo operated when she was in the Imperial Senate. A
rebellion
, fully armed, fully ready, with idealism on its side.”

Lando slowed his treading. “There’s no reason to rebel,” he said. “The Republic is a good government. It treats its people well.”

“Does it?” Nandreeson asked. “The people on the Run are terrified of the New Republic, afraid that it will interfere with free trade.”

“The Run has always hated the government, from the Empire to the Old Republic. Smugglers hate rules,” Lando said.

“And then, of course, there are places like Almania, a planet that sent your New Republic a distress signal as the ruling Je’har began a systematic slaughter of all who opposed them. The Republic never responded.”

“The New Republic tries not to interfere with local rule,” Lando said.

“Even when that local government is committing genocide? Really, Calrissian, for heroes, your New Republic is doing quite poorly.”

“Who are you to say?” Lando asked. “You are nothing more than—”

Flame shot into the water all around him, sending smoke and steam into the air. He coughed, then wiped his face with his hand. He was going to drown before this day was over if he didn’t think of something.

The flame stopped, and the smoke gradually cleared.

“You should really consider what you’re going to say before you say it,” Nandreeson said. “I do control your life.”

“You’ve made your point, Nandreeson. Now let me out of here and let’s deal.”

“I apparently have not made my point,” Nandreeson said. “I will not be dealing with you.” He slid back into the water and swam toward Lando, staying far enough
away that Lando couldn’t grab him, but close enough that one temperamental burst of flame would scorch Lando’s face. “When Jabba the Hutt died, I could have become the most influential crime boss in all the galaxy, and I would have, except for you, Calrissian.”

“I haven’t come near you in years,” Lando said.

“Exactly. Nandreeson is the best crime lord in the Run. Nandreeson is well-known throughout the galaxy. But Nandreeson isn’t omnipotent. Nandreeson can be bested. Why, someone as inept as Lando Calrissian stole a fortune from Nandreeson when Calrissian was a mere boy. If it could be done once, it could be done again.” The flames were licking out of Nandreeson’s nostrils again. Lando moved backward very, very slowly.

“Killing me won’t change that,” Lando said.

“Oh, but it will. My colleagues here will spread the tale of your death, the ways you suffered, and how, at the end, you begged me for mercy. We may even defile your corpse—humans find that disagreeable, don’t they?—and leave it on Skip 1 for all to see. And then, of course, I will confiscate all you own, and there will be no opposition. Instead of saying I can be bested, they will say that Nandreeson waits for his revenge, and then he makes it very, very sweet.”

Lando shook his head, got water in his mouth, and spat, nearly hitting Nandreeson. “To make up for the last twenty years, you’d have to kill me a hundred times.” Then he winced. That was no way to convince Nandreeson, especially now that flames were flowing between Nandreeson’s teeth.

“You think I will favor you, don’t you, Calrissian?” Nandreeson said, the fire spreading around his face. “You think that I will appreciate your intelligence, your courage, your superior abilities in defying me. You think that you will escape this. But the one thing you must
know is that I have spent the last twenty years
hating
you.”

A lick of flame came so close to Lando that he had to duck underwater to avoid it. His lungs still ached from the last time he had been submerged. Nandreeson hadn’t moved, nor had he inflamed the water again. Lando was about to come up when a realization hit him. His lungs should have recovered by now. He should feel a bit of strain from the treading, but he had been breathing regularly for some time.

Only the oxygen had to be thin here. Or polluted with something else. Or the Glottalphibs kept burning it away. With the exertion and the thinner air, Lando didn’t have as much time as he thought.

He scanned the water, and saw only algae, green particles, and Glottalphib feet soaking in the pool. No escape unless he wanted to try that hole from which the bubbles emerged. And he wasn’t sure he could stand the heat.

He resurfaced, and blew the foul-tasting water from his nose and mouth.

“Hiding underwater will do no good,” Nandreeson said. “I can come after you much more easily there.”

“If you’re going to kill me, Nandreeson,” Lando said, “just get it over with.” If Nandreeson made a move, it might point Lando toward escape.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Nandreeson said. “But you will die slowly, Calrissian, and I will enjoy every moment of it.”

“Well, if you have something planned for me, Nandreeson, get to it.” The quicker they got him out of the water, and out of this cavern, the better off he would be.

“I have gotten to it, as you so quaintly say.” Nandreeson was smiling at him now, his scaly lips pulled back to reveal smoke-blackened, pointed teeth. “We’ll see how long you survive in my world, Calrissian. Glottalphibs
live in the water. We eat there. We sleep there. We mate there. Humans, as I understand it, cannot tolerate the water.”

“I can tolerate it just fine.”

“But it will kill you if you aren’t careful. How long can you keep swimming, Calrissian? Without food, without rest, without help of any kind? How long?”

A terror Lando never knew he had rose in him. He couldn’t swim forever. He would drown. “I can survive long enough,” he said.

And that, at least, was true. He would survive long enough to get Nandreeson, or to die trying.

T
he guards had allowed Cole to climb out of the prototype X-wing. He, in turn, had convinced them to contact General Antilles. Not that Cole knew what he would say to the general when he arrived. Skywalker’s droid hunched near the computer terminal, tendrils of smoke leaking out of the droid’s round head compartment. If the blaster shots were as bad as they looked, they might have caused damage to the droid’s memory, which, from what Skywalker said, had to be the part of the droid he valued the most.

“Enough waiting,” the Kloperian said. “Let’s take him to detention like any other saboteur.”

“No.” The voice came from the back of the room. The guards turned and so did Cole. General Antilles stood there, wearing full-dress uniform, his dark hair neatly combed. His two personal guards stood beside him. He surveyed the room. His gaze rested on Cole for a moment, searching, appraising, and clearly not recognizing him, before turning to the droid. “Is that Artoo-Detoo?”

The Mon Calamari guard shrugged its narrow shoulders.

“Well?” General Antilles asked.

The guards looked at Cole.

He glanced at all of them before feeling that it was safe to respond. “Yes, sir. Luke Skywalker left it with me to supervise the repairs on his X-wing.”

General Antilles put a hand on top of Artoo’s dome, then let his hand slip off slowly, as if he regretted the condition Artoo was in. “You”—he said to the Kloperian—“get this little droid running again.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Cole said, “but Artoo has had some bad experiences with the Kloperians. He—it—he—says they tried to kidnap him a few days ago.”

The general’s eyes narrowed. “Who did this to Artoo?”

“I did,” the Kloperian said. “It was trying to escape.”

“Escape?” the general asked.

“We found these two in the middle of sabotaging the X-wing prototype,” said the female guard. “They put a detonator in the computer.”

“Artoo did that?” the general asked. “I find that hard to believe. Who are you, son, and why did you send for me?”

Cole swallowed. “My name is Cole Fardreamer, sir. I work on the X-wings normally. Luke Skywalker spoke highly of you, and I thought when they came in here that you at least would listen to me.”

“Were you sabotaging the prototype?”

Cole shook his head. “I was checking it. Artoo and I found a bomb in the Jedi Master’s X-wing, and we found another in a second reconstituted X-wing, and I thought maybe it might be in the new ones too and I was checking it when the guards appeared. They wouldn’t listen to me, sir.”

The Mon Calamari guard walked over to the X-wing and pointed at the computer. “If you examine this, sir, you’ll see what this young man and his droid were up to.
There is an Imperial insignia on the back of this computer. It is a detonation unit.”

General Antilles leaned over the X-wing. He examined the computer. Cole couldn’t see his hands, didn’t know if the general was moving things he shouldn’t be. Cole’s heart was pounding.

“Be careful, sir,” he said. “The wrong move might set it off.”

“Thanks,” the general said. But he didn’t move. The entire room was hushed. Cole could hear his own breathing, and the small rustling sounds the general made. “This Imperial device is built into the computer.”

He stood. His body was thin and powerful, and he had the hardened look of a man who had seen too many fights, too many difficult days. His gaze drilled into Cole once more.

“Where did you assemble the computer?”

“I didn’t, sir. They’re ordered in bulk. We just install them.”

Then the door hissed open, and a protocol droid entered, its golden hands in the air.

“Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh dear,” it said, stopping in front of Artoo. “They’ve destroyed Artoo.”

“It can’t be as bad as all that,” a woman replied as she entered. She was small and thin, her hair flowing around her in a curtain. She wore ripped fatigue pants and a shirt that was too large for her. It took Cole a moment to recognize President Leia Organa Solo. Up close, she looked young, vulnerable, and beautiful, a princess to be sure, but not a political leader of great power. And certainly not the veteran of half a dozen battles against the Empire.

“Leia,” General Antilles said.

She glanced over at him, and smiled, but the smile only accented the exhaustion in her face. “Wedge. What are you doing here?”

“We have some kind of problem,” the general said.

“I can see that.” So far she apparently hadn’t noticed Cole. She walked over to Artoo. The protocol droid was moaning over him, alternating between accusing him of getting into the wrong mess, and worrying that he would never recover. The Chief of State crouched in front of Artoo. “Artoo?” She rubbed some of the carbon scoring off his small head. “Artoo?”