Allegiance (13 page)

Faintly through the transparisteel canopy, Leia heard
the Wookiee’s answering bellow. For a moment nothing happened. Then, with a muffled
thunk
, a thin wisp of smoke drifted up from the access bay. “Okay, great,” Han called. “Go ahead and shut ’er down.”

There was another acknowledgment, and Han coiled his welder and slid off the arm onto the deck. “
Okay, great
?” Leia echoed, raising her eyebrows.

“Sure,” he said blandly. “Why?”

“I don’t remember smoke usually being part of
okay, great
starship repair work.”

“Oh, that.” He waved a hand. “Extra soldering compound. No problem.”

“If you say so,” she said, part of her just as glad she wasn’t going to have to ride this thing to her rendezvous. “Something’s come up that General Rieekan would like you to look into.”

His lip twisted. “Is this before or after I take you to this Grand Royal Elite Privileged Ball?”

With an effort, Leia forced herself to stay calm. In their brief acquaintanceship Han had somehow managed to learn exactly where all her irritation keys were and took great satisfaction in flipping them. “Actually, you’re off the hook on that one,” she said.

“What?” he said in a tone of wounded outrage. “You mean I had the
Falcon
fumigated for
nothing
?”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure it needed it,” Leia said, determined for once not to let him goad her.

“I ordered new carpet, too.”

Leia clenched her teeth. “You want to hear this, or don’t you?”

“Sure.”

She gave him a quick rundown of the situation in Shelsha sector. “So this is a send-the-scum-to-catch-the-scum sort of thing?” he asked when she’d finished.

“You’re not going out there to catch anything,” she told him. “All we want is information and maybe some
ideas on how to rearrange our supply lines so pirates can’t hit them.”

“That
is
the trick,” he agreed, frowning in thought. “People trying to fly under the scanners make good targets, and every pirate in the galaxy knows it.”

“True,” she said. “And since you’ve probably been in that situation once or twice, we thought you might know ways to avoid it.”

Han shrugged. “Mostly, you try real hard to have the faster ship,” he said. But Leia could see he was becoming intrigued by the mission. That, or he was simply relieved that he wouldn’t have to attend the meeting with Chivkyrie.

Or perhaps he was relieved he wouldn’t have to spend so much time with Leia herself.

“So it’ll just be you and Luke at your little finger-sandwich party?” he asked casually.

“What?” Leia yanked herself back to the conversation, annoyed at having let her mind wander. Especially over something like
that
. “No. No, we’re asking Luke to go with you instead.”

Han raised his eyebrows. “
We’re
asking?” he echoed, a slight edge to his voice.

“General Rieekan and I made the decision,” Leia told him. Too late, she realized she should have phrased the statement so as to give Rieekan all the responsibility. Knowing Han, he was bound to jump to the conclusion that Leia didn’t want Luke along, or at least didn’t want him there without Han. Not only was that completely wrong, but it made her feel—

Actually, she wasn’t exactly sure
how
it made her feel. But she knew she didn’t like it.

“Ah,” Han said, nodding. “Makes sense.”

He was playing it cool, but Leia could hear the mocking amusement in his voice. The amusement, and
definitely
the wrong conclusion. “It’s not like that,” she insisted.

“Not like what?” he asked innocently.

“Never mind,” she said between clenched teeth. He’d done it again. How did he
always
manage to do this to her? “The general’s giving Luke the names and locations of your contacts. You can leave whenever you’re ready.”

“Absolutely, Your Worshipfulness,” he said. “Your simplest wish is my—”

“Good luck, and try not to get yourselves killed,” Leia cut him off.

“Sure,” he said, mock-solemnly. “You, too.”

She turned and, with all the dignity she could manage, made her escape from the hangar.

But she could feel his eyes on her back the whole, long way.

LaRone was running an integrity check on one of the sets of armor in his hidden closet when Quiller pinged him. “We’re here,” the pilot announced.

“On my way.”

The others were already gathered when he reached the cockpit. “How’s it look?” he asked as he came up behind them.

“The northern continent’s our best bet,” Quiller said, pointing to the map of Ranklinge he’d pulled up. “If we avoid Ranklinge City and the Incom fighter plant, we’ve got a choice between one major city with a decent-sized port and about a hundred hole-in-the-ground regional fields scattered around the ranching and mining areas.”

“How big is the city?” Grave asked.

“Not very,” Quiller said. “Maybe a hundred thousand. More like a big town, really.”

“There’s nothing on the southern continent?” Brightwater asked.

“Nothing but a civil war,” Marcross told him grimly. “Been going on for the past ten years.”

“Let’s definitely skip that,” LaRone said, wincing. In the aftermath of the Clone Wars, the newly declared Empire had made a strong effort to clamp down on these planetary and regional conflicts as it tried to reestablish order. But there had been too many of them, and eventually Palpatine had given up and turned to other matters. “Any suggestions?”

“We tried the small-field approach on Drunost and ended up having to dust a swoop gang,” Grave said. “I vote we try something with a decent patroller presence this time.”

“Patrollers who might have our pictures plastered across their datapads?” Brightwater asked pointedly.

“If the big-city group has them, so will the smaller ones,” Quiller replied.

“But it’s easier to shoot your way out of a small port.”

“We’re not shooting our way out of anywhere,” LaRone said firmly. “Not against patrollers who are just trying to protect Imperial citizens. Besides, we’ve got all these new identity tags that ISB’s magic machine cranked out for us. We’ll be fine.”

“If you say so,” Brightwater said, still sounding unconvinced. “What’s the name of this town-sized city?”

“Janusar,” Quiller said. “It’s got decent port facilities, a good air-defense system to discourage raiders, and all the supply shops we should need.”

“Sounds good,” LaRone said. “Give port guidance a shout and get us a bay.”

Quiller nodded and keyed the comm. “Janusar Port Guidance, this is freighter
Ville Brok
,” he called. “Requesting a docking bay assignment.”

“Freighter
Ville Brok
, this is Janusar Guidance,” a voice came back. “What’s your cargo?”

Quiller threw a frown over his shoulder at LaRone as he tapped the
MUTE
key. “Should they be asking that?”

“I don’t know,” LaRone said, an odd sensation starting to tickle the back of his mind. “I’ve never heard of a port asking that question before a freighter’s even landed.”

“Maybe it’s some local regulation,” Grave suggested.

“So what do I tell him?” Quiller asked.

“Tell him we’re picking something up,” Marcross said.

Quiller nodded and keyed the microphone again. “No cargo yet, Janusar. We’re hoping to pick up something there.”

“From who?”

“We don’t know yet,” Quiller said. “Like I said, we’re hoping. If it’s the docking fees you’re worried about, that won’t be a problem.”

There was a brief silence. “Fine,” port guidance said. “Docking Bay Twenty-two.”

On Quiller’s map display an indicator flicked on, marking the landing site. “Bay Twenty-two, acknowledged,” Quiller said.

“By the way, you have any weapons aboard?”

LaRone smiled grimly. If they only knew. “Nothing to speak of,” he said. “Why?”

“Just asking,” the other said. “Janusar Guidance out.”

Quiller switched off the comm. “Curious types, aren’t they?” he commented.

“Oddly curious,” Marcross seconded. “I wonder why they wanted to know about weapons.”

“I don’t know,” LaRone said. “But I think the question all by itself means we definitely go in armed. Holdouts only, though, and we keep them out of sight until and unless they’re needed.”

The Janusar spaceport consisted of a basic core region,
well laid out but showing its age, surrounded by a patchwork of newer areas that had been added on over the years. The add-ons, LaRone noted, seemed to be further divided into high-class and low-class sections.

Bay 22 turned out to be in one of the low-class areas.

“I’m guessing freighters that come sniffing around for on-spec cargoes usually don’t get much business from the upper-class merchants,” Quiller commented as he shut down the Suwantek’s systems.

“That, or you need a secret password to get into the nice side of town,” Grave said.

“Doesn’t matter,” LaRone said. “All we want is food and fuel, and we can get those anywhere. Same duties as last time: Grave will go with me, the rest of you stay here—”

“Hold it,” Marcross interrupted, leaning toward the right-hand side of the canopy and frowning aft toward the starboard boarding ramp. “We’ve got company: five patrollers plus an officer. Look’s like sergeant’s insignia.”

“There are five more over here,” Quiller said, looking out his side of the canopy. “No officers.”

Brightwater muttered something under his breath and started aft. “Come on, Grave, let’s hit the turrets. What was that someone said about not having to shoot our way out?”

“Wait a second,” Marcross said, still looking out the canopy as he caught Grave’s arm. “This is way too small a crowd to be facing down military fugitives.”

“He’s right,” Quiller agreed. “Nothing but hand blasters, still holstered. They’re probably just here to collect our docking fees.”

“They need a whole squad for that?” Brightwater asked suspiciously.

“Maybe incoming freighters with no cargo kick up a warning flag,” LaRone said.

From the direction of the starboard boarding ramp came the sound of a fist hammering on metal. “Well, if we
don’t
answer, it really
will
kick up a flag,” Marcross pointed out, getting up from his seat. “Come on, LaRone.”

The visitors had resumed their pounding by the time LaRone and Marcross reached the boarding ramp. LaRone slapped the release, and the ramp lowered to reveal six scowling faces.

“About time,” the sergeant growled as he stalked his way up into the ship. “Go let in my men on the other side and get me your registry and cargo manifest.”

“Registry’s right here,” LaRone said, handing over a data card as Marcross walked across the anteroom and lowered the other ramp. “As we told port guidance, we don’t have any cargo.”

The five men on the Suwantek’s other side trooped up the portside ramp and joined the others. “Crew?” the sergeant asked, plugging the card into his datapad and glancing at it.

“Us, plus three in the cockpit,” LaRone said, pulling out his freshly minted identity tag.

The sergeant didn’t even glance at it. “Fine,” he said, handing back the registry card. “We’ll start with two hundred for the docking fee.” Gesturing to his squad, he started aft toward the crew lounge.

“Wait a second,” LaRone said, frowning. Even given his lack of experience with the financial end of these things, two hundred credits for a third-rate docking bay seemed a little high. “We’ll
start
at two hundred?”

“No, we’ll start at two fifty,” the sergeant retorted, his eyes narrowing. “You want to argue some more about it?”

I wasn’t arguing
, LaRone thought, annoyed. He was opening his mouth to say so when Marcross’s warning touch on his arm stopped him.

“That’s right—listen to your friend,” the sergeant said sarcastically. “Where’s the cargo hold on this flying nerf trap?”

“Straight aft, left, and right, just before you reach engineering,” Marcross told him.

“Thank you,” the sergeant said with exaggerated politeness. He started to turn, then cocked an eyebrow. “By the way, I trust you’re not carrying any weapons aboard?”

“Just the two laser cannons mounted in front of the boarding ramps,” Marcross said.

The sergeant grunted. “Good,” he said. “That’s another hundred fifty each.” For a moment he stared at LaRone, his eyes daring him to argue the point. But LaRone had learned his lesson. He remained silent, and with another grunt the sergeant gestured again to his men and turned aft. Touching the door release, he led them into the lounge.

LaRone waited until the whole squad had passed through and the door was closed before saying the word that best described his feelings. “What kind of gleening shakedown
is
this?” he muttered.

“Probably the usual kind,” Marcross said. His voice was even, but it was clear that he was already well beyond annoyed himself. “You didn’t have this sort of thing at your home spaceport?”

“If we did, I never knew about it,” LaRone said. “Still, I suppose whatever they want to gouge from us, we can afford it.”

“That’s the spirit,” Marcross said approvingly. “Nice and low-profile, and we can spit the dust of this world back into the wind on our way out.”

“I suppose,” LaRone said. “Come on—let’s make sure they’re not stealing the galley flatware.”

The lounge was deserted when they entered. So was the crew section when they passed through the lounge’s
aft door. LaRone opened the first cabin—Quiller’s—but there was no one inside. “Must have decided to go straight to the cargo holds,” Marcross commented as he checked Grave’s cabin across the corridor.

“Good,” LaRone said, closing the cabin door and continuing aft. “Maybe this’ll go quicker than I thought.”

They were passing the galley when two of the patrollers stepped into view through the starboard hold door. They caught sight of LaRone and Marcross and beckoned. “Come on, kleegs,” one of them called. “Whisteer wants you.”

The rest of the patrollers were standing silently around the hold; their eyes turned to LaRone and Marcross as they stepped inside. In the center of the group was the sergeant, a tight smile on his face, his left elbow resting casually on the handgrip of one of the two speeder bikes. “So much for
no cargo
,” he said. “You have a permit for these things?”