Star Wars: Scoundrels (22 page)

“Hey!” Kell protested. “Let go.” He grabbed the hand, as if trying to pull it off, but instead squeezed the mechanical fingers tighter together around his wrist. He yanked his arm back, jerking the droid along with him. “Let
go
.”

“Oh, dear,” the droid said in a pained voice. “I’m terribly sorry, but I appear to be stuck.”

“Great,” Kell growled. “Hey—you.”

“What? Me?” Han asked.

“Yes, you,” Kell said. “Go find someone to get this thing off me, will you?”

“Is there a problem here?” a new voice put in.

Han turned. One of Villachor’s security types was striding toward them, his eyes flicking over the scene.

“Yes, there’s a problem,” Kell bit out. “I was trying to get to my cup there and this thing grabbed me and won’t let go.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” the droid said again. “My gears appear to be jammed.”

“Yeah,” the security man said, gingerly pulling the edge of the droid’s glove away from the arm and peering down it. “Probably got sand in there—there’s sure enough of it flying around.”

“Great,” Kell muttered. “So what do we do?”

“We get it off,” the guard said calmly, gesturing toward the mansion. “Come on—there’s a droid repair room right off the garage.”

They headed off, Kell grumping, the droid apologizing, and the guard probably wishing his shift had ended half an hour earlier. Han watched them go, a glow of satisfaction running through him.

Like he always said, it was all in the timing.

The room Villachor led Lando to was small and windowless, and contained possibly the most intimidating working desk Lando had ever seen. Two more guards were waiting just inside the door, bringing the grand total of armed men up to six. “Sit down,” Villachor said, pointing Lando toward a large padded chair in front of the desk as he walked around behind it. “Perhaps you’d like a little refreshment?”

It was probably a genuine offer, Lando knew. But it was also a test. Villachor was prodding at him, trying to get a feel for his speech, reactions, manners, and patterns. It was the same genteel dance that also accompanied every game of sabacc, and Lando was used to it.

It was just that the stakes usually weren’t this high.

“No, thank you,” he said, easing down into the chair. It was even more comfortable than it looked, the soft arms and cushions yielding to his weight and settling in around him. If he’d been planning a quick, unexpected exit, he would have been out of luck. Probably the reason for the chair’s design in the first place. “I know your time is valuable.”

“Indeed it is,” Villachor said, settling into his own chair.

“But more valuable even than time is information,” Lando continued. “And I’m fairly certain you don’t want what I’m about to tell you to be heard by anyone except your closest, most trusted people.”

Villachor smiled thinly. “If I didn’t trust these men, they’d have been gone long ago.”

“Of course,” Lando said. “But there’s trust, and then there’s
trust
.”

For a moment Villachor eyed him thoughtfully. Across the room the door opened, and the man Rachele’s data pulls had identified as the security chief, Sheqoa, entered. Villachor glanced at him, looked back at Lando. “Fine,” he said. “Tawb, Manning—wait outside. The rest of you, return to your duties. Sheqoa, you’re with me.”

As silently as Sheqoa had entered, the rest of the guards filed out. Villachor waited until the door was again closed, then gestured for Sheqoa to go stand behind Lando. “All right, you have your privacy,” he said. “Rest assured that if this is some kind of bad joke, my face will be the last thing your eyes will ever see.”

“No joke,” Lando assured him. He was used to being threatened, but there was something in Villachor’s voice that sent a chill up his back. “Let me begin by telling you a few things you already know. You’re a high-ranking member of Black Sun, you’re playing host to an even higher-ranking member, a vigo named Qazadi, and Master Qazadi has a set of blackmail files you’re using to gain or cement leverage on various Wukkar citizens and probably some of the off world visitors to the Festival.” He paused for air.

“You’re at the very least an amusing storyteller,” Villachor commented, his face giving nothing away. “Please, continue.”

“The blackmail files are, of course, heavily encrypted,” Lando said. “The device used to decrypt them is called a cryodex. Alderaanian by design, and only a few still exist.”

“Or possibly none at all,” Villachor suggested.

“No, there are at least two,” Lando assured him. “Master Qazadi has one.” He cocked his head. “I have another.”

Villachor’s eyes flicked to Sheqoa, then back to Lando. “I gather from your overly dramatic tone that you expect that to mean something to me.”

“I do,” Lando agreed. “And since we’ve both agreed that time is valuable, let me set my cards on the table. I represent a group of people who’ve taken on the task of scouring the Empire for those of like mind whose talents and ambitions are being underused or, in some cases, completely wasted. When such people are found, this group offers them better situations. Sometimes this involves a position with a different organization, one that values them more. Other times it means assisting them to strike out on their own. Sometimes a middle road is indicated, an indenture-ship or perhaps chartered autonomy.”

“And if the person is perfectly happy where he is?” Villachor asked.

Lando gave a small shrug. “In my experience, no one who’s working beneath his abilities is ever perfectly happy.”

“Unless he knows that his current situation is the best he’s ever likely to have.”

“There’s always something better,” Lando said. “It’s simply a matter of recognizing the opportunity when it comes along.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Villachor said dryly. “And so lacking in potential danger. Tell me about this supposed cryodex of yours.”

“As I said, the cryodex is the key to reading the blackmail files currently stored in your vault,” Lando said, keeping his voice steady. Han’s whole plan depended on him selling this. “Those files would be of immeasurable value to the people I represent.”

Villachor’s smile was dark, brittle. “And all I have to do is hand over the files and wonderful opportunities will descend on me from the sky?”

“Wonderful opportunities, indeed,” Lando confirmed. “You’d literally be able to command your own chosen price.” He shook his head. “But we both know it wouldn’t be just opportunities that would descend. Prince Xizor himself would likely lead the expedition that came for your head.”

“
And
yours,” Villachor pointed out. “Because they would certainly pull every name, face, and memory from me before I was permitted to die.”

“Oh, I have no doubt,” Lando agreed grimly. “Which is why you’d be a fool to steal the files, and why
I
would be a fool to suggest it.”

A slight frown creased Villachor’s forehead. “In that case, why exactly are you here?”

“To offer a safer alternative,” Lando said. “Not to steal the files, but to copy them.”

Again Villachor’s eyes flicked to Sheqoa. “Copy them,” he repeated flatly.

“Exactly,” Lando said. “You have the files; I have the cryodex. We meet in your vault, decrypt the files, and copy them onto standard data cards, perhaps overlaid with our own chosen encryptions.”

“Our encryptions?”

Lando held up a hand. “A slip of the tongue.
Your
encryptions, of course.”

“That’s good,” Villachor said, in a voice that once again sent a chill up Lando’s back. “Because any attempt by you to make a copy for yourself would require me to kill you on the spot. For the sake of argument, suppose I had copies of the files. What then?”

“I’d introduce you to the gentlemen of whom I spoke,” Lando managed, his throat suddenly dry. “You’ll work out a mutually satisfactory deal, and your rise to your full potential will have begun.”

“Yes,” Villachor said thoughtfully. “Let me tell you what
I
think. I think you’ve never even seen a cryodex, let alone possess one. I think you have no organization behind you, certainly no one with any power. I think you’re here purely as a test to see if my loyalty to Black Sun can be swayed by such a ridiculous and simple-minded story. And I think that, just to be on the safe side, I’m going to have you killed.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Let’s try it again. Who are you, and who do you work for?”

“There’s no need for threats,” Lando protested mildly, some of the tension draining from him. The threat was real; but oddly enough, that was actually a good sign. If Villachor hadn’t been interested or at least intrigued by the offer, he would simply have had Sheqoa throw him out. “My name is unimportant, but you can call me Kwerve. As for my employers—” He shrugged. “For the moment they must remain anonymous.”

“Too bad,” Villachor said. There might have been a twitch of his eyebrow at the name, but it was small enough that Lando might have simply imagined it. “It would have been useful to know where to ship your body.”

“Of course you don’t wish to make any commitments now,” Lando continued. “I wouldn’t expect that. Let me make a suggestion and an offer. Two days from now is the Honoring of Moving Air. At that time I’ll bring my cryodex to show you. You can select one of the blackmail data cards, and I’ll decrypt
one
of the files for you. After that, we’ll talk further.”

“Assuming we’re both still able to converse?”

“Why shouldn’t we be?” Lando countered reasonably. “You’ve made no statements and taken no action that’s in any way disloyal to your Black Sun masters. All you’ve agreed to do is see if a stranger claiming to have a valuable artifact does indeed have it. If I do, it could easily be that your intent is to purchase the artifact and send it to Imperial Center as a gift for Prince Xizor’s collection of rarities.”

“Perhaps,” Villachor said, his eyes probing Lando’s face. Lando sat quietly, waiting for him to work it through.

When it happened, it happened suddenly. “The day after tomorrow, fifth hour past midday,” Villachor said abruptly. “The bound tempest will be presented at that time, drawing the visitors’ attention to the northwest part of the grounds. You’ll come to the door you’re about to leave through and wait until it’s opened to you. You will, of course, bring the cryodex.”

“Of course,” Lando said. He started to stand up, wiggling his hips to extricate himself from the overstuffed chair arms.

And abruptly dropped back as Sheqoa’s hand pushed down hard on his shoulder. “If you plan betrayal,” Villachor continued, his voice low and deadly, “I strongly urge you to instead leave Wukkar by the earliest transport.”

“Understood,” Lando said. “I’ll see you the day after tomorrow at five hours past mid.” He craned his neck to look up at Sheqoa. “May I?”

For a moment the big man just stared down at him, his expression wooden. Then he released his grip on Lando’s shoulder. With more effort and wiggling, Lando finally got free of the chair.

“The men outside will see you out,” Villachor said, remaining seated. “Until then, Master Kwerve.”

“Until then,” Lando confirmed. “One final observation, if I may. Nothing in this universe lasts forever. Not power, or position, or allies.” He inclined his head. “Not even Black Sun.” He turned the incline into a polite nod. “Good day, Master Villachor.”

Sheqoa walked him to the door and murmured a few words to the bodyguards waiting outside. One of them gestured silently to Lando, and without a word they escorted him along a wide corridor, through a pair of hand-carved doors, and to an unassuming door set in a thick but otherwise unassuming wall. Lando was ushered through it and found himself at the southern end of the mansion’s south wing.

The very door, in fact, where Aziel always made his entrance.

Which meant that, assuming Rachele’s schematic had been correct, he’d walked right past the junior ballroom and Villachor’s vault.

Maybe in two days he’d get to see inside that vault, where even Rachele and her incredible spiderweb of contacts and sources hadn’t yet been able to go.

Maybe in two days he’d be dead.

“Yeah, it’s the sand,” the tech said disgustedly as he led Kell and the droid still clamped to his wrist through a maze of workbenches and waist-high tool cabinets toward an uncluttered bench seat near the back. “Third one today, and the Honoring’s barely even started.” He turned Kell around and sat him down. “You—bend over,” he ordered the droid.

Obediently, the droid bent forward at the waist, putting Kell’s wrist and arm at a more comfortable angle. “At least it’s only one day,” Kell pointed out. “The rest of the Honorings should be easier on them.”

“Don’t you believe it,” the tech grumbled. He peeled away the top of the droid’s glove and peered down at the frozen joint. “The moving air stirs up dirt and dust and whatever sand the EGs didn’t get swept up, the moving water gets places even the sand doesn’t, and don’t even get me started on the fire and the fireworks.” He clucked his tongue. “Yeah, I see it. Hang on—I’ll have you out of there in a jiff.”

He walked over to an open tool cabinet and peered into it, muttering under his breath. As he did so, Kell looked casually around the room.

It was an impressive place, better equipped even than most of the professional droid repair facilities he’d been in and out of over the years. One of the side walls was nothing but high-end Cybot Galactica maintenance equipment, the machines interspersed with spare part bins and tool racks. Hooked into the machines or laid out on the nearby workbenches were partially dismantled sections of 434-FPC personal chefs, EG labor droids, and PD- and 3PO-series protocol droids. The equipment on the other side wall seemed to be dedicated to Industrial Automaton, SoroSuub, Changli, and GlimNova products, with a couple of SE4 servant droids and ASP-15 laborers on the tables. Tucked to one side, looking rather forlorn, was a WA-7 service unit that was probably a leftover from Republic days, most likely awaiting spare parts that Kell guessed were long since out of stock.

More ominously, a whole section of the back wall was devoted to 501-Z police droid equipment. A partially disassembled Zed was stretched out on one of the tables, and Kell took special note of its unusual upper arm, thigh, and waist sheathings.