Most Wanted Page 4

  A siren wailed again, louder. The man spun in alarm, noticing Qi’ra for the first time. She quickly dropped her hand. The two stared at each other a moment.

  “What a distressing sound!” Qi’ra said with a smile. She took a few steps past him, as if she had been going that direction anyway, but she silently cursed her bad luck.

  The man stepped inside his room, and the door closed behind him. Qi’ra had wasted precious minutes following him. Now she had to start over with another mark.

  More running footsteps. Qi’ra faced a doorway and pretended to search for a keycard as another group of armed guards dashed by.

  She caught the tail end of a comlink conversation. “A young human female,” said a male voice. “Brown, chin-length hair, barely more than one and a half meters tall. Wanted immediately for questioning.”

  Even after the guards passed and the sounds of their footsteps faded, Qi’ra remained in the doorway, collecting herself. Her heart was racing, her breath coming too fast. She felt a storm front of panic approaching, like a darkness that clouded her thoughts.

  No, she was not a panicker. She would be calm. She would be poised. She would think.

  They were looking for her specifically now, which meant there was no time to find another mark, pick a pocket, and hire a speeder cab. She had to reach the lobby and find the access door she’d spotted earlier, the one that might lead to the sewers. And if she couldn’t do it in stealth, then she would just have to run for it.

  Calmly, she continued down the hallway, looking for a lift or stairwell.

  She found something even better: Another off-limits door, just like the one she’d spotted earlier, with an access pad.

  Qi’ra took a deep breath, unsure if she remembered the code she’d observed earlier. Praying to every god she’d ever heard of that she would remember correctly—and that the code would be the same here as in the lobby—she punched it in.

  Nothing happened.

  Qi’ra was about to try again when the ambient music in the hallway went silent; she hadn’t even realized it was playing until it was suddenly gone.

  Speakers crackled. A voice boomed overhead, undoubtedly broadcast complex-wide.

  “This is Senior Manager Ellias Gorlin asking everyone to please stay calm. Due to a minor environmental breach in one of our penthouse units, the Buckell Center is under complete lockdown until further notice. In gratitude for your patience and understanding, all amenities, including spa services, restaurants, holovids, and fine shopping, will be offered at a ten percent discount. We will let you know as soon as it is safe for anyone to enter or leave the center. Please enjoy the rest of your day.”

  Qi’ra felt the edge of panic creeping back. The entire complex under lockdown because of a breach in one room? Not likely. A lockdown reeked of Imperial entanglement, which was so far above her pay grade it made her head spin.

  When she’d escaped the Obsidian Room, everyone had been shooting at each other. She wouldn’t be surprised to learn that they were all dead, trapped by the door she’d purposely jammed. What if someone inside was even more important than she realized? Or maybe it was the deal itself that had attracted Imperial attention. That droid had bid a billion credits!

  Whatever the cause, one thing was sure: there was no way she was getting past those defensive turrets out front. She either had to reach the sewer access or find a place in the complex to hunker down until they gave up searching for her.

  Qi’ra stared down at the access panel. Maybe she had remembered the code incorrectly. She closed her eyes, trying to put herself back in the moment. The woman had been wearing a service uniform. The air had smelled like the vine lilies climbing up the massive center trellis, and it had been a little damp from the indoor waterfall. Qi’ra had shifted to the left to get a better view; the woman’s fingers had moved…

  That was it. Qi’ra saw it clear as day. She had gotten one digit wrong.

  She punched in the correct code. The access lights turned blue, and the door slid open, revealing a narrow, dim corridor stripped of luxury and flowery scent.

  Qi’ra nearly sobbed with relief. She ducked inside and pressed against the wall while the door slid shut behind her.

  Now all she had to do was find a service lift and a basement. Every major building in Coronet was accessible by sewer and maintenance tunnels, and as one of Lady Proxima’s most trusted scrumrats, she had secret access to almost all of them. She’d have to watch for traps, sentries, and management droids, sure. Full lockdown meant that even a sewer entrance might be guarded. But she had a chance now. She was smart and resourceful, and she could do this.

  Qi’ra moved forward at a jog, already rehearsing a story for why she was in the corridor, just in case she ran into someone.

  Han had barely made it into the sewer tunnel before a ratcatcher droid collided with his ankle. He looked down. Sure enough, the panel light was glowing a steady red. Lady Proxima and her lieutenants thought a steady red light on a ratcatcher droid meant it needed to be recharged, but Han knew better. It really meant that the droid contained a message.

  With Tsuulo’s help, the White Worm kids had been using ratcatcher droids to exchange information, even small items. Lady Proxima was sure to find out about it eventually; Han didn’t know what would happen to the little droids then. But for now, it remained the safest way to communicate with each other under her nose.

  He bent down and opened the rat compartment. Inside was a dog biscuit.

  Han laughed out loud before he could stop himself. The biscuit was about the size of his palm and as hard as a mud brick, and Han knew it would taste faintly of fish. It was one of the “treats” Rebolt gave his massive drooling hounds. Tsuulo must have swiped it from the kennels, knowing Han would get hungry after not finishing a full breakfast.

  Dog biscuits weren’t exactly luxury fare, but they were nutritious and edible to most bipedal species, and Han was grateful to have one. He shoved it into his pocket and proceeded down the tunnel.

  His route would take him near Old Man Powlo’s territory again, but thankfully not through it. Then again, the weight of the dog biscuit in his pocket gave him an idea.

  He would have to hurry to pull it off and still make his mysterious appointment at the Foundry, so he hastened into a jog, splashing through the tunnel without regard for stealth and caution. Plenty of time for that later, right?

  He turned into the warren of darker, older tunnels that marked Powlo’s territory and found the cave-like lair with ease. The room still glowed, though the fire in the pit had burned down quite a bit. Powlo lay on his side facing the entrance, on a pallet made of rags and rat skins and rotting underbrush. His eyes were closed, his breathing steady and even.

  Han cleared his throat.

  Powlo cracked one eye open, then the other. He sneer-grinned and said, “Han. Friend.”

  “Yep, that’s me,” Han said. “Here, I brought you something.” He reached into his pocket and grabbed the biscuit. He was about to hand over the whole thing, but common sense got the better of him, so he broke the biscuit in two and shoved one half back into his pocket. He would need it later, no doubt about it.

  He extended the other half to Powlo. “It’s a, uh, treat,” he said.

  “Treat?”

  “Yeah. For eating.” Han pantomimed putting the piece of biscuit into his mouth.

  Powlo’s face brightened, his eyes flashing molten gold. He rose from his pallet and approached, hunch-shouldered and cautious. Then, quicker than a striking snake, he snatched the biscuit from Han’s hand and shoved it into his mouth.

  “Mmmm, is good,” he said, crumbs sticking to the corners of his mouth. The two of them were close now, only a meter apart. Powlo’s skin was dry and cracked, and a few wisps of facial hair grew from his chin. What struck Han most, though, was the obvious intelligence in the creature’s golden gaze.

  Powlo clearly struggled with Galactic Basic, and Han wondered what the fellow’s native language was. He
had learned a long time before, though, that broken speech almost never indicated lack of intelligence. In fact, he himself probably sounded just like Powlo every time he tried to speak Huttese or Shyriiwook.

  “Glad you like it,” Han said. “I’ll bring more if I can get some. Anyway, I have to go. See you later, Powlo.”

  Lately, Han’s instincts had been telling him to cultivate allies. Maybe it was the fact that Lady Proxima had been even more secretive than usual these past few weeks. Or maybe he was looking for every possible advantage as he leveraged himself for the position of Head. Whatever the case, Han had been making a point of getting to know someone wherever he went, whether it was a cantina, a factory, or even a sewer. It paid to have friends. It especially paid to be owed favors.

  That didn’t mean he wanted to be soul mates with anyone; Han was a loner, and that suited him just fine. And it didn’t mean he trusted any of his friends. So as Powlo happily chewed his dog biscuit, Han cautiously backed away, a careful smile on his face.

  Powlo didn’t bother swallowing before opening his mouth to say, “Bye, Han! See soon!”

  “Yeah, see you soon.” The moment he was out of sight, Han turned and fled.

  As he pushed through the low tunnels, it occurred to him to wonder: What if Powlo hadn’t liked the biscuit? Would he have become hostile? Some aliens considered gift giving to be offensive. And some couldn’t eat the same food as humans. There were so many ways that could have gone wrong.

  Maybe one day, Han should learn to think things through a little better. Then again, where would the fun be in that?

  The Foundry was a good hike away, so Han had to hurry. As soon as he reached a larger corridor with room to stand up straight, he sped back up into a jog. It would be a lot faster if he could take the streets, maybe hail a speeder cab. But Lady Proxima was stingy with money, and she hated to run up costs, no matter how important an operation was.

  Faintly, through mortar and metal and stone, came the sound of chimes. The Temple of the True Vine was sounding its call to morning prayer. That meant he had minutes to reach the Foundry.

  Han burst into an all-out sprint.

  The entrance to the Foundry basement was just like the manual airlock of a low-end freighter—a large round portal opened by cranking a wheel. Han suspected that an airtight entrance meant these tunnels could be flooded at a moment’s notice. It was a smart precaution, and one he’d have to keep in mind.

  Lady Proxima had specifically told him he was not to be seen entering or leaving the Foundry, and he’d been careful while traveling the sewers. But there was no way into the basement except through that hatch. Which was bound to be noisy.

  No help for it. Han grabbed the wheel and cranked.

  It squealed like an angry Gungan baby, a piercing wail that Han was sure could be heard for kilometers in every direction. He cranked and cranked; the airlock squealed and squealed.

  Finally, it popped open. Han scooted inside and pulled the hatch closed behind him. He started to crank the inner wheel to lock it into place, but he thought better of it. Best to leave himself a quick way out.

  He half expected his contact to be waiting right there, but the corridor was empty. His footsteps echoed through the tunnel.

  He hurried around a corner and jerked to a stop as a huge shadow loomed before him.

  “Han,” said the shadow in a voice completely devoid of inflection.

  Relief flooded through him. It was one of the many contacts he’d been cultivating: TD-H4, a massive, hulking Tool-and-Die series droid. He was a huge steel beast fitted with “arms” that were actually long gadgets: a lathe, a welder, a drill, and even a miniature stamping press. He was mostly obsolete now, but he’d somehow avoided being thrown into the smelter by doing odd jobs for the Foundry, even pulling the occasional sentry shift. Han didn’t know how old he was—possibly centuries. In any case, the droid obviously had a knack for survival, and Han couldn’t help admiring him.

  “Hey, Tool.” Han looked past the droid to see if his contact was close by. “It’s nice to see you. Look, I’m really sorry, but I don’t have any lubricant with me today. I’ll try to bring some next time.”

  Tool waved his welder in dismissal. “Don’t worry about it. There are bigger matters at hand today.”

  “That’s great, Tool,” Han said, giving the droid a pat on the shoulder, already on his way around Tool when something in his voice made Han stop. The droid’s flat tone always made him sound surly to Han’s ear, though in all fairness he’d been programmed during an earlier industrial era, before technological advances in vocal intonation or lightweight polymer alloys. “Wait, what did you say?”

  “I admit, I’m surprised to see you. I thought this deal would be too big a fish for Lady Proxima’s little pond.”

  Han stared up at him. Tool was his contact.

  “Did I say something wrong,” Tool asked flatly.

  “No. It’s just…you use words like no droid I’ve ever heard. It’s so…human.”

  “Thank you,” Tool said. “I adopted some language programming that allows me to make metaphors in Galactic Basic. Follow me, please.”

  “Huh,” Han said, falling in behind the droid. “Well, the language program is definitely working.” That was Tool for you, always improving himself. Like the time he’d paid Han to find three very specific screws that he had used to rearticulate the “elbow” joint of his ungainly lathe attachment.

  They reached a stairway. Tool struggled to navigate it; his massive knees did not bend easily, and the going was slow.

  “Any idea what’s going on?” Han asked.

  “Yes,” Tool said.

  “Well, are you going to tell me?”

  “You mean you do not know.”

  “Proxima told me almost nothing.”

  “That was probably wise.”

  Han glared at his friend. “Listen, Tool—”

  “Everyone in that room thinks my name is Die.”

  “Huh? I thought it was Teedee-Aychfor. I just call you Tool because—”

  “Because I am a huge tool. Yes, I know. Ha-ha. Ha-ha-ha-ha. Thanks to my new language programming, I now understand the jest. You can call me Tool if you like, but I’m going by Die now. I thought it appropriate, given my new position.”

  “What position? Tool, did you get a job? That’s great. I’m real glad for you. What are you—”

  They had reached the top of the stairway, and Tool keyed the door open. It slid wide to reveal a bunker-like room, reinforced with cement and durasteel beam construction, all coated with some kind of gray resin. Weak light flickered overhead, illuminating a single conference table made of dull metal, surrounded by bent metal chairs. The scents of rust and mold and dirty grease made Han wrinkle his nose.

  Like Tool, the materials in this room were obsolete, holdovers from an earlier industrial era. But if you needed a quiet, unobserved place to make a deal, someone had jury-rigged this underground bunker to do the trick just fine. It wouldn’t surprise Han to learn the walls were a meter thick, or that the resin coating blocked heat sensors and was waterproof. Where innovation was high but resources were low, you took what you had, slapped it all together, and hoped it held. It was the Corellian way.

  Two people, both humans, were already sitting at the table, and they looked up as Han and Tool entered. One was a dark-skinned male with the most ridiculous mustache Han had ever seen—thick and fuzzy as a caterpillar, except with waxed points on either end that drooped all the way past the fellow’s jowls to his jawline.

  The other was a pale brunet woman with gray at her temples. She wore all black, including a flight jacket. The only splash of color was a patch on the upper arm of her jacket—a bright yellow triangle with concave sides. The insignia marked her as Kaldana Syndicate.

  Han usually tried to avoid the Kaldana. They were serious business.

  The man with the ridiculous mustache said, “Hello, young man. What have you been up to?”

  “U
h…Oh, right. I’ve been dusting crops, the easiest job in the galaxy.”

  The man’s mustache twitched. “And your name?”

  “Han.”

  “Han what?”

  “Han nothing. Just Han.”

  “And who are you representing today?”

  “Uh…the White Worms?”

  “Excellent. Please have a seat, Han Nothing of the White Worms.”

  Han pulled back a chair and sat. As he did, he noticed that both the mustached fellow and the Kaldana woman wore enormous holsters. Han didn’t know much about blasters, but based on the size of those holsters, they were packing a lot of firepower. Lady Proxima had never given him more than a knife, and this time she hadn’t even given him that. Although he supposed there was no point bringing a knife to a gun fight.

  “And of course we are already acquainted with Die,” Mustache Guy continued. “Thank you for representing the Droid Gotra today. We will understand if you are anatomically incapable of”—he waved a dismissive hand—“performing a sitting gesture.”

  Han wasn’t sure how he knew, but he was certain that last bit was meant as an insult to his friend Tool. If his hackles weren’t already up from being in a secure bunker with two well-armed strangers, they were now. And Tool wasn’t his contact; the droid was another messenger, like him.

  The three humans faced each other at the table, and Tool loomed over Han’s shoulder. Han waited for someone to say something, but everyone seemed content with silence.

  “So…” Han said. “Anybody here play sabacc? I didn’t bring a deck with me, but if any of you happen to have one…”

  The Kaldana woman raised an eyebrow but said nothing. The mustached man just stared off into space.

  They were waiting for something, and Han had no idea what. He could ask, but he had a funny feeling that revealing his ignorance would be a bad move. He’d have to play it cool.

  He leaned back in his chair, trying to act casual. “It’s a great morning for making a deal,” he said, and as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew he sounded like a dumb kid who was trying too hard.