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  Han decided to use a different approach. “Neither of you told me your name,” he said.

  Still nothing, unless you counted the exasperated look from the Kaldana woman.

  The Kaldana. Here in the Foundry basement, no less. To the best of Han’s knowledge, they were an organization of pirates and shipjackers, formed to take advantage of the inevitable smuggling traffic in Corellian skies. Now that the Empire had a stranglehold on shipbuilding, anyone else who wanted components had to get them out the hard way, and the Kaldana were always lying in wait, hoping for an easy score. Their interests sometimes took them planetside, and the White Worms had encountered them occasionally in the streets. But never below ground. Corellia’s criminal organizations generally gave each other space, and everyone knew that the dark underbelly of Coronet was Lady Proxima’s territory. Something serious must be going down for the Kaldana to conduct business here—and for Proxima to let them.

  Han looked up at his friend Tool. Mustache Guy had said he was representing something called the Droid Gouda or Grotto or something like that. Whatever it was, Han had never heard of it. He wouldn’t be surprised if Tsuulo or Qi’ra knew, though. Maybe he’d make a point to ask one of them when he got back to the White Worm lair.

  Thinking of Qi’ra made him wonder about her errand. Odd that Proxima would give two of her oldest scrumrats tasks the same morning. Her gang was a nighttime organization, with few exceptions.

  Obviously, their two errands were related somehow. When they got back to the lair, maybe he could convince Qi’ra that it was in both of their best interests to trade information, see what they could learn from each other.

  The moments ticked by. Han realized he was bouncing his leg under the table and forced himself to be still. Overhead, the lights buzzed and flickered.

  He nearly jumped out of his chair when someone’s comlink pinged.

  Mustache Guy pulled his from his pocket and listened. Han strained to hear but couldn’t parse the other half of the conversation at all.

  “Understood,” Mustache Guy said. “Yes, I can handle it.” He stashed his comlink, then rose to his feet.

  “Well?” the Kaldana woman asked.

  “The winning bid was submitted by the Droid Gotra,” he said.

  The woman gasped.

  “Apparently, the White Worms weren’t even in the running,” Mustache Guy continued. “An embarrassment for them, really.”

  Han had no idea what that meant, but he was sure it was nothing good.

  Tool stepped forward, and one of his massive legs accidentally banged an empty chair, toppling it. “In that case may I see the merchandise please,” he intoned.

  “Of course,” Mustache Guy said, reaching into his pocket again.

  “Wait!” said the woman. “Surely there’s been some mistake? My organization put together an impressive bid. I don’t understand how—”

  “The Gotra’s bid was the most impressive,” Mustache Guy assured her. “I’m sorry, but you lost.”

  The woman’s hand twitched toward her gun holster as her eyes darted back and forth between Mustache Guy and Tool.

  Han considered fleeing. The White Worms had lost some kind of auction, that much was clear. There was no sense hanging around. Proxima had promised him the Head position if things went well; surely this constituted things not going well? Not that he’d had any control over the outcome at all. It was just that he trusted Lady Proxima about as much as he trusted the good will of a CorSec officer. He couldn’t count on her to play fair.

  But maybe if he stuck around, gathered some information, he could redeem himself in her eyes. It was his only chance. He stayed put.

  Mustache Guy pulled out a tiny hinged chest, engraved with vines and flowers. It was only about a fourth the size of a ratcatcher droid.

  “Is that it?” the woman asked, leaning forward.

  “No. The Droid Gotra’s merchandise is inside.” He fiddled with it, pressing a flower petal here, a hinge there. It was a puzzle box, Han realized. Meant to hide something of incredible worth. Jewelry? Credit chips? Precious stones?

  Something hissed, and the lid popped up on its hinge, revealing a red velvet pillow. Pressed into the pillow was a shiny datacube.

  A compartment in Tool’s chest swung open, and he extended a long pincer, grabbing the cube. “A pleasure doing business with you,” he said in his flat voice. “Or do I have that backwards. I also understand that business always comes before pleasure….”

  Han stood to leave, not sure he had gleaned any information of note. That the Droid Gorda had won an auction for a datacube? That the Kaldana representative was angry as hell? Han felt more confused than ever. “I guess I’ll be going,” he said. “Congratulations…Die.”

  Just as he turned to go, the door leading to the Foundry flew open, and six men burst through, all wearing black.

  Han ducked under the table, but not before he noticed their Kaldana triangle insignias and their giant blasters.

  “Up against the wall!” someone yelled. “All of you.”

  Han remained crouched for the space of several heartbeats. Was he fast enough to make it into the stairwell before blasters started firing? Probably not.

  Resigned, he gradually rose from the ground, hands in the air. “Surely we can talk this out?” he said. “I’m just a—”

  “Shut up,” said one of the men. “Against the wall. Now.” He waved his blaster at Han.

  Han complied, but he placed himself as close to the stairwell as possible. Mustache Guy’s back was already pressed as far into the wall as it could go, as if the fellow was hoping he’d sink right in and disappear. Tool was beside him, the datacube still held in his pincer.

  The Kaldana woman, on the other hand, had moved to stand with her fellow thugs, a smug grin on her face. “Hand over the datacube,” she said to Tool. “If you do, no one gets hurt. Not that a droid cares about humans.”

  “He looks to be a century old, at least,” said one of the thugs.

  “Older,” said another. “Should have been sent to the scrap heap a long time ago.”

  “Well, it’s never too late to right a wrong,” said the first guy, and he aimed his blaster at Tool’s head.

  “Wait,” said Tool. “I’ll hand it over.” But then Han heard, clear as day even though it was barely more than a whisper: “Get ready, Han.”

  Ready for what? he almost asked, even as he groped with the realization that Tool had modulated his voice so that only Han could hear him.

  Tool stepped forward, putting his hulking metal frame between Han and the Kaldana blasters. Han crept toward the door.

  “I’m so sorry it had to come to this,” Tool said to the thugs, “but I’m a fly caught in your trap. Or would it be better to say web. In any case I’m in a snare. Like a caught fly.”

  Was Tool stalling? Han was almost to the door now.

  With mind-numbing speed, Tool twisted on the axis of his waist, pivoting a full one hundred eighty degrees. “Han, catch,” he said, and tossed the date cube to him.

  Han was reaching for it, snatching it from the air, before his mind registered what was happening.

  Tool lurched toward him; blaster fire had caught him in the back. “Now run,” Tool said blandly, as if nothing was happening. “For your life. I will make a stand here. Do not let that datacube out of your sight. No matter what.”

  Han was already fiddling with the door. It slid open as more blaster fire erupted against Tool’s flank. How was he withstanding all this?

  Every single attachment Tool had ever been fitted with popped out of his carapace. His lathe began whirling, and his welder lit up with blue fire as he stepped away from Han, advancing toward his Kaldana foes. “Run,” he commanded again, and this time his voice was as loud as thunder.

  The sounds of whining machinery and gunfire soon mixed with screams.

  Han ran, clutching the datacube tight in his fist. Down the staircase he fled, through the airlock door, into the sewer. Blas
ter fire grew quieter, at first with distance and then with cessation.

  His breath came in gasps as he ran as fast as he could. He needed to get back to the lair. He needed to tell Proxima…No. His gut instinct told him that was the wrong move. The deal had gone badly, and it would be just like her to sacrifice a scrumrat to save face and curry favor with the Kaldana. Better that than an all-out gang war. If he returned now, his life would be forfeit.

  He stopped in his tracks. What should he do? Where could he go? He stared at the datacube in his hand. All this trouble for something so tiny. Whatever information it contained was worth killing for.

  Or dying for. Tool was probably a heap of scrap now. He had sacrificed himself for Han. Or maybe for the data this cube contained. Han hadn’t realized a droid was capable of such an act.

  Maybe he shouldn’t count his friend out yet. The way he’d withstood that blaster fire…Han wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it himself. Maybe Tool was made of something even stronger than steel. Maybe all those self-modifications had paid off. Which meant there was still hope.

  A skittering noise put him on high alert. A moment later, a dozen rats blurred past him; one bold fellow clambered right over his boot.

  He was used to rats; they didn’t scare him. But he was definitely scared of whatever had scared them. Han stilled himself, held his breath, and listened.

  Sure enough, footsteps sounded. Faint splashing. An angry yell. The noise was echoing and distant, but coming closer. Tool’s sacrifice had bought time but not victory. The Kaldana were in pursuit.

  Han ran as fast as he’d ever run in his life, away from the sewer tunnels that led back to the White Worm den, heading toward the center of town instead. Low-hanging pipes and cracks in the floor and even the occasional sewage block all conspired to slow him down, but he kept alert, dodging and jumping and pumping his legs as fast as he could.

  He had no idea where he was going or what he would do next. But he figured that gave him the advantage, since the Kaldana killers had no idea either. He’d have to figure out his strategy along the way. For now, he just had to evade his pursuers and count on his luck to hold.

  Qi’ra found a laundry station in the basement of the Buckell Center, filled with huge vats steaming with pungent cleaner, staffed by worker droids. Ignoring the droids, she followed the water pipes until she discovered where they dumped out: a massive grate in the floor.

  Just as she was lifting the grate, sentry droids poured into the laundry station. Qi’ra had no choice but to plunge through the hole.

  Thankfully, she didn’t have far to drop. She splash-landed in an underground basin. The water was less than a meter deep—just enough to break her fall—but the bottom was slick with algae and sewage, and the surface held an oily sheen from the laundry cleaning agent. Her beautiful new skirt was ruined.

  Fortunately, the droids couldn’t follow; they were a standard-issue security series, not equipped for aquatic maneuvers. It meant she had a little time before their superiors sent someone after her who was better outfitted.

  Probably a very little time. Just enough to catch her breath and make a plan.

  She had to get back to Lady Proxima in the White Worm den. She had valuable information: the identities of the other bidders, for instance. Surely that was worth something?

  Qi’ra had far exceeded the scope of her authority for this assignment by pretending she could revise their bid. As if she had any negotiating power, or spoke for Lady Proxima in some way. There might be hell to pay if the White Worm leader learned of it. Especially if that was what had set off the shooting spree upstairs.

  She pushed forward, thigh-deep in murky water, thinking as she went. If she were Lady Proxima, she’d appreciate having an underling with some initiative. In fact, if she ever ended up in a position of authority over others, she’d be sure to cultivate those like her. People who could think strategically on their feet, for the good of the organization.

  Something tugged at her hip and she reacted too fast, jerking free and tearing her skirt. She stumbled forward, sloshing water onto her beautiful red shirt. She lifted her hem out of the water and saw that she’d torn the bottom on some stray scrap of metal. What a waste.

  Shoving regret aside, she pushed forward through the filthy water, making sure to stay away from the edges.

  If she ended up in a position of authority someday, she’d never have to wade through sewer muck again. She’d have scrumrats who could do it for her. Everything about that complex had been so beautiful. So elegant. So clean. It was a place that felt right with its open air, room to breathe, people who listened to her. If only she could have sped off in a cab, or flown away in a ship. Anything but go crashing back to the dark, filthy sewers.

  Qi’ra reached the edge of the basin. Three storm tunnels gaped open in the wall before her, set all in a row. The one on the right took a hard turn back toward central Coronet, so that wasn’t an option. The other two would get her nearer the White Worm lair, and though the leftmost tunnel would force her to take a longer route, it would also provide more twists and turns.

  Either of them would be safe enough, as long as it didn’t start raining.

  She wasted precious moments debating between the two tunnels. Light flashed in the middle one, followed by a clunking sound.

  Something or someone was coming toward her.

  She reached down and ripped the torn piece of fabric from her skirt. Then she tossed it onto the edge of the right tunnel, where it was sure to be noticed, before launching herself into the one on the left. She bruised her shin in her haste to climb up. It was too low to run; she half crouched, half crawled as she pushed forward into darkness.

  The decoy fabric might buy her only a minute or two.

  Lady Proxima would protect her. It was the only rational thing for her to do. Qi’ra was one of her most valuable scrumrats, or she wouldn’t have been sent on this mission in the first place. Moloch and the other lieutenants could hold off any pursuers. Even that idiot Rebolt and his hounds could be formidable in a pinch. She just had to get there.

  Footsteps and splashing echoed behind her. It sounded like a whole army was coming. “This way!” a man called. “Someone entered this tunnel recently!”

  Blast. Her decoy hadn’t worked. At the very least, she’d been hoping they’d split up, unsure which way she went.

  She knew better than to count on luck, though. That’s why she always had a plan, and her plan was to reach the warren of the Old Town sewers. There were so many intersections and dead ends, and she knew every single one. She could easily lose her pursuers there. So long as she didn’t panic. So long as she was smart, quiet, and fast.

  The tunnel opened up, and her back and shoulders thanked her for the opportunity to stand up straight. Light poured down from a storm drain above her head. To her left was another tunnel, sloped slightly upward. It was a tough, slippery climb through sewer muck, but if she made it, she’d have a real chance.

  She plunged in and used forearms, elbows, and knees to leverage herself upward. Water ran past her in the other direction. It was almost nothing, the merest trickle, but it was just enough to make the tunnel floor slick and hard to navigate.

  “Which way did she go?” boomed a voice, and Qi’ra froze. Sound was tricky in these tunnels. Sometimes a noise as loud as a freighter engine was really a kilometer away. And sometimes the merest whisper of sound was as close as your ear.

  “I think she’s headed toward Old Town,” someone else said.

  “Call dispatch. Tell them to send a unit to Old Town to cut her off.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Qi’ra crept forward silently. Stealth was more important than speed in this slick, upward-sloping tunnel. Otherwise she’d lose her feet and slide right back into the arms of those CorSec guards.

  Every bit of forward progress was agony. Her heart was too loud in her chest, and her breath came fast and hard. A lip of darkness lay ahead. She just had to reach it.


  Lights flashed against the walls around her, turning them from gray black to rust red.

  “Hey, I think I see her! Stop right there or I’ll shoot….”

  Qi’ra heaved herself up over the lip of darkness onto a stone ledge. No time to rest or even think, because guards were climbing up the tunnel after her.

  She hopped to her feet and plunged forward at a dead run, counting on the darkness to keep her safe from blaster fire. Ahead was a branching corridor that ran beneath an old cantina. Qi’ra didn’t know who owned the cantina or exactly what went on in that less-than-fine establishment, but she did know that sometimes they had to dump product fast, and they’d built a chute for exactly that purpose.

  All the White Worm scrumrats knew about it. Occasionally, Lady Proxima was paid by the cantina owner to retrieve the product—usually nothing more than shipyard components, but sometimes money or even spice. In return, the White Worms got to use the chute whenever they needed to evade pursuers. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement, and it would be Qi’ra’s salvation.

  She reached the corridor and paused to listen. The guards had said something about cutting her off in Old Town, so there was always the chance that someone would be waiting to intercept her.

  All was quiet, save for a steady, echoing drip-drip-plop. She plunged inside.

  Something exploded on the ledge she’d just vacated.

  Qi’ra tumbled to her knees, holding her hands to her ears. It took a moment to realize what had happened. Not a real explosion. Someone had thrown a stun charge. If she hadn’t turned inside the corridor when she did, she’d be flat on her back, probably unconscious.

  She scrambled to her feet and sprinted ahead, but her gait was unsteady, her ears ringing. Just a little farther…There! She saw the chute. It was covered by a curtain of sorts, a burlap-like material painted to blend in with the wall around it. Once inside, she would slide right into White Worm territory.

  Footsteps splashed nearby—too near. She reached for the curtain.

  Someone barreled into her, sending her sprawling in the muck. Hands were reaching for her. She fought back like a rancor, attacking blindly with hands and feet. “Get off of—” she started to yell.