Cole backed away from Skywalker's X-wing and hurried to the nearest completed upgrade. The R2 unit was beeping at him, as if it was chastising him for abandoning his post.

"Listen, R2," Cole said. "If we're going to work together, then you're going to have to trust me." Had he just said that to a droid? He shook his head slightly and climbed the work platform to the reconditioned X-wing. Its computer was attached with bolts and he had forgotten his wrench.

R2 came up behind him, the wrench in his outstretched claw. A few of Cole's other tools hung from R2 as if he were part of an Artesian s.p.a.ce collage.

"Thanks." Cole grinned at the little unit. "Guess I'll have to trust you too." R2 beeped in agreement.

Cole removed part of the panel on the reconditioned X-wing, then leaned back on his heels, whistling softly under his breath. This X-wing had a detonator too.

And so did the next reconditioned X-wing, and the next.

R2 cheebled urgently and Cole nodded. They were thinking alike. If the reconditioned X-wings had this problem, did the new ones have it too?

That would be a bit more difficult to discover. Cole wasn't authorized to work on the new X-wings. It didn't matter. If he got caught, he would report his findings.

To whom? What if someone in the maintenance bay had authorized these systems? Maybe Skywalker hadn't been so far off when he claimed that his little droid had been imprisoned.

Cole looked at R2. R2 moaned softly.

"Yeah. This is a tough one," Cole said. But before he panicked too much, he would examine the new X-wings. Maybe the problem was only in the reconditioned models.

He stood on the platform and scoured the room, hoping to see a new X-wing. There was only the model in its pristine booth. And since he was working late, he was the only person in the area. The maintenance droids were in the main X-wing a.s.sembly area. He hadn't seen any Kloperians, and all the humans had gone off-shift.

Except him.

He hoped.

"Can you stand guard for me, R2?" The little droid beeped twice in a rather offended tone, although how Cole knew the droid was offended was something he didn't want to examine. The beep code was something they had worked out that afternoon, almost unconsciously. Clearly the little droid was used to working with people.

"Okay. Let's go, then." Cole got them both off the platform and headed toward the new X-wing. He turned back once to check on R2 and saw the little droid pick up a few more tools, ones that Cole had forgotten he would need. No wonder Skywalker had been upset about leaving the little creature behind. He was valuable.

"Hurry!" Cole hissed.

He went to the display area and punched in the code to open the door. The computer asked his reason for entry. He typed some gobbledygook about a uniform malfunction on all the new X-wings, and the computer let the door slide open. His hands were shaking. He didn't know how long it would take before the guards or some of the supervisors would show up.

If they did, he would just explain the nature of the problem, show them the devices, and hope beyond hope that no one on Coruscant was involved with the remains of the Empire.

Because chances were, that was who would respond to his computer notation first.

Cole slid into the c.o.c.kpit of the new X-wing. These X-wings were configured a little differently from the older model, the T-65C-A2. In the new model, the T-65D-A1, the new computer system could be reached from the c.o.c.kpit itself, giving the pilot more maneuverability-and more options-while in s.p.a.ce.

Still, it wasn't built for doing maintenance. In fact, the computer was difficult to work on in any position. Cole wedged himself into a corner of the c.o.c.kpit and detached the light pins. His hands were shaking. He had never done anything he was forbidden to do before.

At least, not on Coruscant. On Tatooine he had occasionally worked on fighters he wasn't supposed to work on, trying to see how they operated.

But on Tatooine, he had been learning, and his supervisors had known that. Here he was investigating the very people who had hired him.

The computer panel fell off into his hands. He peered behind it at circuitry more sophisticated than any he had ever seen in an X-wing. R2 leaned in as best his cylindrical body would allow. A light came on. Cole looked up. R2 was shining a light attached to his head into the opening behind the computer.

"Thanks," Cole said.

He squinted and looked through the circuitry, careful not to touch anything. For a moment, he thought he would find nothing.

The white and silvery Imperial insignia winked in the light. Cole leaned his head against the metal lip of the computer. These X-wings were designed to blow. Each and every one of them. He didn't want to think about all the ships he had reconditioned, all the X-wings already flying through s.p.a.ce, floating bombs, waiting for the pilot to hit the wrong lever, push the wrong b.u.t.ton.

He peered up at the little droid. R2 shut off his light. "Can you find out quickly how many X-wing accidents have happened after ships left Coruscant?" Cole asked.

R2 beeped an affirmative.

"Let's do it, then," Cole said. He grabbed the edge of the computer, about to replace it, when he heard something crunch.

R2 eased down onto his wheels. The droid beeped softly, and the sound felt like a warning.

The hair on the back of Cole's neck rose.

"So the notification was right," a deep male voice said. "We have a saboteur. Show yourself." R2 moaned. Cole set the edge of the computer down carefully, leaning it against the pilot's seat, making sure the internal workings touched nothing.

"Show yourself!" He rose slowly, hands up. Half a dozen security guards surrounded him, their blasters pointed at his head.

Nandreeson leaned back in his baquor-lined couch. The top half had not been properly slimed. It felt damp and cold against his skin. His legs were warm, though. They were underwater. There the couch was covered in algae. That part, at least, had been tempered right.

He had left Skip 6 for three days to investigate the loss of one of his men in the Outer Rim. When he returned to Smuggler's Run, someone had replaced his old couch with a new one, and had failed to condition it properly. When he was rested, he would check the rest of his quarters to see what other mistakes had been made.

So far things seemed fine. The air was so humid that it was almost visible. Tiny gnats gathered in a cl.u.s.ter, and Eilnian sweet flies swarmed on the far wall. The sweet flies were nearly ripe enough to eat.

His mouth burned, just thinking about it.

The lilies had bloomed on top of the pond, and someone had sc.r.a.ped the algae to one side, probably for later conditioning. Bubbles rose in the middle, exploding into the air with the stench of sulfur.

Home. It felt good to be here. In a little while, he would go for a swim through the caverns and see if anyone had disturbed both his egg cl.u.s.ters and his treasure hordes.

First, though, he had business to take care of. He had sent all of his people to their pod beds, except for lisner. Like Nandreeson, lisner was a Glottalphib, only his snout was six inches shorter, and his teeth had worn to small nubs. His eyes rested over his snout like small beetles.

His small hands floated on top of the water, and his tail was wrapped around the base of the couch. A strand of algae hung from his right nostril, remains of his underwater trip through the pond, making certain no one had poisoned it, bugged it, or rigged it harmfully in any way. His gills were still opening and closing, as if he couldn't get enough air.

Nandreeson would have to replace him someday soon. lisner was getting old. His scales were already falling after two or three days without water. He had built a slime pond into his quarters on the Silver Egg so that he wouldn't lose too many scales during a long s.p.a.ce voyage.

"Word is," Nandreeson said, "Han Solo is on Skip 1." A tiny flame emerged from the left side of his snout. He was hungrier than he had thought.

"Yes," lisner said. "He has quarters there. Jarril sent him."

"Jarril." Nandreeson dipped his snout into the warm, slick water. That cooled some of the burning. He didn't feel like going to the sweet-fly wall and looking for the ripe ones yet. Maybe, when he swam, he would take a caver egg and eat it raw. "Jarril paid his debt to me last week.

Thirty thousand credits. I was not pleased."

"He has come into money, then." Nandreeson shook the water off his snout.

"Everyone has come into money. I have not made a substantial loan in months. Jarril is one of many who have paid me off. I will have to go into another business if this doesn't change."

"Perhaps we should get off the Run," lisner said. "It's changed too much for my tastes. I don't like rich smugglers. They are no fun." Nandreeson smiled. "The challenge is gone, I'll admit. And if I knew of a better place to go than the Run, I would. But this place still serves us, for now."

"What about Glottal?" lisner said.

Nandreeson frowned. His home planet, with its ponds and pads, its fronds and sweet bugs, its dark forests and its sticky, humid air, held a great attraction for him. But on Glottal, he would be one of a thousand rich 'Phibs. Here, he was the only rich Thib, and one of the most powerful crime lords in the galaxy. The second t.i.tle would mean nothing on Glottal.

"I am not ready to go to Glottal," he said. He would go there when he was going to die. He would sp.a.w.n, and leave his fortune to the surviving offspring. "No. I need a new business. And a new diversion."

"You could start dealing in Imperial equipment." Nandreeson swiveled one eye and used it to stare at lisner. "I prefer credits and glittering treasure. The equipment is a limited market. As soon as the buyer finds what he is searching for, or gets his own factories up and running, this sudden wealth will cease. And a whole group of overextended smugglers will need money again." He smiled. "Perhaps we are jumping too soon at the vagaries of the market. Patience, my boy. Patience is the watchword of the wise." lisner slipped deeper in the water and swam to the far side of the pond. The hump of his spine rose above the surface, and scales flaked off into the algae. "You've never struck me as particularly patient," he said from the safety of his new position.

Nandreeson's tongue shot out and scooped a mouthful of gnats. He roasted them with his breath and swallowed, a small, appetizing bite. He would need a large dinner.

"I'm patient," he said. "I'm very patient. And the patience often pays off. Witness Calrissian."

"Calrissian hasn't been near the Run in seventeen years." Nandreeson swallowed the last gnat. His stomach rumbled. "But he will be here soon."

"You don't know that," lisner said.

Nandreeson swiveled his other eye. lisner slipped into the water until only his eyes and the top of his head showed. "I do know that, and although I appreciate your counsel, I do not appreciate your doubts.

Calrissian will be here because Solo is here." lisner blew water through his nostrils. The piece of algae soared through the air and landed on the moss-covered rocks beside the pond. Then he rose enough to speak. "Solo and Calrissian are not partners. They have never traveled together.

Before he married, Solo only traveled with the Wookiee."

"You do not pay attention." Nandreeson sank deeper into the warm water.

The back of the poorly conditioned couch gave him a chill. "Since Calrissian lost Cloud City, he and Solo have joined forces during each Imperial threat."

"So?"

"So?" Nandreeson popped a sulfur bubble under the water. It formed several other smaller bubbles that rose to the surface. "So, my dear lisner, what has changed on the Run?" lisner's mouth opened wide enough to swallow a whole sh.o.r.e of lily pads. "The Imperial equipment."

"Precisely," Nandreeson said. "And who in the New Republic knows how to find the Run, besides Solo and his Wookiee?"

"Calrissian." lisner breathed the word as if it were sacred. "You have a plan, don't you?"

"Of course," Nandreeson said. He smiled, and tongues of flame licked out of the corner of his mouth. "Although, in this case, I may not need one."

EIGHTEEN.

Lando slowed the Lady Luck at the edge of the asteroid belt that housed Smuggler's Run. If he went any farther, he would be within scanning range. They would know he was nearby. His burst of heroism suddenly seemed like an exercise in stupidity. He had avoided the Run for more than a decade. What made him think he could stroll in there now?

Alone.

All the good intentions in the galaxy wouldn't save him from Nandreeson.

And neither would an apology, or a promise to pay the Glottalphib back.

What had seemed a point of pride years ago now seemed like pointless posturing. So he had managed to steal a cache from Nandreeson's private storeroom. So he had braved the humid, stinky air, the slimy water, the treacherous lily pads. So he had held his breath for nearly four minutes, and pulled out, in the pocket of his wet suit, enough riches to fill his own stash for years.

The last of the money had disappeared when Vader forced him from Cloud City. Lando's own definition of derring-do had changed since then, as well. It had meant more to him to succeed at the Battle of Endor than it had to best Nandreeson.

Since Lando had made a home among the Rebels, he had learned that his acts of pirate courage meant nothing when compared with Leia, for example, who had lost her home and her family and still managed to go on, without taking a breath. Or when compared with Luke facing evil in himself over and over again.

Or Han, thrusting himself into situations greater than he was, and always emerging victorious.

He might not emerge this time.

Lando stood, and paced through the c.o.c.kpit. He had brought droids with him, half a dozen, all of various uses. Leia had forced credits on him as well so that he could buy information in the Run.

And he had brought a small a.r.s.enal, hidden in the secret smuggling compartments of the Lady Luck. The smugglers might find his weapons, and they might not. Lando hadn't gotten where he was without gambling.

He paused, leaned forward, and looked out the c.o.c.kpit trans-paristeel at the Run. From this distance, it looked as if an artist had swept a glitter-filled paintbrush across the blackness of s.p.a.ce. The asteroids sparkled in the light of a nearby star. Debris formed a milky trail from asteroid to asteroid.

The Run had existed for a long, long time. The entrance was tricky to anyone who didn't know the way. More Imperial ships had been marooned in the debris trail than any others. The Emperor had tried to find the Run several times, thinking he could recruit its denizens. Those ships that didn't slam against rock were blasted out of s.p.a.ce.

Smugglers didn't work for anyone except themselves.

The Emperor had never learned that.

Lando knew that, though.

The chill that had followed him since he had first discovered the Spicy Lady was more p.r.o.nounced here. For the fifteenth time, he checked the environmental controls. They were working perfectly.

If he backed out now, and something happened to Han, this incident would burn in his memory worse than losing Han to the carbonite. A man couldn't betray a friend twice. Han, despite the difficulties the two of them had had, would figure out a way into a dangerous situation to save Lando.

Lando had to do the same.

Impressions of the Run rose in him; the dank, smelly chambers in Skip 1, the gambling tables, the constant scams. The duels that had forced him to watch his back, and the friendships that he still had.

Or that he thought he still had. Nandreeson could buy anyone for the right price.

Anyone except Han.

All Lando had to do was find Han, warn him, and get out. The first two might not be difficult. The third would. But Lando's mission would be accomplished, and that was all that mattered.

Still, a man was foolish if he didn't allow himself a back door.

He punched in a coded message, sent it to Mara, and sent a duplicate to Leia, with instructions to forward it to Mara. That way, his back door was a.s.sured.

Then he sat back in the pilot's chair, strapped himself in, and aimed the Lady Luck at Smuggler's Run. He burned the engines high, giving the ship tremendous speed. As it headed toward the Run, he bent under his console, took his all-purpose laser wrench, and removed the panel. He pulled three chips, pocketed them, and watched as the power to all the ship's vital areas failed.

The Lady Luck was disabled, and hurtling toward the Run.

He punched the communications console, and sent the Run a copy of the Luck's legitimate cargo manifest-a smuggler's equivalent of Mayday.

Luke landed the X-wing on a wide metallic strip on the northern face of Telti. Domes rose around, metal domes on a barren, sandblasted landscape.