Han leaned his right shoulder against the pitted bars of the cramped jail cell and gently massaged the swollen knuckle of his left ring finger. “Good fight,” he said. “I really enjoyed it.”
Fasgo and Roa were seated on the squalid floor, backs against an equally fouled wall, the former with a comically swollen right ear, the latter looking remarkably unscathed.
“Some mess,” Roa said around a grin.
Fasgo gently fingered the tip of his nose. “Feels broken,” he muttered.
Roa clapped his former tax-and-tariff agent on the shoulder. “Next time remember that keeping out of range is often the best defense.”
“I’m only sorry the big one didn’t die,” Fasgo said.
“Give him time,” Han said loudly, gazing deliberately at the three Trandoshans in the cell directly across from theirs.
Fasgo held his thumb and forefinger close together. “The chair missed him by that much.”
“Tough break for that poor Bith at the next table,” Han said.
“We’re lucky he thought one of the Trandoshans threw it,” Roa interjected.
Fasgo nodded. “Having that group of balloon heads on our side definitely helped.”
“Keep your voice down,” Roa advised quietly. “They’re only two cells down the corridor.”
Fasgo waved a hand. “Half the crowd in the Bet’s Off is in here.” He glanced at Han and laughed. “We really started something.”
“Yeah, and security finished it.” Han chuckled. “No wonder the Wheel doesn’t allow armed blasters.”
A gate in desperate need of lubricant slid open down the corridor, and in short order a burly security guard in a gray uniform strode into view.
“All right, old-timers,” the guard announced churlishly, “you’re free to go.”
Han, Roa, and Fasgo exchanged mystified glances. “I thought we couldn’t post bail until the arraignment?” Roa said.
“You’re not being arraigned,” the guard said. “You must have some friends in high places.”
Roa looked at Han. “I think you’ve been made, ‘Roaky Laamu.’ The Trandoshan certainly had no trouble recognizing you.”
Han saw the sense of it. The word was out, and someone had contacted Leia.
The cell door slid aside, and the three of them filed out. Han stopped at the Trandoshans’ cell, careful to remain just out of their clawed reach. “We’ll have to do this again real soon,” he said, smiling.
“Count on it, Solo,” Bossk rasped.
The guard led them out of the confinement zone, returned their belongings, and pointed them to the exit. “Turn up here again and, friends or no, you’ll be sorry,” the man warned.
“Charming fellow,” Roa muttered.
Han agreed. “Probably works for Vessel Registration on his days off.”
No sooner had they stepped into the passageway than a surprisingly well-mannered Aqualish approached them. “Roa, Fasgo, Roaky Laamu,” the alien began in somewhat garbled Basic, courtesy of his inward-turning tusks. “My employer requests the pleasure of your company.”
“Boss B,” Roa reminded Han quietly. “The information broker.”
Fasgo gulped.
“Did we ask around?” Han asked theatrically. “I don’t recall us asking around.”
The Aqualish—a Quara—showed the palms of fingered hands. “Come now, gentlemen. Surely you can spare a few moments for the person who arranged for your release.”
The sprung trio traded surprised glances. “Well, in that case,” Han said, “lead on.”
A repulsor limousine conveyed them ninety degrees around the Wheel, at times maneuvering through knots of stranded and despondent refugees. The swank hatchway to Boss B’s lair was flanked by pug-nosed and prognathous Gamorrean sentinels, and the plush anteroom was filled with an assortment of toadies, sycophants, and camp followers. Stroking their long head-tails, two Twi’lek women in mesh bodysuits sprawled seductively in conform loungers. Elsewhere, a Rodian, a Kubaz, a Whiphid, and two Weequays were engaged in a desultory game of laro, while a bored Bith ran musical scales on a slender horn.
The Aqualish showed Han and the others to overstuffed armchairs in the main room and offered them drinks. Han remained standing.
“Save the Gizers for the Bet’s Off,” a disembodied baritone voice suggested. “Have a tumbler of Whyren’s Reserve instead.”
“Now, that I won’t turn down,” Fasgo said, beaming.
“Make it two,” Roa told the Aqualish.
“Three,” Han said hesitantly, trying to discern the source of the resonant voice. One entire wall of the room was devoted to flatscreen displays, showing frequently shifting views of different sectors of the Wheel. On one monitor, Han recognized the immigration station where his blaster had been drained.
“Sit, please,” the voice rumbled.
Han consented to the request when the amber-colored Corellian whiskey arrived. “Cheers,” he said, setting his travel pack on the floor and lifting his glass in the air to their unrevealed host.
“More of the same,” Roa said, joining Han in the toast.
“Your reputation precedes you, gentlemen,” the voice said.
Fasgo ran the back of his hand over his mouth. “If you mean the damage to the Bet’s Off, the Trandoshans were responsible for most of it—”
“You can blame me for that,” Boss B interrupted. “I put them up to it.”
“You? Why?” Han demanded.
“How else could I have ensured that you would accept my hospitality, except by arranging for you to be released from incarceration?”
“I don’t get it,” Han said.
Boss B laughed. “I am personally informed when individuals of honorable or disreputable distinction arrive on the Jubilee Wheel. Such was the case with you, Roa. But imagine my surprise when, after a bit of machine-assisted scrutiny, I discovered your traveling partner to be none other than Han Solo.”
On hearing the name, the Bith ceased his noodling and the Twi’lek women and the cardplayers turned in unison. Han drained the glass in one gulp and set it down roughly.
Boss B laughed boomingly. “I have to say, Solo, I expected a younger man.”
“Yeah, well, I used to be one.”
“As did I,” Boss B conceded. “In any event, after I learned that you were bound for the Bet’s Off—where I already knew Bossk and his comrades to be—I simply relayed word to the Trandoshan that an old rival of his had turned up. It wasn’t difficult to predict where things would go from there.”
“That’s your idea of hospitality, huh?” Han said.
“Come, Solo, you said yourself that you enjoyed the fight.”
Han snorted. “You planning to show yourself or are we going to have to play ‘name that voice’?”
Not three meters in front of Han, a shroud field dissipated, revealing what might have been the outcome of a Hutt and human mating. Though the lavender-hued humanoid managed to get around on two tree-trunk-thick legs—possibly with the assistance of repulsorcoil implants—he had the girth of a young Hutt and a head too large to fit through an ordinary hatchway. His round face was symmetrical and possessed the usual human features, but each was so outsized that they vied with one another for prominence. Shiny and slightly protruding, his eyes were the size of small saucers, his nose was a large flattened disk, and a thick, bristly gray mustache covered almost all of his labrose mouth. Disheveled, slate-colored hair crowned his head like an abandoned avian’s nest, and enormous pink ears flapped against his skull like wings. In the reddish-stained fingers of one huge hand he held a fat, chak-root cigarra.
Han nearly fell out of his chair. “Big Bunji?”
The giant humanoid guffawed in merriment, laughing his mouth empty of aromatic smoke. “Boss Bunji, Han.”
Roa smiled broadly. “It’s amazing that you and I never met, considering all the mutual friends we had on Etti IV and other haunts in the Corporate Sector. A pleasure after all these years.” He gestured to Fasgo and introduced him.
Bunji regarded the red-haired spacer. “Yes, Fasgo’s petty scams aboard the Wheel have not escaped our notice.”
Fasgo swallowed hard, but said nothing.
Han was still shaking his head in incredulity. “I figure I must be dying, because I keep seeing my life flashing before my eyes.” He grinned at Bunji. “If Ploovo Two-For-One shows up right about now, I’m folding my hand.”
“Were Ploovo to show up, Han, I can assure you he would be less than courteous. Even after extensive reconstruction surgery, he never quite got over the damage done to his proboscis by the dinko you so cleverly sicced on him in the Free Flight Dance Dome. For a time, in fact, he paid well for anyone who brought him a dinko—dead or alive. Taxidermied specimens of the vicious things were everywhere on display in his homes, his offices, aboard his ships. He even took to wearing a charm bracelet composed entirely of dinko fangs and the serrated spurs of their hind legs. I do believe he brought the species to the edge of extinction.”
Han frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that, but I never cared much for people who tried to cheat me out of what was mine.”
Bunji guffawed once more, all but rattling the bulkheads with his laugh. “As I myself learned.”
“You’re not still sore about my strafing your pressure dome on that asteroid—”
“Not at all,” Bunji said. “I deserved it for trying to get the better of you on those chak-root runs to Gaurick.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth.” Han laughed. “You fix up the Falcon for what happened to her on Gaurick, then you go and deduct the costs from what you owe me. That’s what sent me to Ploovo for a loan to begin with.”
Bunji’s sigh was a warm wind. “We live and learn, Han, we live and learn. But surely you knew I’d forgiven you. The fact is, I owe you a huge debt of gratitude for what you accomplished on Tatooine.” He gestured broadly. “You could say that much of this station owes to your efforts.”
Han jabbed himself in the chest. “What I did on Tatooine?”
Bunji puffed on his cigarra and grinned. “To be more precise, what your wife did. You see, Han, I had attempted to relocate my business enterprise to Tatooine, only to be run off by Jabba. Not content to have done that, the Hutt all but crippled my cash flow for the next few years. His death, however, presented me with an opportunity to rebuild my power base, though I had to contend with the likes of Lady Valarian and a few others. Nevertheless, a few shrewd deals made during the Thrawn years and I was back on my feet. Then, just a year ago, I had the Wheel assembled in a nearby system and towed here, to Ord Mantell.”
“This is yours?” Han said.
“Most of it. Borga the Hutt has a small stake in it. Now, if the New Republic would only do something about the Yuuzhan Vong.”
Han’s smile straightened. “Some of us are trying to do just that, Bunji.”
“Is that what has brought you here—under a false identity, no less?”
“Han and I are trying to hunt down a former associate,” Roa answered.
Bunji inclined his head in interest. “Hunt down?”
“Or just locate,” Han said. “That all depends on what he says when we find him.”
“Which former associate?”
“His name’s Reck Desh.”
Bunji fell silent for a long moment. He inhaled on the cigarra and launched a jumbo smoke ring toward the ceiling. “What do you want with him?”
“It’s a long story,” Han said, “even longer than yours.”
Bunji nodded. “If I were you, Han, I wouldn’t be so quick to catch up with Reck Desh.”
Han leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Why’s that?”
“Things have changed since the old days. Folks are engaged in activities now that wouldn’t have been tolerated then—even by riffraff like Bossk.”
“What sort of activities?”
“Such as providing information about planetary defenses, or pirating shiploads of refugees and delivering them into Yuuzhan Vong hands for sacrifices.”
The muscles in Han’s jaw bunched. Bunji continued. “Reck and the gang he runs with—they call themselves the Peace Brigade—have been colluding with Yuuzhan Vong operatives by helping to spread anti-Jedi sentiment and destabilize planetary systems in advance of invasion. In some cases, they’ve persuaded worlds to capitulate to the Yuuzhan Vong beforehand.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know where Reck is currently?” Roa asked judiciously.
“At last report, the Peace Brigade was operating in Hutt space,” Bunji said, “much to Borga’s dismay. If you’d like, I could make a few inquiries.”
Han showed him a skeptical look. “Why would you be willing to do that for us?”
Bunji shrugged. “As I say, I owe you. If that isn’t reason enough, then I’m doing it for the Wook. It near broke my hearts to hear that he had died. I’d have given anything to have had a partner like Chewbacca.”
Before Han could respond, sirens began to blare and the illumination in Bunji’s well-appointed enclave flickered. Without warning, the Jubilee Wheel shuddered as if it had been poked by the finger of a colossal hand. One of Bunji’s henchmen rushed to a nearby terminal and called up data on a display screen.
“Yuuzhan Vong attack!” he blurted.
Humans and others leapt to their feet, running every which way for exits, shelter, and the antique sideboard that held the Whyren’s Reserve and similarly exceptional libations. Directly in the path of a panicked Whiphid, Han and Fasgo were knocked to the floor.
Roa wedged his hands under Han’s arms and yanked him upright. Bunji and the more important members of his coterie were already disappearing through a gaping hatchway in the cabin’s rear wall. Han threw his pack over his shoulder and stumbled forward, only to hear the hatch lock solidly as he reached it.
“To the Happy Dagger,” Roa said from the anteroom. “I’ve no intention of being on this wheel when the Yuuzhan Vong decide to roll it downhill!”