Tatooine Ghost Read online

  When the theater grew quiet again, Mawbo announced that she would start the auction with a bang. Exactly on cue, the four-armed Codru-Ji who had served Han and Leia earlier stepped forward with the day’s first offering cradled in her four hands. An instant later, a giant hologram of the featured item appeared beneath the ceiling. To Han’s surprise, it was the holocube of the young Podracer.

  Several offworlders began to boo and hiss. The locals shouted them down and cheered even more loudly, and almost instantly the theater erupted into a tumult of cheering and jeering a little too heartfelt to be good-natured.

  Ever the consummate show-woman, Mawbo remained silent, allowing the cacophony to build and add energy to the auction.

  A single muffled click sounded from the comlink in Han’s pocket: Sligh confirming that he should go ahead with their side deal. Han answered with a double click: Go ahead.

  “Wonderful,” Leia grumbled. “Wake me when they get to Twilight—sometime around midnight.”

  Despite her tone, her eyes were fixed on the hologram above the stage. Han had to turn away to hide his smile.

  On the stage, Celia was using her two upper arms to hold the holocube above her head and parading along the perimeter of the stage in her haughty dancer’s stride.

  Mawbo said, “As you can see, this is the same ’cube displayed this morning in booth twelve. It’s a one-of-a-kind original holograph of the only human Podracer ever to win the Boonta Eve Classic, taken four decades ago and now offered at auction by the pilot’s best friend, Kitster Banai.”

  When the audience failed to erupt in skeptical jeers, Han said, “I can’t believe they’re buying this. There’s an old racetrack just outside town. The locals ought to know humans can’t pilot Podracers.”

  The dark-haired man who was offering the holocube—Kitster Banai—stepped to the edge of the stage and said something to Mawbo.

  She nodded and, waving him back to his place with a thick-fingered hand, said, “For the offworlders out there who toured Kitster’s booth after his signscreen malfunctioned, the boy in the holocube is Mos Espa’s very own Anakin Skywalk—”

  The theater again erupted into jeering and cheering, and the last syllable of the name was lost to cacophony. Mawbo asked for quiet, but it was slow in coming.

  “What did she say?” Leia asked, again transfixed by the holocube. “Did she say Anakin Skywalker?”

  “Maybe.”

  Feeling a little queasy, Han went to the mirrfield, as though moving that tiny distance closer to the holocube would make it easier to see any semblance between the boy and Leia. There wasn’t much—high cheeks, the shape of the eyes and maybe the face—but enough that it seemed possible.

  Han cursed under his breath, but kept his voice even as he said, “Definitely Anakin Skysomething. Luke did say he’d found something in a ’Net search that suggested your father might have lived on Tatooine as a boy.”

  “He didn’t say it had been here.” Leia stared at the table. “He didn’t say it had been Mos Espa.”

  Han shrugged. “There aren’t many cities on Tatooine.” He slipped a hand into his pocket and clicked his comlink once—Sligh’s no-bid signal. “It’s not that surprising.”

  Leia took her time meeting his gaze. “You have no idea.”

  Sligh answered with a double click: bid.

  Han repeated his no-bid one click and tried to pretend nothing was going on. “Well, at least the name explains it.”

  “Explains what?”

  Han started to say the kid’s identity explained why she seemed incapable of taking her eyes off the holocube for more than five minutes at a time, but he saw Leia narrow her eyes and decided another answer would be safer.

  “How a nine-year-old human won the Boonta Eve Classic,” Han said. “He had the Force.”

  Mawbo finally got the crowd quieted and wasted no time opening the auction. “Who will start the bidding?” She looked first to the Imperial commander in the front row. “How about you, sir? Young Anakin went on to make quite a career for himself.”

  Han was not surprised when the commander waved her off with a curt gesture. The officer was old enough to have served in the Imperial Navy during the height of Darth Vader’s power, and the only people with more reason than the Rebels to fear Vader were the officers who served under him. Mawbo wasted no time looking for another bidder.

  “One hundred credits!”

  The bidder was hidden from Han’s view by the crowd, but the reedy voice was all too familiar. Sligh was opening at a third the maximum Han had authorized, trying to scare off undecided buyers before they grew excited and drove up the price.

  Mawbo’s gaze dropped to belt high in the front row. “A hundred credits from the Squib in front.”

  “From a Squib?” Leia hissed. “Our Squibs are bidding on a ’cube of Darth Vader?”

  Han shrugged, then single-clicked Sligh again.

  “Do I hear—”

  “A hundred twenty.” The bid came from a straw-haired local woman in a tattered sand cloak.

  “A hundred fifty,” Sligh offered, still trying to scare off the others.

  “What’s he doing?” Leia sounded more alarmed than puzzled. “Do they know that’s not what we want?”

  “They know. Don’t worry.”

  A Kurtzen in patched leathers bid 175, and Sligh countered with 180. Han single-clicked again.

  Grees pushed through the mirrfield and thrust out a smooth-palmed hand. “Give me your comlink.”

  “What for?” Han said. “I’m just trying to make sure Sligh knows we’re not interested in the holocube.”

  “Should have thought of that before the auction.” Grees wagged his fingers for the comlink. “Pass it over. You’re breaking Sligh’s concentration.”

  “Thought of what before the auction?” Leia narrowed her eyes. “What’s he talking about, Ha—er, Jaxal?”

  There was no use denying it. Leia knew Han too well to be fooled, and he would only make matters worse by trying to play innocent. He pulled the comlink from his pocket and passed it over. “Call him off. We don’t want the ’cube.”

  “Too late.” Grees closed the channel and handed it back. “A deal is a deal.”

  Leia’s jaw dropped. “Deal? You’re trying to buy a holograph of my… of Darth Vader?”

  “Anakin Skywalker,” Han corrected. “And I didn’t know who he was. I just thought you liked the picture. You could barely take your eyes off it.”

  Grees left the booth and disappeared back into the crowd. The bidding was already at 230, and now Sligh was trying to slow it down, taking it up in 2- and 3-credit intervals. The blond woman and the Kurtzen weren’t cooperating.

  “You thought I’d like a holocube.” Leia studied him with a durasteel gaze, the counterfeit lekku thrashing on her back like snakes. “Of my father?”

  Han spread his hands. “How could I know?”

  By then, the bidding was at 260. Sligh jumped it straight to three hundred credits and finally succeeded in scaring the other bidders. Mawbo tried to coax a higher offer by sweet-talking the Kurtzen and taunting the woman, then finally gave up and pointed into the crowd where Sligh was presumably standing.

  “Three hundred credits to the Squib,” she said. “Going once, twice—”

  “Three hundred ten,” the woman said.

  “Three hundred eleven!” Sligh shot back.

  “Hey! That’s over the limit!”

  Han opened the channel again and single-clicked the Squib, only to have him bid 320 a second later. He stepped out through the mirrfield, but Grees and Emala were nowhere to be seen. Asking Leia to wait for him, he pushed his way down the narrow aisle between the wall booths and the crowded main floor. Of course, Leia didn’t wait. She was right behind him when he reached the front of the room, where the large VIP booths—the ones with the hidden doors that opened into the vicechambers in the rear of the theater—sat on elevated platforms mere meters from the stage.

  “I though
t I asked you to wait.”

  “You asked,” Leia said. “What’s going on?”

  “I told him three hundred.” The bidding was now at 420. “He’s breaking the deal.”

  “And we’re trusting them with Twilight?”

  The hiss of a repulsor chair sounded from the adjacent booth, and Han looked over to see a pudgy human hand slipping through the mirrfield to beckon a service droid. On the smallest finger sparkled a big Corusca gem, set in a boxy ring too garish to be overlooked… or easily forgotten. Han started to ask Leia if she saw the hand, but she was already pulling him along behind the front row of bidders.

  “Forget what’s in the booth,” she said. “The important thing is to rein in Sligh. If we end up with that holocube, I’ll crack it over your head.”

  “But you saw the ring, right?” Han asked.

  Leia pulled him close and lowered her voice. “There are a lot of ostentatious rings in the galaxy, my dear.”

  What Leia left unsaid was that one of those rings—the ring that Han had seen—belonged to Threkin Horm, the immensely corpulent president of the powerful Alderaanian Council. Seeing tremendous advantage—perhaps even a new homeworld for his people—in a union of the royal houses of Alderaan and Hapes, Horm had been the loudest of those urging Leia to wed Prince Isolder. That put him high on Han’s list of bad guys.

  They slipped behind the Imperials, drawing a wary glare and two well-placed elbows from the watch commander’s bodyguards, and found Sligh standing alone in the buffer zone the other bidders had left around the Imperials. The bid was at 510, and Han had to pull the Squib out of the front row to keep him from making it 520.

  “Put me down!” Sligh bared his teeth as though to bite, but did not dip his head toward Han’s arm. “I’ll have it in two bids!”

  “Yeah? On whose credits?” Han asked. “The limit was three hundred.”

  “Three hundred?” Sligh asked, sneaking glances at the adjacent bidders. “What are you, broke?”

  Han looked up to find the Imperial commander and several other inactive bidders looking in his direction. Too disciplined to smirk, the officer could not quite keep a patronizing light from his eyes.

  “It’s not too late to cancel the other deal, if that’s what you think.”

  “Cancel?” Sligh’s attitude changed from arrogant to alarmed. “You can’t cancel. That’s a separate deal.”

  “Try me.”

  Han dropped Sligh and led Leia back to the booth, all too aware of the eyes turned their way.

  As they resumed their seats, Leia said, “I thought we hired the Squibs to avoid drawing attention.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t tell them that,” he said. “They were setting up an angle.”

  “What kind of angle?”

  Han shrugged. “With Squibs, who can tell?”

  Chapter Four

  The holocube of Anakin Skywalker went for an amazing thirteen hundred credits. The winner, a shaggy-chinned Gotal in a much-patched jumpsuit, looked as though he would have to indenture himself to the Hutts to come up with the money. But the smile on his flat face could not have been wider.

  Han turned to Leia. “It must be a different Anakin Skywalker in that ’cube,” he suggested, not entirely joking. “Because that just doesn’t make sense.”

  “Power always attracts its worshipers,” Leia replied.

  With the holocube sold, Mawbo quickly moved on to other items, bringing them out by lots. She did not even wait for the highest bid before declaring some collections—usually the least valuable—sold. The exquisitely colored alasl bowls inspired the most spirited offworld bidding, earning enough to buy the Barabel seller a hunting range of a thousand square kilometers.

  When the Squibs’ lot came out, Han and Leia were relieved to discover that their Wookiee sleeper was more intimidating than the Aqualish the Squibs had recruited. The chipped bantha bone bowl opened for 2 credits, C-3PO bid 3, the Aqualish bid 100, Chewbacca bid 101. When the Aqualish made it two hundred, Chewbacca dropped out of the bidding and, growling softly, sidled up to the competition. The Aqualish never tried to inflate the price again. Within a few minutes, Chewbacca was the proud owner of a piece of twisted plasteel called Dune Sea Cyclone, a particularly drab holograph of Dantooine, and a tattered-but-guaranteed-genuine Tusken Raider utility belt.

  Han spent the next hour of the auction pondering the pudgy hand he had seen. Humans heavy enough to require repulsor chairs for mobility were hardly rare in the galaxy, but people of such girth rarely braved Tatooine’s sweltering climate without good reason. And, aside from Leia herself, who would have better reason to come to an auction of Killik Twilight than Threkin Horm? As president of the Alderaanian Council, it was Horm’s duty to gather and safeguard what remained of the planet’s lost treasures. Had anyone else held that post, Han would have found a safe way to let him know that another bidder had the same intention—a bidder with the resources of the entire New Republic at her disposal. But Han would not help Horm. Threkin Horm, Han would enjoy watching squirm.

  A wealthy Bothan bought the last of the junk—a dozen glitterglass panes supposed to have come from Jabba’s palace—just to get it off the stage. Then Mawbo announced they were ready to begin the bidding on the final item, the masterpiece Killik Twilight. A low murmur filled the theater as the bidders or their agents moved toward the front of the room. Most of the local sellers left to collect their credits, but not Kitster Banai, the swarthy vendor who had sold the holocube. Instead, Banai took a spot in the front row of spectators, securing a good place from which to see the moss-painting.

  Han used his comlink to call C-3PO into the booth, but left Chewbacca in the crowd as a surprise reserve. If the Imperials knew about the code key hidden inside the painting, they would not take losing well.

  When everyone was in the proper place, Mawbo flashed an alluring smile. “Are you ready?”

  Without awaiting an answer, she waved a hand toward the back of the stage. Her Rodian security captain reappeared, stepping through the cityscape holograph with his crew: a dozen hulking, swine-faced Gamorreans carrying vibro-axes, supported by two burly humans armed with repeating blasters. Celia followed, holding onto Killik Twilight’s small frame with all four hands. She placed the painting in an easel erected by one of the Gamorreans.

  A tense silence fell over the theater. At just fifty centimeters wide, the moss-painting was too small for most of the audience to see clearly. But all eyes were fixed on the giant holograph of it projected beneath the ceiling. Kitster Banai proved himself a man of taste and refinement by removing a small pair of electrobinoculars so he could look directly at the original.

  Mawbo studied the row of buyers before her, then pointed at the Imperial commander. “How about you, General? Will you start the bidding?”

  “Commander,” he corrected. “Commander Quenton. My bid is a quarter million credits.”

  “A quarter million and one,” Sligh said instantly.

  This drew a titter from spectators and bidders alike, which, Han suspected, was exactly what the Squibs intended.

  “Two seventy-five,” Quenton said. He turned his head and stared first at the Squibs, then at the rest of the bidders, clearly trying to send a message of intimidation. When no one seemed willing to meet his eyes, he looked back to the stage. “That would be two hundred and seventy-five thousand.”

  Not one to be bullied while standing on her own stage, Mawbo fixed her almond-shaped eyes on him and said, “I know what you mean, General. Would those be New Republic credits?”

  From the booth, Han could see only the back of Quenton’s head, but he guessed by the long silence following that the Imperial had not missed Mawbo’s slight in questioning his ability to pay—and in continuing to address him by a rank she knew to be incorrect.

  Finally, Quenton said, “The so-called New Republic has no right to issue credits. It is not a legitimate government. But for the purposes of this auction, the transfer will be made in gold peggats.”<
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  “Thank you.” Mawbo graced him with a cloying smile, then betrayed her anxiety by looking away a little too quickly. “Who will make the next bid?”

  Quenton and his bodyguards made a show of glancing down the bidding line, and no one seemed willing to break the silence.

  “The Hutt spawn!” Leia leaned forward, her hands braced flat on the table. “He’s trying to steal it.”

  “Steal it?” C-3PO cocked his head. “You seem to have misheard, Mistress. The commander bid almost three hundred thousand credits.”

  “Threepio, that is stealing it,” Han said.

  When no one bid against him, Quenton said, “The bid stands at two seventy-five, madam.”

  Mawbo shot him a fiery glare, then glanced down the line again. “Killik Twilight is Ob Khaddor at his finest and most subtle. Do I hear three?”

  Again, there was silence.

  Leia stood and went to the mirrfield. “Those Squibs were a mistake. They’re letting him intimidate them.”

  “Give them time,” Han said. “No one’s bidding yet.”

  “And no one’s going to.” Leia smoothed her cloak, preparing to go out and do her own bidding. “This is a bad idea. How I ever let you talk me into trusting a pack of rodents—”

  “Relax, will you?” Han slipped around the table and caught her arm. “They made a deal. No Imperial is going to scare them off.”

  Leia stopped short of leaving the booth, but neither did she return to the couch.

  On the stage, Mawbo glared openly at Commander Quenton. “Very well,” she said. “Two seventy-five once—”

  “Two seventy-five one.” Sligh paused an instant, then added proudly, “That’s two hundred seventy-five thousand one hundred… in New Republic credits.”

  The clarification brought an involuntary snort from a Kubaz on the other side of Quenton. Then Celia, still standing beside the painting, covered her mouth with two hands and tried not to snicker. Her failure seemed to release all of the tension Quenton had so carefully injected into the auction, and the rest of the theater burst into laughter.