There was a distinctly disgusted-sounding gurgle. “No, huh? Well, just hang on, then.”
The broken metal triangle wasn’t the easiest thing to work with, particularly in the cramped space available. Still, it took Luke only a couple of minutes to get the cover plate off and pull the wires out of his way. Hunching forward, he could see through the hole to the back of the outlet in Artoo’s room. “I don’t think I can get your outlet open from here,” he called to the droid. “Is your room locked?”
There was a negative beep, followed by an odd sort of whining, as if Artoo was spinning his wheels. “Restraining bolt?” Luke asked. The spinning/whine came again—“Or a restraint collar?”
An affirmative beep, with frustrated overtones. It figured, in retrospect: a restraining bolt would leave a mark, whereas a collar snugged around Artoo’s lower half would do nothing but let him wear out his wheels a little. “Never mind,” Luke reassured him. “If there’s enough wire in here to reach to the door, I should be able to unlock it. Then we can both get out of here.”
Carefully, mindful of the possibility of shock from the higher-current lines nearby, he found the low-voltage wire and started easing it gently toward him out of the conduit. There was more than he’d expected; he got nearly one and a half meters coiled on the floor by his head before it stopped coming.
More than he’d expected, but far less than he needed. The door was a good four meters away in a straight line, and he would need some slack to get it spliced into the lock mechanism. “It’s going to be a few more minutes,” he called to Artoo, trying to think. The low-power line had a meter and a half of slack to it, which implied the other lines probably did, as well. If he could cut that much length off two of them, he should have more than enough to reach the lock.
Which left only the problem of finding something to cut them with. And, of course, managing to not electrocute himself along the way.
“What I wouldn’t give to have my lightsaber back for a minute,” he muttered, examining the edge of his makeshift screwdriver. It wasn’t very sharp; but then, the superconducting wires weren’t very thick, either.
It was the work of a couple of minutes to pull the other wires as far out of the conduit as they would go. Standing up, he took off his tunic, wrapped one of the sleeves twice around the metal, and started sawing.
He was halfway through the first of the wires when his hand slipped off the insulating sleeve and for a second touched the bare metal. Reflexively he jerked back, banging his hand against the wall.
And then his brain caught up with him. “Uh-oh,” he murmured, staring at the half-cut wire.
There was an interrogative whistle from the other room. “I just touched one of the wires,” he told the droid, “and I didn’t get a shock.”
Artoo whistled. “Yeah,” Luke agreed. He tapped at the wire … touched it again … held his finger against it.
So Karrde and Mara hadn’t made a mistake, after all. They’d already cut the power to the outlet.
For a moment he knelt there, holding the wire, wondering what he was going to do now. He still had all this wire, but no power supply for it to connect with. Conversely, there were probably any number of small power sources in the room, attached to the stored replacement modules, but they were all packed away in boxes he couldn’t get into. Could he somehow use the wire to get into the boxes? Use it to slice through the outer sealant layer, perhaps?
He got a firm grip on the wire and pulled on it, trying to judge its tensile strength. His fingers slipped along the insulation; shifting his grip, he wrapped it firmly around his right hand—
And stopped, a sudden prickly feeling on the back of his neck. His right hand. His artificial right hand. His artificial, dual-power-supply right hand … “Artoo, you know anything about cybernetic limb replacements?” he called, levering the wrist access port open with his metal triangle.
There was a short pause, then a cautious and ambiguous-sounding warble. “It shouldn’t take too much,” he reassured the droid, peering at the maze of wiring and servos inside his hand. He’d forgotten how incredibly complex the whole thing was. “All I need to do is get one of the power supplies out. Think you can walk me through the procedure?”
The pause this time was shorter, and the reply more confident. “Good,” Luke said. “Let’s get to it.”
C H A P T E R 22
Han finished his presentation, sat back in his chair, and waited.
“Interesting,” Karrde said, that faintly amused, totally noncommittal expression of his hiding whatever it was he was really thinking. “Interesting, indeed. I presume the Provisional Council would be willing to record legal guarantees of all this.”
“We’ll guarantee what we can,” Han told him. “Your protection, legality of operation, and so forth. Naturally, we can’t guarantee particular profit margins or anything like that.”
“Naturally,” Karrde agreed, his gaze shifting to Lando. “You’ve been rather quiet, General Calrissian. How exactly do you fit into all of this?”
“Just as a friend,” Lando said. “Someone who knew how to get in touch with you. And someone who can vouch for Han’s integrity and honesty.”
A slight smile touched Karrde’s lips. “Integrity and honesty,” he repeated. “Interesting words to use in regard to a man with Captain Solo’s somewhat checkered reputation.”
Han grimaced, wondering which particular incident Karrde might be referring to. There were, he had to admit, a fair number to choose from.1 Any checkering that existed is all in the past,” he said.
“Of course,” Karrde agreed. “Your proposal is, as I said, very interesting. But not, I think, for my organization.”
“May I ask why not?” Han asked.
“Very simply, because it would look to certain parties as if we were taking sides,” Karrde explained, sipping from the cup at his side. “Given the extent of our operations, and the regions in which those operations take place, that might not be an especially politic thing to do.”
“I understand.” Han nodded. “I’d like the chance to convince you that there are ways to keep your other clients from knowing about it.”
Karrde smiled again. “I think you underestimate the Empire’s intelligence capabilities, Captain Solo,” he said. “They know far more about Republic movements than you might think.”
“Tell me about it,” Han grimaced, glancing at Lando. “That reminds me of something else I wanted to ask you. Lando said you might know a slicer who was good enough to crack diplomatic codes.”
Karrde cocked his head slightly to the side. “Interesting request,” he commented. “Particularly coming from someone who should already have access to such codes. Is intrigue beginning to form among the New Republic hierarchy, perhaps?”
That last conversation with Winter, and her veiled warnings, flashed through Han’s mind. “This is purely personal,” he assured Karrde. “Mostly personal, anyway.”
“Ah,” the other said. “As it happens, one of the best slicers in the trade will be at dinner this afternoon. You’ll join us, of course?”
Han glanced at his watch2 in surprise. Between business and small talk, the fifteen-minute interview that Torve had promised him with Karrde had now stretched out into two hours. “We don’t want to impose on your time—”
“It’s no imposition at all,” Karrde assured him, setting his cup down and standing. “With the press of business and all, we tend to miss the midday meal entirely and compensate by pushing the evening dinner up to late afternoon.”3
“I remember those wonderful smuggler schedules,” Han nodded wryly, memories flashing through his mind. “You’re lucky to get even two meals.”
“Indeed,” Karrde agreed. “If you’ll follow me …?”