to slow. Boba descended in big looping turns, past the towers of the wealthy and powerful, past the hanging gardens, and into the commercial zones
reserved for uninvited visitors. With traffic crowding in on all sides, this was a much more harrowing approach than on Kamino or the moons of Bogden. Boba’s heart tightened in his chest.
Would they find him here?
He felt a slight bump and let go of
Slave I
’s controls. The ship was locked into autopilot, being flown “by wire” on a microbeam. It would land itself.
That was fine with Boba. He had other things to worry about. Money, for starters. He would need to pay his landing fees before he could take off again. Then there was the problem of the Jedi. If
they were really after him, as Taun We had warned, they might have a warrant out on
Slave I
. He could be arrested as soon as he touched down.
He needed some guidance. Maybe the book would help. It seemed to open when he needed it, or at least when it had something to say.
He pulled it out of the flight bag. Sure enough, it opened. But the message was even more mysterious than usual:
Watch out for things that go too well.
That’s hardly my problem!
Boba thought. He closed the book, disgusted, and put it away. He watched nervously as the ship eased in toward the spaceport, slipping
smoothly between the towers and under the lighted walkways and gardens of Coruscant.
Slave I
bumped down, light and easy. No alarms went off.
Boba lowered the ramp. He scanned the landing pad, ready to run if need be.
Nobody was watching. Nobody was around.
This was Coruscant. Nobody cared about an insignificant little ship like
Slave I
. Or its insignificant little ten-year-old pilot.
Boba’s first emotion on landing was relief.
His second was fear. The Jedi had eyes and ears everywhere. And especially on Coruscant. Would they find Boba before he found Tyranus?
Boba didn’t fear the Jedi as much as he feared failure. Would he disgrace his father’s memory by failing in his first test, the search for Tyranus—and self-sufficiency?
“Welcome to Coruscant,” said a disembodied droid voice.
“Sure, whatever,” muttered Boba.
Carrying his flight bag with the black book and the battle helmet, plus a few extra pairs of underwear and socks, he climbed down out of the ship. He started down the escalator toward the
streets.
Boba had read enough about Coruscant to know that it was arranged in layers according to class and function.
The upper levels were for the rich and powerful. Looking up, Boba could see their towers and gardens reaching up into the clouds.
The middle levels, where he had landed, were for both business and pleasure. The streets were filled with creatures from all over the galaxy, rushing around, buying and selling, or just
sightseeing.
The lower levels were said to be dangerous. They were the outlaw zones, filled with fugitives, pirates, and criminals—all the denizens of the underworld that lay beneath the Imperium.
Boba hoped all would go well on the lower levels when he went to find the Golden Cuff. He’d had quite enough adventure, thank you. He just wanted to find Tyranus.
Boba was in luck.
The Golden Cuff was a little hole-in-the-wall on the upper layer of the lower levels, just under the lower layer of the middle levels.
It was far enough down that the light was dim and the neon signs could glow all day. But not so far down that one had to hire a posse of armed guards to cross the street.
Boba walked in through the sliding door.
The bar was deserted except for the bartender, a four-armed being who was using two of his arms to wash glasses, one to count credits, and one to wipe the bar with a wet rag. His skin was a dark
crimson, and a proprietor sign named him as Nan Mercador.
Boba put his flight bag on the floor and sat on a bar stool.
“No kids allowed!” said Mercador, wringing out the rag and tossing it onto the bar. “And that means you!”
“I’m not a customer,” said
reserved for uninvited visitors. With traffic crowding in on all sides, this was a much more harrowing approach than on Kamino or the moons of Bogden. Boba’s heart tightened in his chest.
Would they find him here?
He felt a slight bump and let go of
Slave I
’s controls. The ship was locked into autopilot, being flown “by wire” on a microbeam. It would land itself.
That was fine with Boba. He had other things to worry about. Money, for starters. He would need to pay his landing fees before he could take off again. Then there was the problem of the Jedi. If
they were really after him, as Taun We had warned, they might have a warrant out on
Slave I
. He could be arrested as soon as he touched down.
He needed some guidance. Maybe the book would help. It seemed to open when he needed it, or at least when it had something to say.
He pulled it out of the flight bag. Sure enough, it opened. But the message was even more mysterious than usual:
Watch out for things that go too well.
That’s hardly my problem!
Boba thought. He closed the book, disgusted, and put it away. He watched nervously as the ship eased in toward the spaceport, slipping
smoothly between the towers and under the lighted walkways and gardens of Coruscant.
Slave I
bumped down, light and easy. No alarms went off.
Boba lowered the ramp. He scanned the landing pad, ready to run if need be.
Nobody was watching. Nobody was around.
This was Coruscant. Nobody cared about an insignificant little ship like
Slave I
. Or its insignificant little ten-year-old pilot.
Boba’s first emotion on landing was relief.
His second was fear. The Jedi had eyes and ears everywhere. And especially on Coruscant. Would they find Boba before he found Tyranus?
Boba didn’t fear the Jedi as much as he feared failure. Would he disgrace his father’s memory by failing in his first test, the search for Tyranus—and self-sufficiency?
“Welcome to Coruscant,” said a disembodied droid voice.
“Sure, whatever,” muttered Boba.
Carrying his flight bag with the black book and the battle helmet, plus a few extra pairs of underwear and socks, he climbed down out of the ship. He started down the escalator toward the
streets.
Boba had read enough about Coruscant to know that it was arranged in layers according to class and function.
The upper levels were for the rich and powerful. Looking up, Boba could see their towers and gardens reaching up into the clouds.
The middle levels, where he had landed, were for both business and pleasure. The streets were filled with creatures from all over the galaxy, rushing around, buying and selling, or just
sightseeing.
The lower levels were said to be dangerous. They were the outlaw zones, filled with fugitives, pirates, and criminals—all the denizens of the underworld that lay beneath the Imperium.
Boba hoped all would go well on the lower levels when he went to find the Golden Cuff. He’d had quite enough adventure, thank you. He just wanted to find Tyranus.
Boba was in luck.
The Golden Cuff was a little hole-in-the-wall on the upper layer of the lower levels, just under the lower layer of the middle levels.
It was far enough down that the light was dim and the neon signs could glow all day. But not so far down that one had to hire a posse of armed guards to cross the street.
Boba walked in through the sliding door.
The bar was deserted except for the bartender, a four-armed being who was using two of his arms to wash glasses, one to count credits, and one to wipe the bar with a wet rag. His skin was a dark
crimson, and a proprietor sign named him as Nan Mercador.
Boba put his flight bag on the floor and sat on a bar stool.
“No kids allowed!” said Mercador, wringing out the rag and tossing it onto the bar. “And that means you!”
“I’m not a customer,” said
Similar Books
