The Wheel
“Bets, gentlemen?” The man asked, his white teeth gleaming even in the low light. “Mr. Morrison, surely you’re not out already?”
The other looked over at the speaker, his eyes cold.
“You wish, Zaltin.” With a sneer that conveyed everything he couldn’t say, he pushed his chips into the centre of the table.
And so it went, each man putting his money down. When the last man put in his chips, the first man smiled kindly.
“Thank you, Gentlemen.” And with a flourish, he laid out his cards. “Twenty-three, friends.”
He was just beginning to sweep the chips towards his end of the table when a strong hand grabbed his wrist and stopped him.
“I won fair and square, Mr. Morrison. There’s no reason to get angry.” He said calmly. “Please let go of me.”
The other man grinned and shook his head.
“I’ll let go of you when you explain this.” Reaching out with his other hand, he touched the corner of the topmost card and, to everyone’s surprise save his own, it transformed from the Idiot into the Queen of Air and Darkness.
“A skifter! He’s been cheating all along!” One of the other gamblers, a small man with a mousy nose exclaimed. “Security!”
“It’s all right, Edwards.” Morrison said, standing and pulling the smaller Zaltin towards him. “I’ll deal with this.” Still holding the other man’s wrist, he spilled the contents of the Sabacc Hand onto the table and said, “Divide the winnings. This scumbag doesn’t deserve any of it.”
Pulling Zaltin behind him, Morrison led him from the casino into the brighter corridors of The Wheel. Once out of sight of the place, the larger man let him go and turned to face him.
“What the fuck was that all about, Jon?” Zaltin demanded, reaching at once for his blaster and realizing that it was, with Morrison’s, at the casino security desk. The larger man smiled.
“And I thought you didn’t recognize me.”
“I’d be hard put not to recognize you. You don’t exactly blend in.” That, at least, was true. With his two meter frame and pink ponytail, the man stood out even in a crowd of aliens. “What do you want? I’ll have you know you just cost me a damned sweet Sabacc pot. I could have replaced the Roger with that money.”
“I promise you, Zaltin, what I have to offer is worth a helluva lot more than whatever was in that pot.”
“Do tell.” Zaltin said, sceptical.
“Not here. Come by my suite later tonight. Number eighteen, Diamond Level.”
Turning, Zaltin nodded.
“Damn you, Morrison. I’ll be there… but if this deal isn’t what you say it is, I’ll have your ass. You know that.”
* * * * *
Later
The Wheel was an old gambler stronghold, a huge station that had been allowed to operate under the Empire only because her owner had paid huge sums of money to the local Moff to ignore its presence.
Nearly the size of a moon, the place had docking space enough for half a dozen Star Destroyers, and rooms enough to house their crews in luxury. Diamond Level was the most luxurious of them all, located at the Northern Pole of the station just above the level of the casinos.
Mark Zaltin entered the turbolift, observing himself in the mirrored walls as it rose. He was aging well, his black hair showing only a few signs of grey that gave him a somewhat distinguished look, accentuated by the dark civilian suit that was his trademark.
The lift stopped and a droid greeted him as the doors opened. With a smile, he showed the machine his invitation, which gave him visitor’s access to the jealously restricted level. The cost for a single night in a Diamond Level suite was more than most low-level officers of the Imperial Navy would make in a year.
And somehow, the bookings for a room on this level had to be made months in advance.
Mark stopped before number eighteen, adjusted the tie he wore, and rung the bell. The door slid open almost immediately, another droid identical to the guard answered, greeting him in its metallic tones.
“Master Morrison is very pleased you could come, Mister Zaltin. Please, follow me.”
The size of the suite was impressive, spanning a full two levels joined by a ridiculously large staircase. The droid let him to a dining room, where they found Morrison sitting with another man, clad in the instantly recognizable uniform of the Imperial Navy.
“Morrison-” Zaltin said, before the other man cut him off.
“Ahh, Mr. Zaltin. I am so glad you could make it. This is Commander Deusvult Godridge, of the Black Fleet. He recently arrived from Yaga Minor.”
The man rose carefully, with all the weight of a man with power, and shook Zaltin’s hand.
“Commander Godridge has been telling me about his experience in the war with the terrorists.”
“Fascinating, I’m sure.” Zaltin bit out, nodding curtly at the officer and taking the seat offered to him by the droid. “You’re Admiral Drayson’s secretary.”
“Military Aide, Mr. Zaltin.” He returned, unruffled. “You, on the other hand, are a smuggler and a pirate.”
“Not a pirate, Commander. I steal from the rich and give to the poor.”
“A pirate wrapped in good intentions is still a pirate, Mr. Zaltin. And I have little doubt your intentions are anything but good. By all rights, I should arrest you where you sit.”
Zaltin smiled and, turning to Morrison asked, “What’s all this about then?”
“An offer, brought to my attention by the Commander. Something about working for the Empire.”
“I don’t work for anyone.” Zaltin said, rising. Godridge half smiled, as if this wasn’t unexpected.
“Of course not, Mr. Zaltin. Someone of your stature doesn’t work for anyone else, except when it suits your own interests. But I promise you, if you agree you will become richer than you ever thought possible.”
“I won’t do the Empire’s dirty work, Commander. Sorry to disappoint you.”
He turned to leave, and all of a sudden found himself face to face with a Stormtrooper. This Stormtrooper, however, was not a normal soldier – his armour was the colour of blood, and he held a blaster rifle that Zaltin had never seen before.
“On loan from Commodore Gevel’s command.” Godridge said with a smile. “Please, be seated Mr. Zaltin.”
With a curse, the man resumed his seat, staring hard at the Imperial Commander. Godridge ignored this, and went on.
“You are well aware that the Empire has been expanding at an incredible rate since the Wrath epidemic. We have already grown to a size far larger than we once were – nearly half the galaxy is under our immediate control, and hundreds more worlds have pledged their support to the New Order.”
“No shit… I’ve noticed your little ‘Liberation Fleets’ roaming the galaxy lately.” Zaltin interrupted, smiling.
“Quite… regardless, the Empire has had much experience with organizing fleets and military units. But we have had little control over the more, how shall I say, civilian economics of expansion… certainly, we have managed to fund all of our projects, but the Empire has decided that we could do far better if we formulated a plan to increase the New Order’s trade and production lines.”
“Why me?” Zaltin said at last, his smile fading.
“Simply put, you are the best man available for the job. Seth Vinda has no interest in overseeing the Empire’s trade, his Corporation has been neutral since its inception and he has no desire to change that. And he is already a rich man – he has little to gain from such an alliance.
“The Empire wishes to establish an economic base that we have lacked in the past, Mr. Zaltin. To create for ourselves a fallback, so that should the Empire ever suffer from a Wrath-like attack, we should not be so wholly destroyed as to have to start again from square one.”
Zaltin’s smile was fading, and he now looked thoughtful and agitated.
“It’s the deal of a lifetime, buddy.” Morrison said, himself smiling grandly. “I only wish I knew what you know, so they might give me a chance to do it.”
After a moment, Zaltin finally spoke.
“Where do I start?”
“Bets, gentlemen?” The man asked, his white teeth gleaming even in the low light. “Mr. Morrison, surely you’re not out already?”
The other looked over at the speaker, his eyes cold.
“You wish, Zaltin.” With a sneer that conveyed everything he couldn’t say, he pushed his chips into the centre of the table.
And so it went, each man putting his money down. When the last man put in his chips, the first man smiled kindly.
“Thank you, Gentlemen.” And with a flourish, he laid out his cards. “Twenty-three, friends.”
He was just beginning to sweep the chips towards his end of the table when a strong hand grabbed his wrist and stopped him.
“I won fair and square, Mr. Morrison. There’s no reason to get angry.” He said calmly. “Please let go of me.”
The other man grinned and shook his head.
“I’ll let go of you when you explain this.” Reaching out with his other hand, he touched the corner of the topmost card and, to everyone’s surprise save his own, it transformed from the Idiot into the Queen of Air and Darkness.
“A skifter! He’s been cheating all along!” One of the other gamblers, a small man with a mousy nose exclaimed. “Security!”
“It’s all right, Edwards.” Morrison said, standing and pulling the smaller Zaltin towards him. “I’ll deal with this.” Still holding the other man’s wrist, he spilled the contents of the Sabacc Hand onto the table and said, “Divide the winnings. This scumbag doesn’t deserve any of it.”
Pulling Zaltin behind him, Morrison led him from the casino into the brighter corridors of The Wheel. Once out of sight of the place, the larger man let him go and turned to face him.
“What the fuck was that all about, Jon?” Zaltin demanded, reaching at once for his blaster and realizing that it was, with Morrison’s, at the casino security desk. The larger man smiled.
“And I thought you didn’t recognize me.”
“I’d be hard put not to recognize you. You don’t exactly blend in.” That, at least, was true. With his two meter frame and pink ponytail, the man stood out even in a crowd of aliens. “What do you want? I’ll have you know you just cost me a damned sweet Sabacc pot. I could have replaced the Roger with that money.”
“I promise you, Zaltin, what I have to offer is worth a helluva lot more than whatever was in that pot.”
“Do tell.” Zaltin said, sceptical.
“Not here. Come by my suite later tonight. Number eighteen, Diamond Level.”
Turning, Zaltin nodded.
“Damn you, Morrison. I’ll be there… but if this deal isn’t what you say it is, I’ll have your ass. You know that.”
* * * * *
Later
The Wheel was an old gambler stronghold, a huge station that had been allowed to operate under the Empire only because her owner had paid huge sums of money to the local Moff to ignore its presence.
Nearly the size of a moon, the place had docking space enough for half a dozen Star Destroyers, and rooms enough to house their crews in luxury. Diamond Level was the most luxurious of them all, located at the Northern Pole of the station just above the level of the casinos.
Mark Zaltin entered the turbolift, observing himself in the mirrored walls as it rose. He was aging well, his black hair showing only a few signs of grey that gave him a somewhat distinguished look, accentuated by the dark civilian suit that was his trademark.
The lift stopped and a droid greeted him as the doors opened. With a smile, he showed the machine his invitation, which gave him visitor’s access to the jealously restricted level. The cost for a single night in a Diamond Level suite was more than most low-level officers of the Imperial Navy would make in a year.
And somehow, the bookings for a room on this level had to be made months in advance.
Mark stopped before number eighteen, adjusted the tie he wore, and rung the bell. The door slid open almost immediately, another droid identical to the guard answered, greeting him in its metallic tones.
“Master Morrison is very pleased you could come, Mister Zaltin. Please, follow me.”
The size of the suite was impressive, spanning a full two levels joined by a ridiculously large staircase. The droid let him to a dining room, where they found Morrison sitting with another man, clad in the instantly recognizable uniform of the Imperial Navy.
“Morrison-” Zaltin said, before the other man cut him off.
“Ahh, Mr. Zaltin. I am so glad you could make it. This is Commander Deusvult Godridge, of the Black Fleet. He recently arrived from Yaga Minor.”
The man rose carefully, with all the weight of a man with power, and shook Zaltin’s hand.
“Commander Godridge has been telling me about his experience in the war with the terrorists.”
“Fascinating, I’m sure.” Zaltin bit out, nodding curtly at the officer and taking the seat offered to him by the droid. “You’re Admiral Drayson’s secretary.”
“Military Aide, Mr. Zaltin.” He returned, unruffled. “You, on the other hand, are a smuggler and a pirate.”
“Not a pirate, Commander. I steal from the rich and give to the poor.”
“A pirate wrapped in good intentions is still a pirate, Mr. Zaltin. And I have little doubt your intentions are anything but good. By all rights, I should arrest you where you sit.”
Zaltin smiled and, turning to Morrison asked, “What’s all this about then?”
“An offer, brought to my attention by the Commander. Something about working for the Empire.”
“I don’t work for anyone.” Zaltin said, rising. Godridge half smiled, as if this wasn’t unexpected.
“Of course not, Mr. Zaltin. Someone of your stature doesn’t work for anyone else, except when it suits your own interests. But I promise you, if you agree you will become richer than you ever thought possible.”
“I won’t do the Empire’s dirty work, Commander. Sorry to disappoint you.”
He turned to leave, and all of a sudden found himself face to face with a Stormtrooper. This Stormtrooper, however, was not a normal soldier – his armour was the colour of blood, and he held a blaster rifle that Zaltin had never seen before.
“On loan from Commodore Gevel’s command.” Godridge said with a smile. “Please, be seated Mr. Zaltin.”
With a curse, the man resumed his seat, staring hard at the Imperial Commander. Godridge ignored this, and went on.
“You are well aware that the Empire has been expanding at an incredible rate since the Wrath epidemic. We have already grown to a size far larger than we once were – nearly half the galaxy is under our immediate control, and hundreds more worlds have pledged their support to the New Order.”
“No shit… I’ve noticed your little ‘Liberation Fleets’ roaming the galaxy lately.” Zaltin interrupted, smiling.
“Quite… regardless, the Empire has had much experience with organizing fleets and military units. But we have had little control over the more, how shall I say, civilian economics of expansion… certainly, we have managed to fund all of our projects, but the Empire has decided that we could do far better if we formulated a plan to increase the New Order’s trade and production lines.”
“Why me?” Zaltin said at last, his smile fading.
“Simply put, you are the best man available for the job. Seth Vinda has no interest in overseeing the Empire’s trade, his Corporation has been neutral since its inception and he has no desire to change that. And he is already a rich man – he has little to gain from such an alliance.
“The Empire wishes to establish an economic base that we have lacked in the past, Mr. Zaltin. To create for ourselves a fallback, so that should the Empire ever suffer from a Wrath-like attack, we should not be so wholly destroyed as to have to start again from square one.”
Zaltin’s smile was fading, and he now looked thoughtful and agitated.
“It’s the deal of a lifetime, buddy.” Morrison said, himself smiling grandly. “I only wish I knew what you know, so they might give me a chance to do it.”
After a moment, Zaltin finally spoke.
“Where do I start?”
