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The chief resisted an urge to glance back. If Vader had even noticed his passing, there had been no sign. “Whoo,” he said softly to himself as the sound of the other’s boots diminished. That had been an experience he’d remember for a while. He’d almost been the man who’d tugged on Darth Vader’s cape.

20

FLUTTERBIRD DINER, SOUTHERN UNDERGROUND, GRID 17, IMPERIAL CITY

Neet Alamant was a polished fellow, his voice as smooth as drive lube; never an awkward pause or loss for words. Seated in the retro-style dining booth across from him, Memah felt very little in the way of trust or warmth for the human. Rodo was at the counter, overwhelming a stool and not trying very hard to look inconspicuous as he nursed a cup of caf. Memah wasn’t afraid of this officious little man, but it did feel comforting to have Rodo nearby, and to have that be obvious, just in case.

“So let me see if I have the gist of your offer,” she said. “You want me to run a cantina at a military installation, for which I will be paid a fat signing bonus and a very generous salary, plus a percentage of the profits. This will entail a two-year contract, during which time I will be required to stay at this base full-time. Is that a fair summation?”

“Yes. Recreational facilities will be available. I am given to understand that the installation in question will be on a par, at least, with this area of the Underground, insofar as supplies, traffic, and general working conditions are concerned.”

Memah looked thoughtful. That last statement didn’t mean much, but she had lived in worse places than the Underground. She didn’t need luxury; in the last couple of years she hadn’t had occasion to visit the surface but a few times, and she could have skipped those without any real sense of loss. Her life pretty much revolved around her work at this point.

All in all, it seemed a straightforward proposition. Alamant was not forthcoming as to where and what the military installation was, but she could understand that. There was, after all, a war on, and the Empire was, not surprisingly, protective of its secrets. What little clues she could sieve from his words, it was probably a naval base on some far-flung planet. If it was big enough to justify having a civilian-run cantina, it probably wasn’t in the middle of a hot war zone. And if it had the comforts of the Southern Underground, without the concomitant dangers, it couldn’t be too bad.

Of course, this guy was a recruiter, and he just might be inclined to shade the truth a bit if it served him to do so. He probably got paid for every qualified warm body he delivered. Then again, an Imperial Work Contract had to spell out the reality to be valid, even these days. If you were in the army or navy, you didn’t have many rights, but as a civilian you usually got a better deal.

And it wasn’t as if she was besieged with offers of work. Cantina operators had certain skills, of course, but there wasn’t a formal course of study in the craft that she knew about, and others of her ilk weren’t in particularly short supply.

“I can bring my own security chief?”

“As long as he, she, or it doesn’t have a felony criminal record and there are no outstanding Imperial warrants for major crimes. An appropriate salary will be provided for such work, and quarters will be provided for you and any security assistant you might wish to bring, as part of the package. Yours includes a single-occupancy room, standard officer’s suite,” Alamant said. Then he pointedly turned to look at Rodo before looking back at her. “Your security guy gets his own private quarters, too.”

She nodded, still thinking.

“Not to pressure you for an answer, but the next civilian crew vessel for this venture leaves from Mainport in three days. If you’re not interested, I will seek another for the position.” He slid out of the booth and stood up. “I’ll need to know your decision tomorrow.”

Memah held up a hand. “Wait here a moment, please.” She slid out