Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [58]
“Well, if I were Sangi Fever Sal, this would be a day late and a dozen credits short,” Memah said. “I could have infected hundreds of people by now. There’d be bodies dropping like brindlebugs in the hot sun.”
“The Empire grinds slow but fine,” Rodo said. “And they did check everybody before we got on the transport dirtside, like you said, so why do it again? There’s no chance of catching something on the way up.”
“That’s the government—everything and everyone gets shunted through the Department of Redundancy Department.” Memah looked back at the requisition form. “So tomorrow I’ll go get thumped and probed by the medics. See if you can’t get the guy doing the exhaust fans and baffles in here while I’m gone, too, okay?”
Rodo nodded, but somewhat absently; his mind was obviously otherwise occupied. Memah thought about asking him what he was chewing over but decided not to—when he was ready, he’d mention it. In the meantime, she had a choice to make: Corellian ale or Zabrak ferment?
26
DECK 92, SECTOR N-ONE, DEATH STAR
Ratua didn’t have any connection to religion—he didn’t subscribe to any of the doctrines or dogmas, more than a few of which he had been exposed to in his life. However, if there was one that promised a thieves’ paradise, it might not be too different from this battle station.
He’d been afraid at first that he’d have to skulk about the outlying corridors and hallways, staying in the shadows, taking service tubes and stairs to avoid being stopped by station security. But he had walked past guards scores of times, hesitantly at first, then with less worry, and finally with nothing but confidence. As far as he could tell, nobody had even lifted an eyebrow in his direction. Nobody stopped him and asked him what business he was on; nobody asked for identification, as long as he stayed away from corridors and chambers plainly marked off-limits to unauthorized personnel; in short, nobody seemed to notice him at all. The prevailing attitude seemed to be that if you were on the station, then you must belong here, and as long as you weren’t doing something that looked suspicious, you were free to come and go as you liked.
Ratua wasn’t quite to the point where he swaggered about as if he owned the place, but he did move now with a certain confidence that belied his true status, and which, no doubt, made him even more invisible to the cools. He strolled into the public cafeterias, selected food and drink, and ate unmolested. No ID was necessary for that; food was free. He’d even slipped into a supply depot and, using his speedy mode, had “borrowed” fresh clothes—a basic freight handler’s coveralls.
The first few days he had been on the station, he’d found a few empty trash chutes that didn’t seem to be used, where a clever being could rig a couple of crosspiece supports and camp out of sight. Of course, you had to be careful that somebody didn’t open the chute and dump trash onto your impromptu bivouac, but that had only happened once. Still, it had been sufficiently discomfiting to send him looking for more congenial hiding places—that, and the suspicion gleaned from sounds and smells that there were things living on the garbage levels. Big things.
After that, he found all manner of storage spaces that were empty or nearly so, and for a being with his skills, slipping into these when nobody was around was child’s play. He could sleep there without much worry at all.
Food, shelter, clothes—he had all the basics. And after he had gotten the lay of the place, some artful scavenging had provided basic items for barter.
“Ho, trooper. You know anybody who might have use for a D-nine battery pack in pretty good condition? As it happens, I have one and find myself a little short of coin until payday. Worth ten c’s, easy, but I can let you have it for seven …”
Within a week he had a pretty good stash of trade goods hidden in a recycling station storage bin, enough credits to buy small