Star Wars_ Planet of Twilight - Barbara Hambly [49]
“What in the name of goodness happened to you?”
“A little creative reprogramming, that’s all.” Captain Bortrek set down his laser extractor. “And I don’t give a Ranat’s sneeze who you’re duly registered to, Goldie. You’re mine now, like your little friend …” He jerked a grimy thumb at Artoo. “And I didn’t call you here from the hold to quote me some pox-festering regulation, either, you understand? A good See-Three unit’s worth a pile even without provenance, but don’t think I couldn’t get almost as much for your chips and wiring.”
Threepio considered the matter. “Actually, sir, See-Three units with specialized programming like myself sell for a minimum, used, at forty-three thousand standard credits, Blue Registry prices. The aggregate of my components would only bring in five thousand at the very most …”
“Shut up!”
“Yes, sir.”
“And come with me down to the hold. I want you to give me a valuation on every piece of that garbage so I know Sandro the Hook isn’t going to cheat me once we get to Celanon City.”
“Are we going to Celanon, sir? A most pleasant planet, I’ve been told. It isn’t necessary to return to the hold, you know. While incarcerated there I took the opportunity to price your acquisitions to the best of my knowledge —which was updated only last week from the Coruscant Index—and the information is still in my memory.”
“No lie?” Captain Bortrek tongued his scarred lip, and studied the golden droid speculatively. In the background, Artoo-Detoo made soft whirring noises indicative of intensive activity, and the ship’s core computer flashed and burbled replies. “I tell you what, then, Goldie. You come with me and we’ll get that stuff sorted out, and maybe when we get to Celanon I won’t sell you to a travel agent for your programming.”
He stood up, and pulled from a pocket of his embroidered leather vest a small flat silver flask, from which he took a drink. By his exhalation, as he walked past Threepio and preceded him out the door, the fluid within consisted of equal parts grain alcohol, synthetic gylocal stimulant, and hyperdrive coolant.
This was, Threepio learned, a constant in Captain Bortrek’s life. Over the next several hours, while Threepio shifted the booty in the ship’s three holds into some semblance of order and Captain Bortrek made notes about market value, the human had frequent recourse to the flask, his speech becoming both increasingly slurred and increasingly scatological as the level of his blood alcohol rose.
The universe, it appeared, had never been kind to Captain Bortrek, conspiring against him in a fashion that Threepio privately considered unlikely given the man’s relative unimportance. Knowing what he did about the Alderaan social structure, shipping regulations, the psychology of law enforcement agents, and the statistical behavior patterns of human females, Threepio was much inclined to doubt that so many hundreds of people would spend that much time thinking up ways to thwart and injure a small-time free-trader who was, by his own assertion, only trying to make a living.
Still, it was not for droids to contradict humans unless requested to do so for informational purposes, so he moved gold reliquaries, and held his peace.
“Now, is it likely—you tell me, Goldie—is it likely that the festering Rim Patrol would come after me the minute I showed up—the very festering minute!—without provocation—if they hadn’t been tipped off by that festering witch-hag ex-wife of mine back on Algar, hunh? Is it? I swear she … What the stinkin