Star Wars_ The New Jedi Order 04_ Agents of Chaos 01_ Hero's Trial - James Luceno [80]
Han was assessing whether any of the grime on his hands might be toxic when he remembered the survival tool Anakin had given him—the one Chewie had made—which, remarkably, after all that Han had been through on the Wheel, was still clipped to his belt. And sure enough, the tool contained a fork attachment.
Han prized the three-tined utensil from its clever recess and edged into the crowd surrounding the buffet table. Closing on the warming trays, he saw that only one piece of nerf steak remained—an overdone, gristly piece at that—but he wasn’t about to pass it up. As he reached forward and speared it, however, a talonlike nail attached to a somewhat velvety, five-fingered hand lanced the steak at the same instant.
Han whirled and found himself face-to-face with the male Ryn in whose company he had escaped the Wheel. The prehensile-tailed alien was sporting the same vibrantly colored culottes, vest, and jaunty beret.
“Ha!” the Ryn yapped in amused surprise. “I told you I’d see you around!”
Han grimaced. “Around five years from now would have been more to my liking.”
“Ah, but you can’t fight fate, my friend.”
“I can try,” Han snapped. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Why, the same as you: traveling forward.” He cut his large eyes to the thin slab of meat. “So who claims the prize?”
“I guess we share it,” Han said in a rankled tone. “Providing you eat the half you stuck your fingernail into.”
The Ryn laughed. “And folks say there are no honest beings about.”
Han transferred the steak to an inexpertly washed plate, and the two of them found opposing seats at a nearby table, among a mixed group of Sullustans and Bimms.
“Droma,” the Ryn said, extending a hand as he was sitting down.
“Roaky Laamu,” Han told him, reluctantly shaking hands.
“I have to say, Roaky, you look a lot better than when I saw you last.”
Han scratched at the rectangle of synthflesh Leia had applied to his forehead. “The marvel of bacta. Wish I could—”
“—say the same for you,” Droma completed.
Han slapped the tabletop and leaned forward angrily. “You and I need to come to an arrangement. I don’t know the trick to how you do it, but from now on you’re going to keep my thoughts to yourself, understand?”
“Quite a challenge,” Droma mused.
“That’s your problem.” Han stared at him for a moment. “Just how do you do it?”
“Why, haven’t you heard that all Ryn are mind readers and fortune-tellers?” Droma asked facetiously.
“Yeah, and I’m a Jedi Knight.”
Droma laughed. “Now, that would be a stretch.”
Han frowned and used the survival tool’s knife blade to saw the steak in half—its blackened underside bearing the stamp of the provider, Nebula Consumables.
With obvious hesitation, Han forked a small portion into his mouth. Droma watched Han’s face as he chewed—or tried to.
“Not what you expected?”
“I expected edible,” Han mumbled around the piece. “That bad?”
Droma borrowed the survival tool to saw a bite-size portion from his half.
Han pushed an empty saucer toward him. “You can spit your teeth in here.”
Droma chewed for several moments before politely taking the piece into his cupped hand and dropping it under the table.
Han forced a breath. “Look, what do you say we try the restaurant—my treat.”
Droma grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.”
They left the cafeteria and walked a short distance along the promenade deck to a crowded dining room that had managed to retain some of the grandeur long surrendered by the rest of the Queen. As they were about to be seated, however, a Klaatooinian maître d’ intervened.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he told Han, “but we can’t serve the … Ryn.”
Han showed the heavy-lidded, long-jawed humanoid an incredulous look. “What, do you think you’re working on the Tinta Rainbow? This is a refugee ship!”
The maître d’ sniffed. “We still have our policies.”
Han’s nostrils flared and he cocked his arm back, only to have