“That’s a twelfth-class Hunter,” Riij translated, trying to draw Niriz’s attention back to him. Palror’s distinguished service with Churhee’s Riflemen would raise even more eyebrows than Riij’s own record if the Imperials found it.
“Excellent,” Niriz said. “A Hunter’s talents may prove useful on this mission.”
At Riij’s left, Trell cleared his throat. “Mission?” he asked carefully.
“Yes.” Niriz gestured, and a lieutenant standing beside him stepped forward and offered Trell a datapad. “I want you to take a cargo to Corellia for me.”
“Excuse me?” Trell asked carefully as he took the datapad. “You want me to-?”
“I need a civilian freighter for this job,” Niriz said. His voice was gruff, but Riij could hear a distinct undertone of distaste. “I don’t have one. You do. I also don’t have time to locate someone else to do the job. You’re here.
You’re it.”
Riij craned his neck to look over Trell’s shoulder at the datapad, his earlier trepidation about their IDs and cargo giving way to cautious excitement. For a Star Destroyer captain to ask for help of any sort-especially from a scruffy civilian freighter pilot-was practically unheard of.
It implied urgency and desperation; and anything that bothered a senior Imperial officer that much was definitely something a good Rebel agent ought to look into.
“What do you think?” he prompted.
Trell shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’ll throw our schedule all to blazes and back.”
Riij ran a series of highly vulgar words through his mind, making sure the frustration didn’t show on his face. Trell, unfortunately, was not a Rebel agent, good or otherwise, and he clearly wanted nothing to do with any of this. “It wouldn’t take all that long,” he cajoled carefully.
“And all good citizens have a duty to help out.”
“No,” Trell said firmly, offering the datapad back to the lieutenant.
“I’m sorry, Captain, but we just don’t have time. Our cargo’s due on Shibric-” “Your cargo consists of six hundred cases of Pashkin sausages,” Niriz interrupted coldly. “I presume you’re aware that the governor has recently decreed that all foodstuff exports now require an Imperial license.”
Trell’s mouth dropped open a couple of millimeters.
“That’s impossible,” he said. “I mean, the inspectors didn’t say anything about that.”
“Just how recent was this decree?” Maranne asked suspiciously.
Niriz gave her a thin smile. “Approximately ten minutes ago.”
Riij felt his stomach tighten. Urgency and desperation, indeed.
“off-hand, I’d say we’ve been set up,” he murmured to Trell.
Niriz’s eyes flicked to Riij, returned to Trell. “I am, however, prepared to waive that requirement this one time,” he continued.
“Provided you’re prepared in turn to deliver your sausages a little late.
“
“As opposed to not delivering them at all.>” Trell countered.
Niriz shrugged. “Something like that.”
Trell looked at Maranne, who shrugged. “It’s a two-day round trip to Corellia from here,” she said. “Add in delivery time, and we’re talking three days, tops. It’ll be a scramble, but our schedule can probably absorb that.”
“Not that we have much choice in the matter.” Trell looked back at Niriz. “I guess we’d be delighted to help you out, Captain. What’s the cargo, and when do we leave?”
“The cargo is two hundred small boxes,” Niriz said.
“That’s all you need to know about it. As for departure, you’ll leave as soon as your sausages are offloaded and the new cargo put aboard.”
At Riij’s side, Pairor rumbled again, and Riij had to fight to keep his own face expressionless. If some bored Imperial took it into his head to poke around beneath the top three layers of sausages in each box…
“Don’t worry, we’ll keep them cool,” Niriz promised.
“There won’t be any spoilage.”
“I’m sure they’ll be safe,” Trell said. “Where does this cargo of your’s go?”
“Your guide will fill you in on those details,” Niriz said, gesturing behind them. Riij turned to look-And felt the breath catch in his throat. Stepping around the stern of the Hopskip toward them, his stained Mandalorian armor glittering in the overhead light-Trell swore under his breath. “Boba Fett.”
“It’s not Fett,” Niriz corrected. “Merely, shall we say, an admirer of his.”