The other shrugged. “Take it or not, Calrissian-makes no difference to me. But if you want to hire the best, you gotta expect it to cost you.”
“Oh, come on,” Lando growled. “This is me you’re talking to, Reggi. We both know the Soskin Guard is hardly the best.”
“Maybe not,” Reggi allowed, taking another swig from his mug. “But they’re the best you’re gonna have any shot at hiring.”
“Look, I’m talking about running ore freighter security here,” Lando said, fighting against the sinking feeling he’d had so many times in the past ten days. “Not invading Alion or boarding a Star Destroyer or something.”
“Too bad,” Reggi said, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Those sound like more fun-the Soskins might give you a discount on one of them.”
“My point is that we’re not talking the kind of job that’s worth fifty thousand,” Lando pushed ahead doggedly. “We’re talking one shipment of ore per month out of Varn, plus a few shiploads of casino customers coming in and out. That can’t be worth more than, say, five thousand a month.”
Reggi sighed. “Look, Calrissian-” He paused, glanced around the tapcafe. “Look over there,” he continued, pointing across at a group of aliens bunched together around a table, their horny heads almost touching. “See those Clatear? They’ve got a six-hundred-year-old feud going with the Nhoras that five separate generations of Jedi tried to stop and couldn’t Ever heard of it?”
Lando nodded. “Yes.”
“Good,” Reggi said. “Well, with this new bands-off policy that’s come out of Coruscant, they figure no one outside their sector is going to care anymore what they do to each other. Ergo, it’s time to start fighting again.
“Now, the Clatear, they’ve got a pretty good military-they were under Imperial guns a lot for a while-so they’re in pretty good shape. The Nhoras were luckier-or maybe not, depending how you look at it. They got ignored by the Empire, so they’ve got nothing much to fight with.”
Lando sighed. He could see where this was going. “So they’re hiring mercenaries.”
“You got it, old friend,” Reggi said approvingly. “They’ve got the Dhashaan Shield in to guard their systems-even talked old Dharus himself out of retirement to handle logistics and strategy for them. And they’re ladling out thirty thousand for them. That’s per day.”
He shook his bead in disbelief. “It’s definitely a seller’s market out there for anyone with soldiers and ships, Calrissian. Everyone’s figuring on settling old grudges. And who out there’t hasn’t got a grudge or two against someone?”
“But the Nhoras are hiring for a full-scale war,” Lando said, trying one last time. “All I want is someone to help keep pirates off my shipments.”
Reggi shrugged. “Some of those pirate gangs are worse than taking on a whole system defense force. Course, that depends on the system.”
Lando grimaced. “Reggi, look-“
“And if you’re going to bring up Taanab again, don’t,” the other interrupted him. “You’ve been squeezing that bit of history for favors for, oh, must be fifteen years now. Not going to do you any good this time.”
“It’s always nice to see gratitude,” Lando said frostily, getting to his feet. “See you around, Reggi. Have fun with whichever war you settle on.”
The afternoon Cilparian sunlight seemed especially harsh after the cool dimness of the tapcafe. For a minute Lando stood beside the entrance, studying the business flags that flew all up and down Spacer’s Street and wondering if it would be worth the effort to try checking out their current clientele.
No. Reggi was right: any mercenary group worth hiring these days was looking for bigger game than freighter escort duty. And a higher pay scale than Lando could afford.
After nearly two decades of agonizing struggle, the galaxy had finally found peace … and all they wanted to do with it was get back to the petty little wars the Emperor’s New Order had so thoughtlessly interrupted.
With a tired shake of his head, he turned back toward the spaceport.
The noise of the crowd reached him long before he came into sight of them. It was a good-sized mob, as these things seemed to be going: probably three hundred humans and aliens, milling noisily around the entrance to Docking Bay 66. This group was better organized than most, though, with signs as well as the usual shouted demands for justice for Caamas.
The mood he was in, he would have welcomed the opportunity to shove his way through them, maybe get a chance to burn a little of the simmering resentment out of his system. But the universe wasn’t going to cooperate even that far with him today: the Lady Luck was two bays down in 68. Muttering under his breath about people who had nothing better to do than protest something that had happened before most of them were even born, he stomped past the crowd and headed toward his bay. As far as he was concerned, the sooner he got off Cilpar, the better.