THE PARADISE SNARE
1
Trader’s Luck
The ancient troopship, a relic of the Clone Wars, hung in orbit over the planet Corellia, silent and seemingly derelict. Looks were deceiving, however. The old Liberator-class vessel, once called Guardian of the Republic, now had a new life as Trader’s Luck. The interior had been gutted and refitted with a motley assortment of living environments, and now contained nearly one hundred sentient beings, many of them humanoid. At the moment, however, only a few of them were awake, since it was the middle of the sleep cycle.
There was a watch on the bridge, of course. Trader’s Luck spent much of its time in orbit, but it was still capable of hyperspace travel, even though it was slow by modern standards. Garris Shrike, the leader of the loosely allied trading “clan” that lived aboard the Luck, was a strict taskmaster, who followed formal ship’s protocols. So there was always a watch on the bridge.
Shrike’s orders aboard the Luck were always obeyed; he was not a man to cross without a good reason and a fully charged blaster. He ruled the clan of traders as a less-than-benevolent despot. A slender man of medium height, Garris was handsome in a hard-edged way. Streaks of silver-white above his temples accentuated his black hair and iceblue eyes. His mouth was thin-lipped; he seldom smiled—and never with good humor. Garris Shrike was an expert shot and had spent his early years as a professional bounty hunter. He’d given it up, though, due to bad “luck”meaning that his lack of patience had caused him to lose the richest bounties reserved for live delivery. Dead bodies were frequently worth far less.
Shrike did possess a warped sense of humor, especially if the pain of others was involved. When he was gambling and winning, he was subject to bouts of manic gaiety, especially if he was also drunk.
As he was at the moment. Sitting around the table in the former wardroom of the enlisted officers, Shrike was playing sabacc and drinking tankards of potent Alderaanian ale, his favorite beverage.
Shrike peered at his card-chips, mentally calculating. Should he hold pat and hope to complete a pure sabacc? At any moment the dealer could push a button and the values of all the card-chips would shift. If that happened, he’d be busted, unless he took an additional two and tossed most of his hand into the interference field in the center of the table.
One of his fellow players, a hulking Elomin suddenly turned his tusked head to glance behind him. A light on one of the auxiliary “status” panels was blinking. The huge, shaggy-furred Elomin grunted, then said in guttural Basic, “Something funny about the lockout sensor on the weapons cache, Captain.”
Shrike insisted on “proper” protocol and chain of command, especially as it applied to himself. Unless engaged in some planetside caper, he always wore a military uniform while aboard the Luck—one he’d designed himself, patterned on the dress uniform of a high-ranking Moff. It was hung about with “medals” and “decorations” Shrike had picked up in pawnshops across the galaxy.
Now, hearing the Elomin’s warning, he glanced up a little blearily, rubbed his eyes, then straightened up and dropped his card-chips onto the tabletop. “What is it, Brafid?”
The giant being wrinkled his tusked snout. “Not sure, Captain. It’s reading normal now, but something flickered, as though the lock shorted out for a second. Probably just a momentary power flux.”
Moving with such unusual grace and coordination that even the foppish “uniform” couldn’t detract from his presence, the captain rose and walked around the table to study the readouts himself. All signs of intoxication had vanished.
“Not a power flux,” he decided after a moment. “Something else.”
Turning his head, he addressed the tall, heavyset human on his left.
“Larrad, look at this. Somebody shorted out the lock and is running a sim to fool us into thinking it’s just a power flux. We’ve got a thief aboard. Is everyone armed?”
The man addressed, who happened to be Shrike’s brother, Larrad Shrike, nodded, patting the holster that hung on the outside of his thigh.
Brafid the Elomin fingered his “tingler”—an electric prod that was his weapon of choice—though the hairy alien was large enough to pick up most humanoids and break them over his knee.
The other person present, a female Sullustan who was the Luck’s navigator, stood up, patting the scaled-down blaster she wore. “Ready for action, Captain!” she squeaked. Despite her diminutive height, flapping jowls, and large, appealing bright eyes, Nooni Dalvo appeared almost as dangerous as the hulking Elomin who was her closest shipboard friend.