Star Wars: Path of Destruction: A Novel of the Old Republic (5 page)

Des laughed. “Yeah, how dare they try to kill you in the middle of a war? Don’t they know you’re busy trying to kill them? How rude!”

“You bloody Kath-mutt!” the soldier snapped, rising up from his seat.

“Sit down, deckman!” the commander barked. The soldier did as he was told, but Des could feel the tension in the air. Everyone else at the table-with the possible exception of the two officers-was glaring at him.

Good. The last thing on their minds now was cards. Angry people didn’t make good sabacc players.

The commander sensed things were bad, too. He did his best to defuse the situation.

“The Sith follow the teachings of the dark side, son,” he said to Des. “If you saw the kinds of things they’ve done during this war … and not just to other soldiers. They don’t care if innocent civilians suffer.”

Only half listening, Des glanced at his cards and placed a wager.

“I’m not stupid, Commander,” he said then. “Whether the Republic officially acknowledges it or not, you’re at war with the Brotherhood of Darkness. And bad things happen during a war, on both sides. So don’t try to convince me the Sith are monsters. They’re people, just like you and me.”

Of all the players at the table, only the commander folded his cards. Des knew that at least a few of the soldiers were playing bad hands simply for the chance to take him down.

The commander sighed. “You’re right, to a point. The ordinary troopers-who serve in the army because they don’t know what the Sith Masters and the Brotherhood of Darkness are really like-are just people. But you have to look at the ideals behind this war. You have to understand what each side really stands for.”

“Enlighten me, Commander.” Des put just a hint of condescension in his voice and casually tossed in some more chips, knowing it would rile up the table even more. He was glad to see that nobody folded; he was playing them like a Bith musician trilling out a tune on a sabriquet.

“The Jedi seek to preserve peace,” the commander reiterated. “They serve the cause of justice. Whenever possible, they use their power to aid those in need. They seek to serve, not to rule. They believe that all beings, regardless of species or gender, are created equal. Surely you can understand that.”

It was more a statement than a question, but Des answered anyway. “But all beings aren’t really equal, are they? I mean, some are smarter, or stronger … or better at cards.”

He drew a small smile from the commander with the last comment, though everyone else at the table scowled.

“True enough, son. But isn’t it the duty of the strong to help the weak?”

Des shrugged. He didn’t believe much in equality. Working to make everybody equal didn’t leave much chance for anyone to achieve greatness. “So what about the Brotherhood of Darkness?” he asked. “What do they believe in?”

“They follow the teachings of the dark side. The only thing they seek is power; they believe the natural order of the galaxy is for the weak to serve the strong.”

“Sounds pretty good if you’re one of the strong.” Des flipped his cards up, then scooped up the pot, relishing the grumbling and curses muttered under the breath of the losers.

Des flashed a nasty grin around the table. “For the sake of the Republic, I hope you guys are better soldiers than you are sabacc players.”

“You mudcrutch, rankweed coward!” the ensign shouted, jumping up and spilling his drink onto the floor. “If it wasn’t for us, the Sith would be all over this pit of a world!”

Another miner would have taken a swing at Des, but the ensign-even more than slightly drunk-had enough military discipline to keep his fists at his sides. A stern glare from the commander made him sit down and mumble an apology. Des was impressed. And a little disappointed.

“We all know why the Republic cares about Apatros,” he said, stacking his chips and trying to appear nonchalant. In fact, he was scanning the table to see if anyone else was getting ready to make a move on him.

“You use cortosis in the hulls of your ships, you use it in your weapons casings, you even use it in your body armor. Without us, you wouldn’t stand a chance in this war. So don’t pretend you’re doing any favors here: you need us as much as we need you.”

Nobody had anted yet; all eyes were drawn to the drama unfolding among the players. The CardShark hesitated, its limited programming uncertain how to handle the situation. Des knew Groshik was watching from the far side of the cantina, his hand near the stun blaster he kept stashed behind the bar. He doubted the Neimoidian would need it, though.

“True enough,” the commander conceded, pushing his ante in. The others, including Des, followed suit. “But at least we pay you for the cortosis we use. The Sith would just take it from you.”

“No,” Des corrected, studying his cards, “you pay ORO for the cortosis. Those credits don’t make it all the way down to a guy like me.” He folded his hand but didn’t stop talking. “See, that’s the problem with the Republic. In the Core everything’s great: people are healthy, wealthy, and happy. But out here on the Rim things aren’t so easy.

“I’ve been working the mines almost as long as I can remember, in one way or another, and I still owe ORO enough credits to fill a freighter hull. But I don’t see any Jedi coming to save me from that little bit of injustice.”

Nobody had an answer for him this time, not even the commander. Des decided they’d talked enough politics; he wanted to focus on winning the two thousand credits that had built up in the sabacc pot. He went in for the kill.

“Don’t try to sell me on your Jedi and your Republic, because that’s exactly what it is: your Republic. You say the Sith only respect strength? Well, that’s pretty much the way things are out here on the Rim, too. You look out for yourself, because nobody else will. That’s why the Sith keep finding new recruits willing to join them out here. People with nothing feel like they’ve got nothing to lose. And if the Republic doesn’t figure that out pretty soon, the Brotherhood of Darkness is going to win this war no matter how many Jedi you have leading your army.”

“Maybe we should just stick to cards;” the lieutenant suggested after a long, uncomfortable silence.

“That works for me,” Des said. “No hard feelings?”

“No hard feelings,” the commander said, forcing a smile.

A few of the other soldiers murmured assent, but Des knew the hard feelings were still there. He’d done everything he could to make sure they ran deep.

The hours ticked by. Other miners began to arrive, the day shift coming in to replace the night crew that had left. The CardShark kept dealing, and the players kept betting. Des’s stack of chips was growing steadily larger, and the sabacc pot kept on growing: three thousand credits, four thousand, five … None of the players seemed to be having fun anymore; Des figured his scorching rant had burned off all the pleasure from the game.

Des didn’t care. He didn’t play sabacc for fun. It was a job, same as working the mines. A way to earn credits and pay off ORO so he could leave Apatros behind forever.

Two of the soldiers pushed away from the table, their credits cleaned out. Their seats were soon filled by miners from the day shift. The lure of the massive sabacc pot was enough to draw them in, despite their reluctance to go up against Des.

Another hour passed and the senior officers-the lieutenant and the commander-finally packed it in. They, too, were replaced by miners with visions of hitting one good hand and cashing in the unclaimed sabacc pot. The Republic soldiers who stuck around, like the ensign who had first challenged Des, must have had deep, deep pockets.

With the constant influx of new players and new money, Des was forced to change his strategy. He was up several hundred credits; he had enough of a cushion built up that he could afford to lose a few hands if he had to. Now his only concern was protecting the sabacc pot. If he didn’t have a hand he thought he could win with, he’d come up in the first few turns. He wasn’t going to give anyone else a chance to build up a hand of twenty-three. He stopped folding, even when he had weak cards. Sitting out a hand gave the other players too much of a chance to win.

Some lucky shifts and some poor choices by his opponents made sure his strategy worked, though not without a cost. His efforts to protect the sabacc pot began to eat into his profits. His stack of winnings shrank quickly, but it would all be worth it if he won the sabacc pot.

Through hand after agonizing hand players continued to come and go. One by one the soldiers gave up their seats, forced out when they ran out of chips and couldn’t afford more. Of the original group, only Des and the ensign remained. The ensign’s pile was growing. A few of the soldiers stayed to watch, rooting for their man to beat the miner with the big mouth.

Other spectators came and went. Some were just waiting for a player to drop so they could swoop in and take the seat. Others were drawn by the intensity of the table and the size of the pots. After another hour the sabacc pot hit ten thousand chips, the maximum limit. Any credits paid into the sabacc pot now were wasted: they went straight into the ORO accounts. But nobody complained. Not with the chance to win a small fortune on the table.

Des glanced up at the chrono on the wall. The cantina would be closing in less than an hour. When he’d first sat down at the table, he’d felt certain he was going to win big. For a while he had been ahead. But the last few hours had drained his chips. Working to protect the sabacc pot was crippling him: he’d gone through all his profits and had to re-buy-in twice. He’d fallen into the classic gambler’s trap, becoming so obsessed with winning the big pot that he’d lost sight of how much he was losing. He’d let the game get personal.

His shirt was hot and sticky with sweat. His legs were numb from sitting so long, and his back was aching from hunching forward expectantly to study his cards.

He was down almost a thousand credits on the night, but none of the other players had been able to cash in on his misfortune. With the Sabacc pot capped all the antes and penalties went straight to ORO. He’d have to work a month of grueling shifts in the mines if he ever wanted to see any of those credits again. But it was too late to turn back now. His only consolation was that the Republic ensign was down at least twice as much as he was. Yet each time the man ran out of chips, he’d just reach into his pocket and pull out another stack of credits, as if he had unlimited funds. Or as if he just didn’t care.

The CardShark fired out another hand. As he peeked at his cards, Des began to feel the first real hints of self-doubt. What if his feeling was wrong this time? What if this wasn’t his night to win? He couldn’t remember a moment in the past when his gift had betrayed him, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t happen.

He pushed his chips in with a weak hand, defying every instinct that told him to fold. He’d have to come up at the start of the next turn, no matter how weak his cards were. Any longer and someone else might steal the sabacc pot he was working so hard to collect.

The marker flickered and the cards shifted. Des didn’t bother to look; he simply flipped over his cards and muttered, “Coming up.”

When he saw his hand he felt like he’d been slapped. He was sitting at negative twenty-three exactly, a bomb-out. The penalty cleaned out his stack of chips.

“Whoa, big fella,” the ensign mocked drunkenly, “you must be lumsoaked to come up on that. What the brix were you thinking?”

“Maybe he doesn’t understand the difference between plus twenty-three and minus twenty-three,” said one of the soldiers watching the match, grinning like a manka cat.

Des tried to ignore them as he paid the penalty. He felt empty. Hollow.

“You don’t talk so much when you’re losing, huh?” the ensign sneered.

Hate. Des didn’t feel anything else at first. Pure, white-hot hatred consumed every thought, every motion, and every ounce of reason in his brain. Suddenly he didn’t care about the pot, didn’t care about how many credits he had already lost. All he wanted was to wipe the smug expression from the ensign’s face. And there was only one way he could do it.

He shot a savage glare in the ensign’s direction, but the man was too drunk to be intimidated. Without taking his eyes off his enemy, Des swiped his ORO account card into the reader and rang up another buy-in, ignoring the logical part of his mind that tried to talk him out of it.

The CardShark, its circuits and wires oblivious to what was really going on, pushed a stack of chips toward him and uttered its typically cheery, “Good luck.”

Des opened with the Ace and two of sabers. He was at seventeen, a dangerous hand. Lots of potential to go too high on his next card and bomb out. He hesitated, knowing that the smart move was to fold.

“Having second thoughts?” the ensign chided.

Acting on an impulse he couldn’t even explain, Des moved his two into the interference field, then pushed his chips into the pot. He was letting his emotions guide him, but he no longer cared. And when the next card came up as a three, he knew what he had to do. He shoved his three into the interference field beside the two that was already there. Then he bet the maximum wager and waited for the switch.

There were actually two ways to win the sabacc pot. One was to get a hand that totaled twenty-three exactly, a pure sabacc. But there was an even better hand: the idiot’s array. In modified Bespin rules, if you had a hand of two and three in the same suit and drew the face card known as the Idiot, which had no value at all, you had an idiot’s array … 23 in the literal sense. It was the rarest hand possible, and it was worth more than even a pure sabacc.

Des was two-thirds of the way there. All he needed now was a switch to take his ten and replace it with the Idiot. Of course, that meant there had to be a switch. And even then he’d have to draw the Idiot off it … and there were only two Idiots in the entire seventy-six-card deck. It was a ridiculously long shot.

The marker came up red; the cards shifted. Des didn’t even have to look at his hand: he knew.

He stared right into the ensign’s eyes. “Coming up.”

The ensign looked down at his own hand to see what the switch had given him and began to laugh so hard he could barely show his hand. He had the two of flasks, the three of flasks … and the Idiot!