DRIVING THE CRAZIES

Chapter 4

(Leia)

I ask Han if he'd join us for dinner. I know how he hates these events, but he has a type of credibility I never will have.

"Only if I can bring my blaster," Han said.

"On the condition that you don't shoot unless someone else aims at you," I tell him.

"Honey, you know I shoot first."

I groan. "They know that. The blaster is just a gentle reminder of them not to step out of line."

"Can I get drunk?" he asks me.

"I'd prefer you didn't, but if you must, try not to be messy about it."

He raises his eyebrows and glares at me as if he's been affronted. "Who's messy?"

"I need a shower, Flyboy. You coming?"

"Is that what you meant by messy?"

I have to laugh. "C'mon, hotshot. Let's see how messy getting cleaned up can be."

"Well, if you put it like that..."

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(Han)

I really hate these types of dinners. Fortunately, I retired my military commission shortly after we were married, so I don't have to go in uniform. I do put on a clean shirt. That's my contribution to planetary politics tonight.

And, Leia doesn't ask me very often to do this. She knows I'm impatient with the process and the sentients. I just hope there's plenty of ale, and that it's not the rotgut that'll rip out the lining of my stomach. I've had several hangovers in the name of galactic peace. We all make sacrifices, but I think sacrificing my liver is asking a lot. If I'm going to do that, I'm going to make sure I'm enjoying myself.

I may be giving the impression that I find all diplomats other than my wife to be major bastards. This isn't true. I have a few friends among them. At state functions, there are a number of us who go outside and drink too much whenever possible. Even bureaucrats can't stand other bureaucrats.

We sit down with everyone. They've all just arrived, so the intoxicants haven't started flowing. Speaking for myself, I intend to remedy that as quickly as possible.

I'm hoping that intoxicants break the tension at the table. If it doesn't, I'm going to have to bring out my supply of tasteless jokes. Tasteless jokes, in my case, is redundant; I don't know any other kind. You spend a major part of your adult life with smugglers, and your manners and humor suffer.

I listen, not offering anything, and then it hits me.

Ryll and ryll kor, which are among the few cash crops Lorell has, were substances that Nolo was going to regulate. The very wealthy were in essence controlling the black market. They've got a vested interest in keeping it that way. Nolo wanted to spread the wealth a bit, collect taxes on it, put it into something that they could legitimately trade. I know what that stuff fetches on the black market; hells, I used to smuggle it.

I ask Leia to step away from the table for a few minutes with me so we can talk. She isn't happy about it, but she's not happy about being at the table, either, so we step out of the dining room.

"This is about ryll," I point out to her.

She looks at me skeptically. "We haven't even discussed ryll."

"Bring it up. You know that Nolo was going to regulate it, thus destroying the wealth of the titans."

"It's just one substance."

"And it's all they've got. Unless things have changed dramatically in the last five years, they rely on it."

"It's true that they don't have agriculture."

"And no industry beyond paying scut wages to process the stuff. I think that's what's behind this."

"There was also anger at regulations pertaining to fuel and utilities."

"I'm telling you, it all comes back to this. They do produce some chuba fungus and mix it with the ryll, but it's the ryll that's the money shot."

She studies me. "You know, for a half witted, scruffy looking nerf herder, you're pretty smart once in a while."

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