Rubble fell from the ceiling, clattering onto the ruined floor. He turned and accidentally stepped into one of the pockets of coldness. The sunlight grew dim, and he felt the taint of a presence.
A former student.
A man.
Brakiss.
NINE
The closet the Kloperian had placed the droids in had a stained permacrete floor, metal walls, and a metal ceiling. The walls were unadorned, and there wasn't even a knob on the inside of the door. It was pitch-black after the door was closed.
R2 whistled softly.
"You're right, R2," 3PO whispered. "I hear footsteps as well. And they're coming our way."
The computer lock on the door's knob clicked and beeped. As the door opened, the closet flooded with light. A different Kloperian from the one that captured them stood outside, work orders clutched in one tentacle, a special key code in another.
"Oh, thank the maker," 3PO said. "I am C-3PO and this is my counterpart, R2-D2. We belong to President Leia Organa Solo, the Chief of State, and to her brother, the Jedi Knight Luke Skywalker. We have been falsely imprisoned—
"You were trespassing," the Kloperian said.
"On the contrary," 3PO said. "We—
"I don't care," the Kloperian said. "If it were up'to me, I'd put you in recycling with all the other out-of-date droids. But we ran your serial numbers and you are who you say you are. Next time you come down here, your owners need to give us official notice. We can't have just any old droids down here. This is a dangerous area, and some of my assistants are overly enthusiastic. They might think you're scrap and use you for parts."
"Parts!" 3PO said. "I assure you, sir, we are anything but parts. Why, my counterpart and I might even be considered—
"You are a protocol droid at least three models behind, and an astromech droid sixteen models out of date. If you were part of our team here, we'd definitely recycle you."
R2 blatted.
"As it stands, we'll let you see the X-wing. Then you have to leave." The Kloperian crossed two tentacles. "Follow me."
3PO hurried out of the closet, R2 at his side. The Kloperian slithered forward at a fast clip. 3PO dropped back a few paces, just out of the Kloperian's hearing range.
"You see, R2. I told you that they wouldn't hold us once they knew who we were."
R2 bleeped.
"Well, it doesn't seem odd to me," 3PO said.
R2 blurbled.
"All right," 3PO said. "I admit they could have checked our serial numbers quicker. But the point is, R2, that they did. Although I do admit, things could have gone badly. Recycling! And I thought the scrap heap for out-of-date droids was just a legend."
R2's head swiveled as they walked, and the tiny holocam in his unit flickered. He was filming.
"I don't believe you have permission—"
R2 bleebled so loudly that the Kloperian turned.
"Is there a problem?" it asked.
3PO glanced at R2. "There is no problem," 3PO said. "No problem at all." And he put his hand heavily on R2's head for good measure. The clang of metal against metal echoed in the hangar.
They passed dozens of X-wings in various states of disrepair. Through open hangar doors were Y-wings and A-wings that had been disassembled. And in a final hangar, new craft glistened, cleaning droids polishing the luminescent metal.
Finally they stopped. The Kloperian pointed to a battered and scarred X-wing in pieces on the hangar floor.
R2 moaned.
3PO approached the pieces. "Oh, dear," he said. "Master Luke relies on this craft."
"We'll have it reassembled for him in two days," the Kloperian said.
R2 whistled and beeped.
"My counterpart wants to know why it had to be dismantled in the first place."
"Orders," the Kloperian said. "These old X-wings have too many problems to fly across the galaxy without an occasional overhaul."
R2 cheebled.
"My counterpart says the ship was in perfect condition."
"Well, he's wrong," the Kloperian said. "Amateur upkeep is no substitute for a major revamp."
R2 shrilled.
"R2!" 3PO said. "I'm so sorry, sir. He was close to the X-wing. He's afraid you've damaged it permanently."
"I haven't touched it," the Kloperian said. "And now that you've seen it, you can report on its condition to your master. The exit is through that door."
3PO nodded. "Come along, R2. We must talk with Master Luke."
R2 gave a warbling sigh. He stopped beside the X-wing and leaned precariously over it.
"R2!" 3PO said. "We've seen enough."
"You might want to tell your master to purge that astromech unit's memory. The R2 unit is seriously dated as it is, and with the new changes in ship design it will be obsolete in a matter of months."
A cylindrical arm extended from R2's left side, the side away from the Kloperian.
"I will certainly inform Master Luke," 3PO said. "This little R2 unit has been trouble from the day he bought it."
"They all have," the Kloperian said. "Now you two get out of here before I take you out myself."
"Yes, sir! Come along, R2."
R2's arm slid back into its compartment. He put his third wheel down and rolled toward the exit.
"Thank you, sir, for showing us the X-wing," 3PO said as he scurried after R2. "I will most certainly speak to our master about you—"
And then he stopped as the bay doors closed behind them. R2 let out a long, pitiful wail.
"I think you're overreacting, R2. The X-wing isn't dead. It's merely disassembled." 3PO hurried down the corridor.
R2 beeped as he kept up.
"Erase its memory? But Master Luke gave specific instructions that the X-wing's memory shouldn't be touched."
R2 bleeped an affirmative.
"But that doesn't mean there's a conspiracy, R2. Organic beings are subject to error."
R2 whistled and shrilled.
"Very well, then," 3PO said. "You can believe what you want. But you'll tell Master Luke yourself. I'll have no part in such flights of fancy."
R2 grunted.
"Still," 3PO said as they left the hangar and entered the upper level of the docking bay, "I will inform Mistress Leia of that being's attitude. If we were imprisoned over such a trivial thing, imagine what would happen to droids with less important owners. It's a disgrace. Such a thing should not be allowed on Coruscant."
R2 blurbled.
"I am not thinking about myself," 3PO said. "If I were thinking of myself, would I have mentioned other droids?"
Leia's long hair flowed down her back. She was brushing it steadily, her newly healed hands looking perfect in the soft light. The last dip in the bacta tank had done it. She would be fine.
Han sat on the edge of their bed, wishing she would face him. She had picked up her brush the moment the conversation had grown serious.
"Look, sweetheart, I'm only asking for a week."
"We're in the middle of a crisis, here, Han." She hadn't missed a stroke. "And you want to go off and play with the boys."
"I don't want to play, Leia. I think Jarril came to me for a reason."
"I'm sure he did. From what you said about the conversation, he couldn't understand what happened to Han Solo, gadabout adventurer."
Han pushed off the bed. "I think Jarril's visit is connected to all this."
"And I don't."
He crouched beside her. She stopped brushing her hair, and placed both hands in her lap. The scratches were gone from her face, but she still looked drawn and pale.
He put his hands over hers. Her skin was cold and she was shaking. Time for honesty. For both of them.
"Leia," he said, "I'm useless here."
"Not useless," she said, looking at his hands protecting hers. "You're never useless, Han."
He put his head against her shoulder, felt the silky smoothness of her hair against his forehead, smelled her faint perfume. He didn't know how to explain somet
hing she usually understood. He was a man of action. He needed to act.
Then she sighed. "You want to contribute."
He nodded.
"And there's nothing you can do on Coruscant."
He sat back on his heels. He was squeezing her hands tightly. The bristles of her brush dug into his fingertips. "I've already done what I can do, Leia. I've followed Jarril's trail. He left with the last wave of ships in all the confusion. Then escaped when the shields went down for Luke to enter. Jarril apparently talked to no one but me. He didn't even have any friends here except me."
"He might have had nothing to do with the attack."
Han nodded. "I know. In that case, the investigators you've assigned are following all the possible leads."
"What if there's another attack, Han?"
"It hasn't come. I've been waiting for days but it hasn't come."
"That's strange, isn't it?" Leia said. "I've been thinking it's very strange."
"So have I."
She smiled at him then, the quirky half-smile she got when she knew she should fight with him, but didn't have the heart to.
"I'll stay if you need me," he said.
She shook her head. "I don't need anyone, you big oaf."
"I know that, Your Worship," he said, grinning. Then he let the grin fade. "But I mean it. If you need me—"
"We're better if we work as a team, Han."
He knew that too. He'd been trying to say that all along.
"My only concern is the children." She slipped a hand out from underneath his, and put the brush on her dressing table. "What if the next attack is on them? What if R'yet is right? What if the attack was meant for me or my family?"
"If it was meant for you, it was meant as a warning," Han said.
"Like Jarril's visit."
He nodded.
"Winter says the base at Anoth has been rebuilt. Maybe we should send them there with her."
"A visit to their babyhood homes?" He got off his haunches and stood. "Can you do without them, Leia? I'll be gone, and they'll be gone, and then you'll have the political crisis to deal with."
She took a deep breath. He could see the struggle in her face. He knew how much she relied on her family, how important it all was to her.
"I'll work better if I know everyone is safe," she said. "That's why you want me to stay, isn't it?" She didn't look at him. He pulled her hair back and kissed the nape of her neck.
"I can take care of myself, Princess."
"I know," she said, still not looking at him.
"You're the one in the greatest danger. Maybe you should go with Winter and the children to Anoth."
She lifted her head, finally looking at him. "I can't do that. I have duties here. I have to take the same risks as the rest of the government."
He knew. He had to take risks too. Protecting him and forcing him to remain on Coruscant would be as bad as making Leia go to Anoth.
He waited, watched the realization dawn on her face as she understood what he had done.
"You've manipulated me," she said.
He nodded.
She stood and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close. In the last few days, she had lost weight. She felt thin and fragile. He held her tightly, knowing that more strength lay within her slender form than he would ever have. He had to trust in her abilities, just as she had to trust in his.
"Don't you wish that, just once, we could live calmly and comfortably like normal people?" Her voice was soft, almost a whisper.
"No," he said. He stepped back just far enough so that he could see her face. "Because if we had been normal people, we would never have met. Your Highness-ness."
She laughed, and he kissed her. Deeply. Passionately.
As if he would never be able to kiss her again.
TEN
Jarril's ship was a treasure trove of unusual junk. Lando had towed the Spicy Lady to Kessel, and had spent half a day exploring his old colleague's cargo. The body remained in the cockpit. Lando wasn't certain yet what to do with Jarril. He supposed he'd have to go through the records, looking for next of kin.
He wanted to save that until last.
Jarril hadn't been carrying any cargo when he was killed. Or so it seemed. But someone could have cleaned out the cargo while the ship listed in space.
Still, Lando found numerous abandoned items. Taken separately, they were explicable. But together, they were inexplicable.
He found a blaster handle, a single stormtrooper glove, a laser cannon, and pieces of a Carbanti signal-augmented sensor jammer. He found power cells and the schematics for cannons designed for the all-terrain armored transports. He found bolts for a repulsorlift, and, most disturbing of all, a case of needles made specifically for an Imperial interrogator droid.
But no credits, no jewels, and no spice.
Either Jarril had been involved in something sinister, or he had stumbled on something.
Lando liked to believe Jarril had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But what Lando wanted to believe and what was true were probably two different things.
So he almost decided to take the Spicy Lady back into space and set her free. Lando was halfway back to his ship when he remembered Jarril's laugh.
It had been a hearty, deep, almost choking laugh. Lando had thought Jarril was going to laugh himself to death the day he smuggled Lando out of Smuggler's Run. Right under Nandreeson's nose.
/ owe you, Lando had said.
Jarril grinned. / know, pal. And someday I'll collect. Big.
But he never had. And now it was too late. Ever since he'd seen Han Solo slide into the carbon freeze in Cloud City, Lando had placed a higher priority on old debts and friendship.
The old Lando would have walked away, sent the Spicy Lady back where he had found her, and forgotten the whole thing.
The new Lando sighed, bypassed the main hatch, and walked to the cockpit.
The cockpit on the Spicy Lady was an exact replica of the Millennium Falcon's. It comfortably fit four humanoids, and was tall enough to accommodate a Wookiee. Blaster scars had left rips in the seats and had charred one of the viewports. When Lando turned on life support, Jarril's body had fallen between the pilot's seat and the wall, crumpling like discarded clothing.
Lando bent over the body. Blaster at close range, just as he had thought. Jarril's eyes were open, and filled with terror. Lando gently closed them. Too many times he had been afraid he would die that way, alone, attacked in space by someone he'd crossed. Or someone he hadn't.
"Let's see what we can do for you, Jarril," Lando said. He sat in the copilot's chair, as far from Jarril's body as he could get. Then he logged on to the Spicy Lady's computer. This part of the computer was not tied to the slave system.
When Lando logged on, a cargo manifest floated on the screen. It had been left there by whoever had gone before. The manifest was dated for a week before—and it was empty.
It had clearly been erased.
Lando searched the backups, but whoever had erased the manifest had been thorough. There were no backups of any of the manifests. In fact, all he could find were the ghosts of the files: the names and the dates of issue.
Jarril's cargo had been so secret, he hadn't even kept personal records of it.
Lando left the cargo manifests and went to the address files. The hailing codes for all of Jarril's contacts had to be here. With a few keystrokes, Lando opened the files.
He recognized all the names as smuggling contacts except for three. One was on Fwatna and hadn't been used in more than three years. Another was on Dathomir, and the third was on Almania. He looked up the Fwatna address first. It was for a contact named Dolph, and Jarril had noted [NAME RETIRED] in the hidden-words section. From Lando's cursory examination of Jarril's system, it seemed that Jarril deleted unusable information. Lando made a note of the name, the out-of-date address, and continued searching.
The address on Dathomir had no name attached to i
t. Instead, it had notes that appeared to be directions, along with stars marking it as a Big Find. The address was new enough that Lando suspected Jarril hadn't had a chance to exploit the Big Find, hence its continuation in the records.
He opened the file on Almania to find that Jarril had sent a message there on the day the manifest was erased. The message had been deleted as well, but Jarril had based the Spicy Lady on the Falcon. He had followed all the schematics for the cockpit—the schematics that Lando had—and had bragged about it. Which meant that he had put in all of Lando's back doors.
Once erased, not always erased.
Jarril had never been a brilliant man. He not only put in Lando's back doors, he had used the same codes. Or perhaps that was bright. Who would think that two such diverse ships had the same coding system?
Except, of course, Lando.
It only took a moment for Lando to find the message. He put it on speaker, only to have the computer tell him the message was coded.
And written.
Stranger and stranger.
Lando uncoded the message and brought it onscreen. The message had no addressee and it was unsigned. Typical smuggler. That way no one who intercepted it would know who it was for.
CARGO DELIVERED. FIREWORKS SPECTACULAR.
It was followed shortly thereafter by another message.
SOLO KNOWS. WE CAN COUNT ON HIS INVOLVEMENT.
Then nothing. Those were the last messages Jarril had sent.
Lando copied them to his own computer. He glanced at Jarril. Jarril had known something, told Han, and now Jarril was dead. Which meant that someone was after Han.
Someone who had taken the A-wing and left the Spicy Lady to drift.
Lando got out of the copilot's chair. He had a call to make to Coruscant, and he couldn't make it from here.
Brakiss. Luke sat on the rubble-covered stair. He wasn't willing to leave the Hall, not yet. Not until he had gotten all the remnants of emotion and knowledge he could get.
Brakiss. One of the failures. One of the students who had turned to the dark side. Luke remembered each student who left Yavin 4 before completing training. Some had left because of family crises (Decide you must how to serve them best), and those crises always came at the wrong point in the training. (This is a dangerous time for you, when you will be tempted by the dark side of the Force.) He remembered Ben and Yoda; he always let those students go although he gave them the same admonition Yoda had given him: Mind what you have learned. And in his mind he always added the next sentence: Save you it can.
Star Wars - The New Rebellion Page 7