by Troy Denning
Han stopped on a landing, about a dozen paces up the stairs from Daala’s limousine and the medwagons, and held his vest open to prove he was unarmed. That didn’t keep the officer in charge, a lanky human captain whose face remained hidden behind a reflective helmet visor, from giving him a thorough frisking that was documented in close detail by the swarm of hovercams whirring about their heads.
After the captain finished and stepped away, Han put on a hurt expression and stared after the man in feigned shock. “I feel so … dirty,” he said. “Maybe next time you could buy me dinner or something.”
“I don’t believe you’re Captain Harfard’s type … Captain Solo,” Daala said, emerging from her limousine. Dressed in a white tunic and slacks that looked an awful lot like the uniform of a Grand Admiral, she ascended the stairs and stopped a pace away from Han, then lifted her chin and glared at him in obvious disappointment. “I was expecting to see Grand Master Hamner, or at least one of the Council Masters.”
“Yeah, sorry about that.” Recognizing the captain’s name from a few earlier GAS run-ins, Han allowed his gaze to linger on Harfard for a moment, then cast a pointed glance at the massive security detail the man was overseeing. “We didn’t want to scare you—any more than we already have.”
Daala’s eyes narrowed. “Adequate security is a sign of prudence, Captain Solo, not fear.” She looked past him toward the Temple. “But I really don’t care who the Jedi send out to surrender.”
Han’s mouth started to water, the way it always did when he managed to put a player on tilt. “Surrender?” he demanded. “Who said anything about surrendering?”
Daala’s gaze snapped back. “Master Hamner did,” she said. “He commed me himself to say the Jedi are ready to turn over the maniacs they have been harboring.”
“Maniacs?” Han pretended to be confused for a moment, then nodded as though he suddenly understood. “Oh, you mean the patients.”
“Yes, the patients,” Daala confirmed. “Call them what you will. I want them. Now.”
“But just the psychotic ones, right?” Han clarified. “You don’t want the ones who just have sinus infections or stomach flu or stuff like that, right?”
Daala’s glare turned suspicious. “I want the barvy ones, Captain Solo: Sothais Saar, Turi Altamik, and all of the other unstable Jedi who pose a danger to the citizens of this planet.” She raised her chin and spoke directly to the holocams hovering overhead. “And to this galaxy.”
“And then you’ll lift the siege.” Han phrased this not as a question, but as a condition … and he made sure he was also speaking into a holocam mike. “That’s the agreement.”
“I’ll lift the siege after I’m satisfied that the Jedi are no longer sheltering psychotic Jedi Knights,” Daala said carefully. “And I am going to search the Temple. Let’s be very clear about that.”
Han rubbed his neck, pretending to hesitate, then finally nodded. “Okay, fair enough.” He looked toward the medwagons resting on their struts behind Daala’s limousine. “You brought the brain-breaker?”
“If by brain-breaker you mean xenopsychiatrist, then yes. I brought the best.” Daala turned toward the limousine and flicked her fingers in a summoning motion. Out stepped a tall, middle-aged Bith with a dignified bearing and a huge cranium so deeply green it was almost emerald. “Allow me to present Dr. Thalleus Tharn, chair of xenopsychiatric medicine at the Greater Coruscant University. His honors and titles are too numerous to recount, but I have every confidence that Master Cilghal will know his reputation.”
Han whistled, truly impressed, then extended a hand as Tharn stepped onto the landing. The xenopsychiatrist made no attempt to reciprocate, instead dropping his ebony eyes to study the appendage as though it were being offered as an object of contemplation rather than greeting. Never one to accept a slight gracefully, Han continued to hold his hand out until Tharn was finally forced to sidestep in order to avoid it.
“I never shake hands,” Tharn said, clasping his hands behind his back. “I’m also a surgeon.”
Han’s brow shot up. “You mean you cut people open by hand, yourself?” he asked. “No droids?”
“Brain surgery is more art than medicine, Captain Solo, and droids are not capable of art.” Tharn’s voice was deep and refined, the kind that Han sometimes heard narrating advertisements for luxury airspeeders and men’s personal grooming products. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want someone with sore fingers excising a suspicious node from your prefrontal cortex.”
“I wouldn’t want anyone digging around in there. No telling what they might find.” Han hitched a thumb toward Daala. “The Chief tell you why you’re here?”
“She did,” Tharn assured him. “To oversee the sedation and transfer of the Jedi patients to a facility where they can be safely secured.”
“In carbonite,” Han added, more for holocam’s benefit than Tharn’s. “She told you that part, too, right?”
Tharn nodded. “Of course.”
“And you think that’s okay?” Han allowed some of his very real outrage to show in his wide eyes and sharp expression. He needed to get Tharn on live HoloNet saying that carbonite was the last resort—and the easiest way to get a brain-breaker to do anything was to make him think he needed to calm someone down. “To freeze a being solid, then hang him on a wall like some trophy?”
Daala quickly stepped forward. “Dr. Tharn isn’t here to debate—”
“Unfortunately, Captain Solo, I do,” Tharn said, motioning Daala to stand aside. “Until we find a way to cure these patients, freezing them in carbonite is the only responsible thing to do. Jedi Knights are just too powerful to have wandering about in a psychotic state.” Tharn’s tone grew rhythmic and soothing. “Surely you agree with that.”
Han rolled his lips over his teeth, trying to pretend that this wasn’t going even better than he had hoped, then finally sighed and dropped his head. “So you think they can be cured?”
The Bith gave him a reassuring nod. “I’m looking forward to the challenge.”
“That’s not a yes,” Han noted.
“It’s not a no, either. I give you my word, Captain Solo, I won’t rest until we can thaw them out. No one here enjoys freezing Jedi Knights in carbonite.” Tharn turned to Daala. “Isn’t that true, Chief Daala?”
“Of course, Doctor.” The coldness in Daala’s eyes betrayed her lie, but she managed to put enough sincerity in her voice to avoid sounding vindictive. “Once we can be certain the sick Jedi are no longer a threat, they’ll be released immediately.”
Han resisted the urge to smile. “Then I guess we should get on with this.” He let his shoulders slump like a man defeated, then turned to Captain Harfard and spoke the words that Saar and Turi were waiting to hear. “Tell your bucketheads to hold their fire, will you? They’re coming out.”
“Who’s coming out?” Harfard demanded.
“Sothais Saar and Turi Altamik, for starters,” Han said. “Assuming you don’t blast them, there’ll be a few others.”
Daala sensed the trap and quickly looked to Tharn. “Do you think that’s wise, Doctor?” Her demanding tone suggested her own opinion. “Wouldn’t it be better to take custody of the pris—um, patients—under more controlled circumstances?”
Tharn paused a moment, as though considering the merits of her suggestion, then nodded sagely. “Indeed it would.” He turned to Captain Solo. “If you could just have someone open an entry bay, my orderlies will be happy to go in and remove the patients.”
Han ignored him and continued to look at Daala. “Our mistake,” he said. “When you told Kenth you wanted a public surrender, we thought you meant out here in front of the news, where everyone could see how well you’re going to treat the patients.”
“I meant that I wanted the situation resolved publicly,” Daala replied. “I didn’t mean we should endanger scores of beings by making the actual exchange out here in Fellowship Plaza.”
“Well, stang.” Han turned toward the
Temple entrance, where Saar and Turi were already stepping out of the portico with their hands raised high in the air. “I wish you’d told me that earlier.”
A low growl sounded inside Harfard’s helmet as he barked an order, and a knot of blue-armored guards closed ranks around Daala. There were already hundreds of Mandalorian weapons pointed at the two Jedi, but a couple of dozen GAS commandos went rushing up the stairs to intercept the pair.
Han turned toward the wall of guards surrounding Daala. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Chief Daala,” he said. “But if you’re scared, we could let—”
“I am not scared, Captain Solo.” Daala pushed through the knot of guards and turned to Harfard. “I think it’s safe to have the troops stand down, Captain.”
Harfard made no move to obey. “With all due respect, Chief, this could be a Jedi trap.”
Daala looked up the stairs toward Saar and Turi, who were standing, calm and unarmed, with their hands raised, while dozens of blue-armored GAS commandos thrust blaster nozzles in their faces.
“They’ve already sprung their trap, you idiot,” Daala whispered. “Stand down … now!”
Harfard’s helmet remained turned in her direction for a moment, then he finally muttered something into his commset and turned away. The guards surrounding Daala quickly retreated to a less intrusive distance, and the ones surrounding Saar and Turi assumed a less aggressive stance, pointing their weapons at the two Jedis’ chests instead of their heads.
“Very clever,” Daala said to Han. “Who are they?”
Han scowled, genuinely confused. “Who are who?”
Daala pointed up the stairs. “Those two impostors,” she said. “Obviously, they aren’t Sothais Saar and Turi Altamik.”
“Nice try,” Han said, sneering. Whether Daala really believed they were impostors or just wanted to plant that doubt in the public mind, he should have realized she wouldn’t give up easily. “But that’s them.”
“And you expect the Galactic Alliance to take your word for this?” Daala asked.
“ ’Course not,” Han said. “You can have them prove it.”
“How?”
“Just have them do something only Jedi can do.” Han motioned for Daala to follow him and started up the stairs. “They’re either Jedi, or they’re impostors. But they can’t be both, because the Order doesn’t have enough Jedi Knights in it to have doubles.”
Daala remained on the landing behind him. “There’s no telling what kind of illusions a Jedi Knight can create with the Force.”
Han turned back to Daala, his lips drawn tight in disgust. “Come on, you know those tricks only work on the weak-minded.” A hovercam floated down for a close-up, and he made a point of squinting at Daala as though he were trying to understand exactly what she was implying. “Say, you’re not trying to tell me that the Galactic Alliance has a weak-minded Chief, are you?”
Daala’s face flushed with anger. “You know better than that, Captain Solo.” She remained on the landing. “But there’s also plastic surgery.”
“And there’s a surgeon.” Han leveled a finger at Tharn. “He ought to be able to tell if they’ve had any work done in the last few days.”
Daala remained where she was, silent and no doubt trying to think of a way to turn the situation around.
“Fine,” Han said. “I’ll have them come down.”
As Han turned to wave the pair down, Harfard rushed up and pressed a blaster nozzle into his ribs. “Hold it there, Solo. We won’t let you endanger the Chief of State.”
Han sneered down at the blaster, then said, “Assassination isn’t really Jedi style, you moron.” He shifted his glance to Daala. “Will you call this narglatch off? If you haven’t guessed it by now, we’ve found a cure.”
“Why don’t we let Tharn be the judge of that?” Daala waved Harfard aside and motioned for the two Jedi to come down. “That is why you asked me to bring him along, is it not?”
The tightness of Daala’s smile suggested she still felt sure of what Tharn would say—and that was probably her worst mistake of the day.
Han nodded. “Sure thing. I’m looking forward to seeing the master at work.” He caught Tharn’s eye and looked up at the swarm of hover-cams, then added, “I’ll bet your colleagues are too, Doc—especially the ones who’ll be giving HoloNet commentary on your technique.”
Tharn’s eyes bulged as he realized what Han was implying, and he turned immediately to Daala. “This is hardly the proper venue for an evaluation,” he said. “I’ll need to take them back to my hospital for proper observation.”
“You sure you want them in your lab, with no one but a few Mando goons guarding them?” Han rubbed his neck, feigning concern for the Bith’s welfare, then lowered his voice and spoke in a menacing tone. “They might still be dangerous, and you said yourself that the only safe way to keep a crazy Jedi was on ice.”
The epidermal folds in Tharn’s cheeks drew down tight, and he appeared to contemplate Han’s words with an air of disdain. Then his green cheeks paled to chartreuse as he realized what Han was threatening—that taking the Jedi back to his own laboratory would result in its destruction—and he quickly shifted his gaze back to Daala.
“Perhaps I can make a preliminary field assessment,” he said. “I trust that will prove satisfactory.”
Without awaiting permission, he ascended the stairs toward Saar and Turi, a whirling mass of hovercams circling his head. Daala scowled at Han, who merely shrugged and silently mouthed, Your expert.
Tharn stopped in front of the two Jedi and stood in silence, looking first deep into Saar’s eyes, then into Turi’s. After a moment, he peered up at the Chev’s raised hands.
“Jedi Saar,” he said, “please tell me why your hands are raised.”
Saar furrowed his heavy brow, then shrugged and pointed his chin toward the line of Mandalorians spread across Fellowship Plaza. “Because I don’t want to get blasted?”
Tharn nodded. “That seems reasonable.” He turned to Turi. “Jedi Altamik, can you explain why those Mandalorians might want to blast you and Jedi Saar?”
Turi’s upper lip curled into an edgy half smile. “Sure—Sothais and I have been a bit barvy lately.” She shifted her gaze away, looking past Tharn down toward Daala, then added, “But we’re better now, Chief Daala … honest we are.”
The faint rustle of laughter from beyond the Mandalorian lines told Han all he needed to know about who was winning the public relations battle in Fellowship Plaza. The Jedi had Daala on the defensive—and she knew it. To Han’s surprise, she acknowledged Turi’s jibe with a sour smile and a dip of the head.
“I’m glad you think so, Jedi Altamik,” she said. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to hear that from Dr. Tharn.”
“I understand,” Turi replied. She looked back to the Bith. “To tell the truth, I’d kind of like to hear him say it, too.”
Another murmur of laughter broke out from the media encampment, this one louder than the first. Tharn waited for it to pass, then nodded.
“Just a few more questions, Jedi Altamik.” He turned back to Saar. “Jedi Saar, do you trust me?”
Saar thought for a moment, then shook his head. “To tell the truth, Doctor, not all that much.”
This reply drew no laughter, but Tharn took it in stride. “In your position, I don’t think I would trust someone hired by Chief Daala, either,” he said. “But please rest assured that whatever I do here, it’s for your own benefit.”
Saar regarded him warily. “If you say so.”
“I do. And please lower your hands. Nobody here is going to blast you without a direct order from Chief Daala.” Tharn continued to look at Saar, but addressed himself to Daala. “That’s correct, is it not, Chief Daala?”
“If that’s what you want, yes,” Daala replied.
“It is.” Tharn waited until Saar had lowered his hands, then turned back to Turi. “You, too, Jedi Altamik.”
Turi lowered her hands
. “Thanks, Doc.”
“Your gratitude is not really necessary, Jedi Altamik,” he said. “But your trust is. Will you trust me?”
Turi’s green eyes grew thoughtful, her gaze turning inward as she reached out to examine his Force aura. After a moment, she nodded. “Okay.”
“Excellent.”
Tharn turned back to Saar, bringing a knee up between the Jedi’s legs so swiftly that the Chev was doubled over and groaning before Han quite realized what he was seeing. A hush of astonishment spread across the plaza, followed an instant later by the clatter of hundreds of blaster rifles being raised to armored shoulders. Tharn’s hand shot up, signaling for the troops to hold their fire, then he drew his knee back to strike Saar again.
In the next second, Tharn was high in the air, hanging aloft two meters beyond Turi’s outstretched hand. “Doc!” she cried. “Why in the blazes did you do that?”
“I was conducting a field test,” Tharn explained. He seemed surprisingly at ease for someone who had just assaulted a Jedi. He craned his neck around to look back down at Daala. “And since I still seem to be alive, Captain Solo is clearly correct. These Jedi have obviously been cured.”
Daala was too astonished to be angry. “You must be joking.”
“I assure you, I am not.” Tharn turned back to Turi, then said, “Would you please put me down, young lady? You’ve already proven that you are in control of yourself.”
A stunned Turi slowly lowered Tharn back to the landing. “You’re as barvy as we were, Doc,” she said. “You could have gotten us all killed.”
“Only if one of you had lost control, and I could see from the moment you left the Temple that wasn’t going to happen.” Tharn gestured toward Saar’s still-groaning figure. “That was just to prove it to Chief Daala.”