The Essential Novels

by James Luceno

  Faintly, from the next room, came the sound of footsteps. Quickly, Leia slapped the glass back on the nightstand with one hand as she hauled the blankets up to her chin with the other. The bedside light was still glowing, and she reached out with the Force to try to turn it off.

  The lamp didn’t even flicker. Gritting her teeth, she tried again; again, it didn’t work. Still not enough fine control over the Force, obviously, for something as small as a light switch. Untangling herself from the blankets, she tried to make a lunge for it.

  Across the room, the side door opened to reveal a tall woman in a dressing robe. “Your Highness?” she called softly, brushing her shimmering white hair back from her eyes. “Are you all right?”

  Leia sighed and gave up. “Come on in, Winter. How long have you been listening at the door?”

  “I haven’t been listening,” Winter said as she glided into the room, sounding almost offended that Leia would even suggest such a thing of her. “I saw the light coming from under your door and thought you might need something.”

  “I’m fine,” Leia assured her, wondering if this woman would ever cease to amaze her. Awakened in the middle of the night, dressed in an old robe with her hair in total disarray, Winter still looked more regal than Leia herself could manage on her best days. She’d lost track of the number of times when, as children together on Alderaan, some visitor to the Viceroy’s court had automatically assumed Winter was, in fact, the Princess Leia.13

  Winter had probably not lost track, of course. Anyone who could remember whole conversations verbatim should certainly be able to reconstruct the number of times she’d been mistaken for a royal princess.

  Leia had often wondered what the rest of the Provisional Council members would think if they knew that the silent assistant sitting beside her at official meetings or standing beside her at unofficial corridor conversations was effectively recording every word they said. Some of them, she suspected, wouldn’t like it at all.

  “Can I get you some more milk, Your Highness?” Winter asked. “Or some crackers?”

  “No, thank you.” Leia shook her head. “My stomach isn’t really bothering me at the moment. It’s … well, you know. It’s Luke.”

  Winter nodded. “Same thing that’s been bothering him for the past nine weeks?”

  Leia frowned. “Has it been that long?”

  Winter shrugged. “You’ve been busy,” she said with her usual knack for diplomacy.

  “Tell me about it,” Leia said dryly. “I don’t know, Winter—I really don’t. He told Threepio that he misses Ben Kenobi, but I can tell that’s not all of it.”

  “Perhaps it has something to do with your pregnancy,” Winter suggested. “Nine weeks ago would put it just about right.”

  “Yes, I know,” Leia agreed. “But that’s also about the time Mon Mothma and Admiral Ackbar were pushing to move the government seat here to Coruscant. Also about the time we started getting those reports from the borderlands about some mysterious tactical genius having taken command of the Imperial Fleet.” She held her hands out, palms upward. “Take your pick.”

  “I suppose you’ll just have to wait until he’s ready to talk to you.” Winter considered. “Perhaps Captain Solo will be able to draw him out when he returns.”

  Leia squeezed thumb and forefinger together, a wave of anger-filled loneliness sweeping over her. For Han to have gone out on yet another of these stupid contact missions, leaving her all alone—

  The flash of anger disappeared, dissolving into guilt. Yes, Han was gone again; but even when he was here it seemed sometimes like they hardly saw each other. With more and more of her time being eaten up by the enormous task of setting up a new government, there were days when she barely had time to eat, let alone see her husband.

  But that’s my job, she reminded herself firmly; and it was a job that, unfortunately, only she could do. Unlike virtually all the others in the Alliance hierarchy, she had had extensive training in both the theory and the more practical aspects of politics. She’d grown up in the Royal House of Alderaan, learning about systemwide rule from her foster father—learning it so well that while still in her teens she was already representing him in the Imperial Senate. Without her expertise, this whole thing could easily collapse, particularly in these critical early stages of the New Republic’s development. A few more months—just a few more months—and she’d be able to ease off a little. She’d make it all up to Han then.

  The guilt faded. But the loneliness remained.14

  “Maybe,” she told Winter. “In the meantime, we’d better both get some sleep. We have a busy day tomorrow.”

  Winter arched her eyebrows slightly. “There’s another kind?” she asked with a touch of Leia’s earlier dryness.

  “Now, now,” Leia admonished, mock-seriously. “You’re far too young to become a cynic. I mean it, now—off to bed with you.”

  “You’re sure you don’t need anything first?”

  “I’m sure. Go on, scat.”

  “All right. Good night, Your Highness.”

  She glided out, closing the door behind her. Sliding down flat onto the bed, Leia readjusted the blankets over her and shifted the pillows into a more or less comfortable position. “Good night to you two, too,” she said softly to her babies, giving her belly another gentle rub. Han had suggested more than once that anyone who talked to her own stomach was slightly nuts. But then, she suspected that Han secretly believed everyone was slightly nuts.

  She missed him terribly.

  With a sigh, she reached over to the nightstand and turned off the light. Eventually, she fell asleep.

  A quarter of the way across the galaxy,15 Han Solo sipped at his mug and surveyed the semiorganized chaos flowing all around him. Didn’t we, he quoted to himself, just leave this party?

  Still, it was nice to know that, in a galaxy busily turning itself upside down, there were some things that never changed. The band playing off in the corner was different, and the upholstery in the booth was noticeably less comfortable; but apart from that, the Mos Eisley cantina looked exactly the same as it always had. The same as it had looked the day he’d first met Luke Skywalker and Obi-wan Kenobi.

  It felt like a dozen lifetimes ago.

  Beside him, Chewbacca growled softly. “Don’t worry, he’ll be here,” Han told him. “It’s just Dravis. I don’t think he’s ever been on time for anything in his whole life.”

  Slowly, he let his eyes drift over the crowd. No, he amended to himself, there was one other thing different about the cantina: virtually none of the other smugglers who had once frequented the place were anywhere to be seen. Whoever had taken over what was left of Jabba the Hutt’s organization must have moved operations off Tatooine. Turning to peer toward the cantina’s back door, he made a mental note to ask Dravis about it.

  He was still gazing off to the side when a shadow fell across the table. “Hello, Solo,” a snickering voice said.

  Han gave himself a three-count before turning casually to face the voice. “Well, hello, Dravis.” He nodded. “Long time no see. Have a seat.”

  “Sure,” Dravis said with a grin. “Soon as you and Chewie both put your hands on the table.”16

  Han gave him an injured look. “Oh, come on,” he said, reaching up to cradle his mug with both hands. “You think I’d invite you all the way here just to shoot at you? We’re old buddies, remember?”

  “Sure we are,” Dravis said, throwing Chewbacca an appraising glance as he sat down. “Or at least we used to be. But I hear you’ve gone respectable.”

  Han shrugged eloquently. “Respectable’s such a vague word.”

  Dravis cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, well, then let’s be specific,” he said sardonically. “I hear you joined the Rebel Alliance, got made a general, married a former Alderaanian princess, and got yourself a set of twins on the way.”

  Han waved a self-deprecating hand. “Actually, I resigned the general part a few months back.”

  Dravis
snorted. “Forgive me. So what’s all this about? Some kind of warning?”

  Han frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t play innocent, Solo,” Dravis said, the banter gone from his tone. “New Republic replaces Empire—all fine and sweet and dandy, but you know as well as I do that it’s all the same to smugglers. So if this is an official invitation to cease and desist our business activities, let me laugh in your face and get out of here.” He started to get up.

  “It’s nothing like that,” Han told him. “As a matter of fact, I was hoping to hire you.”

  Dravis froze, halfway up. “What?” he asked warily.

  “You heard right,” Han said. “We’re looking to hire smugglers.”

  Slowly, Dravis sat back down. “Is this something to do with your fight with the Empire?” he demanded. “Because if it is—”

  “It isn’t,” Han assured him. “There’s a whole spiel that goes along with this, but what it boils down to is that the New Republic is short of cargo ships at the moment, not to mention experienced cargo ship pilots.17 If you’re looking to earn some quick and honest money, this would be a good time to do it.”

  “Uh-huh.” Dravis leaned back in his chair, draping an arm over the seat back as he eyed Han suspiciously. “So what’s the catch?”

  Han shook his head. “No catch. We need ships and pilots to get interstellar trade going again. You’ve got ’em. That’s all there is to it.”

  Dravis seemed to think it over. “So why work for you and your pittance directly?” he demanded. “Why can’t we just smuggle the stuff and make more per trip?”

  “You could do that,” Han conceded. “But only if your customers had to pay the kind of tariffs that would make hiring smugglers worthwhile. In this case”—he smiled—“they won’t.”

  Dravis glared at him. “Oh, come on, Solo. A brand-new government, hard-pressed like crazy for cash—and you want me to believe they won’t be piling tariffs on top of each other?”

  “Believe anything you want,” Han said, letting his own tone go frosty. “Go ahead and try it, too. But when you’re convinced, give me a call.”18

  Dravis chewed at the inside of his cheek, his eyes never leaving Han’s. “You know, Solo,” he said thoughtfully, “I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t trust you. Well, maybe I was curious, too, to see what scam you were pulling. And I might be willing to believe you on this, at least enough to check it out myself. But I’ll tell you right up front that a lot of others in my group won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’ve gone respectable, that’s why. Oh, don’t give me that hurt look—the simple fact is that you’ve been out of the business too long to even remember what it’s like. Profits are what drives a smuggler, Solo. Profits and excitement.”

  “So what are you going to do instead, operate in the Imperial sectors?” Han countered, trying hard to remember all those lessons in diplomacy that Leia had given him.

  Dravis shrugged. “It pays,” he said simply.

  “For now, maybe,” Han reminded him. “But their territory’s been shrinking for five years straight, and it’s going to keep getting smaller. We’re just about evenly gunned now, you know, and our people are more motivated and a lot better trained than theirs.”

  “Maybe.” Dravis cocked an eyebrow. “But maybe not. I hear rumors that there’s someone new in charge out there. Someone who’s been giving you a lot of trouble—like in the Obroa-skai system, for instance? I hear you lost an Elomin task force out there just a little while ago. Awfully sloppy, losing a whole task force like that.”

  Han gritted his teeth. “Just remember that anybody who gives us trouble is going to give you trouble, too.” He leveled a finger at the other. “And if you think the New Republic is hungry for cash, think of how hungry the Empire must be right now.”

  “It’s certainly an adventure,” Dravis agreed easily, getting to his feet. “Well, it really was nice seeing you again, Solo, but I gotta go. Say hi to your princess for me.”

  Han sighed. “Just give your people our offer, okay?”

  “Oh, I will. Might even be some who’ll take you up on it. You never can tell.”

  Han nodded. It was, really, all he could have expected out of this meeting. “One other thing, Dravis. Who exactly is the big fish in the pond now that Jabba’s gone?”

  Dravis eyed him thoughtfully. “Well … I guess it’s not really a secret,” he decided. “Mind you, there aren’t any really official numbers. But if I were betting, I’d put my money on Talon Karrde.”

  Han frowned. He’d heard of Karrde, of course, but never with any hint that his organization was even in the top ten, let alone the one on top. Either Dravis was wrong, or Karrde was the type who believed in keeping a low profile. “Where can I find him?”

  Dravis smiled slyly. “You’d like to know that, wouldn’t you? Maybe someday I’ll tell you.”

  “Dravis—”

  “Gotta go. See you around, Chewie.”

  He started to turn; paused. “Oh, by the way. You might tell your pal over there that he’s got to be the worst excuse for a backup man I’ve ever seen. Just thought you’d like to know.” With another grin, he turned again and headed back into the crowd.

  Han grimaced as he watched him go. Still, at least Dravis had been willing to turn his back on them as he left. Some of the other smugglers he’d contacted hadn’t even trusted him that far. Progress, sort of.19

  Beside him, Chewbacca growled something derogatory. “Well, what do you expect with Admiral Ackbar sitting on the Council?” Han shrugged. “The Calamarians were death on smugglers even before the war, and everyone knows it. Don’t worry, they’ll come around. Some of them, anyway. Dravis can blather all he wants about profit and excitement; but you offer them secure maintenance facilities, no Jabba-style skimming, and no one shooting at them, and they’ll get interested. Come on, let’s get going.”

  He slid out of the booth and headed for the cantina and the exit just visible beyond it. Halfway across, he stopped at one of the other booths and looked down at its lone occupant. “I’ve got a message for you,” he announced. “I’m supposed to tell you that you’re the worst excuse for a backup man that Dravis has ever seen.”

  Wedge Antilles grinned up at him as he slid out from behind the table. “I thought that was the whole idea,” he said, running his fingers through his black hair.

  “Yes, but Dravis didn’t.” Though privately, Han would be the first to admit that Dravis had a point. As far as he was concerned, the only times Wedge didn’t stick out like a lump on plate glass was when he was sitting in the cockpit of an X-wing blasting TIE fighters into dust. “So where’s Page, anyway?” he asked, glancing around.

  “Right here, sir,” a quiet voice said at his shoulder.

  Han turned. Beside them had appeared a medium-height, medium-build, totally nondescript-looking man. The kind of man no one would really notice; the kind who could blend invisibly into almost any surroundings.

  Which had, again, been the whole idea. “You see anything suspicious?” Han asked him.

  Page shook his head. “No backup troops; no weapons other than his blaster. This guy must have genuinely trusted you.”

  “Yeah. Progress.” Han took one last look around. “Let’s get going. We’re going to be late enough back to Coruscant as it is. And I want to swing through the Obroa-skai system on the way.”

  “That missing Elomin task force?” Wedge asked.

  “Yeah,” Han said grimly. “I want to see if they’ve figured out what happened to it yet. And if we’re lucky, maybe get some idea of who did it to them.”

  C H A P T E R 3

  The fold-out table in his private office was set, the food was ready to serve, and Talon Karrde was just pouring the wine when the tap came on his door. As always, his timing was perfect. “Mara?” he called.

  “Yes,” the young woman’s voice confirmed through the door. “You asked me to join you for dinner.”

/>   “Yes. Please come in.”

  The door slid open, and with her usual catlike grace Mara Jade walked into the room. “You didn’t say what”—her green eyes flicked to the elaborately set table—“this was all about,” she finished, her tone just noticeably different. The green eyes came back to him, cool and measuring.

  “No, it’s not what you’re thinking,” Karrde assured her, motioning her to the chair opposite his. “This is a business meal—no more, no less.”

  From behind his desk came a sound halfway between a cackle and a purr. “That’s right, Drang—a business meal,” Karrde said, turning toward the sound. “Come on, out with you.”

  The vornskr peered out from around the edge of the desk, its front paws gripping the carpet, its muzzle close to the floor as if on the hunt. “I said out with you,” Karrde repeated firmly, pointing toward the open door behind Mara. “Come on, your dish has been set up in the kitchen. Sturm’s1 already there—chances are he’s eaten half your supper by now.”

  Reluctantly, Drang slunk out from behind the desk, cackle/purring forlornly to himself as he padded toward the door. “Don’t give me that poor-little-me act,” Karrde chided, picking a piece of braised bruallki from the serving dish. “Here—this should cheer you up.”

  He tossed the food in the general direction of the doorway. Drang’s lethargy vanished in a single coiled-spring leap as he snagged the mouthful in midair. “There,” Karrde called after him. “Now go and enjoy your supper.”

  The vornskr trotted out.2 “All right,” Karrde said, shifting his attention back to Mara. “Where were we?”

  “You were telling me this was a business meal,” she said, her voice still a little cool as she slid into the seat across from his and surveyed the table. “It’s certainly the nicest business meal I’ve had in quite a while.”

  “Well, that’s the point, really,” Karrde told her, sitting down and reaching over to the serving tray. “I think it’s occasionally good for us to remember that being a smuggler doesn’t necessarily require one to be a barbarian, too.”