Bloodline (Star Wars)

by Claudia Gray

  “But one time you won the Sabers!”

  “Exactly. Been there, done that.” Greer didn’t look away from the Mirrorbright again, not even once. “Anyway, I only won the Junior Sabers.”

  Which was still completely awesome. Joph opened his mouth to protest, but—in a rare flash of tact—realized it might be smarter not to say anything.

  The thing was, Greer had another job back in the Senate offices. Given the maintenance she’d run on the Mirrorbright right after their mission to Bastatha, the ship couldn’t possibly need any more work done. So Greer had come here without any real need, knowing the other pilots would be watching the Sabers. She wanted to watch; she just wasn’t allowing herself to do it.

  Joph loped toward the others and accepted a cup of the engine room jet juice, which burned going down but lit you up pretty quick. Even as he settled in to watch, though, he couldn’t keep himself from glancing over at Greer. Is she doing this to punish herself? He wondered. If so, for what? Or does she figure it doesn’t count if she just listens to the Sabers run?

  “Looks like a good race today,” Senator Organa said from behind them, which made all the pilots straighten at once. Joph turned with the others to see her standing there in a dark-blue jacket and trousers, a smile on her face. Although she couldn’t have missed the group’s consternation, the senator acted as if she hung out in the hangar all the time. “What’s that in the jug?”

  “Oh, this?” Wexley’s broad bearded face turned red. He swallowed hard before venturing, “Uh, it’s—caf. Definitely. So we can stay alert on duty. Ma’am.”

  “Too bad.” The senator folded her arms as she leaned against the nearest X-wing. “In my day, starfighter pilots knew how to brew quality hooch.”

  In the following pause, several of the pilots began to smile. Snap ventured, “Would you believe that this caf happens to taste a whole lot like that? With, uh, similar effects?”

  She grinned and held out one hand. “Let me be the judge.”

  Somebody had the good sense to offer the senator one of the chairs, and before long she was in the heart of the gathering, talking with them about the Sabers like she was just another pilot. “Don’t count out the team from Sullust,” she confided as everyone settled in. “They didn’t do much on the starfighter round, but they shine at longer distances. Trust me—I know a guy.”

  People chuckled at the reference to Captain Solo. From the corner of his eye, Joph saw Greer drawing closer. When the senator waved her forward, Greer joined them at last—still averting her eyes from the holo, but accepting a cup of jet juice and at least starting to smile.

  Was this all about getting Greer to watch the race? Joph wondered. He sensed it wasn’t. But Senator Organa was doing something besides just hanging out for the races; that much, he knew for sure.

  “I hear the team from Pamarthe is likely to be a contender, too,” Leia said.

  “Of course they are,” Joph said. “They always are. Everybody knows that if you’re from Pamarthe, you’re good at flying, fighting, or—” He realized he shouldn’t finish that phrase just in time. Anyway, everybody understood without him saying it. For generations, Pamarthens had enjoyed a reputation for courage, skill, and gusto.

  Senator Organa gave no sign she’d noticed Joph’s careful omission. “Are you rooting for the home team, Greer?”

  “I don’t have to.” Greer finally cracked a smile. “They’ll win with or without me.”

  She was from Pamarthe? And she worked in an office? Joph always thought of Pamarthens as tromping around in their fields, working on their ships or guzzling tankards of ale. Which was ridiculous, because of course they couldn’t do that all the time, even though most people from Pamarthe seemed committed to trying. It was hard to imagine one of them handling senatorial bureaucracy with ease.

  The race began, as did the cheering from the pilots—but Joph remained quiet, listening to the senator and Greer. “So many people recruit pilots from Pamarthe,” Princess Leia said quietly, her words almost lost in the din. “Particularly in that area of the Outer Rim, so close to Daxam Four. Neighboring worlds recruit Pamarthe’s fliers for racing, for the military—for all sorts of things.”

  Daxam IV. Joph had been privy to enough mission data to know Daxam IV was somehow connected to Rinnrivin Di.

  Greer got the message, nodding slowly. “I really should go back for a visit sometime soon. It’s been a while.”

  “You’re sure you can handle it?”

  “Of course I can. It’s home. I know exactly where to go.”

  A mission. This is a mission! Greer’s going to go find out whether Rinnrivin Di’s hiring pilots from Pamarthe. Envy and excitement prodded Joph to blurt out, “You know, I always wanted to see Pamarthe.”

  Both the senator and Greer stared at him, which was the first moment Joph realized he’d been eavesdropping—and on a conversation about a secret mission, which was probably bad. Definitely bad. When was he ever going to learn to keep his mouth shut?

  But then Senator Organa nodded. “I think that if I check with your superior officers, we’ll find you’re due for some time off, Lieutenant Seastriker. Greer, you wouldn’t mind having a little company, would you?”

  Joph took a deep sip of his drink to hide his excited smile. A secret mission? Now, that was more like it.

  Pamarthe’s rugged islands clung close to one another in the vast, choppy ocean that covered much of its surface. Despite the modern spaceports carved into the basalt cliffs and the array of sturdy small craft that flew and floated among the islands daily, the Pamarthens maintained many of the old bridges of wood, stone, and rope, restoring them as needed without ever replacing them. They said this was to make sure their people still had courage. Privately Greer thought they just wanted to scare offworlders.

  Anyway, it worked on Joph Seastriker.

  “This goes on for another kilometer?” Joph said, both hands gripping the rope railings on either side. His gaze darted down to the swirling water far below. “What sadist built this bridge in the first place?”

  “A true Pamarthen.” Greer used her grandparents’ thick accent, letting the burr of it settle in around the r’s. She drew her woolen drape over her head and tucked it in more securely around her neck amid the swaddle of robes and wraps her people wore on her homeworld. “Which is what you’re pretending to be, remember? If you show up at the cantina pale and queasy, you’ll blow our cover in a heartbeat.”

  Joph gulped. “I don’t think I can help the queasy part.”

  “Then just keep moving. Get a flush in your cheeks.” The kid’s skin was nearly as pale as Princess Leia’s, which would mark his family as relative newcomers to her world, but that could be generations back. And the island they were walking to lay at the far northern tip of the archipelago, where most such newcomers had settled. “Besides, the faster you get to the next terminal, the sooner you can take a break.”

  “Okay. Okay.” Joph took a deep breath, eased his grip on the ropes, and started moving forward. Although the bridge swayed beneath his feet, he resolutely kept going. The same heavy woolens that Greer wore so easily made him look half as broad as he was tall. “Why didn’t we just land on this island instead of the other one?”

  “We restrict landings here. To keep out the invaders who haven’t shown up in about three hundred years.” Greer shook her head. Sometimes she thought the local clans were still hoping for villains to come running over the next hill, spoiling for an old-fashioned swordfight.

  “I guess it works,” Joph said. “Nobody would ever invade this place if they knew it meant crossing these bridges all the time.”

  “You fly a starfighter. How can you be afraid of heights?”

  “When I’m in a starfighter, I’m in control, piloting a ship I maintain myself, so I know it’s as good as anything else that flies. Here? It looks like nobody’s repaired one of these bridges in years. The ropes could give way any—any second.” His face paled as they swayed in the wind ag
ain.

  Amused despite herself, Greer said, “I thought you wanted excitement, Seastriker.”

  “I do. But my idea of excitement doesn’t involve throwing up. At least, not until the day after.”

  Greer shook her head. “Hang in there.”

  To her, the rope bridges’ sway felt almost comforting, like being a ship on the sea. Like most Pamarthens, Greer had had to learn how to handle watercraft before anyone would teach her how to fly. If you cannot conquer the sea, you will never conquer the air: That was what they all said. Some of the happiest moments of her young life had been spent on a boat, winching a sail into place or looking for a good cove in which to anchor.

  At that moment, facing the wind and the sea spray, she felt good. Really good. Maybe she’d been too cautious lately.

  Greer turned forward again, gazing toward their destination. The island, half shrouded in fog, jutted up from the ocean as if defying the waves. When she saw the soft glow of lights from the coastline buildings, the sense of homecoming that swept over her was too powerful to deny. Just a couple hours’ flight away, friends of her grandparents would be cooking enormous kettles of fish stew and coming together—if she were there, they would welcome her in a moment, smiles wide and arms wider—

  You’re not here for happy reunions, she reminded herself. And this only works if nobody recognizes you.

  Fortunately, pilots were known more by ship than by face. When they walked down the steps into the old cantina, nobody who looked at Greer showed even a flicker of recognition, though Joph’s pale-blond hair drew a couple of glances. They slid into an empty space at the end of one of the benches for the long tables, which was when the tavern-keeper came over. “Haven’t seen you two about before.”

  “Been gone awhile,” Joph said.

  His tone sounded casual enough to Greer, but the tavern-keeper must not have liked what he heard. From his apron he pulled a flask of something reddish amber that made the nearby patrons start to laugh.

  Port in a Storm. Greer would’ve known it at twenty paces.

  The tavern-keeper set a squat glass in front of Joph. “If you’ve been gone too long, you’re not a real Pamarthen any longer. Gone soft like an offworlder?”

  Joph tried, “No, I—”

  “No? Best prove you’ve still got your choobies, then.” The tavern-keeper poured a full glass of Port in a Storm, then scooted it in front of them. “Let me see you take that down.”

  “He’s just a kid. Leave this to me.” Greer reached past Joph to take the glass, tilted it back, and drank deep. The fire seemed to zoom to the top of her head and the core of her gut simultaneously—but she knew how to take it. Three gulps, and she was done. Greer smiled at the tavern-keeper, turned the glass upside down, and banged it on the table. “How’s that for choobies?”

  “And that’s a woman of Pamarthe!” the tavern-keeper yelled as cheers filled the room.

  Just like that, they were accepted. After a few congratulations and handshakes, the hubbub faded, and Greer and Joph were only two among dozens of hardened pilots and fighters, waiting for their next tankard of ale. The chatter flowed freely, unchecked by suspicion.

  “Too many patrols around Kessel these days. Might as well put a net over the whole planet and be done with it.”

  “—mark my words, the whole Imperial fleet is out there, just biding their time, mark my words, we’ve not seen the last of ’em—”

  “And then he says, I don’t care if you like my friends, and I say, well, you share all your opinions about my friends, and he says—”

  “Could you believe the Sullust team took the orbitals?”

  Greer barely glanced over as she interjected, “Word on the ground has it Sullust’s the one to beat, this year.”

  “Sullust? Get on with ye. They’ll be sent home crying by the Coruscant team!”

  “And our team? You’ll count the Pamarthens out already?”

  “After the way they fell apart at the orbitals? They’ve no chance any longer. Flew like a pack of offworlders.”

  So the conversation went, swirling and eddying all around them. Greer spoke up often enough for it to seem natural, no more, and otherwise kept listening intently without appearing to listen at all. She’d learned how to do this with senators; she could manage it with pilots, who had worse language than the politicians but better manners. Joph got too involved in a conversation about pie, a subject apparently very close to his heart, but that was harmless and distracting to those around them.

  Greer took it all in without reacting until the moment a few hours in when she heard the exact kind of thing they’d been listening for, “—not enough pilots who understand discretion, these days.”

  “ ‘Discretion’?” she repeated, turning to the pilot who’d been speaking, a grizzled old woman who wore some of her smaller tools on leather cords around her neck.

  But the pilot had been doing this too long not to be wary. “What’s it to you?”

  “We’re between jobs.” Greer nodded toward Joph, who turned out to be very good at looking innocent. “We’re looking for work in this area, and we need money fast. So we’re not asking too many questions. If anyone asked us questions…”

  Joph finished for her. “We wouldn’t answer.”

  “There’s work to be had,” the pilot said. Her milky-blue eyes studied them, looking for signs of trouble and apparently finding none. “That is, if you’ve got a good ship and the nerve.”

  “Nerve? Listen, we’ve got—” Joph’s indignation was easily silenced by Greer patting him on one shoulder. His performance was so convincing that not even she realized he was faking it until he settled down again easily.

  Greer leaned closer to the pilot. “Listen. We could really use a good run or two. If you’ve got any leads, we’d appreciate them. Risk is no object.”

  The pilot shrugged, perhaps deciding that if they weren’t what they seemed, it was someone else’s problem. “Lots of runs to and from Daxam Four these days. They pay well for speed and silence. Quick money to be made there, if you’ve got the nerve. Slide into orbit and signal the central hangars; seems like the Amaxines have some sources there to tell them about passing cargo ships. Chances are, you’ll get a call about a job before you’ve got time to take off your flight suits.”

  “Daxam Four,” Joph repeated with a grin. They’d hit the jackpot. “Thanks, ma’am. You have no idea how much you’ve helped.”

  Although the pilot seemed pleased to be thanked, she made a scoffing sound. “Thank me after you’ve dealt with the Amaxines. Not before.”

  Greer and Joph exchanged looks. The Amaxines?

  The pilot chuckled as she lifted her ale. “Oh, you’ll see.”

  —

  Greer had successfully shifted the conversation to other topics, and had made sure to remain in place for a good while after the old pilot departed. This meant drinking more ale, and while she and Joph were careful to pace themselves, by the time they walked out of the cantina, dawn had begun to lighten the eastern horizon. But it was still only a faint pale line near the line of the sea.

  Joph walked onto the bridge without hesitation. Liquid courage seemed to help him. Greer followed along, looking down without fear at the waves breaking white against the stony coastline. Although she didn’t turn around, her ears were sharp enough to know that they weren’t being followed. Another good thing about these rope bridges: They remained resolutely low-tech, meaning there would be no record of their visit here. They would be able to fly out clean, unnoticed, and with a promising lead.

  “I could’ve drunk that stuff,” he insisted.

  “I’ll bring you a bottle sometime and let you try. But trust me on this—we didn’t want our whole mission riding on your first taste of Port in a Storm.”

  “Fine, then.” He sighed. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

  “Of course. But there’s no guarantee I’ll answer.” Greer said it lightly, assuming he just wanted some distraction from the pit
ch and roll of the rope bridge.

  “How come Senator Organa asked you about this in the hangar? You’re her assistant; she could’ve brought it up at work.”

  Greer had understood this from the moment Princess Leia had first spoken. “The senatorial oath demands a promise that they ‘will not use the Senate offices for purposes of espionage.’ Probably the oath means ‘office’ more in terms of the senator’s overall position, less in terms of the actual room where political business is done. But the oath doesn’t specify that. So if Princess Leia is ever asked whether she violated her oath, she can truthfully promise no…on a technicality.”

  Joph turned to grin at her, openmouthed. “We’re involved in espionage.”

  “Only if you don’t keep saying it out loud.”

  He mouthed espionage again before adding, “Wait. Why isn’t it, you know, just like Bastatha?”

  “The Senate authorized that. They didn’t authorize this.”

  “Unauthorized. I like how that sounds. Now, this is more like it.” Joph started forward again, then made the mistake of looking down. “Oh, brother. Is the bridge…did it get higher while we ate?”

  “No. But the tide’s going out. So you’d have farther to fall.” When Joph blanched, Greer laughed and took his arm. “Come on. Walk faster. I’ve got you.”

  When a wave of dizziness washed over her, too, she ignored it and kept going. Probably just the Port in a Storm.

  —

  If being the Populist candidate is half as irritating as being suspected of being the next Populist candidate, Leia decided, this campaign is going to be unbearable.

  She doubted Tai-Lin Garr or any of the other senators at Varish’s home that night had spoken a word to a soul beyond their closest advisers. They didn’t have to. Tai-Lin had been correct when he said that Leia was the obvious candidate; everyone had seen this coming except Leia herself.

  “Your Highness?” C-3PO came shuffling into her office. “Yet more visitors. We have leaders from the Association of Small Craft Manufacturers eager to see you!”