Jacen considered. “So these other tassels, if they are not of Twi'lek make—”
“Of Twi'lek cultural origin, at any rate.”
“Yes, that's what I meant. Could they still be the same sort of item? A form of writing?”
“Yes. Or, I think, several. They are distinct in the ways they were made, each fabricated through a different technique; I suspect it means that, if they all convey messages, each does so through a different method of communication. Perhaps from a different world or culture altogether.”
Jacen gave him a smile. “I know that this is going to sound lazy—”
“But is there a central source of knowledge that might be able to decode all of them?”
“You're very good at mind reading, For'ali. Are you Force-sensitive?”
“No, I am merely well acquainted with academic laziness.” The Twi'lek considered. “I would recommend the world of Lorrd. It is a repository of academic knowledge, and its people, like my own, have developed a greater facility with nonverbal communication than most. Perhaps it would improve the odds that they have concentrated knowledge in this field. But you must take the item there. I can't guarantee that experts in other fields of communication could interpret the meaning of one of those tassels from a replica.”
Jacen nodded. “Just what I wanted to know. My compliments to you, For'ali.”
“Thank you for bringing me a task suited to my interests. Perhaps, when all is done, you could send me the original item to study.” For'ali smiled. “Replicas are never quite as good.”
“I'll see what I can do. Thank you, and good-bye.”
“Farewell.”
Jacen leaned forward to punch the disconnect button, and the hologram of the Twi'lek faded from view. Jacen relaxed back into his chair and sat for long moments studying the bottom tassel.
“It bothers you, doesn't it?” Ben asked.
Jacen nodded, absently, and gestured for the boy to sit in the next chair.
Ben sat. “Because those words are kind of like a Jedi saying?”
“Partly that. It's like the old mantra, but less, I don't know, wholesome. The other thing that bothers me is that the statement could have been made about me—at least, the way I was during the war with the Yuuzhan Vong. The way I was treated when I was a captive . . . well, pain is all they know.”
“So we're going to Lorrd?”
“We're going to Lorrd. Go pack.”
CORONET, CORELLIA
The war conference room was almost empty. Wedge Antilles shook hands with Admiral Karathas and her aides, then watched them depart the chamber. He began fiddling with his datapad, doubtless organizing the innumerable files he'd been beamed by various officers once his plan for the liberation of Tralus had been given tentative approval.
“We do need to wait for the YVH droids to come back for us,” Leia said.
“I know that,” Han protested. “I wasn't planning on popping out into the corridor while Thrackan's security team waits out there.”
“Well, you looked impatient.”
“Ah.” Han tried to force himself to look less impatient.
He couldn't. Wedge's plan occupied almost all his brain's processing power.
Nor was he fooling her. “Don't volunteer,” Leia said.
“Huh? For what?”
“For Wedge's plan.”
“I—” The part of Han's mind that could convincingly spin excuses and arguments didn't have enough resources available to it. He resorted to the truth. “I have to, Leia. That mission was made for me.”
“You don't think Thrackan will find out who the pilots are? You could survive the mission only to be blown up by remote control when returning to Corellia.”
“I'm sure Wedge can—”
“General Antilles.” It was Thrackan's voice again, still booming from the next observation room.
Below, Wedge glanced up again. “Sir.”
“I have a favor to ask of you. As Minister of War. Something that's distinctly in your patriotic duty to do. Something you really should have done by now.” Thrackan's tone was pleasant, not at all urgent.
Wedge returned his attention to his datapad. “Let's hear it.”
“You have a daughter serving with the Galactic Alliance armed forces under the name of Lysa Dunter. She's assigned to the force occupying Tralus.”
Even from this distance, and even seeing as little of Wedge's face as his current orientation afforded her, Han and Leia could see the man's sudden stillness.
Han could imagine what Wedge was feeling. He had a sudden urge to ask Leia to cut a hole in the wall separating the two chambers so he could take a few shots.
Wedge closed his datapad and tucked it into a pocket, then casually turned in his chair to face up at Thrackan. “Yes, she's in the GA armed forces. As a lot of Corellians are. Though I'm not sure where she is right now.”
“I'm going to send her a message,” Thrackan said. “I'd appreciate it if you'd include a note asking her to cooperate with what I suggest.”
“And what are you going to suggest?”
“That's not really your concern.”
Wedge didn't even attempt a pretense at unconcern or amusement. “Of course it is. I'm supposed to endorse whatever you suggest to her, regardless of what it is?”
“Yes. It's your duty. I have to insist.”
“Go ahead.”
Now Thrackan's voice sounded confused. “What?”
“Go ahead, insist. I'm interested in hearing this.”
“All right. General Antilles, acting as Chief of State and Minister of War for Corellia, I hereby order you to communicate with your daughter Syal and do your genuine best to persuade her to follow whatever course of action I recommend to her. Is that clear enough?”
“Absolutely.”
“And?”
“Go to hell.”
“Thrackan's trying to get himself killed,” Leia whispered.
Han nodded. “Let's go next door and wish him luck.”
“Shush.”
Thrackan said, “Antilles, you've refused a direct order given during a military crisis, and I have it on record. Should I choose to, I can have security agents haul you away right now. I can conduct your trial within the hour and have you executed by morning.”
“Of course you can.” Wedge stood and stretched, extending his arms over his head and flexing his back, a gesture of supreme unconcern. Leia could almost hear the popping from his vertebrae and joints. Then Wedge relaxed into a more normal standing position. “You could also have me assassinated in a time of peace for having nicer hair than you. If I worried about that sort of thing, I'd never get any sleep. And now I'm going to explain to you why it would be a bad, bad mistake for you to do this.”
“Go ahead.”
“If I refuse, which I have, and you have me murdered, you've traded a senior officer for whatever opportunities at sabotage and information gathering a very junior officer could provide you. It's not a smart trade. I'm no Garm Bel Iblis, but I'm the best strategist you have available. I also have friends in positions of power and influence all over the galaxy, and if I'm executed, I can't use them to your advantage—can't issue recommendations that they use their own influence to swing their planetary governments to the Corellian viewpoint, for instance.”
“What's the difference between your doing that and your doing what I just recommended?”
“Ordered, Minister, not recommended. The difference is that asking, say, Wes Janson to put in a good word about our cause to the military or government of his world of Taanab is honorable. Asking my daughter to violate the oaths she took when she became an officer and to participate in treachery is not. Have I communicated the difference sufficiently?”
“Don't condescend to me, Antilles.”
“Leave my family out of things, Sal-Solo.”
“I'm going to communicate with your daughter. I'll convince her to do what I say.”
“Go ahead.” Wedge shrugged.
“You might succeed. But I won't be party to it.”
There was no reply. A few seconds later, the light from Thrackan's chamber, still spilling in a distorted rectangle across the main table below, switched off.
Wedge walked toward the exit and disappeared out of sight below Thrackan's chamber.
“Wedge just got himself killed,” Leia said.
Han nodded. “He's too smart not to know that. It won't be soon, though. Thrackan needs Wedge for now.”
“But as soon as he gets angry enough to overcome his self-interest—”
“Yeah.”
RELLIDIR, TRALUS
“I am not happy,” Jaina said.
She stood under sunny blue skies on a flat green lawn. Gentle breezes stirred her hair and cooled her. Beside her stood Zekk, offering silent support . . . and occasional twinges of amusement as her mood whipped from one position to another.
In the distance ahead was the white Navos Center for the Performing Arts with its eight beautifully fluted towers. Closer at hand, on a patch of grass unmarked by duracrete walking trails, were the nine X-wings of Luke's Hardpoint Squadron.
Undefended.
Well, not entirely. In the astromech slot of Luke's own X-wing sat R2-D2, and the little droid offered a plaintive trill in counterpoint to Jaina's statement.
“Where are the pilots, Artoo?” Jaina asked.
R2-D2's top dome swiveled, bringing his main eye cam to bear on the distant performing arts building.
“And the security detail for these snubfighters?” she asked.
The astromech turned his main eye on her and issued a series of rapid beeps and tones.
“Reassigned.” Jaina shook her head, exasperated.
“Want me to do this one?” Zekk asked.
“Please.”
Zekk smiled and brought a comlink out from a pouch at his belt. “Artoo, would you give me the squadron frequency?”
The astromech beeped his compliance.
“Thanks.” Zekk activated the comlink. “Zekk to Hardpoint Squadron. Your new squadron commander is on-site and wishes to see you immediately at your X-wings. Immediately means ninety seconds from the end of my transmission. No one will he punished for arriving in dirty robes, formal gowns, or bubbles and bathwater, but no one wants to arrive late. That is all. Out.” He pocketed the comlink.
“Nicely done,” Jaina said. “Effective, but with a potential for humor.”
Zekk bowed, then straightened. “Your orders?”
“We need to find a place to house these snubfighters securely, and I don't care if they've been put out here to demonstrate our overwhelming military might and contempt for the Corellian forces. And we ought to do some drills so I can feel out the pilots' skills.” Jaina caught sight of some motion in the direction of the center. A tall, dark- skinned human male, clad only in a white towel, which he held around his waist with both hands, was running in their direction. “It's going to be an interesting set of exercises.”
BATTLE CARRIER DODONNA, ORBITING TRALUS
Ensign “Lysa Dunton” and her Quarren wingman rose toward the field holding the atmosphere within Dodonna's main belly hangar. With casual ease, they reduced velocity as they neared the glowing opening, popped up through the field to allow the air resistance to slow them down another crucial few kilometers per hour, and floated on repulsorlifts to their designated landing zone. Moments later, they raised their cockpits. Crew members, rushing forward, hung ladders in place, allowing them to exit their vehicles. Mechanics arrived, plugging in diagnostic units, beginning refueling.
Her Quarren wingman pulled off his helmet and issued a slurping sigh of relief. His facial tentacles wiggled in the cold artificial breeze blowing through the hangars. “Bath,” he said. “I need to submerge. I'd kill to submerge.” He turned and began a brisk march toward the doors out of the hangar.
Syal grinned after him. Long patrols were hard on the Quarren and their kindred, the Mon Calamari; they dehydrated faster than humans. She pulled off her own helmet and decided that her wingman's decision was the best one, though—a thorough cleansing, after hours of fruitless touring around the edges of the Corellia system, would be great for morale.
“Ensign Dunton?” The chief mechanic, a lean man with dark eyes, approached her with his diagnostic datapad in hand. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”
“Of course.” She shook her hair out. Short as it was, it didn't give her too much grief on long missions, and at least this time she'd donned her helmet so that her bangs didn't cause her additional trouble. “You usually work with the X-wing units, don't you?”
“Yes, Ensign. But everybody's being shifted around to cross-train while we have some downtime. I put in a request to work with the Eta-Fives today.”
Syal eyed his datapad. “Is there a problem with my interceptor?”
“Not exactly.” He moved close and lowered his voice so the rest of the crew couldn't make out his words. “Actually, I just wanted to bring you some greetings from home.”
She gave him a sharp look. “Greetings from Ralltiir?”
“Greetings,” he said, “from Corellia. Perhaps we should talk somewhere private.”
An hour later, VibroSword Leader, a tall human with graying hair and features suggesting that he was an actor hired to play a squadron leader, leaned over the interrogation table toward Syal and asked, “So you shot him.”
Beside him sat a human woman, dark-skinned, with big eyes that looked bright and uncritical enough to belong to someone much younger; Syal had never seen her before. She wore civilian clothes all in blacks and light blues. Her face was expressionless, though her eyes were on Syal, awaiting her response.
Syal nodded. Her face felt tight, especially around her eyes, from the brief bit of crying she'd done when no one was looking, and her bangs, now lank with perspiration, flopped into her eyes. She wished that VibroSword Leader would just take his chair and stay in it. All his standing up, doubtless to appear to be more intimidating, was getting on her nerves. Plus, she could use a friend right now, and it sure wasn't him.
“I still don't understand,” the woman said. “Why did you shoot him?”
“He lunged for my blaster pistol,” Syal said.
“Why did you have a blaster pistol?” Leader asked.
“So I could take him into custody.”
“No,” the woman said. “You took it out to take him into custody. Why did you have it in the first place?”
“I always do,” Syal explained. “When I got old enough to begin dating, my father insisted that I carry one.” That was a small lie. Her father had insisted that she carry two. But she'd made do with one most of the time since leaving home.
“And you drew on him because he was trying to suborn you,” the woman continued.
Syal nodded. “ 'Do a few things for us,' he said, meaning the Corellians.”
The woman looked skeptical. “Ensign Dunton, you're a very low-ranking officer in a carrier full of people who could do the GA more harm than you if they were turned. Why you? What makes you so vulnerable to this sort of attempt?”
“Your leg,” Leader said.
“What?” Syal turned an uncomprehending expression on him.
“Your leg,” he repeated.
Syal looked down. Her right leg was vibrating again. She glared at it and it stopped.
“Answer the question, please,” the woman said.
“I'm . . .” Syal looked at her, then turned apologetic eyes toward Leader. “I'm Corellian.”
He glanced toward his datapad. “Right. Born on Corellia. Raised on Ralltiir.”
“No. Born on Corellia . . . raised on Corellia. The recruiting officer assumed, and put down, that I was raised on Ralltiir because I have Ralltiir citizenship. But I didn't get it the usual way. I bought it.”
The woman said, “What else in your record is incorrect?”
“Nothing. But Lysa Dunton, well
, that isn't the name I was born with.”
Leader scowled at her and sat again. “You achieved an officer's rank on a falsified name. We're deep into court-martial territory here.”
“No, Lysa Dunton is my real name. I changed it, legally, at a court on Ralltiir that is known for being horribly disorganized. I knew it would take years for the records to reach the GA military. I changed it to avoid comparisons with my father, so I could achieve a reputation of my own.”
“What's your real—” The woman checked herself. “Your original name?”
“Syal Antilles.”
Both the woman and Leader blinked. The woman reacted first. “Corellian. Antilles. You aren't by chance—”
“He's my father.”
“And Iella Antilles your mother.”
“I'm surprised you know that name.”
The woman nodded. “So the mechanic tries to persuade you to perform unspecified actions for the Corellian government.”
Syal nodded. “And he threatened to do things to my family if I didn't comply.”
Leader gave Syal a hard start. “So you've just gotten your family killed. You refused; that agent's superiors will now begin the purge. Good going.”
Syal settled back in her chair, putting a precious few more centimeters' distance between herself and her squadron leader. “I hope not.”
“The smart thing to do,” Leader said, “would have been to go along with whatever he said and bring Intelligence in later.”
Syal shook her head. “I'm no good at that sort of thing. Don't you think I know what I'm capable of? My mother was in Intelligence. My sister got those genes, I guess. I wouldn't be able to pull it off, and in the meantime, that man would have been free on this ship, maybe sabotaging the starfighters of my friends. No, that's not smarter.” Syal heard her voice rise in indignation.
“I'll tell you what,” Leader said. “We'll look into this. If you're lying, you get a dishonorable discharge and whatever criminal punishment you deserve. If you're telling the truth, things are much better. You get an honorable discharge and can go home to Corellia and fly with your daddy's squadrons . . . and give us a crack at you. Either way, this is the last day you'll wear the Galactic Alliance uniform. Dismissed.”
STAR WARS: BETRAYAL Page 29