by Timothy Zahn
Artoo whistled and searched some more. A half-dozen more systems scrolled across the display—
“Wait a minute,” Luke said. “Back up one—Cejansij system. See if there are any pictures in the datafile.”
The display backed up, then altered to a succession of orbital, aerial, and ground pictures. Luke watched as they went past … and by the time the series came to an end, he knew it was the place. “That’s it,” he said. “The Canyonade on Cejansij. That’s where we’re going.”
The droid twittered uncertainly, his question scrolling across the bottom of the display. “I don’t know why,” Luke told him. “I just know I need to go there.”
There was another twitter, this one sounding slightly incredulous. “To be honest, I don’t understand it myself,” Luke conceded. “I saw a lot of things in that vision, things that are happening or maybe are about to happen. I saw my students leaving the academy—why, I don’t know. I saw Leia and Han in some kind of trouble—”
The droid warbled anxiously, and another question appeared. “No, I don’t know if Threepio was with them,” Luke told him. “The point is that there are a lot of places out there we could go where I might be able to affect things. Too many places.”
He pointed at the view of the vast canyon. “But the Canyonade is the only place where I actually saw myself. The one part of the vision where I felt peace.”
He looked out at the stars again. “So that’s where we’ll go.”
For a moment there was silence. Then Artoo warbled again. “Point taken,” Luke agreed with a smile. “If we’re going to go, let’s stop dithering and go.”
Besides which, he told himself as they headed for the docking bay, Leia’s a Jedi in her own right. She can take care of herself. And Han’s got a long history of beating the odds, too. And Rogue Squadron could manage without him, and wherever his Jedi students had been going they surely had a good reason for doing so. Whatever this trip to Cejansij was all about, all of them could do without him for a while.
Forty minutes later, once again in space, he pulled the hyperdrive lever and sent the X-wing jumping to lightspeed. Trying hard not to think about the vision he’d had of Mara.
CHAPTER
13
Ceok Orou’cya, First Secretary of the Combined Bothan Clans, was urbane, polite, and completely gracious. But beneath the polish, as near as Leia could tell, he also seemed genuinely surprised by her visit.
And beneath the surprise, she suspected, was a great deal of worry.
“You must understand my position here, Councilor Organa Solo,” he said for the third time as he ushered Leia, Han, and Threepio past the outer reception station and into the sumptuous three-story lobby/atrium that filled the front third of the Combined Clans Center Building. “Your visit, unannounced this way, is highly irregular. Your request”—his fur twitched despite obvious efforts to control it—“is even more so.”
“You have the letter from Gavrisom,” Han put in gruffly. “You have the letter from Fey’lya. What more do you want?”
The secretary threw a sideways look at Han, and despite the seriousness of the situation Leia had to fight to keep from smiling. Han was at his absolutely most intimidating: standing stiff and tall, scowling unblinkingly, his hand resting on the blaster holstered at his side. The knuckles of his gunhand were slightly whitened with pressure as he gripped the weapon, a subtlety she’d suggested to him on the trip here from Coruscant and one that clearly wasn’t lost on its intended audience.
He would have been even more intimidating with Barkhimkh and Sakhisakh standing there beside him. But Bothans didn’t much like Noghri, and Leia had decided this situation was ticklish enough already without that extra strain. The two Noghri were lurking somewhere outside, a quick comlink call away if they were needed.
But she wasn’t expecting them to be. Between the official weight she was bringing to bear and the threat of more physical consequences from Han, they had Orou’cya in a tight squeeze already. With luck, that should give them a good chance of getting to the financial records before anyone was able to hide or alter them.
“I personally need nothing more, Captain Solo,” the secretary said. “The problem is that only one of the Combined Clan leaders may grant authorization to see the records you are requesting, and none are on this part of Bothawui at present.”
Han took another step toward him. “You’ve got the letter from President Gavrisom—”
“Please.” Leia held up a hand. “Secretary Orou’cya, I understand your situation. I believe that there may be another way out of the problem. Do I understand correctly that in his capacity as New Republic representative Councilor Fey’lya would also have access to the financial records we seek?”
The Bothan’s eyes darted between the two of them, clearly suspecting a trap. “I believe he does,” he answered cautiously. “I would have to check the regulations.”
Leia looked at Han, lifted her eyebrows slightly. “Here,” Han said, thrusting a datacard at the secretary. “I’ve marked the place.”
Orou’cya started to take the card, hesitated, then dropped his hand back to his side. “I’ll accept your word on that,” he said. “But I don’t see how that point is relevant. Councilor Fey’lya isn’t here, and a mere letter cannot extend such privileges to another person.”
“True,” Leia said with a nod. “However, such privileges do extend to Councilor Fey’lya’s personal possessions, do they not?”
Orou’cya frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean possessions such as his personal computers,” Leia said. “Or his droids.”
The Bothan looked at Threepio, and this time the fur definitely flattened. “His—? But—”
Han nudged his shoulder with the datacard. “That part’s marked, too.”
“And here’s the record of Fey’lya’s ownership,” Leia added, producing another datacard.
Mechanically, Orou’cya took the two datacards, his eyes on the golden droid standing silent and aloof with quiet hauteur.
At least, that’s what Leia hoped he saw. In actual fact, Threepio was being aloof and silent for the simple reason that he was too embarrassed and chagrined for words. It was bad enough, he’d complained over and over on the trip here, that Luke had “given” him to Jabba the Hutt during their rescue of Han on Tatooine. But to be summarily sold to a Bothan diplomat without any notice whatsoever was an utter disgrace.
It didn’t matter to him that the sale was only on datafile and not genuine. As far as he was concerned, the deceit involved only made it worse.
But Orou’cya didn’t know that. “I see,” the Bothan said, his voice rather flat, his eyes still on Threepio. “I …” He trailed off.
“Records room’s on the third floor, right?” Han demanded into the silence.
“If you’d rather wait down here,” Leia added, “I’m sure we can find what we’re looking for by ourselves.”
Orou’cya’s fur seemed to wilt. “No, I must escort you,” he murmured. “Follow me, please.”
He led them across the atrium to a wide, free-span ceremonial stairway arching gracefully between the first and second floors, apparently the only route from the more or less public departments on the first floor to the private offices and meeting rooms above. At the top of the stairway was a wide overlook balcony, also clearly designed with ceremony in mind.
Ceremonial or not, though, the Bothans hadn’t scrimped on security. A pair of armed guards stood at the bottom of the staircase, and Leia could see the camouflaged poles of a static barrier built into the banisters on either side a few steps up.
She also wondered how many of the privacy-glazed office windows peeking through the short trees and bushy borscii and kafvris vines from the top two floors had hidden guards watching the stairway and the atrium. Knowing the Bothans, probably at least one of them.
But no one, hidden guards or otherwise, interfered as Orou’cya led the party to the top of the staircase, then along a corrid
or to a more standard set of stairs leading to the third floor, and finally to a door marked simply ARCHIVES. There the secretary paused; but if he was having second thoughts, they weren’t going to be given time to ripen. Brushing past him, Han opened the door and went in.
Five other Bothans were in the room, seated at various data retrieval stations. All of them were looking at the door as Leia stepped inside behind Han with expressions and postures that could have been either surprise or guilt. “That one will do,” Leia said, pointing to an unoccupied retrieval station near the door. “Go ahead and get started, Threepio.”
Silently, Threepio shuffled off toward the station. “Thank you, Secretary Orou’cya,” Leia added to their escort. “We’ll call you if we need any further assistance.”
“I will be available for whatever you require,” Orou’cya said. Turning, he left the room, closing the door behind him.
Beside Leia, Han made a rude-sounding noise. “You’d think Fey’lya would have mentioned in his letter that we’re on their side here,” he muttered.
“I’m sure he did,” Leia agreed. “But these are Bothans. They see hidden blades everywhere.”
Han grimaced. “Especially coming from other Bothans.”
“It’s how their internal politics work,” Leia reminded him, squeezing his arm. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”
• • •
The order had specified a large crowd, and Navett had assured Major Tierce that his team could deliver. But now, looking at the edges of the crowd that he could see from his rooftop vantage point—a crowd that had already overflowed all available standing space in the Merchant’s Square—even he was impressed. This time Klif had definitely outdone himself.
“Navett?” Pensin’s voice came from the tiny speaker in Navett’s left ear. “Looks like they’re ready to move.”
“Right,” Navett said, moving the attached microphone a little closer to his lips. It was a military-style comlink, scavenged from a stormtrooper helmet, and would probably be trouble if he was caught with it. But the hands-free design was more private and convenient than standard civilian cylinder types, with a better real-time encryption. Anyway, he wasn’t planning to get caught. “You’d better get in position. What’s the makeup like?”
“It’s a real mix this time,” Pensin said. “Got a bunch of spacers of all types from the port area, but there are a lot of shoppers and merchants, too. Everything from human to Ishori and Rodian. Got a bunch of Froffli, too—I can see those stupid hair spurs poking up above the rest of the crowd.”
“Good.” Aside from the general hotheadedness of the species itself, the Froffli government was one of the few that had already come out publicly for sanctions against the Bothans. A species grounded on vindictiveness; and the fact that the Bothans had spent the past fifteen years systematically grinding the Froffli light-machinery industry to dust certainly hadn’t helped matters. “Make sure you’re out of their way when they start their charge.”
“Don’t worry,” Pensin said dryly. “Oops—okay, there they go. Next stop, the Combined Clans Building. You all set?”
“All set,” Navett said, stroking the stock of the Nightstinger sniper’s blaster rifle lying on the roof beside him. “Let’s do it.”
• • •
“Shh,” Han said, frowning with concentration. “You hear that?”
Leia looked up from the retrieval station. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“It sounded like thunder,” Han said, straining his ears. “Or a crowd or—there it is again.”
“It’s a crowd,” Leia said, that Jedi look on her face. “And they’re getting louder.”
Han looked at the other Bothans in the room. None of them seemed to have noticed the noise. “Must be pretty good-sized if we can hear them all the way in here.”
The Jedi look was getting more intense. “I don’t like this, Han,” she said. “There’s something not right here.”
“Maybe it’s one of those demonstrations that have been cropping up lately,” Han said, moving toward the door. “Stay here—I’ll go check it out.”
The Bothans in the archive room might not have figured out what was happening, but the rest of the building was already on it. The corridor outside was alive with hurrying Bothans, some carrying boxes of datacards or other equipment, others just hurrying. Crossing past an overview that looked down on the atrium, he saw what seemed to be the entire first-floor staff hustling up the big ceremonial stairway, most of them carrying boxes and equipment, too.
A handful of Bothans were bucking the trend, heading down the stairs. All of that group were carrying blasters.
The atrium, Han decided, didn’t look like a particularly good place to be at the moment. Fortunately, he wasn’t going to have to go down there. Both the second and third floors had observation balconies facing the front of the building where he’d be able to assess the situation. Threading his way through the hurrying Bothans, he headed that direction. A bit of trial and error to find which office the balcony was connected to, and he pushed open the sliding privacy-glass door and looked outside.
It was worse than he’d feared. The crowd was huge, filling the entire street as humans and aliens continued to stream toward the building. He stepped out onto the balcony for a better look; and as he did so, a figure near the front of the crowd shouted and waved wildly as he pointed up. Automatically, Han’s hand dropped to his blaster—
“Citizens of the New Republic,” a deep Bothan voice called from somewhere nearby. “I respectfully appeal to you for calm.”
The crowd responded with even more noise, none of it sounding especially calm or respectful. Stepping to the edge of his balcony, Han craned his neck and looked down at the second-floor balcony beneath him. There he was: a distinguished-looking elderly male Bothan wearing the elaborate sigil and signet of a clan leader. “No clan leaders on this part of Bothawui, huh?” Han muttered, straightening up again. He was no expert, but it sure didn’t look like the sort of mob that a little Bothan sugar-talk would do much for.
Which suggested the smart thing would be for him to get back inside and back to Leia. Just in case. Giving the crowd one last look, he started to turn away.
The front of the crowd had reached the Combined Clans Building now, the people behind them pushing and jostling past and filling in around the sides. Resting the stock of his blaster rifle against his shoulder, Navett squinted experimentally through the macrobinocular sight running along the barrel. Almost time …
And then, just as he’d known they would, the Bothans sent a representative onto the lower balcony to talk to the mob. The figure lifted his hands for silence—without any noticeable effect, of course—and Navett was just beginning to line up his crosshairs when another figure appeared, this one on the upper balcony.
A human? Frowning, Navett shifted his aim upward and tightened his focus …
And felt his eyes widen in disbelief. Han Solo—it was Han Solo. Hero of the Rebellion, New Republic shipping liaison, and general all-around troublemaker. And there he was, standing on a balcony right in front of him.
Navett had always considered himself to be leading a charmed life; but sometimes even he couldn’t believe his own luck.
“Navett?” Pensin’s voice came excitedly in his ear. “Up on the top balcony—”
“I see him,” Navett said, striving to sound cool and professional. Han Solo himself. This was just too good to be true.
“So which one do we do?”
Navett smiled tightly. “Both, of course. You’ve got a spare, don’t you?”
“Well, yes—”
“So we do both,” Navett told him. “And we start with Solo. Give me a count.”
“Right,” Pensin said. “Five seconds, four, three—”
Han had been gone only a few seconds when the door suddenly bounced open again. “Councilor Organa Solo,” Secretary Orou’cya said, breathing heavily. “We desperately need your assistance. There is a mob moving on
this building.”
“Yes, I know,” Leia said. “What is it you want me to do?”
“Defend us, of course,” the Bothan snapped, jabbing a hand at the lightsaber hanging unobtrusively beneath her loose overjacket. “Are you not a Jedi?”
Leia suppressed a sigh. There were still so many people out there who refused to see Jedi in any role except that of armed defender or combatant. “Perhaps I could try talking to them,” she suggested gently.
“Askar Clan Leader Rayl’skar has already gone to do that,” Orou’cya said, fur rippling with nervous impatience. “Please—they may break in at any time.”
“All right,” Leia said, standing up. So much for there being no clan leaders on this part of Bothawui; but this wasn’t the time to bring that up. “Threepio, you’d better come, too.”
“Me?” the droid gasped, cringing back as only Threepio could do. “But—Mistress Leia—”
“I might need you to translate,” Leia cut him off. “Let’s go.”
They had to buck the general flow of Bothans streaming upward as they descended the main stairway. “Mistress Leia—there seems to be some considerable concern among the residents here,” Threepio called over the hurrying feet and the rumble of the crowd outside. “Might I suggest we reconsider our strategy?”
“There won’t be any trouble,” Leia assured him, grabbing hold of one of his arms to keep them from getting separated. “Most of the time the worst these demonstrators have done is to throw spoiled fruit and stones. If I can persuade them that their concerns are being considered, maybe I can get them to disperse without even doing that much.”
They reached the bottom of the stairway, easing through the three-deep cordon of Bothan guards blocking off the lower end, and hurried toward the front doors. “I merely thought we might wish to reevaluate,” Threepio continued, his rapidity of speech increasing with his nervousness, which was increasing with roughly every other step. “There are two balconies we could speak from, after all, and even spoiled produce properly placed can be hazardous to the inner workings of a droid—”