"Actually," Mon Mothma said, "I think it isn't soon enough."
Leia tugged at her skirt. She had even worn her hair in the long-outdated style, braids wrapped around her ears, in defiance of the new Senate members—as a sign that Chief of State Leia Organa Solo was once Leia Organa, princess, senator, and Rebel leader. Han had kissed her roughly before she left their apartments and had grinned at her. Well, Your Worship, does this mean I get to go back to being a scoundrel?
She had laughingly pushed him away, but his words echoed even as Mon Mothma spoke. Perhaps Leia was the problem. Perhaps she was not willing to move forward.
Perhaps she was the one unwilling to let go of the past.
"All right," she said, straightening, a leader once more. "Let's get on with this."
Mon Mothma did not move toward the door. "One more thing," she said. "Remember that whatever tone you set at the opening remarks of this Senate will be the focus of the debate for years to come."
"I know," Leia said. She reached for the door when a wave of deep cold smashed into her. She froze. Voices screamed—hundreds, no—thousands of voices, so faint she could barely hear them. Then she saw a face form on the golden door, a white face with black, empty eyes. The face was concave, almost skeletal, like the death masks she had seen in a museum on Alderaan in her youth. Only, unlike them, this one moved. It smiled, and the cold grew deeper.
Then the voices ceased, and Leia collapsed against the door.
Mon Mothma hurried to her side, and grabbed Leia, staggering as she attempted to support her weight. "Leia?"
Leia was still cold. Colder than she had ever been on Hoth. Her teeth were chattering. She reached with her limited Force training and found her children in the apartments, just as they should have been.
"Luke," she whispered. Leia freed herself from Mon Mothma's hold, and headed toward the old communications control. She contacted Yavin 4, only to be told Luke was in his X-wing.
"Leia, what is it?" Mon Mothma asked.
Leia didn't answer. She waited to be patched into Luke's X-wing. Soon his voice filled the room. "Leia?" he asked, as if he had been worried too.
"I'm fine, Luke," she said, relief filling her.
"I'm coming to you. Wait for me."
But she couldn't wait. She had to know. "You felt it too, didn't you? What was that?"
"Alderaan," he whispered, and that was all she needed to know.
The image of Alderaan filled her mind, Alderaan as she had last seen it on the Death Star, beautiful and serene, in the seconds before it was smashed to bits.
"No!" she said. "Luke?"
"I'll be there soon, Leia," he said, and signed off. She wasn't ready for him to disappear so soon. She needed him. Something awful had happened, like the destruction of Alderaan.
And she had felt it.
"What happened, Leia?" Mon Mothma put her arms around Leia. Leia's shivering had stopped.
"Something terrible," Leia said. She reached out, touched the cool gold door, straightened, and stood. "There's death in that chamber, Mon Mothma."
"Leia—"
"Luke is coming here. He felt something too."
"Then trust him," Mon Mothma said. "He'd know if you were in immediate danger."
But he hadn't known. He had been as relieved to hear from her as she had been to hear from him. Her mouth was dry. "Send someone for Han, would you?"
Mon Mothma nodded. "I suppose you want to put off the opening session."
More than anything. But Leia straightened her shoulders, rubbed her cold hands together, and checked her braids a final time. "No," she said. "You were right. I have to be careful of the message I send. I'm going in. But let's double the guards this afternoon, and step up security on Coruscant. Also, get Admiral Ackbar to scan for anything unusual in nearby space."
"What are you afraid of?" Mon Mothma asked.
Alderaan flashed before Leia's vision at the moment of explosion, a flare of brilliant, horrible light. "I don't know," she said. "Maybe a Death Star, or a Sun Crusher. Something that could destroy us all."
THREE
Han sat in the back corner of the smoke-filled room. He hadn't been in this casino since he won the planet Dathomir in a game of sabacc before he married Leia. The casino had changed hands at least fifteen times since then—now it was calling itself the Crystal Jewel, a misnomer if he'd ever heard one—but it looked no different. The air smelled of damp decay mixed with smoke and alcohol. A mediocre band played Tatooine blues with a decided disinterest. All around him, conversation rose and fell with the fortunes at the sabacc tables.
He clutched a pale blue Gizer ale, which he had snatched off a servo droid. Han's companion, Jarril, had disappeared a few moments ago, searching for the bar. Han wasn't sure if Jarril would be back.
Han was watching the sabacc game at the nearest table, where a Gotal was betting all it owned. As it slid the chips across the table, it shed piles of gray hair. Most Gotals had learned to control their shedding. This one had to be extremely nervous.
Its companions didn't seem to notice. The Brubb, a large brown reptile, was scratching its knobby hide, leaving scales all over the floor, its tail knocking the mechanical base of a nearby servo droid. The two-armed Ssty was counting her cards, her claws making indentations in each. The tiny Tin-Tin Dwarf stood on its chair, its ratlike features focused on the pile in the center of the table.
The dealer droids had been upgraded since Han's last visit. This dealer was bolted to the ceiling, but unlike its predecessors, it could slide down to table height and knock aside an unruly player. The dealer had done just that after Jarril left, and had riveted Han's attention. He had never seen such an aggressive droid before. Although he had to admit, they were needed in a place like this.
"The line was incredible." Jarril slipped back into his chair at the table. He had two drinks, both bright green. Neither looked appealing.
Han wrapped his hands around his Gizer ale. "I'd've waited if I'd known you were buying."
Jarril shrugged. He was a small man with narrow shoulders, and a face scarred from years of harsh living. Han had always envied Jarril's hands, though. They were smuggler's hands, with long, thin, tapered fingers, perfect for piloting, blasting, and those forms of gambling that required dexterity. "More for me," Jarril said.
The smuggler's credo. Han grinned. It'd been too long since he'd been in a place like this. He probably wouldn't even have answered Jarril's contact if it hadn't been for Leia. She had looked like that sharp-tongued princess he'd rescued back when he'd been an equally sharp-tongued scoundrel. Sometimes he missed that part of himself more than he cared to admit.
Han slid his chair back so that it hit the wall. He wore a blaster at his hip, having learned almost before he could walk that no sane man entered a place like this without protection. Besides, he didn't really know the reason behind Jarril's visit.
"I don't believe you came to Coruscant just to buy me a drink," Han said. He didn't bother to mention that the Jarril of old would never have bought anyone anything. A lot had changed about his old colleague, including the price of the man's clothes. Jarril used to wear shirts until they fell off him. This one was made of a dyed green gaberwool, a singularly ugly garment despite its obvious newness.
"I didn't," Jarril said. He downed one green drink, coughed, wiped his mouth, and grinned. His teeth glowed for a moment before he licked the liquid off them. "I came to tell you about an opportunity."
This was rich. An opportunity. For Han Solo, hero of the Alliance, husband, father, and family man. "I've got opportunities," Han said, and immediately wondered what they were.
"Yeah, sure." Jarril pushed a strand of hair off his pocked forehead. "I gotta admit you stayed legit a lot longer than I woulda thought. I figured six months with the princess and you and Chewie would be back on the Falcon, heading for parts unknown."
"There's enough to keep me busy here," Han said.
"Busy, maybe," Jarril said. "But it's a wast
e of talent if you ask me. You and Chewie were the best pirates I knew."
Han slid one hand to his blaster and rested his fingers against the trigger. "I haven't been away that long, Jarril. I still don't con easily. What do you want?"
Jarril leaned close. His breath smelled of mint, ale, and cream candy. "There's money out there, Han. More money than we ever dreamed of."
"I don't know," Han said. "I can dream of a lot."
"So can I." Jarril's voice was so soft Han could barely hear it over the band. "And I can't spend all I got."
"Congratulations," Han said. "You want me to propose a toast?"
"You're not interested, are you?" Jarril asked. He had a curiously intent look.
"Maybe I would have been years ago, Jarril, but I've got a life now."
"Some life," Jarril said. "Sitting around all day, watching the babies while the little woman runs her own private empire."
Han leaned forward and grabbed the collar of Jarril's shirt in one quick, practiced movement. "Watch it, pal."
Jarril grimaced in a vain attempt to smile. His eyes shifted from Han's face to his hidden hand and back again. Good. Han hadn't lost any of his reputation during the time away. "Didn't mean anything by it, Solo," Jarril said. "Just making conversation, you know?"
Han tightened his grip on Jarril's shirt. "What do you want?"
"I want help, Han."
Han let Jarril go. Jarril slammed back into his seat. He grabbed his second glass, gulped down the hideous green contents, and wiped his mouth. Han waited, finger still on the trigger. Smugglers never asked each other for help. Sometimes they conned their friends into assistance, but they never asked.
Jarril had been conning him. It just hadn't been working.
Jarril licked his teeth, and took another glass off the passing servo droid.
"Make it quick," Han said. "The little lady expects me home, dinner done, when she arrives." He tilted his chair back on two legs, his head resting against the wall. "I make a mean Smuggler's Pie."
Jarril held up his hands. "I'm not kidding you, Han. About any of it. The money—"
"You said you needed help."
"I think we all do." Jarril lowered his voice again. "That money comes with a price. I never seen so much money in my life."
"I got it," Han said. "You're rich. That brings its own problems. I know. I'm not in the mood for whining."
"I'm not whining," Jarril said, his voice rising in protest.
"Sounds like it to me, pal."
"No, you don't get it, Han. People are dying. Good people."
"I didn't think you knew any good people, Jarril."
"I know you."
"Are you saying someone's threatening me?"
"No." Jarril looked over his shoulder.
"Leia?"
"No!" Jarril scooted his chair closer. Han had to adjust the blaster angle. "Look, Han, anyone in the business with brains has made a fortune in the last few months. Everyone we know, and people you never met. Rich. Smuggler's Run isn't the same place anymore. There's more credits in the Run than the Hutts could spend in a lifetime."
"So?"
"So?" Jarril downed his last drink. "So it all seemed wonderful at first. Then a few Runners didn't come back. Stand-up folks. Like you and Calrissian."
Han suppressed a smile. In the old days, he and Lando had been considered odd because they occasionally helped another smuggler in distress. "Where were these Runners when they failed to come back?"
Jarril shrugged. "I didn't think nothing of it at first until I realized that the folks who were in the business for the adventure and for the money were the ones disappearing. It made me think of you, old buddy."
"Me?"
"Well, I was thinking, you know, maybe you and Chewie could see what's going on. Unofficially. Maybe."
"I've got a life," Han said.
Jarril bit his lower lip, as if he were struggling not to speak. Finally he said, "That's why I came here. You know people. Maybe you could find out what's going on. Unofficially."
"Since when does Smuggler's Run need legitimate help?"
"It can't be legit!" Jarril's stunned voice rose above all the other sounds in the casino.
The conversation halted. Han grinned at the faces that turned toward him, all of them pretending disinterest and hoping for blood. He was half-tempted to wave his blaster at them.
"You see something you don't like?" Han asked the Ssty who was peering over the back of her chair at him. She shook her angular fur-covered face.
He raised his eyebrows and scanned the rest of the room, silently asking the entire crowd the same question. One by one they turned away.
Han waited until the conversation rose before continuing. "If it can't be legit, why come to me at all?"
"Because you and Chewie are the only ones I know who can go between Smuggler's Run and the Republic, no questions asked."
"What about Lando? Talon Karrde? Mara Jade?"
"Karrde doesn't want anything to do with this. Jade's been with Calrissian, and you know about him and Nandreeson."
"Can't say as I do," Han said. He was lying. He knew of it, but he thought the matter had been settled years ago.
"C'mon, Solo. Don't make this hard. Nandreeson's had a price on Calrissian since the days of the Empire."
"It couldn't have been a big price. Everyone knows where Lando is."
"Calrissian's good at making friends," Jarril said. "But he doesn't dare go into the Run."
"And you think the problem is in Smuggler's Run?"
"I think some answers might be there."
Han sighed and let his fingers relax on the blaster trigger. "How come you don't go after this yourself, Jarril?"
Jarril shrugged. "There's no profit in it."
"Jarril," Han said, his voice low and menacing.
Jarril took a deep breath and leaned as close as he could. "Because," he said, his voice just above a whisper, "I'm in too deep, Han. Way too deep."
C-3PO stood outside the nursery, recovering. He had spent the morning with the twins, Jacen and Jaina, and their brother, Anakin. This morning had been particularly difficult for 3PO. The children had planned their assault the night before. They had not done their homework on the origins of the Old Republic, and to distract 3PO, they had staged a small food fight.
The distraction had succeeded. 3PO, covered with salthia beans and curdled milk, tried to discover how the food fight had started. He kept asking how food got into the nursery, although as the fight progressed, he bemoaned the children's lack of discipline.
The lack of discipline became most evident when Mistress Leia and Master Solo left. They were indulgent parents. Winter, who had helped raise all three children from infancy, at least understood the value of discipline.
Fortunately, she had arrived before Anakin located his slingshot.
She had eased 3PO out the door and told him to rest. He had tried to inform her that droids did not need rest, but she had smiled at him knowingly. Long after she had shut the nursery door, he still stood outside it, perhaps confused by the order to rest, or perhaps unwilling to leave the scene of the latest disaster.
The entry to the nursery belied the chaos within. The room was octagonal, with chairs resting against each small wall. It had once been a listening chamber off an important meeting room. The room was rarely used as more than a hallway. No one sat in the chairs, and the children did little more than skate across the marble in their stocking feet. The cleaning droid assigned to this wing had complained of streak marks more than once.
A clatter in the hallway made 3PO look up. The clatter resolved itself into whirring footsteps. The door slid up, and a nanny droid glided in. Her four hands were clasped over her aproned stomach. Her silver eyes glowed and her mouth turned upward in a permanent look of good humor.
"C-3PO?" Her voice was modulated for warmth. "I am TD-L3.5. I am here to replace you as the children's nanny."
"Oh, dear." 3PO looked over his shoulder
at the nursery door. "I was not informed of this."
"It is," the nanny droid said, "an unusual situation, after all. A protocol droid caring for children? You have no synthetic flesh, no hug circuitry, and, quite frankly, my dear, you are out-of-date. A few upgraded protocol droids have the programming to handle such a difficult assignment, but—"
"I assure you," 3PO said. "I have served these children well."
"I am sure you have." The nanny droid was clearly humoring him. "And I am sure you will be well rewarded for your service. But I am here to replace you."
"I have heard nothing of this replacement," 3PO said.
"Droids are never informed—"
"I have a special place in this family. I cannot be dismissed like a—a—"
"A rusting sanitation droid?" The nanny droid clucked at him. "Certainly we overrate our importance, don't we?"
"I do not overrate my importance!" 3PO said. "I daresay I am the most humble droid I know."
"As you have told me quite often." Winter leaned against the doorjamb, her tall frame filling it.
Jaina peeked out of Winter's skirts. "How can he be humble if that's all he talks about?" Jaina asked.
“Hush, child," Winter said.
"Mistress Winter," 3PO said. "I do believe protocol demands that if you're to replace me, you inform me first."
"You're getting rid of 3PO?" Jacen asked. He came to the door, his seven-year-old face a replica of Master Solo's. "Really, Winter, you should know better. We pick on him, but that's only because we like him."
"I wasn't planning to get rid of him," Winter said. She brushed a strand of her snow-white hair away from her face. "And neither were your parents."
"I was ordered specifically for this nursery," the nanny droid said. "I am TD-L3.5, and I am here to replace C-3PO according to instruction code Bantha Four Five Six."
"Bantha?" Winter asked. "That's not a family code."
"It's not my fault!" Anakin yelled from the other room.
"I don't think he liked it when you decided he was too old for The Little Lost Bantha Cub," Jacen whispered to 3PO.
"Really," 3PO said. "That story outlived its usefulness years ago. Why, just last week, I heard Master Solo express relief that none of you children wanted to hear it anymore."
Star Wars - The New Rebellion Page 2
