by James Luceno
Quite unexpectedly his photoreceptors zeroed in on Master Solo. Conversing with a. . . why, a Ryn, of all species.
As C-3PO hastened toward them he couldn’t help but note that Master Han and the Ryn looked somewhat the worse for wear, as did the shuttle they had obviously exited, accompanied by a mixed lot of woebegone beings and a red-capped R2 unit. And, in fact, Master Solo and the Ryn weren’t so much conversing as arguing.
“See you around,” the Ryn was concluding as C-3PO neared.
“Not if I can help it, partner,” Han said, in a manner that held little sympathy.
“Master Solo!” C-3PO called, waving an arm over his head. “Master Solo!”
Han turned and saw him, then snorted a laugh—not at all as surprised as C-3PO might have expected him to be. But then, he had been made aware of Mistress Leia and C-3PO’s impending visit to Ord Mantell. So perhaps he had come looking for them.
“Master Solo, you’re injured,” C-3PO exclaimed, on seeing dried blood on his hands and face.
“Could’ve been a lot worse,” Han replied with his usual penchant for understatement. “Where’s Leia, Threepio?”
“Why, she’s at the Hotel Grand as we Speak, sir.”
Han thought for a minute, eyes narrowing as he glanced at C-3PO. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of your not mentioning you ran into me?”
C-3PO inclined his head in perplexity.
“No, I suppose not,” Han said, answering for himself. He blew out his breath. “In that case, I guess you’d better lead me to her.”
EIGHTEEN
“I still can’t believe you’re here,” Leia said as she applied a transdermal bacta patch to a nasty abrasion above Han’s right eyebrow. Han was seated at the vanity in Leia’s elegant hotel room, with Leia leaning over him and C-3PO standing silently in the background. Olmahk and Basbakhan had posted themselves at the door. “Where’s your friend Roa?”
Han spoke through gritted teeth. “That’s an excellent question, Leia. He got sucked into some sort of Yuuzhan Vong snakeship that latched on to the Jubilee Wheel.”
Leia placed her hands on his shoulders. “Oh, Han, no.”
“Maybe he’s only been captured,” Han vented. “But that’s even worse.” He clenched his jaw and shook his head back and forth.
“Did you two accomplish what you set out to do?”
Leia asked guardedly.
Han’s eyes found hers in the vanity mirror. “The enemy interrupted us,”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Leia averted her gaze and returned to smoothing the bacta patch. “What will you do now?”
Abruptly Han stood up and paced away from the vanity, combing his hair back from his face with his fingers. “I don’t know. Look for him, I guess.”
Leia regarded him with disbelief. “Look for him? How do you intend to do that?”
Han shook his head. “I don’t know yet.” He glanced at Leia and scowled. “What do you expect me to do—pretend it never happened?”
“Of course not. I only meant—” Han waved his hand at her. “Ah, how could I expect you to understand?”
Leia folded her arms and squinted. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to lose a friend?”
Han held up a hand. “I don’t need you reminding me about Alderaan or Elegos A’Kla—”
Leia’s eyes flashed. “Have you completely lost your mind? How dare you say that?”
Han met her gaze. “Careful, Leia,” he advised, “I’m not in the best mood.”
Leia clutched her neck in elaborate concern. “And I certainly wouldn’t want my name added to the list of people who have crossed the infamous Han Solo.”
Han pivoted slightly to throw C-3PO a wry glance. “Great little fighter for her weight, don’t you think, Threepio?”
C-3PO stared at him. “Pardon me for asking, sir, but—”
“Are you coming back to Coruscant with us?” Leia asked, planting her fists on her hips.
Han shook his head. “It’s like I told you, Roa and I were interrupted.”
“And you’ve no intention of telling me what this is about.”
Han shrugged.
“What happened to the man who preferred a straight fight to sneaking around?”
Han’s brow furrowed and his jaw dropped a bit. “Who’s sneaking around?”
She frowned in disappointment. “You’ve changed, Han.”
“What are you talking about?” he protested. “I’m the same as ever. Timeproof, weatherproof, rust resistant.”
“You think so?” Leia took him by the shoulders and swung him around to face the mirror. “Take a good look.”
Han fell silent for a moment. “That’s not the years, it’s the parsecs.”
Leia exhaled wearily. “You can be so exasperating.”
He snorted. “Yeah, I guess you wish you’d married some pro zoneball player instead of a smuggler, huh?”
Leia firmed her lips in anger. “That’s not it at all.” She gestured to the window. “It’s reckless of you to be roaming about out there. For all you know, the Yuuzhan Vong have some kind of dossier on you. There might even be a price on your head.”
“I’m not exactly ‘roaming about,’ Leia.”
“Then tell me what you’re doing.”
Han started to say something but stopped himself and began again. “I knew it would be a mistake to come here,” he mumbled.
Leia stepped back in genuine dismay. Now she stopped Han when he started to speak. “You know what I think, Han? I think that you should plot a course around Coruscant until you’ve worked this out. I mean it.”
Han nodded, tight-lipped. “Maybe you’re right, Leia. Maybe that’s for the best.”
She made no attempt to restrain him as he snatched his travel pack from the floor and let himself out. But no sooner did the door seal than she sank to the bed, as if stunned.
“Well, that certainly wasn’t in the plans,” she said flatly to C-3PO.
“The plans, Mistress?”
She looked at him askance. “It’s an expression, Threepio. I didn’t really have any plans.”
C-3PO appeared to slouch. Leia smiled in spite of herself. “Human thinking isn’t all it’s prized to be, Threepio. In fact, sometimes it’s better not to know what’s on someone else’s mind.”
Han placed his hand over the top of the squarish glass to prevent the four-armed bartender from refilling it.
“Alcohol isn’t the answer,” he said.
The Codru-Ji studied him from behind the counter. “What’s the question?”
“How do you change the past?”
“Simple. By changing the way you remember it.”
“Yeah, I suppose I could get my memory wiped.”
The bartender nodded in understanding. “Another whiskey and you’d be well on your way.”
Han ran his hand over his stubbled jaw, then shook his head. “To nowhere.”
The bartender shrugged. “Suit yourself, pal.”
The bar at the Lady Fate Casino was almost empty, but the gaming tables were crowded with people celebrating their good fortune in escaping immolation—perhaps the longest shot any oddsmaker had ever posted. Han figured he, too, would have been in a mood to revel, if not for what had happened to Roa and Fasgo.
But what sense was there in dragging Leia down with him? She wasn’t to blame for their disappearance any more than Anakin was responsible for Chewie’s death—perhaps any more than Reck Desh was. So maybe it was time to forget about searching for Roa or the so-called Peace Brigade and return to Coruscant, where he might even be able to engage in something constructive.
He paid for the drink, tipped the Codru-Ji generously, and was headed for the exit when Big Bunji’s Aqualish lieutenant intercepted him.
“I see you made it off the Wheel in one piece,” Han said with elaborate disappointment.
“Good to see you, too, Solo. Boss B thought you might be found here.”
“Tell Bunji I want to th
ank him for leaving us behind.”
“He sends his apologies. In the haste of the moment, he completely forgot that he had guests.”
Han’s upper lip twitched. “I’ll be sure to tell that to Roa and Fasgo—assuming they survive whatever the Yuuzhan Vong have planned for them.”
The Aqualish nodded inscrutably. “Perhaps this will help, Solo. The boss has learned that the human you were asking about—the one called Reck Desh—has an operation planned for Bilbringi.”
Han’s expression went from anger to wary interest. “What sort of operation?”
“Unknown. Only that it involves the entire Peace Brigade.”
“When?”
“Imminently.”
“Bilbringi, you say.”
“That much is known.”
Han pushed his hair from his forehead and loosed a slow exhale. “Okay, tell Bunji thanks.”
The Aqualish gestured farewell and moved off, and Han returned to the bar to think. Presumably, the Happy Dagger was still docked on the Wheel, but there would be no way of knowing whether it had survived the attack without returning upside. The alternative was to find public transport to Bilbringi and nose around for clues as to what Reck was up to. Leia could probably pull the necessary strings to get him aboard a ship, but he couldn’t ask her without coming clean, and he wasn’t ready to risk that. Not yet, anyway.
But C-3PO. . . C-3PO could arrange for his passage on a Bilbringi-bound vessel.
As per Han’s discreetly relayed request, C-3PO rendezvoused with him at the entrance to the Ord Mantell spaceport.
“Nothing better than a prompt droid,” Han said smiling.
“I must confess, Master Solo,” C-3PO responded anxiously, “that I feel less than right about this—especially about mimicking Leia’s voice to arrange for your passage.”
“Come on, Threepio. You’ve done it before. You did it to fool Grand Admiral Thrawn’s forces.”
“That’s not very reassuring, sir. What’s more, that was a matter of protecting the princess from assassins. This is a matter of protecting you from. . . I’m not quite sure what, Master Solo.”
“I’m not asking you to lie, Threepio,” Han said, dragging the final word out. “I’m only asking you to overlook. If Leia doesn’t ask you about me, then there’s no need for you to say where I’ve gone.”
“But surely she will ask about you, sir.”
“Okay, but she might not ask directly if you have any idea where I went, or where I am.”
“But, sir, what if she does?”
Han considered it. “If she does, you tell her.” He regarded the droid for a moment. “You’d have to, wouldn’t you?”
C-3PO grew jittery. “It’s beyond logic.”
“Exactly,” Han said. “It’s beyond logic. You know, sometimes people are better off not knowing certain things.”
“Sir?”
“Sometimes it’s more painful to know the truth than not to know it.”
C-3PO paid close attention. “Put that way, it doesn’t sound so bad,” he started to say, then made a flustered gesture. “But this matter of stretching the truth is as confusing as ceasing-to-be!”
Han raised an eyebrow. “Ceasing-to-be? What’s a droid doing thinking about death? You can’t die.”
“Perhaps not the way a human can, sir. But I can be deactivated. And what will become of my memories, then—the memories of all I’ve accomplished and all I’ve been through?”
Han stared at him. “Did somebody loosen your motivator or something? If that’s all you’re worried about, we can download your memory to a data storage facility.” He narrowed his gaze with clear intent. “In fact, I just might be willing to arrange for that, Threepio—especially if you’ll agree not to say anything to Leia about Bilbringi.”
C-3PO tipped his head to one side.
“Immortality, Threepio,” Han said enticingly.
“But, sir—”
“It’ll be like having a clone on ice. Your mind winds up in a different body, but you don’t even know you were gone.”
“Oh, I’m confident I could adjust to a new body, sir. After all, I am a mind more than I am a body.”
“That’s the spirit, kid.”
“That’s the spirit,” C-3PO repeated excitedly, then came back to himself. “But, Master Solo, sir, about this ship on which you have passage. There’s something you should know—”
“It’s bound for Bilbringi?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“Then that’s all that matters. Where’s it leave from?”
“Tenders and boarding shuttles are scheduled to depart from Launch Bay 4061 at thirteen hundred hours, local time. But, sir, if you’d just give me a moment to explain—”
“No time, Threepio,” Han said, glancing at a nearby time display. “And thanks—for everything. You won’t regret this.”
C-3PO raised both hands above his head in agitation. “But, sir,” he called out as Han was hurrying off, “it’s the Queen of Empire—a jinxed vessel if ever there was one!”
NINETEEN
Showolter grimaced as he watched the ooglith masquer captured on Wayland envelop and attach itself to Elan, extruding microscopic hooks and tentacles that inserted themselves into pores, sweat ducts, wrinkles, and folds. Naked, Elan had her back turned to him, but he could tell by her contortions and the involuntary flexing of her shipshape muscles that the process of donning the living mantle was excruciating—exquisitely so, according to Elan.
Alert to his curiosity, she had asked him to watch, in a manner that had managed to mix indifference with a hint of flirtation. He could endure only so much of her agonized moaning, however, and turned away to gaze out the safe house’s sole window at a stand of trees, whose high metal content made that part of Myrkr a challenge for transceivers and other communication arrays.
“All finished,” Elan announced stoically, and Showolter turned again to find her clothed not only in the Yuuzhan Vong second-skin but also in the robe he had originally handed her. She looked more human than ever.
Elan massaged her cheeks, forehead, and chin, as one might smooth away creases. “You see, Showolter? No trace of my markings, no evidence of who and what I truly am.”
Showolter realized he’d been holding his breath, and he let it out. “One size cloaker fits all, huh?”
“Why, are you interested in trying it on?”
“No,” he replied quickly. “Just wondering whether there are male and female versions.”
“Why should there be?”
He scratched his head. “Well, not every Yuuzhan Vong could have your shape.”
Elan glanced at Vergere, squatting nearby, and the two traded cryptic smiles. Vergere’s disguise amounted to no more than a loose-fitting garment that concealed her feathered torso and reverse-articulated legs. There wasn’t much that could be done about her exotic face, but with so many folks displaced from the Outer Rim, immigration and customs officials were getting used to seeing new species every day.
“Is there something wrong with my shape, Showolter?” Elan asked at last.
“Quite the opposite.” He laughed awkwardly.
“But surely you object to my facial and torso markings.”
“Frosting,” he said, trying to make it sound like a joke.
She tipped her head and regarded him frankly. “Perhaps you have the makings of a Yuuzhan Vong—despite your reluctance to assume the ooglith masquer.”
“I doubt it. Though I might go as far as getting myself tattooed.”
Her smile straightened. “If you think that the Yuuzhan Vong process is less painful, you’re dead wrong.”
He shrugged nonchalantly. “Sacrifices have to be made.”
“Oh, indeed they do, Showolter.” She let the remark hang in the air for a moment, then added, “But I’m afraid my breath might offend you. It’s somewhat contaminated—”
“From the food,” Vergere interrupted. “We’re not accustomed to eating so much processe
d nourishment.”
Showolter glanced at her. “Sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about that.” He appraised the concealing abilities of the ooglith masquer and gave his head a bemused shake. “A nerf in taopari’s clothing,” he muttered.
Elan’s fine brows beetled.
“A play on a saying,” he explained. “A taopari in nerf’s clothing—a beast disguised as a grazer to infiltrate the herd.”
Elan’s eyes brightened in revelation. “So I’m a grazer in beast’s clothing.”
“I was thinking of the assassin your people sent.”
“Of course you were.”
Showolter cleared his throat and handed her undergarments, a simple dress, a jacket, and shoes. “Anyway, here’s your outfit.”
Elan examined the items one by one. “Who am I supposed to be, Showolter?”
“My wife. We’re refugees, displaced from a planet called Sernpidal, traveling with our servant.”
“That would be me,” Vergere said, “as ever.”
Elan looked from Vergere to Showolter. “I’ve no training in wifely duties.”
“No one expects you to live the part. Just play it. We’ll go over the details before we leave.”
“It will be just the three of us?” Elan asked.
“We’ll be met by backup on the ship.”
“Are we going to a more populated world?”
He nodded.
“You will show me the sights?”
“That might take some doing. But, yes, eventually.”
“How delightful.”
Showolter left her to dress and went into the adjoining room to check on the two three-member decoy teams. The two female agents, faces painted in swirls and whorls and already attired in outfits identical to the one he’d given Elan, bore enough of a superficial resemblance to the Yuuzhan Vong priestess to pass for her. But Showolter was less confident about the Mrlssi and the Bimm operatives chosen to pass for Vergere.
“Maybe we’d have been better off employing a couple of Drall,” he commented as he appraised the two costumed aliens.
“What about me, Showolter?” one of the women asked playfully. “Do I fit the bill as Miss Defector?” She struck a theatrically alluring pose and batted her eyelashes at him. “‘You will show me the sights?’“ she said, aping Elan’s voice.
