by Timothy Zahn
The apartment was about as stark and simple as it could be while still remaining even halfway functional. It consisted of a single room with a compact cooking niche on one side and a door leading to what was probably a bathroom on the other. A brown fold-down table/console combo and two old-fashioned contour chairs upholstered in military gray occupied much of the space, with the cabinets of what looked like two fold-down beds positioned to take up the table’s share of the floor space at night. “Cozy,” Lando commented.
“Probably can be packed up and shipped offplanet on three minutes’ notice, too,” Han said.
“I agree,” Lando nodded. “This is exactly the sort of feel that lounge should have had, only it didn’t.”
“Maybe they figured they ought to have at least one building around here that didn’t look like it came out of the Clone Wars,” Han suggested.
“Maybe,” Lando said, squatting down beside one of the chairs and peering at the edge of the seat cushion. “Probably pulled them out of that Dreadnaught up there.” Experimentally he dug his fingers under the gray material. “Looks like they didn’t even add any extra padding before they reupholstered them with this—”
He broke off, and abruptly his face went rigid. “What is it?” Han demanded.
Slowly, Lando turned to look up at him. “This chair,” he whispered. “It’s not gray underneath. It’s blue-gold.”
“Okay,” Han said, frowning. “So?”
“You don’t understand. The Fleet doesn’t do the interiors of military ships in blue-gold. They’ve never done them in blue-gold. Not under the Empire, not under the New Republic, not under the Old Republic. Except one time.”
“Which was?” Han prompted.
Lando took a deep breath. “The Katana fleet.”
Han stared at him, an icy feeling digging up under his breastbone. The Katana fleet … “That can’t be right, Lando,” he said. “Got to be a mistake.”
“No mistake, Han,” Lando shook his head. Digging his fingers in harder, he lifted the edge of the gray covering high enough to show the material beneath it. “I once spent two whole months researching the Dark Force. This is it.”
Han gazed at the age-dulled blue-gold cloth, a sense of unreality creeping over him. The Katana fleet. The Dark Force. Lost for half a century … and now suddenly found.
Maybe. “We need something better in the way of proof,” he told Lando. “This doesn’t do it by itself.”
Lando nodded, still half in shock. “That would explain why they kept us aboard the Lady Luck the whole way here,” he said. “They’d never be able to hide the fact that their Dreadnaught was running with only two thousand crewers instead of the normal sixteen. The Katana fleet.”
“We need to get a look inside one of the ships,” Han persisted. “That recognition code Irenez sent—I don’t suppose you made a recording of it?”
Lando took a deep breath and seemed to snap out of it. “We can probably reconstruct it,” he said. “But if they’ve got any sense, their code for getting in won’t be the same as their code for getting out. But I don’t think we have to get aboard the ships themselves. All I need is a good, close look at that repeater display panel back in the headquarters lounge.”
“Okay,” Han nodded grimly. “Let’s go and get you that look.”
CHAPTER
16
It took them only a few minutes to make their way back to the headquarters lounge. Han kept an eye on the pedestrian and vehicle traffic as they walked, hoping they were still early enough for the place to be empty. Getting a close look at that repeater display would be tricky enough without a whole bunch of people sitting around with nothing better to do than watch what was happening at the bar. “What exactly are we looking for?” he asked as they came in sight of the building.
“There should be some specialized input slots on the back for the full-rig slave circuitry readouts,” Lando told him. “And there’ll be production serial numbers, too.”
Han nodded. So they were going to need to get the thing off the wall. Great. “How come you know so much about the fleet?”
“Like I said, I did a lot of studying.” Lando snorted under his breath. “If you must know, I got stuck with a fake map to it as part of a deal back when I was selling used ships. I figured if I could learn enough about it to look like an expert I might be able to unload the map on someone else and get my money back.”
“Did you?”
“You really want to know?”
“I guess not. Get ready; it’s show time.”
They were in luck. Aside from the bartender and a couple of deactivated serving droids behind the bar, the place was deserted. “Welcome back, gentlemen,” the bartender greeted them. “What can I get you?”
“Something to take back to our quarters,” Han told him, giving the shelves behind the bar a quick once-over. They had a good selection here—there were probably a hundred bottles of various shapes and sizes. But there was also a door off to the side that probably led back to a small storeroom. That’d be their best bet. “I don’t suppose you’d have any Vistulo brandale on hand.”
“I think we do,” the bartender said, peering back at his selection. “Yes—there it is.”
“What’s the vintage?” Han asked.
“Ah—” The bartender brought the bottle over. “It’s a ’49.”
Han made a face. “Don’t have any ’46, do you? Maybe stashed in the back room somewhere?”
“I don’t think so, but I’ll check,” the bartender said agreeably, heading toward the door.
“I’ll come with you,” Han offered, ducking under the bar and joining him. “If you don’t have any ’46, maybe there’ll be something else that’ll do as well.”
For a second the bartender looked like he was going to object. But he’d seen the two of them having a friendly drink earlier with Bel Iblis himself; and anyway, Han was already halfway to the storeroom door. “I guess that’d be okay,” he said.
“Great,” Han said, opening the door and ushering the bartender through.
He didn’t know how long it would take Lando to get the repeater display off the wall, check it out, and then put it back up. On the theory it was better to play it safe, he managed to drag out the search for a ’46 Vistulo for a full five minutes. Eventually, with cheerful good grace, he settled for a ’48 Kibshae instead. The bartender led the way out of the room; mentally crossing his fingers, Han followed.
Lando was standing at the same place at the bar where he’d been when Han had left him, his hands on the bar, his face tight. And for good reason. Standing a few paces behind him, her hand on the butt of her blaster, was Irenez.
“Well, hello, Irenez,” Han said, trying his best innocent look on her. “Funny meeting you here.”
The innocent look was wasted. “Not all that funny,” Irenez said tartly. “Sena assigned me to keep an eye on you. You get what you came for?”
Han looked at Lando, saw the fractional nod. “I think so, yeah,” he said.
“Glad to hear it. Let’s go—outside.”
Han handed the bottle of Kibshae to the bartender. “Keep it,” he said. “Looks like the party’s been canceled.”
There was an old five-passenger landspeeder waiting outside when they emerged from the lounge. “Inside,” Irenez said, motioning to the vehicle’s aft doorway.
Han and Lando obeyed. There, sitting with uncharacteristic stiffness in one of the passenger seats, Sena Leikvold Midanyl was waiting. “Gentlemen,” she said gravely as they entered. “Sit down, please.”
Han chose one of the seats, swiveled it to face her. “Time for dinner already?”
“Irenez, take the controls,” Sena said, ignoring him. “Drive us around the camp—I don’t care where.”
Silently, Irenez made her way to the front of the vehicle; and with a slight lurch they were off. “You didn’t stay in your room very long,” Sena said to Han.
“I don’t remember the Senator saying anything about b
eing confined to quarters,” Han countered.
“He didn’t,” Sena agreed. “On the other hand, a properly brought up guest should know better than to wander unescorted around sensitive areas.”
“I apologize,” Han said, trying to keep a sarcastic edge out of his voice. “I didn’t realize your liquor supply was classified.” He glanced out the window. “If you’re trying to take us back to our quarters, you’re going the wrong way.”
Sena studied his face a moment. “I came to ask you a favor.”
It was about the last thing Han would have expected her to say, and it took him a second to find his voice again. “What sort of favor?”
“I want you to talk to Mon Mothma for me. To ask her and the Council to invite Senator Bel Iblis to join the New Republic.”
Han shrugged. Was that why they’d brought him and Lando all the way over here? “You don’t need a special invitation to join up. All you have to do is contact someone on the Council and offer your services.”
A muscle in Sena’s cheek twitched. “I’m afraid that in the Senator’s case it’s not going to be quite that easy,” she said. “It’s not so much a matter of joining the New Republic as of rejoining it.”
Han threw a frown at Lando. “Oh?” he said carefully.
Sena sighed, half turning to gaze out the side window. “It happened a long time ago,” she said. “Before the various resistance groups fighting the Empire were formally consolidated into the Rebel Alliance. You know anything about that period of history?”
“Just what’s in the official record,” Han said. “Mon Mothma and Bail Organa of Alderaan got three of the biggest groups together and convinced them to make an alliance. After that the whole thing snowballed.”
“Have you ever heard the name of that first agreement?”
“Sure. It was called the Corellian Treaty—” Han broke off. “The Corellian Treaty?”
“Yes,” Sena nodded. “It was Senator Bel Iblis, not Mon Mothma, who convinced those three resistance groups to agree to a meeting. And, furthermore, who guaranteed protection for them.”
For a long minute the only sound in the speeder was the hum of the repulsorlifts. “What happened?” Lando asked at last.
“To put it bluntly, Mon Mothma began to take over,” Sena said. “Senator Bel Iblis was far better at strategy and tactics than she was, better even than many of the Rebellion’s generals and admirals in those early days. But she had the gift of inspiration, the knack of getting diverse groups and species to work together. Gradually, she became the most visible symbol of the Rebellion, with Organa and the Senator increasingly relegated to the background.”
“Must have been hard for someone like Bel Iblis to take,” Lando murmured.
“Yes, it was,” Sena said. “But you have to understand that it wasn’t just pride that drove him to withdraw his support. Bail Organa had been a strong moderating influence on Mon Mothma—he was one of the few people whom she respected and trusted enough to pay serious attention to. After he was killed in the Death Star’s attack on Alderaan, there was really no one of equal status who could stand up to her. She began to take more and more power to herself; and the Senator began to suspect that she was going to overthrow the Emperor only to set herself up in his place.”
“So he pulled you out of the Alliance and started his own private war against the Empire,” Lando said. “Did you know any of this, Han?”
“Never heard a whisper,” Han shook his head.
“I’m not surprised,” Sena said. “Would you have advertised a defection by someone of the Senator’s stature? Especially in the middle of a war?”
“Probably not,” Han conceded. “I suppose the only surprise is that more groups didn’t back out like you did. Mon Mothma can be pretty overbearing when she wants to be.”
“There wasn’t any doubt as to who was in charge during the war, either,” Lando added dryly. “I once saw her make Admiral Ackbar and General Madine both back down on one of their pet projects when she decided she didn’t like it.”
Han looked at Sena, a sudden thought striking him. “Is that why you’ve cut back your raids against the Empire? So that you’d be ready to move against Mon Mothma if she turned the New Republic into a dictatorship?”
“That’s it exactly,” Sena said. “We moved here to Peregrine’s Nest just under three years ago, suspended all operations except materiel raids, and started working up tactical contingency plans. And settled in to wait for the Senator’s triumphal vindication.” Her cheek twitched again. “And we’ve been waiting ever since.”
Han looked out the window at the camp passing by outside, a hollow sense of loss filling him. The legendary Senator Bel Iblis … waiting for a return to power that would never come. “It’s not going to happen,” he told Sena quietly.
“I know that.” She hesitated. “Down deep, so does the Senator.”
“Except that he can’t swallow his pride long enough to go to Mon Mothma and ask to be let back in.” Han nodded. “So he gets you to ask us to—”
“The Senator had nothing to do with this,” Sena cut him off sharply. “He doesn’t even know I’m talking to you. This is on my responsibility alone.”
Han drew back a little. “Sure,” he said. “Okay.”
Sena shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
“It’s okay,” Han said, feeling some sympathetic ache of his own. She could have all the good intentions and logic in the galaxy on her side, but this probably still looked and felt to her like betrayal. A stray memory clicked: the expression on Luke’s face, just before the battle off Yavin with the first Death Star. When he’d thought Han was going to run off and abandon them …
“Han,” Lando said quietly.
Han looked over at his friend, shaking off the memory. Lando raised his eyebrows slightly in reminder … “We’ll make you a deal, Sena,” Han said, turning back to her. “We’ll talk to Mon Mothma about the Senator. You talk to us about the Katana fleet.”
Sena’s face went rigid. “The Katana fleet?”
“Where your six Dreadnaughts came from,” Lando said. “Don’t bother denying it—I got a good look at that repeater display you’ve got up over the bar in the headquarters lounge.”
Sena took a deep breath. “No. I can’t tell you anything about that.”
“Why not?” Lando asked. “We’re all about to be allies again, remember?”
An unpleasant tingle ran up Han’s back. “Unless you’ve already promised the fleet to Fey’lya.”
“We’ve promised Fey’lya nothing,” Sena said flatly. “Not that he hasn’t asked for it.”
Han grimaced. “So he is trying for a coup.”
“Not at all,” Sena shook her head. “Fey’lya wouldn’t know what to do with a military coup if you gift wrapped it and handed it to him on a drinks tray. You have to understand that Bothans think in terms of political and persuasive influence, not military power. The typical Bothan’s goal is to go through life getting more and more people to listen to what he has to say. Fey’lya thinks that being the one to bring the Senator back into the New Republic will be a large step in that direction.”
“Especially if Ackbar isn’t around to oppose him?” Han asked.
Sena nodded. “Yes, that’s unfortunately another typical Bothan move. A Bothan leader who stumbles is invariably jumped on by all those who want to take over his position. In the distant past the attacks were literal—knives and usually death. Now, it’s been modified to more of a verbal assassination. Progress, I suppose.”
“Ackbar’s not a Bothan,” Lando pointed out.
“The technique is easily adapted to other races.”
Han grunted. “What a great group to have as allies. So do they just stab, or do they also help with the tripping?”
“You mean the bank transfer?” Sena shook her head. “No, I doubt that was Fey’lya’s doing. As a rule Bothans don’t stick their necks out far enough to c
oncoct plots on their own. They much prefer to take advantage of other people’s.”
“More like scavengers than hunters,” Han said sourly. Probably explained why he’d always disliked Fey’lya and his crowd. “So what do we do about him?”
Sena shrugged. “All you really need to do is get Ackbar cleared. As soon as he’s not vulnerable to attack anymore, Fey’lya should back off.”
“Great,” Han growled. “Problem is, with a Grand Admiral in charge of the Empire, we might not have that much time.”
“And if we don’t, neither do you,” Lando added. “Wounded dignity aside, Sena, the Senator had better start facing reality. You’re a small, isolated group with a line on the Katana fleet, and there’s an Empire out there hungry for new warships. The minute the Grand Admiral tumbles to what you’ve got, he’ll have the whole Imperial Fleet on you before you can blink twice. Bring the Katana fleet over to the New Republic and you get to be heroes. Wait too long, and you’ll lose everything.”
“I know that,” Sena said, her voice almost too low to hear. Han waited, mentally crossing his fingers … “We don’t actually know where the fleet is,” she said. “Our Dreadnaughts came from a man who says he stumbled on them about fifteen years ago. He’s thin, below-average height, with a sort of weasely look about him. He has short white hair and a heavily lined face, though I suspect much of that appearance is due more to some past disease or injury than actual age.”
“What’s his name?” Han asked.
“I don’t know. He’s never told us that.” She hesitated again, then plunged ahead. “He loves to gamble, though. All our meetings with him have been aboard the Coral Vanda, usually across gaming tables. The staff there seemed to know him quite well, though the way he was throwing money around, that may not mean anything. Croupiers always get to know the losers quickly.”
“The Coral Vanda?” Han asked.
“It’s a subocean luxury casino on Pantolomin,” Lando told him. “Does three- and seven-day runs through the big network of reefs lying off the northern continent. I’ve always wanted to go there, but never had the chance.”
