Bloodline (Star Wars)

by Claudia Gray

  Han’s image faded. Leia hoped the next message would be from Ben, or Luke, but instead Chewbacca appeared, growling his wishes for her recovery and his plans to deal harshly with whoever was identified as the culprit. Leia smiled at the Wookiee’s typical bluster, trying to overcome her disappointment. The next few dozen all appeared to be from political figures repeating stock phrases about shock, outrage, gratitude for her survival, and hopes for her recovery. Leia clicked through them as speedily as she could, pausing only for the updates that told her Varish’s broken limb would be like new tomorrow, and Tai-Lin had escaped with no more than a scratch. Ransolm Casterfo had sent one of the final messages, and his was the only one that seemed to have come from a human rather than a politician. “I try to make myself believe it, and I can’t, even though I was there. Thank the Force it was no worse. Your staff says you’ll be well in the morning, but if you need anything, let me know.”

  He had offered as a friend rather than as a political favor. Leia couldn’t help being amused by the thought of asking him to fetch her some soup, but she suspected he’d actually follow through.

  Next she dipped into the informational channels, sampling news both official and organic. At this point, most people were expressing genuine shock and concern. How long had it been since she’d heard Centrist and Populist worlds saying the same thing? How long since they’d been unified by shared feelings?

  If only we could use this incident to build unity between our planets, Leia thought. But she knew they wouldn’t be so lucky.

  Within a day, the accusations would begin.

  —

  “Isn’t it obvious?” said Orris Madmund, the junior senator from Coruscant, as he walked along the halls of the main Senate building beside Ransolm Casterfo. “Yesterday’s bombing was the Populists’ work.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Ransolm stared at Madmund, who puffed up in indignation at even having been questioned.

  “The Populists set the bomb themselves in order to paint themselves as heroic victims, and to throw suspicion on us. A crime as vile as it is transparent. Really, Casterfo, you must stop being so naïve.”

  Had everyone gone completely mad? “Don’t be absurd. Aren’t the Populists supposed to be the conspiracy theorists? The risk was too extreme to everyone involved for anyone in the Senate to have done this. It can only be some unknown terrorist faction.”

  Madmund retorted, “Tell that to the Populists who are already blaming us! They’re pointing fingers at us even now. Open your eyes.”

  Throughout the Senate that day, fear and distrust ruled. Security alerts went off five times before lunch. Staffers looked wild-eyed and hurried between offices as if the corridors were somehow inherently more dangerous. Messages filled Ransolm’s queue during every call he took, and no sooner could he return one of them than the queue would promptly double.

  He remained shaken by Madmund’s accusations all day. Not because he believed them; it was ridiculous to think that even extremist Populists would go to such lengths. Ransolm did not assume their innocence out of naïveté, but because of two unquestionable facts: One, the Populists wouldn’t have endangered the life of their likely candidate for First Senator; and two, Populists were too fractious and argumentative to manage a conspiracy. Sometimes he found it miraculous the Populists could even agree on where to sit.

  I can work on reasoning with my own side, Ransolm decided, but the Populists will only listen to one of their own. And there was no question in his mind as to who that person should be.

  So, shortly after leaving his offices for the day, he visited Princess Leia’s home for the first time.

  “What’s that?” Leia asked as she stood in the doorway in a simple blue gown, her hair in its usual loose braid.

  He held out the box he’d managed to procure. “A dozen buttersweet puffs. To heal what ails you.”

  She laughed as she looked down at the small box of pastries. “This is even better than soup.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “It’s nothing.” Leia took the box from him and nodded toward her rooms. “Please, come in.”

  Ransolm already knew that Princess Leia didn’t stand on ceremony or demand luxury. Even so, the simplicity of her quarters caught him by surprise. She owned little, all of it attractive but functional, and nearly everything in soft shades of white and gray. On the wall hung the room’s one ornament, an elegant painting of Gatalentan origin, bold in brilliant swaths of red.

  She noticed him looking at it. “A birthday gift from Tai-Lin Garr a few years ago. Maybe my favorite gift ever—at least, until these.” Settling the box of baked goods on the table, she motioned for Ransolm to sit as well.

  “You have a lovely home,” he said.

  Leia chuckled. “You say that now. Come back sometime after my husband’s been home for a few weeks. Socks everywhere.” Although she made a joke of it, Ransolm recognized in that moment that she missed her husband greatly.

  In one corner played the official broadcasts of at least a dozen worlds, cycling in rapid succession; Leia must have preprogrammed the selection, and an auto-translate projected dark letters of text beneath the images.

  Suspicion Mounts as Investigation into Senate Bombing Continues

  So-Called Napkin Bombing Alleged to Be Work of Centrist Leaders

  FRAME JOB? How Far Will the Populists Go to Discredit the Centrists?

  The litany ran on, paranoia upon paranoia, mostly blame being batted back and forth between the two political parties save for the Ithorian news service, which inexplicably seemed to be convinced the Hutts were behind it all.

  “I trust you have the good sense to know this,” Ransolm began, “but so many foolish people are speaking today, I must be clear. This was not the work of the Centrists.”

  “I believe you,” Leia said, never glancing away from the newscasts as she opened the box he’d given her. “It wasn’t the Populists, either. We have some fools in the ranks, but nobody’s this big a fool.”

  “Do you think you can convince the Populists of our innocence?”

  “Not through logic, or good sense, or even common decency, if that’s what you were hoping for. The only way we can bridge this gap is by figuring out who’s really responsible.” She sighed and took a bite of her puff.

  Ransolm felt his spirits sink. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t known this even before speaking to her; he had simply hoped her greater experience and connections might point to a solution he hadn’t yet seen. But no, the quagmire was just as deep as he’d feared. “I suppose investigators have yet to come up with any actual evidence.”

  “You didn’t see? Hold on.” Leia cycled through the holos more swiftly, until they hit upon one showing security footage of a Twi’lek woman darting into a door of the conference building, then swiftly out again. Her dark coverall resembled that of the catering staff; the sunshades she wore would have struck no one as peculiar, not on so sunny a day as yesterday.

  “Ryloth? It can’t be. They haven’t the resources or the motive.” Ransolm folded his arms as he considered the possibilities. “Anyone could hire a Twi’lek mercenary.”

  “Agreed. This footage only emerged in the past couple of hours—but I still expect Ryloth to be accused on the Senate floor. And then the Hutts, and who knows who else. But the brunt of the suspicion will be focused on extremists in our own parties. Count on it.”

  Ransolm could imagine the endless debates that would result. Could it even endanger the coming election? Only a First Senator could shepherd them through this crisis; the galaxy needed leadership more than ever. “Who do you think did it?”

  “I don’t know,” Leia said, expression thoughtful. “Still…doesn’t it strike you as peculiar that this happened just as we began investigating a massive criminal cartel?”

  “You suspect Rinnrivin Di?” The idea had never occurred to Ransolm, and he did not find it persuasive. “His sort try to avoid government attention, not provoke it. He would have little to gain by
bombing a Senate building, and much to lose. Also, if he were to set a bomb, he’s not the type to warn anyone.”

  “Agreed. It’s not Rinnrivin Di. But whoever it is making all that money, whoever set him up in the first place…that might be a different story.”

  The holo flickered, showing images of the alleged Twi’lek bomber over and over again. Her face was unrecognizable from the footage, and undoubtedly she had traveled to Hosnian Prime under false ID. Yet it would be broadcast into infinity because it gave the illusion of discovery, the shadow of an answer they might never find. “That’s possible,” Ransolm finally said. “I admit the timing would be rather convenient. But we’re still only guessing.”

  Leia gave him a look. “Good thing we’re investigating this anyway, isn’t it?”

  “So it is.” He began to warm to the idea of the hunt. Perhaps the cartel they sought had nothing to do with this bombing, but Ransolm had rarely felt so helpless in his life as he had yesterday when he heard the explosion. Running out to see the rubble, breathing in the acrid, chemical-tinged air—it had brought back terrible memories of Riosa after the Empire had emptied his world out and thrown it away. For an instant he had been a young, scrawny boy again, newly orphaned, lost and hungry amid the devastation.

  At least this investigation let them do something meaningful, something useful. And if they got to the bottom of the bombing plot in the process, so much the better.

  “I should arrange a trip to Daxam Four immediately,” Ransolm said; he had read her latest communiqué about Greer and Joph’s intel only shortly before the explosion. “Search for these Amaxine warriors, whoever or whatever they are. In fact, I already have a convincing pretext for a personal visit.”

  Leia tilted her head. “What’s that?”

  “It touches on a sore subject—”

  “Now you have to tell me.”

  “My collection of historical artifacts.” Leaving the word Imperial out of it seemed to do the trick; at any rate, Leia didn’t react. “Recently, someone in collectors’ circles began advertising a very rare object for sale, and it caught my attention…not least because the seller lives on Daxam Four. I opened some preliminary discussions, and I believe I can arrange to purchase the item in person.”

  Nodding, Leia asked, “Do you think the seller could be connected to the Amaxines? There’s nothing that specifically connects that old legend to the Empire.”

  “I have no reason to think so—but if this individual isn’t connected, perhaps they can provide information we can use. At any rate, it should prove a convincing cover story for me to snoop around on the planet’s surface.” He smiled. “I think I’m catching on to this espionage thing.”

  “Be careful,” she said. “When you think you’ve finally figured things out? That’s usually when your plans go to hell.”

  Ransolm had found this held true for things far beyond espionage. He nodded in assent.

  Then Leia added, “Do me a favor. Take Greer with you.”

  Just when he thought they were becoming friends. “Do you really feel the need to have me watched? Still?”

  “What? No.” Leia looked genuinely indignant. “Would you rather go into a dangerous situation without backup? If so, feel free. Besides, I think this is the kind of assignment she could handle and enjoy.”

  The paranoia of the day must have begun to infect his brain. “My apologies. A fellow traveler would be welcome. You must need your assistant, though. I could ask Seastriker—”

  “Actually, Joph Seastriker’s coming with me to Ryloth, once the Senate sends someone to investigate there.” Leia’s smile was thin. “Neither he nor the Senate knows that yet. But give it a few days.”

  Ransolm shook his head in wonder. “Always a step ahead, aren’t you?”

  Her gaze turned back to the holos, which were now showing the smoldering rubble of the Senate building again. “I only wish.”

  Ransolm Casterfo had believed Leia when she told him Greer was coming along to Daxam IV as backup, not as a sign of any mistrust. However, no one seemed to have informed Greer of this.

  “Coming out of hyperspace in five,” she said coolly—the first words she’d spoken since shortly after they’d left Hosnian Prime. Her thick black hair flowed free down her back, the only element of her body or personality that didn’t seem to be under strict control. “Strap in.”

  Greer had the helm of the vessel they’d rented for the journey, a small Jeconne courier. After some deliberation, Ransolm had chosen this ship because it was modern and stylish—he was traveling under his true identity, after all, and had to look the part—but also commonplace, unlikely to attract attention on its own. He had expected an experienced pilot like Greer to have some opinion on the matter, but he had the distinct sense that she wouldn’t have cared whether he’d brought a two-person orbit-hopper or a Super Star Destroyer.

  “I suppose it’s beneath you,” he said.

  That earned a swift sideways glance. “What do you mean?”

  Ransolm gestured around the sleek black cockpit with his long-fingered hands, clearly referring to the whole ship. “The Jeconne. Too mundane for someone who used to be an elite racer?”

  “It’s fine,” she said shortly. Another few moments of silence passed, during which Ransolm gave up on any attempts at conversation. But then she added, “I was hardly ‘elite.’ ”

  “Nonsense. Senator Organa shared your bona fides before this mission began, you know.” If Greer Sonnel assumed she was the only one Leia talked to, time she learned otherwise. “Junior Sabers winner, a professional racer on the Crystal Cairn team for two years, until you retired suddenly three years ago. A short career, but an illustrious one, given the races you competed in—and you retired undefeated.”

  Greer contested none of this, but she stared at her panel with unshaking attention, even more than required when leaving hyperspace. “Two years doesn’t make you elite.”

  Although Ransolm didn’t consider himself a vain man, he had learned during his hardscrabble childhood on Riosa that he had to use every asset he had. That was the only way to get ahead; weak people could not expect admiration or assistance, and so he would prove he was not weak. He bought the best clothes he could afford, made influential connections and let others know about them, and played up every skill he could honestly claim.

  So why would someone discount her own skills? Abandon her own fame? It made no sense to him. Weary of trying to get through to Greer, Ransolm leaned back in his seat. “As you like.”

  Her hand closed over the handle for the hyperdrive. “Slipping out in three, two, one—mark.”

  The courier shuddered as the stars froze in their proper places again. Beneath them lay Daxam IV, vivid amid the blackness of space with its orange deserts and small teal-blue seas. Almost no cloud cover shielded the world, or offered any promise of rain. Yet in this stark, largely uninhabited area of space, the rough terrain of Daxam IV had to count as an oasis.

  “Okay.” Greer punched a few controls, including the one to send an automatic signal requesting a berth at the capital city’s spaceport. “How are you going to play this?”

  “You’re actually interested now?” Ransolm could hear how priggish his voice sounded, and on one level he loathed himself for it. But by now he knew Greer Sonnel wouldn’t respond to friendliness. She would have to be the one to initiate the thaw.

  His comment earned him an arched eyebrow, but she did at least swivel her seat to face his. “I’m your backup. If I don’t know where you’re going or when, then I won’t be much good at keeping you alive.”

  “But if you follow me, you’re likely to scare off the types of people we’re looking for.” Ransolm reached into the pocket of his dark-red cloak and pulled out his comm device to show her the messages he’d sent and received. “Collectors of Imperial artifacts tend to have a…jaded view of New Republic officials.”

  Greer took the comm device in her hand, staring down at the screen. “You’re going to b
uy one of the helmets of the Emperor’s personal guard?”

  “Exactly.” Which was actually very exciting—Ransolm had already mentally selected a place of honor for it on his wall, assuming of course it was genuine—but beside the point. “I’m already known in these circles and was able to arrange a potential transaction. A seller who goes by the name Crimson Blade—”

  “What?” Greer frowned. “Is that his real name?”

  “Ah. No.” Ransolm wanted to hedge. “In the collecting scene, we often operate under names not our own. I go by my real identity, but others prefer more…colorful terms.”

  Emperor’s Wrath. Interceptor Fire. Avenger of Jakku. Ridiculous, the lot of them. Ransolm knew this to be merely role-playing, the assumption of a part they might take on in reenactments, but he didn’t trust an outsider to understand that.

  Fortunately, Greer showed no interest. “So you have no idea who this seller really is.”

  “It hardly matters, because he turned out to have one of these helmets, a prize more than valuable enough to warrant a personal visit. He may well be tied to the groups we seek; if not, he should know some individuals who are. Once I’ve established a connection with him, I can build on that.”

  Greer considered that in silence for a few moments before she handed back his device, pursing her lips as if to say, Not bad. “And I guess I’m your pilot?”

  As though he needed one. “Let’s pretend you’re a member of my staff, rather than Senator Organa’s. If they check, we can make it seem as if I just hired you out from under Leia’s nose a couple of weeks ago, and the Napkin Bombing kept records from being updated in a timely fashion.”