by Claudia Gray
Greer nodded as their console began to blink with their approved landing time and coordinates. “Smart.”
“Was that a compliment? No. It couldn’t have been. You spoke the words out loud without bursting into flames.”
“Spare me,” she said. Was that the hint of a smile on her full lips? Surely Ransolm had imagined it.
—
Daxam IV somehow managed to look even more forbidding from the surface. The deep-orange sands stretching out for kilometers made Ransolm think of other desert worlds he had visited, where the sun beat down mercilessly. At the time, he’d loathed the heat, but he almost missed it now.
Despite Daxam IV’s two suns, the planet orbited at the very edge of its solar system, far enough that the chill ran deep even at twice-noon. Ransolm had felt somewhat ostentatious packing a fur cloak, but at the moment he couldn’t have cared less whether anyone else found his clothing grandiose. He might have frozen stiff by now without it.
Greer, of course, showed no sign of discomfort even though she wore mere woolens. But Pamarthen robes were famous for their warmth, and she had layered beige and blue ones, belting them close and draping both hoods over her head. Together they walked through the streets of the city—
—correction, he thought. Through what passes for a city on this barren rock.
Only a few streets formed the town center, each one lined with low, scrubby houses or shops. He found it difficult to tell one from the other, since most structures had been cast from the same mold: square, squat cubes of adobe or stucco, with their whitewashed surfaces stained reddish by the sand.
“One question,” Greer said. “This guard’s helmet is expensive, right?”
“Rather.” As much as Ransolm longed to add it to his collection, he could never have justified the expenditure were it not part of this mission.
“So whoever owns it has to have serious money.” Greer’s gaze went up and down the desolate street. “If I had serious money, I’d live somewhere else.”
She had a good point. This “Crimson Sword” had wealth, and yet chose to remain on Daxam IV, a planet that had only one possible advantage Ransolm could see: It was obscure, rarely visited, and therefore out of sight. Also—“Large sums of the money from Rinnrivin Di’s cartel are being funneled onto this world. Hard to imagine what they’re spending it on.”
Greer nodded. “Not on the nightlife, that’s for sure.”
Were there spice warehouses here? Vaults of valuable goods waiting to be sold for quick, laundered credits? If you hid such things on a world like this, you could be fairly certain they would stay hidden.
Until now, he thought with some pride.
His appointment was at a teahouse, which proved to be a small, run-down establishment with poor lighting and cheap booths. Small lanterns hung from the ceiling, casting a dim gold light that didn’t penetrate the shadows. Ransolm scanned the room and recognized his target at first sight.
She would have stood out in any room. Perhaps sixty years of age, she had long, wiry hair that curled halfway down her back, black streaked through with silver. Thin and angular, she gave the impression of someone who had been carved by time into her purest, simplest form—as if all softness had been stripped away. Small white scars marked areas of her forehead, left cheek, and throat. Her dark eyes were already focused on him, and she sat in a corner that allowed no one to approach her from behind. But none of this was the reason Ransolm immediately knew her.
This was the woman from the casino on Bastatha, the one who had not wanted to be noticed.
Ransolm glanced at Greer and nodded toward the counter across the room, where lone patrons could sit on low wooden stools and take their tea. Although he could tell Greer bridled at being so casually ordered around, she knew her obedience was necessary to their cover. As she walked off, he turned back to “Crimson Sword.”
He knew better than to lie outright. “Have we met before?” he said as he took his seat opposite her. “You look very familiar.”
“I am Arliz Hadrassian, and no, we haven’t met.” Her low, husky voice sounded like that of someone far older, or a spice fiend who had been at it too long. But Ransolm suspected that rasp had more to do with the scars on her throat. “However, we visited Bastatha at the same time, not so very long ago. I took note of the senatorial delegation.”
Careful, Ransolm told himself. She had to know that he’d been investigating Rinnrivin Di, and would be on her guard. Yet Hadrassian had agreed to sell to him even knowing his real identity—which meant she thought he might prove friend rather than foe. He would have to tread a very cautious path to decrease her suspicion, and increase her hopes.
“When we were running errands for Ryloth,” he said darkly. “Hardly the proper business of a senator. But we flushed a few local mobsters out for the authorities, so I suppose it wasn’t a total waste.”
“You think little of mobsters, I take it.” Hadrassian said this as if she did, too.
Ransolm decided to be completely honest in his answer, since he could think of no fib that would serve him better. “Grubbing for credits, making money off addicts—what kind of business is that? What kind of life?”
“I agree, Senator Casterfo. We are meant for better things.” Hadrassian’s smile sliced across her face like a blade. “A few rounds of sabacc in a casino may serve one night’s purpose, but real rewards do not come from mere games of chance.”
“Agreed.” I set up this purchase to assess her. She could only have agreed to it in order to assess me in turn. What is it she hopes to find?
He nodded at the server who had approached the table—an actual human instead of a droid, evidence of this planet’s poverty—and chose one of the teas from the cart at random. It proved to be fragrant and sweet, and the ceramic cup warmed his hands. Ransolm was grateful, not least because it gave him a moment to collect his thoughts.
“So,” he began. “How did you come about the helmet?”
He expected the usual sort of story: collected from another collector, on and on, back to the usual foggy tales about a heroic friend or ancestor who had personally taken Imperial artifacts as trophies of war. But Hadrassian surprised him again. “I served in the Imperial Starfleet, Senator Casterfo. So did many members of my family, and many friends. The helmet belonged to my elder brother.” She cast her eyes down at her cup of tea, the first time her attention had been anything less than razor-sharp. “He became seriously ill the day before Palpatine left for the second Death Star, and so lost his chance to accompany the Emperor on that final journey. Had he gone along—who knows? Perhaps history would have been rewritten.”
How precisely would a lone Imperial guard have thwarted the entire rebel fleet? But people convinced themselves of stranger things than this in order to believe they could have altered fate. “Your brother agreed to part with the helmet? I should’ve thought he would treasure it forever.”
“He returned to regular service after Palpatine’s death, and was one of those who fell at Jakku. This helmet is one of the few things I have left of him.”
“Then I’m even more surprised you’re willing to sell such a keepsake,” Ransolm said.
“I wouldn’t have sold it to just anyone. You were exactly the sort of customer I hoped for.” Her eyes crinkled at the edges, hinting at the smile she suppressed.
All this time, I thought I set up this sale. But this isn’t my snare. It’s hers.
Normally Ransolm would have been chagrined to have strolled so easily into a trap. Instead relief washed over him. Hadrassian would be less likely to suspect his agenda because she had orchestrated their meeting for purposes of her own.
He asked himself how he would have acted if he really were here only as a buyer. Leaning across the table, he said, “Tell me—what did you do in the Imperial Starfleet?”
Hadrassian smiled easily this time. “You want to hear some war stories? Your interest in the Empire’s history is well known, Senator Casterfo, but I doubt such an
important man has the time.”
“I’ll make the time.”
The next two hours were filled with tales of the Imperial Starfleet, particularly Hadrassian’s youthful duties as a TIE pilot. Later she had become an ISB officer—“More interesting,” she confided, “but only in the moment. Not in the retelling.”
Ransolm took note of that; anyone admitted to the Empire’s internal security force had been considered loyal to the core. But he kept the conversation focused on her days chasing down spicerunners around Kessel and Kerev Doi.
He didn’t have to pretend to be fascinated. Hadrassian’s stories were amazing.
They parted well, with an appointment the next day for the actual purchase of the helmet. “Not here,” Hadrassian said. “I’ll send the coordinates for my territory in the Western Wastes. A quick hour’s flight, no more. But please ask your staffer—” She nodded toward Greer, who remained in place at the counter. “—to remain behind. I prefer to keep my transactions confidential.”
Was this the same sort of setup Leia had faced on Bastatha? Ransolm doubted it. Hadrassian had taken this meeting to sound him out, and he felt sure he’d passed her test. Whatever trust he’d earned could only be spoiled by insisting on Greer’s presence. “Understandable,” he said. “I look forward to it. Will you have more stories for me?”
Hadrassian inclined her head. “Many more, Senator Casterfo.”
Although he managed to hold on to his elation until he and Greer were well away from the teahouse, once they were in the clear Ransolm recounted every detail of his conversation with Arliz Hadrassian. Greer didn’t seem to share his enthusiasm, but he kept going, talking the entire way back to the spaceport hangar. “—and still completely loyal to the Empire. As though she’d taken her oath yesterday, I swear.”
“Must be nice for you,” Greer said.
It took Ransolm a moment to process that. “Excuse me?”
“Meeting someone who shares so many of your interests. Like, say, worshipping the Empire.”
He would have been less offended if she’d slapped him. “I do not worship the Empire. Haven’t you been listening? Don’t you realize this means we’re on the right track?”
“I realize we’re getting closer to finding out what’s happening on Daxam Four,” Greer said. “But I’m still not sure which track you’re on.”
Ransolm refused to dignify that with an answer. He stalked past her, determined to grab what he needed from the ship and head to the rooms he’d rented for the night. All his careful conversation, all his planning, and still, he won only sneers. Was nothing he did ever going to be good enough for Leia’s self-righteous team?
—
That night, long after dark had fallen, Greer took the Jeconne courier out for a spin.
I wonder if Casterfo will see it and think I’m ditching him, she thought. By now the man was almost certainly asleep. But she couldn’t shake the idea, largely because she felt guilty.
Snapping at the guy did no one any good. Princess Leia had chosen to trust Ransolm Casterfo; that made it Greer’s job to help him. He’d done some quick talking today, and quicker thinking. If he hadn’t, Hadrassian might have realized she wasn’t playing them as smoothly as she’d hoped. Besides, he’d shown courage when he went to “rescue” Leia from Rinnrivin Di, and apparently he’d even visited the princess in the aftermath of the bombing.
But Casterfo still rankled Greer on every level. The one thing she couldn’t shake was something Princess Leia had said on Bastatha: Can’t you just see him in an Imperial uniform?
Pamarthe’s relationship with the Empire had been a complex one. In the earliest years of Palpatine’s rule, its citizens had flocked to join the Imperial Starfleet as pilots and gunners, funneling their martial spirit into the Emperor’s armies. No one at Pamarthe had ever been able to understand the Republic’s use of clone soldiers to replace citizen-warriors, and they were eager for new battles, new conquests.
But all that changed after the Death Star destroyed Alderaan. The idea of firing upon civilians and soldiers alike, from a distance, without taking the slightest personal risk in return—every true warrior of Pamarthe knew that to be the foulest kind of cowardice. Many deserted immediately, and within the year hundreds had joined the Rebel Alliance, including Greer’s parents. She had grown up listening to their stories of battle against the Empire.
Casterfo said he was no admirer of the Empire, but he acted like one. Surely that was what irritated her about him so.
Or maybe, she admitted to herself, you’re just jealous of how carefree he can be. How optimistic. How he gets to lead a life with no limits, while you’re…
Greer breathed out sharply in frustration as she banked the courier, soaring upward into the night. With every meter she rose from the ground, she felt freer. Daxam IV’s near-cloudless atmosphere meant a broad vista of stars stretching out before her, so that she could hardly tell whether she was in space or the sky. Gradually she relaxed, easing into a high flight that would trace a wide circle around the city.
Low winds, light atmosphere—the flying was easy, and Greer’s thoughts had begun to wander when signals at the far western edge of her flight plan began to blink at the rim of her viewscreen. Frowning, she focused more tightly on them to get a good read. According to her records, she was well outside the main air traffic lanes, and Daxam IV was so deserted she wouldn’t have expected to see many craft at all. Maybe they’re cloudsowers, or standard sentries, she mused.
But these ships were too fast for any of that; they could only be starfighters. Which meant she’d found the Amaxine warriors.
Greer quickly damped down her own signals and swooped lower, so she’d be harder to detect. Soon she skimmed only meters above the ground, dust swirling beneath the courier as she studied her readouts. Fifteen—twenty-two—no, nearly thirty starfighters flew over the far Western Wastes, and in military formation. She set her scanning range to maximum, and her eyes widened as she realized at least five other squadrons were practicing identical maneuvers.
Few militias were so large. Even fewer flew with such precision. And almost none had a fleet of starfighters as fast and well armed as those of the New Republic fleet.
That settled it. The Amaxines were far more than a group of overenthusiastic patrollers. They were a paramilitary organization, one with significant funds, ties to organized crime, a leader who would no doubt turn out to be someone close to Arliz Hadrassian if not Hadrassian herself—
—and an appointment with Ransolm Casterfo, first thing in the morning.
Greer muttered, “We’d better hope he’s on our side.”
“Senator Organa, welcome to Lessu, and to Ryloth.” Emissary Yendor strode toward the Mirrorbright, his walking staff in one hand. Although he wore the long tan cape that marked him as an official, he had abandoned his formal robes for a simple brown jacket and pants. Leather straps twined around his lekku. His casual dress meant that he had complied with her request to keep her arrival low-key—that, and the broad grin on his blue face.
Leia smiled in return. “It used to be Princess Leia back on Hoth.”
“We’re not on Hoth now,” Yendor said in good humor. “Thank goodness. If I’m never that cold again, it’ll be too soon. And I only washed off the last of the tauntaun stink about a year ago.”
“They didn’t smell that bad.”
“With all due respect, Your Highness, you never had to muck out their stalls.”
“Point taken.” Leia held out her hand, and as they shook, she took a quick glance around. This was the only spaceport for Lessu, Ryloth’s main capital city, yet almost no other activity seemed to be taking place. Ships remained inert; cargo was neither loaded nor unloaded; foot traffic seemed minimal. Normally Leia would have attributed this to a senator’s arrival, but as per her instructions, no ceremony had been arranged. Only the emissary and a small group of local security had come to greet them. Lessu’s spaceport was this quiet because there was simply n
ot enough traffic to fill the area.
Ryloth’s trying hard to rebuild from their centuries of oppression, she realized, but they’ve got a long way to go.
To Emissary Yendor she said only, “Princess Leia is fine now, too. Any friend from the Rebellion is a friend for life. You flew with Corona Squadron, didn’t you?”
“Yes, Your Highness.” Yendor’s smile became less formal, more proud. Every old soldier liked to be remembered. He glanced past her to the others coming up behind. “Please, introduce me to the rest of your team.”
“See-Threepio, human–cyborg relations.” C-3PO performed a little bow. “Though we have met before, Emissary Yendor. We worked together on recalibrating the thermal units for Echo Base one afternoon precisely five days after our arrival on Hoth. May I say it is a pleasure to see you again?”
“How could I ever have forgotten that day?” Yendor said, managing to sound sincere.
Leia introduced the rest of her party. “This is my intern, Korr Sella, and my pilot, Lieutenant Joph Seastriker.”
“Good to meet you both,” Yendor said, “even if you have absolutely no right to be so young.”
Korrie and Joph gave each other a look. Leia managed not to react to their dismay, but it struck her again how youthful they appeared—younger even than Ben, with their puppyfat cheeks and unlined faces. Yet somehow Leia had been a senator at Korrie’s age, and not even as old as Joph when the Rebellion won the Battle of Endor. Yendor could only be five or six years older than Leia herself.
And if Joph and Korrie looked so young to her, how old must she look to them? They had to feel as if they were shepherding a museum piece around the galaxy. To judge by Yendor’s expression, he was having the same thoughts. We belong to another age, she thought with a sigh. But we have to make our way in this one.
—
However, the rest of their day felt like living through an era so far distant it ought to have predated the Old Republic.
