“Let me see a visual,” Leia said.
A holographic projection of a man hovered before her face. He wore his trademark cloak, his dark smuggler’s boots, and a flashy satin shirt. His black hair was cut close to his head, but that was the only change Leia saw. Except for the frown not hidden by his carefully trimmed mustache.
“Send him in,” she said.
She left the bedroom and went into the living suite. Lando’s practiced flirtations were, for the most part, a thing of the past, but Leia scrupulously avoided any situation that would give him an excuse to flirt with her.
The main area of the living suite had been redecorated on Jacen’s whim. He had complained that none of the chairs was comfortable—something Han had agreed with—and the two of them scoured the Imperial Palace for more suitable seating. Now none of it matched (Comfort is more important than looks, Mom), but it was all well-used. While she waited for Lando, Leia stood in front of the puce couch that Winter mercifully had covered with a white duvet.
He burst through the door and glanced around, almost as if he didn’t see her.
“Where’s Han?”
No “Hello, Leia, how’s the galaxy’s most talented princess?”; no “You’re looking beautiful today.” If she hadn’t seen that expression before, she would have thought this Lando was an impostor.
“He’s not on Coruscant. Can I help you, Lando?”
Lando shook his head. “We’ve got to find him, Leia. It’s critical.”
A frisson of fear ran along her spine. “Tell me, Lando.”
“I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”
“The communications array has been overloaded since the bombing.”
“I know.” Lando put his hands behind his back and paced the room. His expression was as dark as it had been in the carbon-freezing chamber that horrible, horrible day when Han had nearly died, and Lando learned that Vader had betrayed him. “Where’s Han?”
“You tell me what the problem is first.”
He stopped pacing, and glanced at a painting Jaina had done when she was two. Even though he was staring at it, he didn’t seem to be seeing it. “I found a smuggler’s ship that belonged to an old colleague of ours. It was abandoned, and had clearly been sabotaged. The smuggler was in it. He’d been slaughtered.”
The fear that had run along Leia’s back had moved to her stomach.
“He had just come from Coruscant. And when I checked his logs, I found these messages.”
Lando gave her a small hand-held computer. She tilted it toward the light.
CARGO DELIVERED. FIREWORKS SPECTACULAR.
SOLO KNOWS. WE CAN COUNT ON HIS INVOLVEMENT.
She handed the computer back, careful not to show her sudden shakiness. “Whose ship did you find this on?”
“A smuggler named Jarril. Did you know him?”
“Han left a few days ago looking for him.” Leia sank into the puce couch, letting its softness enfold her. “Why do you think this is an emergency, Lando?”
“Jarril was killed because of this message, and Han is mentioned.”
“You think Han might be next?”
“What do you think, Leia?”
“I’m concerned about the ‘fireworks.’ ”
“Han would never be involved in something like that.”
She lifted her gaze to Lando’s. He thought “fireworks” related to the bomb, then, too. “I know that,” she said. “But maybe Jarril didn’t.”
“Jarril knew Han. Everyone did. His ethics were a subject of bitter complaint among the smugglers. He got more of us into trouble because of his conscience than anyone would like to admit.”
“And saved more of you because of it, too.” She bit her lower lip while she thought. “Han thought Jarril was connected to the bombing. He was right.”
“Han’s hunches are usually good.”
She nodded. And she hadn’t believed him. Jarril, though, was dead. A pawn, nothing more. Like Han? “That second message is really unclear,” she said. Subtle, even. “What if it signals the opening of a trap?”
“That’s what I figure. Jarril wasn’t exactly left in a busy area of space. No one was supposed to see that message. In fact, it had been deleted. If I hadn’t known his ship’s codes, we wouldn’t know this at all.”
“Where was it sent?”
“A place called Almania. Have you heard of it?”
Leia shook her head.
“It’s on the farthest reaches of the galaxy. It makes Tatooine look close. It’s so far out that neither the Empire nor the Rebellion claimed it during the recent conflict.”
“You think an Imperial base is there now?” Leia asked.
“I found a stormtrooper helmet on that ship. And some odd Imperial equipment. But this doesn’t seem like the Empire’s style. They always destroyed first, asked questions later.”
“The Empire isn’t run by Palpatine anymore. Or Vader.” Or Thrawn or any of the other pretenders who had arisen in the last seventeen years. “Someone new might have a new style.”
A subtler style. One that blended better with the politics of the present. Destroy the belief in the New Republic. Implant some of your own people in the Senate—and take over, as Palpatine had done all those years before.
Leia shuddered. “We have to reach Han. We have to warn him.”
Lando nodded. “You send him a message, if you can. I’ll go after him. Where’d he go?”
“Smuggler’s Run.”
Lando sank into the couch beside her.
“What’s the matter, Lando?”
He took a deep breath. “I can’t go to the Run. A rather nasty character named Nandreeson has a price on my head.”
Leia felt the air leave her body. If Lando couldn’t go, she’d have to send someone else. But whom? From Han’s description of the Run, no one but a select few people knew how to find it.
Then Lando pushed off the couch, his cape flying behind him. He almost looked as if he were flying. “But that shouldn’t stop me, should it?” he said as he reached the door. “What’s a few credits between friends?”
“It’s not necessary, Lando,” she said softly. “We can find someone else.”
“Not quickly enough,” he said. “And not someone I’d trust to help Han. No. I have to go.”
“Lando—”
He held up his hand to stop her from saying any more. “You can’t change my mind, Leia,” he said. “On Bespin I nearly killed Han through my own greed and recklessness. I’ll never forget that.”
“You helped rescue Han. You’ve worked well for the New Republic. I think you’ve more than made up for that moment.”
“I’ll never make up for it, Leia,” he said, looking more serious than she had ever seen him. Then he grinned, the wide rogue’s grin that someone must have taught every shady character who once visited Smuggler’s Run. “But no one can stop me from trying.”
Cole Fardreamer had never reassembled an old X-wing before. And he certainly had never done it while supervised by an outdated R2 unit. This little unit seemed to have a mind of its own. It bleeped at him every time he moved away from the X-wing. If it had had arms, they would have been crossed in front of its silver-and-blue barrel-like chest.
He had tried to bring in a Kloperian to help, but the little R2 unit had rocked on its wheels and squealed so loudly that Cole rethought the idea. Skywalker had said the R2 unit had been “imprisoned” by the Kloperians. An odd choice of words, but the R2 unit’s very human reaction gave them credence.
This part of the bay was empty. Whenever coworkers approached, the R2 unit would whistle. Cole would greet them, and if they were curious about what he was doing, he would report that he was working on a special project. No one questioned him further—except his supervisor, who, upon learning that the project and the X-wing belonged to Luke Skywalker, left Cole alone.
He was glad Skywalker hadn’t waited. This job had already taken longer than Cole had expected. The R2 unit had commente
d on that—at least, Cole thought that was what the R2 unit was giving the raspberry to when Cole mentioned his difficulty with reassembling the X-wing. Cole couldn’t really understand the R2 unit, but the unit was so expressive that at times he felt he didn’t have to.
What had Skywalker called it? Artoo. As if the designation of type were a nickname. Thinking of the droid as the R2 unit seemed like a mindful. Cole grinned at it.
“Now we get to work on the socket for the astromech unit, Artoo.”
The droid whistled and rocked, but Cole didn’t know if that was in response to Skywalker’s nickname for it, or to the action Cole had just outlined. He thought it might be both.
He climbed behind the small cockpit and removed the bolts holding in the upgraded astrogation and hyper-drive computers. Five new computer outlets had been installed in the X-wing. Cole had already removed three. Once he removed these two and set them aside, he would have to reattach the astromech socket and its ejector seat. Then he would have to reinsert the chips the droid still held and reprogram the flight and sensor computers. He had done that sort of thing on Tatooine, trying to build X-wings out of damaged equipment he had managed to find before the Jawas, but he had never been completely successful.
Cole was sprawled on his stomach, leaning into the small bay where the socket used to be. The position made his back ache, and the metal lip of the bay dug into his stomach. He had to hold his arm at an odd angle to work the rotator wrench.
As it hummed, he watched the bolts come out. Imagine him working on Luke Skywalker’s X-wing. He had seen Skywalker a few times on Coruscant, but had only heard of him on Tatooine. He was a well-known figure in Anchorhead—and everyone, if the tales could be believed, had been his friend.
Cole had mentally collected stories about Skywalker, half hoping to follow in his footsteps. Somehow he hadn’t put it together that Skywalker’s heroics were tied to his Jedi talents. Someone pointed that out to Cole, ending his dream.
He shook the bolts off the rotator wrench’s magnet and they clattered on the ground. The R2 unit watched them, as it did everything he removed from the ship, as if it were afraid he would again remove something important.
After that, Cole had wandered around Anchorhead, doing odd jobs. It wasn’t until someone who had known him—and who thought his loss funny—had taunted him (Whazzamatta, Fardreamer, can’t become a hero by repairing other people’s machines?) that he realized his talents were just as valuable as Skywalker’s, only in a different manner. A lot of people in the galaxy, a lot of beings, important beings, had no Force capabilities, and yet they contributed all sorts of things to the New Republic.
He had left on the next transport to Coruscant, and offered his services as a mechanic to the government. They had started him with meaningless work, work a droid could have done better, including sorting bolts by size, hoping to drive him away. But he couldn’t be driven. And when he showed more expertise in hands-on assembly than their best Kloperian, he was finally allowed to do the kind of work he loved.
The kind of work that, ironically, brought him to Luke Skywalker.
The last bolt rotated out. Cole slipped his fingers under the panel and yanked. He wasn’t strong enough to pull it out. He didn’t have the proper leverage.
The R2 unit moaned.
Cole tried again. The panel should have slipped out, but it didn’t. He climbed off the X-wing and brushed the dirt off his clothes.
The R2 unit bobbed and whistled.
“I’ll get back to it,” Cole said. “It just doesn’t want to come off.”
But his response didn’t quiet the little creature. It continued to make noise. He watched it with a stunned expression on his face. Maybe its systems were malfunctioning. Maybe—
Then it bumped him aside and approached the X-wing. A small metal arm emerged from its cylindrical body. At the end of the arm was a mechanical claw. The claw attached to the panel, and the R2 unit pulled.
“Hey!” Cole said. The droid could break the panel, the very thing Cole didn’t want because then he would have to replace it out of his own salary.
But the droid didn’t stop. The panel popped away from the fitting, leaving a five-centimeter gap. Then the droid swiveled its head 180 degrees to face Cole.
The droid jabbered something, clearly trying to communicate.
Cole wondered if Skywalker could understand everything the creature said. Probably. He had the Force to help him.
“Okay, okay,” Cole said. “Let me check it out.”
He balanced precariously on the platform beside the X-wing—there was barely enough room for him and the R2 unit—and peered behind the panel.
A green-and-blue Imperial insignia stared back at him.
He whistled, and glanced at the droid. It looked at him wisely. No wonder Skywalker valued this little being.
He pried some wires and chips away from the insignia, and went cold. The insignia was part of the new computer system, buried within the internal workings, unseen except by those who assembled the system.
Cole couldn’t tell if the device was unique to Skywalker’s X-wing or not. It would take some research to find out. Research he would have to do.
Because he recognized the device in the computer system. He had seen it in some of the remains on Tatooine, had watched one of his friends die by switching it on.
The Imperial symbol hid a detonating device of unique capability. The device remained inoperative until a certain command code had been spoken or entered into the attached system. Then, without skipping a beat, the energy polarity in the system would reverse, overload, and the detonator would go off, creating the largest possible explosion with the equipment at hand.
Cole’s hands were shaking. Skywalker had been right not to take this X-wing. If he had, he would have died.
Sixteen
“Skin … you will …”
Luke thought he heard Yoda’s voice. He listened very carefully, but the words kept fading in and out.
“… lucky … are …”
Just as his consciousness faded in and out. He was warm for the first time in what seemed like forever, but he couldn’t feel anything against his skin. It was like floating in zero G, only without the movement. He was stationary and touching nothing. How very, very strange. He had never been without the sense of touch before.
“… know you … I …”
His eyelids were closed, but the texture of the darkness had changed. Instead of seeing nothing but blackness, he now saw that light brown color he would see when he closed his eyes in Yavin 4’s bright sunlight.
“… feeling …”
Smells, too, were fading in and out. He thought he caught the scent of the meat stew his aunt Beru used to make when ships brought meat into Anchorhead. The meat wasn’t all that fresh, so she stewed it for two days and dished it out as if it were as precious as the moisture they farmed.
“… in time …”
The voice had the same qualities as Yoda’s, but wasn’t his. The same deep, androgynous quality existed, but the twisted syntax that marked Yoda was missing here. The speaker knew the language well. Luke’s ears simply weren’t working. They kept skipping words like a malfunctioning droid.
He concentrated, reached for the Force, found it, and heightened his senses.
Bubbles.
Sizzling.
Pink goo against his skin.
He forced his eyes open, his heart racing.
A woman in her late seventies looked down at him, her wrinkled features breaking into a smile. She had been beautiful once; still was, if truth be told. Her hair was silver and her eyes were the brightest blue he had seen since—
Since—
The memory failed him.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “You’ll be all right.”
Actually he heard her say “don’t,” “be,” and “right” and parsed out the rest by reading her lips.
“Not many people survive the mistmakers, and I’ve never seen an
yone live who was as covered in their slime as you were. It was touch and go for a while there.” Her smile softened. “You’re lucky I have a bacta tank.”
He came fully awake then. The bacta tank was across the room, its water still holding traces of the pink slime. That stuff had to be really potent for it to last in a bacta tank.
The room had other medical equipment from several different cultures. Through an open door, he saw a regular living area, complete with kitchen. Another door led into still another room that he couldn’t see.
All of this he noticed without turning his head. He still could feel nothing around him. With an incredible effort, he twisted his neck slightly and saw that he floated several feet above the bed. Air cushions. He had seen them in Imperial medical centers, but had never really been on one. They were reserved for burn patients who had lost most of their skin.
Luke shuddered. He tried to raise his hand to see if he had any skin left, but the woman shook her head.
“The more you try, the longer it will take you to recover. You can’t feel anything because mistmakers numb their victims before eating them. The numbness will wear off soon. An hour, maybe less. Then we can eat. I’ve been afraid to feed you like this. Didn’t know if you’d drown in food or not.”
It was an odd way to listen, hearing half the words and deciphering the rest.
“I know you have questions. It’s better if you don’t say anything.” The woman grabbed a chair, pumped its base so that the chair rose to Luke’s height, and then she climbed in. “I’ll answer what I can.”
He blinked, conveying, he hoped, his gratitude.
“You’re lucky I heard you land. I was hoping—” She caught herself, shook her head as if she were self-censoring, then said, “Never mind what I was hoping. I came to investigate and saw the mistmakers floating around the ship. I was about to turn around when that mistmaker exploded.”
Her eyes widened with the memory. Luke heard the sound, reverberating in his head, the amazing pop! that had saved his life.
“Nice work, that,” she said. “You’ll have to tell me how you did it. Those things are even resistant to blasterfire.”
Star Wars: The New Rebellion Page 13
