Star Wars_ X-Wing 05_ Wraith Squadron - Aaron Allston [116]
“Doran Spaceways welcomes you to Storinal,” Kell said in his most official voice. “Be ready to show your documentation to all officials of the planetary government, and enjoy your stay.” He lowered the shuttle’s main ramp. “First-class passengers first, please.”
Wes Janson tugged at his lengthy white beard, a gesture that looked habitual but really served to assure him that it was still attached properly. He squared his shoulders, assumed a properly haughty attitude, and descended the ramp, his bodyguards flanking him—Falynn left, Lieutenant Atril Tabanne right, and Piggy, in the full regalia of a Gamorrean warrior, complete with vibro-ax, behind.
The end of an inspection tube connected to the bunker swung out before the shuttle, and a planetary official stepped out from it to join the guards. Doubtless the man thought himself natty in his emerald-green longcoat and shining gold buttons, but Janson knew himself to be a far more brilliant, and possibly ridiculous, spectacle.
Janson wore a glittering red coat cut in the style of a naval officer’s, complete with epaulettes and a double row of buttons, plus matching peaked cap and well-tailored black pants. White belt and gloves, shining black boots and blaster holster completed the ensemble. The clothing ensemble, that is; Janson also wore thick white hair, beard, and mustache, and makeup that roughened the skin on his face and hands. Wes Janson’s face was too well known in Imperial-controlled space to risk a less elaborate disguise.
His bodyguards, in contrast, were beacons of sobriety. Falynn and Atril wore body stockings in light-leeching black. Their leather accoutrements—boots, belt, bags, and blaster holsters—were matte black. Their hair was drawn back in severe braids, and Face had insisted both women dye it black, too, explaining that it was appropriate for the sort of all-controlling personality Janson was supposed to be to have matching bodyguards.
Janson stopped before the government agent, who held out his hand. Janson cleared his throat in what he hoped was an appropriately blustery manner, and Atril handed the official four sets of identicards.
The official slid the first one into his handheld scanner. “Senator-in-Exile Iskit Tyestin from Bakura,” he said. He frowned. “Bakura.”
“Don’t bother to tell me that Bakura is hardly a friend to the Empire these days.” Janson struggled to keep that elusive element of harumph in his voice. “If she were, I would still be there, in my home, instead of here, loyally serving the Empire.”
“Of course. What is your business on Storinal?”
“Business. I’m raising funds for the Bakuran Loyalist Movement. We continue to put pressure on the government to sever ties with the Rebels and return to her true allegiance.”
The official’s hand-reader pinged and he looked at it. “You are in our records. A loyal friend of the Empire.”
Janson harumphed, straightened with pride. The Senator Tyestin identity matched a real person, one of the last of the Empire’s supporters to be elected to the senate of Bakura before that world decided to join the Alliance. The real Tyestin never made it offworld; his escape craft was destroyed when he attempted to flee, a fact that was not yet lodged in the Empire’s datanet.
The official dropped each of the other cards into his reader. “My lady Anen of Bakura. Profession, bodyguard. Licensed to carry exposed and concealed weaponry. Please don’t use it, Mistress Anen; even the most legal and reasonable of shootings leads to tedious investigations. My lady Honiten, likewise, likewise, and likewise. And Guardsman Voort.” He peered at the Gamorrean. “Does it understand Basic?”
“A few words,” Janson said, his tone a grumble. “Too few.”
“Please observe the signs outside