Star Wars_ X-Wing 05_ Wraith Squadron - Aaron Allston [117]
Ton Phanan, wearing false prosthetics to conceal even more of his flesh, and playing the part of a test pilot obviously down on his luck—and running ever lower on human components—passed inspection easily, as did Tyria, portraying his long-suffering wife. Then it was time for Wedge, Face, and Donos … potentially the most dangerous part of the deception, as Wedge’s face was on holographic wanted memoranda all over Imperial space.
Wedge tugged at the furious mustachios he wore. They were nowhere near as elaborate a disguise as the set of false prosthetics he’d worn to penetrate customs on the world of Coruscant, but he shouldn’t need such difficult and expensive measures here. And the continuations of his disguise on either side of him should draw attention away from his features.
He and his two companions wore nearly identical clothes. Their rough-country ponchos were woven from a heavy brown cloth that looked gritty and sand-filled even when scrupulously cleaned. Their trousers and shirts were a lighter weave of the same stuff, hard-worn—aged in just two days by having the Wraiths take turns marching across them for hours. Their broad-brimmed hats had received similar, though less extensive, treatment. Their hair and false mustaches were cut to identical lengths. Face again wore false skin to conceal his scars and had managed to mold it to make his features a bit more like Wedge’s. All in all, Wedge knew they looked like three yokels who’d blown their savings on a single trip to a more civilized world.
They descended the ramp and handed their identification cards to the official with an identical flourish. The man looked at them, an expression somewhere between amusement and horror on his face.
He recovered enough to slide the first card into his reader. “Dod Nobrin of Agamar.”
Agamar, an Outer Rim colony world, was a rough place whose inhabitants had to be equally rough to survive. Not surprisingly, the rustic ways, stubbornness, and durability of the men and women of Agamar earned them an undeserved reputation for stupidity across the Old Republic and the Empire. Even today, half of the jokes told in Basic about stupid people cast them as men and women of Agamar. Face had developed the trio’s clothing style and mannerisms after careful consultation with Captain Hrakness, a native of Agamar, to match the most common stereotypical depiction of the people of that world.
Face nodded, a head-bobbing motion more suited to a carrion bird than to a man. Wedge duplicated the motion. A moment later Donos caught on and did the same. The official looked between them as if mesmerized.
“I’m Dod,” Face said. He jerked his thumb at Wedge. “This is my brother Fod. Also from Agamar.” He gestured at Donos the same way. “This is my brother Lod.”
“Also from Agamar.”
“Oyah. That’s right. You’re pretty sharp for a city man.” The official shook his head with the motion of someone resigning himself for a long, long day at work. “Your business on Storinal?”
Face beamed. “Women.”
“Entertainment, then.”
Face looked indignant. “No.”
“Business?”
“No! That’s not the sort of business we’re in.”
Wedge said, “Brides.”
Donos, keeping his voice low, repeated, “Brides.” He stretched the word out as though it had some cosmic significance.
Wedge said, “There are only six beautiful women on all Agamar. And they’re all married.”
Face said, “There are only five.”
Wedge shook his head adamantly. “Six.”
“Five. Ettal Howrider got shot.”
“Gentlemen …”
“Who shot her?”
“Her cousin, Popal Howrider.”
“I thought he was still laid up from getting bit and the wound festering and all. That awful smell …”
“Gentlemen!” The official’s color had risen. “I’m going to put ‘Entertainment’ on your temporary visa. If you’re not here to do financial transactions with someone, you’re here for ‘Entertainment.’ You understand?”
Face nodded agreeably, and again Wedge and Donos matched his bobbing motion.