Star Wars_ X-Wing 06_ Iron Fist - Aaron Allston [67]
Tavin’s eyes flickered to something offscreen, then back. “It looks like I’m almost out of time, if I’m going to keep this message affordable. Whether you want this job or not, let me hear from you. Good-bye for now.” He half smiled and the picture froze.
Words popped up on the screen, superimposed over his face in white. They were the chronicle of the path the message took to reach her—from Aldivy to her former quarters on Coruscant, then to the main New Republic message authority on Coruscant, then—with the secrecy flag activated—to Tedevium and Mon Remonda. Finally it had come here, though there was no chronicle of that final bounce; the Wraiths’ presence in the Halmad system was still top secret.
Lara just sat and tried to breathe, tried to sort out what was happening to her.
Then it came to her. Those had been her words. But she’d written them on Coruscant in a letter to Warlord Zsinj. She, Gara, had written them, not she, Lara, the false identity.
She felt her breathing relax, as though a belt tied across her rib cage had been suddenly loosened. She knew who she was again.
Why was Tavin Notsil quoting her a letter she’d written to Warlord Zsinj? Obviously, this was an indirect message from Zsinj. Tavin Notsil was in on it. That made sense. He was supposed to be a crook, a confidence man.
She felt wobbly again. That meant Zsinj had penetrated her Lara Notsil identity. It was no longer a haven for her. She felt tears welling up, and for once she could not contain them—her legendary ability to start and stop crying at will abandoned her. She buried her face in her hands and cried.
“It’s all right,” Tyria said. “Even good news can be a big shock. Are you sure you don’t want to see the doctor?”
“No doctor.” What was she going to do? Just days ago, she had abandoned her plan, her desire to serve Zsinj. She had decided to stay here, to belong here. And now Zsinj had denied her the future she’d stumbled upon.
She rose, the motion made difficult by her suddenly shaky legs, and turned an uncertain smile on Tyria. “I think I just need to walk for a while.”
“I understand. Later, if you need to talk—”
“Thank you.”
Outside her habitation module, she turned right on the Trench, heading deeper into the mine shaft that served the Wraiths as home. Deeper tended to mean away from people.
• • •
Face, again at his favorite “patio” table, making some final notes on tomorrow’s mission, saw Lara exit her bunk module and walk away. He returned his attention to his work, then looked at her again. There was something odd about her movement …
She was angry, no question of it. But that wasn’t all. All of a sudden, her carriage was appropriate for Coruscant—shorter steps, hunched shoulders, the posture of a woman who lived within the imposing and paranoia-inducing canyons of the Imperial throneworld for many years.
Or, perhaps, Admiral Trigit had taught her to walk this way when she’d been his drugged captive. That made more sense; a man like that might be offended at the long, rangy stride of an Aldivian farm girl and have modifications to her physical mannerisms on the list of things to change when he broke her spirit.
Face sighed. He suspected that the mind of Lara Notsil was a deeper mess than anyone had realized before now. With luck, she’d turn to her fellow Wraiths when she realized she was in trouble. Until that happened, all he could do was watch and be ready.
A little troubled, he returned his attention to his planning.
One “block” from her module—a block being one uninterrupted