Star Wars_ X-Wing 07_ Solo Command - Aaron Allston [11]
One display showed the longtime Intelligence head, Armand Isard, an aging man with an inhumanity to his eyes and features that were unsettlingly real even in holographic replay. Farther down the exhibition, another showed his daughter, Ysanne Isard, nicknamed Iceheart, a tall and elegant woman of formidable bearing, and told of her swift rise to power through two simple tactics: turning in her own father for treasonous thoughts and attracting the eye of the Emperor. After Palpatine’s death, she had even managed secretly to gain control of the Empire itself for a time.
Face, his features buried under a wooly brown beard, lingered before the projection of Ysanne Isard for a long time, and Donos saw him shudder—a motion too slight for any but those who knew him best to notice. The Wraiths were aware that when Face was a boy star in holodramas, he’d actually met Iceheart, had even been invited to sit in her lap. Now Iceheart was dead, killed by Rogue Squadron’s own Tycho Celchu, and Donos knew the universe was better off without her.
To some extent, Imperial Intelligence had died with her. To be sure, an organization with that name survived under the coalition that had replaced Iceheart, but it was not managed with the same inventive ruthlessness that had characterized Isard and her father. The organization was still a danger … but to fewer and fewer people as the years went by.
Instead of going out the exit at the end of the exhibition, the Wraiths turned about and went back the way they came, the better to give Targon a chance to view the displays again. As they passed the holo of Iceheart, Donos saw the Devaronian pilot pull up something held by a chain around his neck and press it to his forehead.
“A lucky charm?” Donos asked.
Targon nodded. “A coin of the Old Republic. It holds a lot of luck.”
“How do you know?”
“My brother was never shot down while wearing it. It’s better than anything else I have. He sent it to me when I joined the Academy. Better than my lucky carved bantha-bone. Better than my lucky belt buckle. Or my lucky gilding set. Or my—”
Face interrupted. “What’s a gilding set?”
“Well, you know. For my horns.”
“I don’t know. What about your horns?”
Targon shrugged. “For special occasions, important festivals, we sometimes—Devaronians I mean—put gold leaf on our horns. For decoration.”
“And this is just a device to help you do that?”
“That’s right.”
“What makes it lucky?”
“Well, the first time I used it, shortly before I entered the Academy, I attracted the eye of a certain young lady—”
“Never mind.”
Donos and Face exchanged glances. The Wraiths and Rogues were light on pilots who put much stock in good-luck charms, but such pilots were common throughout the New Republic and the Empire. Donos saw Face’s eyes light up, probably because of an idea for a prank.
“I was Vyn Narcassan. In my twenty-year career with Republic Intelligence, I successfully completed over a hundred covert missions.” As they reached the display honoring the last of the Old Republic’s Intelligence heroes, Donos gave the man one last look, took in his dimpling smile, then realized what it was the man reminded him of.
Not what—who. The man’s skin tone, his dimples, his unusual physical beauty—they were all shared by another Wraith. Shalla Nelprin.
That rocked Donos back on his heels. But the physical resemblance was dramatic.
Donos smiled at the long-missing agent. “We’ll just let that be our little secret, Narcassan,” he said under his breath. “But I’m going to send