Star Wars_ X-Wing 07_ Solo Command - Aaron Allston [151]
Then Zsinj sagged, all energy seemingly having fled him. “General,” he said, “we will meet again.”
“I’m sure we will.” Solo lost his smile. “Zsinj, I’m not a rich man. Not really an ambitious man. Maybe you should take that into account. It means that you can never cost me as much as I’ve cost you. Never.”
Zsinj regarded him soberly for a moment. Then his holoimage faded.
“Shuttle’s made the launch to hyperspace,” reported the sensor operator.
Solo nodded. Then he looked up at Chewbacca. “We got him. He’s not dead, but his fleet is a shambles and his financial empire is coming to pieces. He may never recover.”
Chewie rumbled a reply.
“No, I never really would have asked you to kiss him.”
With the colors of hyperspace flowing past the forward viewport, sign of safety that was finally his, Zsinj turned to his pilot. “What did you think of my performance?”
The man looked at him blankly. “I suppose it was pretty good, sir.”
“You obviously have no appreciation of the theater, dear boy. Oh, well. In a few minutes, we’ll rendezvous with Iron Fist and head on to Rancor Base, where you won’t be called upon to provide artistic criticism you’re not qualified to offer.” He heaved a sigh.
18
Dr. Gast lay on her bed in the tiny chamber that was her cell, bored, and watched the same holodrama for the third time in as many days. It was called High Winds, and told the story of performing wire-walkers, madmen who stretched fibra-ropes between the skyscrapers of Coruscant and then tried to walk across for the entertainment of others. It was a tragedy, of course; any such account, made by Imperial holomakers, of such nontraditional and independent behavior always ended in sadness and death.
There was a murmur of voices from outside, her guard talking to someone, and then there was a knock at her door.
She paused the holo. Actor Tetran Cowall froze in mid-slip, his plunge to death delayed for a few moments, his expression wide-eyed and hopeless. “Come in,” she said.
Nawara Ven entered, stared at her impassively. “You’ll launch tomorrow in the shuttle Narra for Coruscant. Nobody wants you to arrive with Solo’s fleet.” He tossed a packet tied together with cord at her feet. “Your new identity,” he said. “Maharg Tulis, home decorator from Alderaan. It will stand up to any scrutiny, New Republic or Imperial.”
She didn’t reach for the packet. “That’s an ugly name.”
“To accompany an ugly spirit.”
“And my money?”
“I’ll give you one more chance on the money. Tell me you don’t want it, that you’re donating it back to the New Republic cause to save lives. That could be your very first step in returning from what you’ve become.”
“I’ll take the money, thanks.”
“As you wish. I won’t ever again try to protect you from yourself.” He offered her a toothy smile. “We have to send out a holocomm request for your money. How would you prefer your credits—New Republic or Imperial?”
“Imperial, of course. What did you think?”
“Imperial it is. As soon as they arrive, you’ll be off to Coruscant.”
“I need a bodyguard! I’ll be carrying half a million credits. It wouldn’t do to let me be robbed. That would reflect badly on your New Republic.”
The Twi’lek nodded. “You’re absolutely right. I’ll be your bodyguard until we get to Coruscant. Once we’re there, you can hire one to your liking and book your own passage to whatever world you like.”
“Well … I suppose you’ll do.”
Ven took a step back and shut the door.
Gast grabbed the identity packet, plucked the string free, and examined the documents, shoving the datacards in her terminal one by one. An identity card. A falsified personal history—born on Alderaan, a traveler among Outer Rim worlds since her home planet’s destruction eight years before. A permit permitting her to carry a large sum of money, up to a half million New Republic credits or the equivalent. Memberships in various decorators’ guilds—Imperial, New Republic, various unaligned planets.
She sat back, satisfied. One or two more days, and