Star Wars_ X-Wing 07_ Solo Command - Aaron Allston [154]
Ven nodded sagely. “Well, then, I know exactly where you’re going.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I’ll bet you half a million credits I can name the planet.”
She offered him a scowl. Then the man ahead of her in line moved past the customs station. She swung her two bags atop the examination table.
The customs worker, an aging human man, quickly ran a scanner across her bags, then opened the first and probed through the few garments and personal possessions that made up most of what she retained of her former life.
Then he opened her other bag and froze. He looked up at her, astonishment in his eyes. “What’s this?”
“Money.” She handed him a datacard. “Here’s my financial record. It constitutes authorization to travel with a large sum such as this.”
“It’s not the sum.” His look suggested that she was a victim of sun-madness. “These are Imperial credits.”
“Yes, of course.”
“And bringing them into Coruscant is an act of smuggling.” His hands shoved the currency around in her bag.
Nawara Ven leaned in close. “Actually, by Coruscant law, bringing in that many Imperial credits can only be for purposes of sedition. That’s a far more serious charge than merely smuggling. You’ll be spending at least a lifetime in prison on Coruscant.”
The customs official snapped his fingers and waved. Security officers approached.
Gast turned on Ven. “You set me up.”
He looked down at her impassively. “No, I let you do exactly as you wanted. I also saved your life. I’d say I’ve treated you rather well.”
She spat at him. A gooey mass hit his cheek and clung there.
He brought out a handkerchief of fine cloth, wiped the sputum away, and discarded it, as though the substance were poison, ruining the cloth forevermore.
Then strong hands gripped Dr. Gast’s arms and she was yanked away.
Han Solo and Wedge Antilles sat in the cockpit of the Millennium Falsehood, their feet up on the control boards. All lights in the ship and in the bay were off, including the strip around the magcon field, so they had an unimpeded view of the colorful swirl of hyperspace beyond.
“What are you going to do with her?” Wedge asked.
“Hmmm?” Solo stirred, his train of thought broken. “Do with who?”
“With the Falsehood.”
“Well, technically, I can’t do anything with her,” Solo said. “She belongs to the New Republic. But if they listen to me—which they will—I’ll recommend they put her up in a museum. As a near replica of the Falcon. That way nobody is ever likely to bother me anymore about donating the old girl.”
“Which old girl?”
“You know what I mean.”
The comm unit crackled into life, startling both men. “Bridge to General Solo.”
Solo thumbed the system to two-way transmission. “Solo here.”
“Communications here, sir. We have a situation.”
“Go ahead.”
“A while back you ordered my station to run all incoming messages through a voice-analysis program. So you could be notified immediately if Lara Notsil contacted you again.”
“That’s right.”
“No one thought to end the program after her death. Well, just before we made our last jump, we received a recorded message. Let me patch it through to you, sir.”
“Hold on.” Solo activated the bridge lights and powered up the Falsehood’s cockpit terminal screen. “Ready to receive.”
The terminal glowed into life. A data screen popped up, announcing the details of the message’s origin and route before arriving on Mon Remonda. Its origin was Corellia; it was originally transmitted one day before; its intended recipient was Myn Donos, New Republic Starfighter Command. The data shrank and moved over into the left margin, to be replaced by a full-holo message.
The woman it showed had long red hair artfully draped in a braid over her shoulder. She was rather delicate of features, with an uncertain smile on her lips. “Hello, Myn,” she said. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen one another.”
Solo and Wedge looked at one another. “That’s Lara Notsil,” Solo said.
Wedge glanced over at the data stream. “No, it’s someone named Kirney Slane.”
“You’re not even surprised.” Solo glared at him,