Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi II: Omen Page 12

  Some of the crowd sighed audibly and backed away. But at least one tagged along after her, shouting, “Shouldn’t a Jedi, who respects the Force created by all living beings, be a vegetarian?”

  Jaina rolled her eyes and bit back a retort. Think of the mission, Jaina. Think of the mission. She ducked into the speeder that had pulled up and was now hovering, waiting for her.

  “Go. Now.”

  Winter Celchu, her distinctive white hair dyed a forgettable shade of muddy brown, her features blunted by a judicious application of makeup, and her figure swathed in the robes of a Jedi apprentice, caught Jaina’s eyes in the mirror and grinned.

  “Of course, Jedi Solo.”

  IT MIGHT BE ONLY A DINNER, JAVIS TYRR THOUGHT, BUT MANY A SECRET had been whispered between lovers by candlelight before. Jaina had a head start on him; he would have to move quickly. As he lifted off, his Hologlide J57 cam droid securely in the seat beside him, he was able to catch sight of her vessel.

  Had Jaina been piloting, he knew, the speeder would make all sorts of convoluted twists and turns in an effort to elude pursuit. Instead, it remained almost staidly in the proper lanes of traffic, not exceeding legal speeds. And if Jaina wasn’t piloting tonight, that meant she might be choosing to imbibe some alcohol with her meal. Tyrr smiled. That would be useful. Intoxication often loosened tongues.

  His network’s ratings had soared upon his coverage of Jysella Horn’s “Jedi Rampage,” as it had been dubbed. So had his popularity with his bosses. He’d been given his own exclusive half-hour show, which he had titled Javis Tyrr Presents: The Jedi Among Us. Some episodes had been calmer than others. Most recently, in fact, he had aired an educational spot about the history of the Jedi. The ratings were starting to drop as the public lost interest, and his boss had recently indicated that something “a bit livelier” would be preferred.

  He was not going to stoop to eavesdropping on pillow talk. Tyrr was, after all, a reputable journalist. But any conversation held in a public place was fair game.

  The little red speeder was fairly easily followed, and Tyrr wondered if perhaps this might not be a waste of his time tonight. Jaina Solo and Jagged Fel were highly important personages, but they were beings, too, and it might indeed just be a dinner out. Even so, there could possibly be crumbs dropped that would be worth it. He tapped in a request on the vessel’s computer and it came up with a list of several restaurants in the area. As he quickly scanned the list, he realized he thought he knew where they were headed. That information helped make up his mind. He veered into another lane, taking a shortcut in order to arrive before Jaina. If, as he suspected, Fel and Solo were dining at the Indigo Tower, one of the nicest restaurants in the quarter, at least he’d have a good meal at the network’s expense.

  The Indigo Tower was modeled after the famous Skysitter Restaurant, shamelessly stealing that establishment’s concept of a revolving room on a tower high above the Coruscanti skyline. Its exterior was made of shining, blue-black durasteel, extremely modern and chic. Inside the color theme continued throughout the lush décor.

  Tyrr pulled into the valet lane, handed a credcoin of decent denomination off to the valet, and lingered at the entrance to the Tower, checking his chrono and looking about as if waiting for someone. He was careful to stay in the shadows as much as possible.

  A black speeder with the insignia of the Galactic Empire pulled up. Imperial Head of State Jagged Fel was clearly not attempting to hide his appearance. He also was driving his own speeder, and stepped out briskly, his military bearing obvious. His dark head with its distinctive white streak, a continuation of the scar that ran across his face, was bare, but he wore an elegant cloak, scarf, and gloves in concession to the chill of the altitude. He, too, handed his vessel off to a valet, then stood and waited, his breath puffing in the chill air.

  A few moments later the little red speeder appeared. Jaina Solo stepped out, smiling at Jag as he assisted her courteously. He kissed her cheek, drew her arm through his, and together they entered the restaurant.

  Tyrr followed, keeping a discreet distance. He was certain he had not been observed. But it wouldn’t matter if he had been spotted by the two: As a journalist of repute, he would not arouse suspicion by choosing to dine at this establishment. He lingered as they were led off by the maître d’ and then told the young female Ortolan who approached him, “I’d like to be close to those two.”

  He subtly flashed a credcard and winked.

  “I’ll get you as close as I can, sir,” she said, taking the card in her large, stubby hands, running it, and returning it to him just as discreetly. He followed her as she led him through the dining room, and wondered if her dark blue skin had been an asset during the hiring process at a place called the Indigo Tower. The carpet was thick and plush; over in the corner, a musical trio—a Bith, another Ortolan, and a human—was playing a soft tune. A sultry-voiced Pa’lowick stepped up to the microphone and began to sing.

  The Ortolan led him to an area where secluded booths extended into corners and the blue light made everything look mysterious and cool. He watched Jag and Jaina, her arm still through his, their heads bent close together as they spoke quietly.

  And then the maître d’ opened a door, and they disappeared.

  “Here you are, sir,” the Ortolan said blithely. “This is the closest table to our private rooms.”

  He stared at her.

  * * *

  “I’D HAVE GIVEN A LOT TO SEE THE LOOK ON TYRR’S FACE,” JAINA SAID.

  “We must, alas, content ourselves with imagining it,” Jag said.

  “Anything else I can do for you, sir? Madam?” the maître d’ inquired politely.

  “Not at the moment. Just keep up the façade. Open the doors from time to time to let him have a look,” Jag said.

  “Of course, sir. You’ll have five minutes before the waiter comes in with the wine list.” He went to the door and waited for everyone to take their positions.

  Sitting at the cozy, romantic, candlelit table for two were two humans who at first glance—and probably second—looked exactly like Jaina and Jag. Jag had first given Jaina the idea when Darkmeld had gone after Seff Hellin. “Like all sensible Chiefs of State, I have a double, hard at work pretending to be me back in my quarters,” he had said after they’d successfully brought down the troubled Jedi.

  Leia hadn’t used a double, as Jaina had pointed out to Jag, but she would. It was just too useful an idea.

  Jag’s double, Karn Valanti—code-named “Carved” for the decoy he was—was positively uncanny, Jaina thought. It wasn’t so much the looks, although he did strongly resemble Jag, especially around the eyes, but the man had gotten his movements down pat. She wasn’t so sure hers would pass close inspection, but everyone else assured her that Lina Zev—code-named “Curved,” not for her figure but for a fishing hook—had captured Jaina to perfection.

  “Wait till you see her demonstrate your trademark annoyed scowl,” Jag had said once. Jaina had frowned at him. “That’s the one. She’s nailed it.”

  Now the two doubles were helping Jag out of his outfit and Jaina into hers. Jag had worn a close-fitting, dark, nondescript tunic and pants beneath his formal wear, and Karn was now draping a hooded cloak over Jag’s broad shoulders. Jaina had shucked the high-heeled shoes and slipped a pair of trousers on beneath her dress. She turned away and wriggled out of the gown while Lina draped a shirt over her. She shrugged into her own cloak, demanding, “Time?”

  “We have exactly one minute and thirty-three seconds,” Jag assured her.

  “Let’s go,” Jaina said. They turned and ducked into the side door that led into the kitchens, which had doubtless been pressed into use as an escape route before. As the door closed, she glanced back just in time to see the main door to the dining area opening.

  Stang … those doubles did look convincing. The door slid shut and Jaina smiled at the kitchen staff. Some of them smiled back at her, but most appeared disinterested. Trysts be
tween high-powered couples were apparently nothing new at one of the most popular restaurants in the Senate District.

  Jaina sniffed appreciatively. Her stomach rumbled and she eyed some of the prepared dishes wistfully.

  “One of these days,” she said, “we really will have to come here just for dinner.”

  “I promise,” Jag said. “But for now—we have a mission, remember?”

  TYRR FUMED QUIETLY FOR A FEW MOMENTS, BUT THEN RESIGNED HIMSELF to the situation. It could still be turned to good use, and an evening spent dining on nerf steak and thakitillo, washed down with a nice glass of Crème D’Infame, was not one to be regretted.

  He caught glimpses of them from time to time as the door opened and the waiter brought in wine, appetizers, and the main course. They didn’t look like two high-ranking figures in deep discussion about politics, or Jedi principles, or anything. They looked like … a couple out on a date.

  His opportunity came when the serving droid tweetled past, a small unit bearing a sinful-looking array of pastries, puddings, and candies. It paused to permit an elderly couple to leave, and in those few seconds Tyrr removed a tiny cam, the size of a pinkie fingernail, from his pocket. He activated it with a remote in his other pocket, and the little cam sprouted legs like a spider and scurried onto the serving droid. It hastened up and embedded itself beneath the napkin on the tray, and Javis Tyrr grinned.

  The Pa’lowick singer stepped up to the microphone and began to croon a currently popular love song. Her Basic was surprisingly good.

  It’s all just a dream, isn’t it?

  This thing we call love …

  A marvelous scheme, isn’t it?

  This thing we call love …

  Javis listened with half an ear. He liked the song, and the performance was a good one, but his attention was most definitely elsewhere. A moment later, the droid paused before the closed door of the private dining room and bleeped a few times. The door opened to let it through, then slid shut behind it.

  It’s just an illusion,

  A trick of the heart,

  A pleasant delusion

  When two are apart—

  Tyrr nursed his own dessert and after-dinner drink, pulling out what looked like an ordinary datapad and perusing files. To all observers, he looked like the newsman he was, reading up on notes his assistant had gathered for his latest story. And indeed, that was what was on the screen—at the moment. But in a small corner, which could be enlarged with a tap of the finger, was an up-close-and-personal glimpse of … white napkin.

  He manipulated the controls in his pocket and the tiny cam droid scurried down to the thick carpet. He could hear them talking:

  “Oh yum … Vagnerian canapés. Mom loves these. Have you ever had one?” Jaina. Tyrr frowned. Perhaps the audio receivers were maladjusted—she sounded off, somehow.

  “No.” The sound of a fork clinking on plate, and then, “Mmm … okay. That’s pretty amazing.”

  Yes, the audio was definitely off. Jag’s voice sounded slightly deeper than normal, and more nasal. Oh, well, at least their words were being recorded. Tyrr again touched the controls and the little droid climbed up the table leg as the two continued to chat about the merits of various desserts and whether or not caf or Cassandran brandy was the proper beverage to consume with them. Tyrr sighed. It was an utterly banal conversation. He was about to write the evening off as a waste—except for the lovely meal—when the cam finally made it to the top of the table and raced to hide itself amid the fronds of the bouquet that served as a centerpiece.

  The woman was not Jaina.

  Oh, at first it looked like her, but the mouth was too wide and the nose too pinched. And the voice—there was nothing wrong with the audio receiver. It was the voice itself that was wrong.

  Quickly Tyrr directed the droid to maneuver to the opposite side. Was Jag—

  He zoomed in on the scar, and realized it was cleverly applied makeup. Doubles. They had gotten doubles. It was a fine old tradition, and he’d fallen for it.

  It was all Tyrr could do not to pound his fist on the table in frustration.

  It’s all just smoke and mirrors, darling;

  A pretty lie, and nothing more.

  Smoke and mirrors, indeed. It was time to take off the gloves. His ratings needed a boost. He needed a scoop, a story that would eclipse anything else.

  And he was determined to get it.

  THE SMALL, NONDESCRIPT SPEEDER WAS WAITING OUTSIDE THE REAR door. Tahiri Veila opened the doors and Jaina and Jag jumped inside, barely making it before Tahiri lifted off.

  “How’d it go?”

  “Smooth as shimmersilk,” Jaina said.

  “Catch any in the net or was it just a good general slip?”

  “Javis Tyrr followed us,” Jag said. “At least we know he’s wasted an evening.”

  Tahiri smirked a little. “Good. He’s tried to interview me, you know.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Jaina said, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “You’d boost his ratings through the roof.”

  Jag clicked on his comlink. “Hoth, this is Gaunt. Is the bantha in position?”

  “In the cave as promised,” Winter Celchu replied. “Ready to travel.”

  “Great. Mynock has been effectively neutralized for the evening. Operation Caranak will proceed as planned.”

  “Good luck. Hoth out.”

  Jaina listened, her lips curving in a smile. Jag had come up with the name mynock to describe their parasitic journalist. It was just perfect. She sighed and leaned against him. One more “bantha”—speeder—to pick up, and the mission would be accomplished. She and Jag would spend the night under aliases in a small, out-of-the-way inn halfway around the planet.

  “By the way,” asked Tahiri, “why Operation Caranak?”

  “A caranak,” Jag said, slipping an arm around Jaina as she rested her head against his shoulder in the backseat, “is an aquatic fowl native to Endor. It is notoriously difficult to domesticate.”

  Tahiri was silent, then she said slowly, “ … a wild goose?”

  “Just so.”

  Another pause and then, “And they say you don’t have a sense of humor, Jag.”

  “They,” said Jag, his voice completely serious, “do not have a sufficiently good espionage network.”

  THE SOLOS’ PRIVATE APARTMENTS, CORUSCANT

  “I’m worried about Allana,” Leia said. She was curled up next to her husband, her petite frame nestled against his larger one as they spooned together in their bedchamber. They had opted to leave the large, military-grade-thickness transparisteel viewport open. At all hours of the day or night, they could watch the colorful, constantly changing images of Coruscant traffic. Some might have found the view stressful. The Solos, with their love of vessels, found it reassuring. “What about her?” Han mumbled. He had almost fallen asleep, but he could feel the tension, the wakefulness in his wife’s body. “She dealt okay with the spiders on Kessel. Just like a Solo granddaughter should.”

  “I’m not talking about repercussions from Kessel,” Leia said. Her voice was soft, quiet, and Han could barely hear her. He frowned and propped himself up on his elbow, gently turning her to face him.

  “This some kind of Force thing?”

  “No, not at all. In fact the opposite.” Leia sighed. “Han, she needs something … ordinary. And we’re most definitely not.”

  “Well, you got that right, but neither is she. She was born the Chume’da, the heir to the Hapan throne. She’s the daughter of Tenel Ka and Jacen Solo, two very powerful Jedi. She’s about as far from ordinary as you can get.”

  Leia sighed and snuggled against him, idly stroking his chest. “Even so, when she was Chume’da, she had her routines. Her place. Her droids.”

  “She has droids here. And that feels nice, so keep on—Ow!” Han glowered at her as, annoyed, Leia tugged on his chest hair with the intent to irritate.

  “She does. But with all that’s going on right now, I can’t help b
ut think back to my own childhood. What made me feel happy, safe, and loved.”

  “Oh, yeah, you had a very ordinary life. Forgot about that, Princess and Senator.”

  Although he was being sarcastic, Han knew that he was also correct, and Leia, who was usually fair about these things, did not reprimand him by tugging again on his chest hair.

  “No, I absolutely did not have an ordinary life. But I never felt unsettled. And I’m afraid that’s what’s happening with Allana.”

  The faint light from the never-dark Coruscant skies fell upon her features, still beautiful to him—and others—after over forty years. Her eyes, that rich, liquid brown that always made him kinda quivery, glinted slightly in the multicolored glow as she peered up at him, and Han Solo fell in love all over again, as he did pretty much at least once a week. He’d been lucky to have found such an amazing woman. Life would never, ever be dull with her.

  “I had a very happy, stable childhood,” Leia continued. “Two parents who were very much in love with each other. I was raised on politics, but it never harmed the family. Resisting the Empire never seemed to conflict with storytime, or trips together as a family, or …”

  Her brown eyes bored into his. Han knew that the reason for the conversation was about to be made manifest, and he braced himself.

  “Or wonderful, sunlit afternoons spent riding my thranta.”

  Han waited. But apparently that was it.

  “I don’t get it. I must be too sleepy to be having this conversation,” Han said.

  “The Coruscant Livestock Exchange and Exhibition just started. We have the credits and the property to buy Allana something special. Something she can spend wonderful, sunlit afternoons riding.”

  Han’s own eyes widened. “You’re not serious.”

  “Oh, very, I’m afraid.”

  “You want to go to the Livestock Exchange and Exhibition.”

  She nodded. Rivers of dark brown hair shot with gray that only made her look more gorgeous gleamed with the movement. Han frowned. It wasn’t fair, sometimes.