KLATOOINE

NOW DRESSED APPROPRIATELY TO THE PLANET AND TERRAIN, CARRYING identification that would pass at least casual verification, Querdan Dei stood, inconspicuous, in the shadows of the awning of a tent from which a Klatooinian female sold chilled drinks and personal cooling devices to credulous offworlders. Dei bought another drink every half an hour so that the proprietor would not resent his continued presence.

There was a broad strip of open sand before him, and on the other side of it the largest tent of the encampment, a canopy suited to a circus. It was the political center of the gathering, the place where the leaders of several disparate, half-cooperative, half-feuding rebellion movements were now trying to make themselves more attractive to the Galactic Alliance while maintaining an attitude of rugged independence. It was like a mating dance among unshaven human males, each trying to attract a female while intimidating rivals.

The place was well defended. In addition to guards posted at intervals around its circumference, Dei saw small turbolaser cupolas at four points along its perimeter, sensor devices and sensor droids all around, and indications—from the way camp workers meticulously restored sand blown away by the winds—that there were probably additional sensors in a net buried just under the surface. Somewhere nearby, another tent would be loaded with monitoring stations where data from all those sensors would be under constant analysis. Dei suspected that the main tent’s interior would also feature shields, possibly as strong as those carried by a starfighter, projecting their protective fields in an overlapping pattern.

Between Dei and the big tent, out on the hot open sands just short of the clear area maintained by guards, a group of ragged children, mostly Klatooinian, played. It was a local game called Return. Dei had learned about it this morning. The captain of one team, standing alone, would hurl a round ball to an ally in the crowd of other players. The receiver would then attempt to run it back to him through a gauntlet of opponents. The receiver could toss it to any ally except the captain, but there was a danger of it being intercepted, and when running with the ball, the carrier might be borne to the ground and drop the ball. If a member of the other team got the ball, play would stop and that player would become the captain for the next throw. Twice now guards had had to shoo the players back a few meters from the clear zone.

Finally the party of politicians Dei had been waiting for arrived. He recognized the Solos, their Galactic Alliance guards … and, interestingly, the dome-topped astromech and gold protocol droid that had visited the Hapan landing craft the previous night. Preliminary research had told Dei that they belonged to the Solos. In addition there were several more heavily robed strangers, most wearing veils over their faces. They walked before, behind, and among the Solo family party, conversing with the Solos and their guards.

Dei nodded. Probably the Hapan contingent. The Hapans’ security unit must have been directed to converse with the Alliance security agents, all very informal, causing trouble to an observer trying to sort out who was who.

Dei reached up to his collar and, while innocuously scratching his neck, pressed a button on the comlink hidden beneath folds of cloth.

As the Solos and Hapans entered the clear belt of sand, one of the Klatooinian players of the ball game strode up to the current captain, a red Twi’lek boy. The Klatooinian child growled angry words at him and snatched the ball, then pushed the captain down. His body language contemptuous, he hurled the ball away, paying no attention to direction. It went straight toward the Solos and Hapans. It hit the sand a few meters from the nearest of them and rolled onward.

The party reacted much as Dei expected. The nearest veiled woman hurled herself on the ball. Veiled individuals and Alliance guards formed up in front of the Solos and three of the veiled Hapans. Not all of them interposed themselves between the errant ball and the individuals they were protecting; several turned outward, covering against possible attacks from other directions.

Interestingly, the astromech, which had been in the midst of the pack of veiled individuals, maneuvered to be in front of one of the Hapans, and the protocol droid tottered to stand behind the same woman, its metal-plate hands up in a placating gesture, its voice dimly audible in a wail of unease. The woman the astromech had moved to protect turned and offered the protocol droid a few words—of reassurance, if her accompanying gesture was any indication. When she gestured, she was careful not to let her robe gape open too widely, and Dei had no opportunity to observe her left arm.

The Klatooinian child advanced toward them all, speaking in the half-growling, half-barking language of his kind, gesturing angrily at the woman lying atop his ball. He ignored the angry calls and words being directed at him by the other players.

Several members of the Solo–Hapan party laughed. Others, still on high alert, didn’t. The woman on the sand rose from atop the ball, her body language a bit sheepish, and kicked the ball so it rolled back to the boy. The boy retrieved it and ran back to his fellows, no longer aggressive, then handed it to the Twi’lek he’d shoved.

The situation resolved, several members of the party continued on into the big tent. Others moved to take up guard positions around the site.

The droids in particular interested Dei. The astromech had clearly moved to protect one of the Hapans. Why had it not moved to protect the Solos, its owners? Probably simply because it was farther from the Solos than the Hapan woman. It clearly had some regard for her survival. Odds were high that the woman it had sought to shield was Tenel Ka Djo, a personal friend of the Solos. This suggested an unusual assertiveness and courage on the part of the droid, but it was clearly not programmed for tactical thinking, else it would not have betrayed the identity of Tenel Ka in that fashion.

Tenel Ka’s concern for the protocol droid was another point of interest. Droids that cared about a Hapan queen, a Hapan queen who cared about droids. The seed of a plan began to sprout in Dei’s mind.

He lingered at the tent, bought another chilled drink. The ball game continued for a time, until its members began to drift off toward other diversions. At last, the only one left was the boy who had thrown the ball toward the Hapans.

Now, tossing it from hand to hand, he missed catching it and it rolled toward Dei. Dei trapped it with his foot, rolled it atop his boot, and bounced it up into his hand. When the boy approached, Dei returned it to him—the ball and, inconspicuously, a few high-value credcoins. He gave the Klatooinian boy an approving little nod. “Well done. I will contact you if I need you again.”

The boy bared teeth in a fierce Klatooinian smile and left.

Allana stared up at the much taller figure beside her. In addition to answering questions, Javon was turning out to be useful at blocking out the sun. “How much time do we have?”

Javon checked his chrono. “See-Threepio will be back at the Falcon for your next lesson in forty-three minutes, thirty seconds—mark!”

She laughed. He’d gotten in the habit of giving all times down to the minute and second, with exaggerated importance, as if it were crucial to know the split second when the tent selling the little berry pies would have the next batch ready.

Today Allana’s guards were all in desert dress. Without the droids to make them more conspicuous, Javon had decided that everyone assigned to Allana should blend in with the crowds. Another one of his tactics; consistency of appearance, he’d told Allana, could make it easier for opponents to recognize and monitor her and her security detail.

Today Allana led the way in another sightseeing tour of the camp. There really wasn’t that much of interest to an eight-year-old, but getting out and meandering was certainly better than remaining cooped up in the Falcon, waiting to do more studying.

It was at the midpoint of the camp, where an open field had become the center of argument, debate, and speech making among the disparate groups, that she felt a little thrill of dread. She shivered. Anji looked up at her, studying her face, but she merely gave the nexu an absent stroke to reassure her.

What had it been? Allana looked around for the stray air-conditioning outlet that might have blown some chill air across her, for the exposed electrical cable she might have brushed against to cause her to vibrate. But there was nothing like that near her.

There was just a man walking away from her, his head bowed in thought. He wore garments consistent with the others in the camp, anonymous and practical. He was tall, lean, probably a human—though from the back, with his features concealed by the sun hood he wore, she could not be sure.

He reminded her a little of her father, alone and resolute and, yes, somehow dark.

Perhaps it was that comparison, that realization that did it. Now a little twinge in the Force told her there was something in this man to worry her.

“Amelia? Is something wrong?” Javon was suddenly standing over her, his shadow spilling across her.

She looked up at him, shook her head. “Just thinking. Let’s go this way.” Without giving him time to object, she darted down a side path, a walkway between close-set tents, then turned ninety degrees and trotted in the same direction the man had been traveling, paralleling his course.

Javon kept up. She heard him murmuring, his tone unconcerned, into his comlink, directing the travel of the other members of his detail.

Allana continued at a brisk pace across a quarter of the encampment, then turned rightward again and stopped at the intersection with the main path.

It was only a few moments before she saw him, that introspective figure. From the front, he was definitely human, fair-skinned, but he did not look so much like her father. He was older, his face more creased. His eyes automatically moved over everyone crossing his path, but Allana did not think he was looking at them, except to register their movements in case they should turn out to be threats.

There was something more to him. She didn’t know whether it was something supernatural, as though he were a wicked wizard from a children’s holodrama come to life, or whether she had felt his presence in the Force. The Force made more sense—it was real, and it was always around her.

Her father and her grandmother could always tell when Allana was staring at them, and she knew she was staring at this man. So she tried to make herself small in the Force, a tiny dot, not worth seeing. It was the same as hiding during hide-and-go-seek but without the happy anticipation of the game itself. She also wrapped her desert cloak around herself and gestured to Anji to stay close.

The man passed where she stood. He glanced at her, a look that took in her presence but did not seem to fix on her, and up at Javon. Then he was past.

Allana tried not to react. When he had looked at her, she had felt something. He wasn’t on fire, but she thought he was perhaps the man from her nightmares, or someone related to that man. And he was strong in the Force. She could tell.

Javon cleared his throat.

She looked up at him. “I’m doing exercises.” It was almost the truth. What she’d been doing was an exercise in the Force. Now she worked to maintain it, her smallness, as she turned after the man she was studying. She followed him.

She did not look at him, not directly. She knew he might feel her eyes on him. She looked around him and concentrated on remaining a tiny little thing.

He walked toward the east, angling a little to the south, and reached the edge of camp. He passed beyond its borders and walked by one of the big tracked shield generators, heading along the path beaten by many feet that led to a gentle series of rises that would take hikers to the top of the eastern ridge.

Allana stood at the edge of camp. She couldn’t keep going; she would be too conspicuous. She half watched the strange man as he ascended that slope and disappeared over the ridge.

She looked up at Javon. “I think I need to go back for my lesson.”

He checked his chrono. “You still have twenty minutes.”

“That’s all right. I’m through playing.”

Reentering the large tent, Han ignored the eyes of the mixed bag of security operatives staring at him. None of them liked the fact that he had a blaster on his hip or that he had a reputation for knowing how to use it. None of them, in fact, were happy that any other delegation was allowed to bring blasters into this gathering. But not one of the independent-minded delegations was willing to give up its weapons. And that suited Han just fine.

He moved to take a seat near Leia and did his best not to slouch. He preferred to slouch wherever possible, of course, but sometimes it just didn’t reflect well on Leia, and this was one of those times.

Tenel Ka was in the midst of offering another argument. “Yes, Padnel, any Alliance politician and any Jedi leader can be replaced at any time, and those respective bodies can theoretically renege on anything promised by the ousted representatives. This is why neither Jedi Solo nor I tend to speak in absolutes. But both of us, and any leader with any experience, must weigh in the factors of political and social momentum. There continues to be momentum in favor of the freedom movements. Momentum in the diminishment of the influence of slave-owning species and corporations. When it is impossible to fully trust individuals, one can put some faith in the inevitability of these movements.”

Padnel shook his head. “There is only one means to progress. Receive an oath of honor from all involved … and kill those who break it. This teaches future generations not to break their word. If someone on the playing field will not swear such an oath, it is because he intends to go back on his declaration, or at least have the latitude to do so.”

Leia tried a different angle. “That’s an admirable way to look at it … and very Klatooinian. But not all participants in this negotiation are Klatooinian. Even when everyone speaks Basic, the language of politics is dramatically different from culture to culture.”

“I understand that.” Padnel’s voice was descending to near-growl levels. “So everyone should speak as Klatooinians do.”

A soft chime sounded, indicating the start of the midday meal break. Han saw relief on the faces of several of the participants. Clearly, everyone needed a break from the tension of this deadlocked argument.

In pairs and small groups, the participants rose, made temporary farewells, and left the tent. Padnel huddled with Reni Coll and his Chev adviser off in one corner. This left only Han and Leia among the seats used for the negotiations.

Han leaned in toward his wife and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Not going well, huh?”

“On the contrary, I’m delighted to be working with Padnel Ovin. It’s good for our marriage. It reminds me, from minute to minute, that you’re not the most stubborn man in the galaxy.”

He gave her a mock scowl. “Who says I’m not?”

“Han …”

“Sweetheart, I was outside for a lot of the last discussion. I think I get what’s happening, but I’d like to be sure. Boil it down for me.”

“All right.” Leia glanced over at Padnel’s group. “Klatooine is the site of the freedom movement most likely to result in a world viable for admission into the Alliance. That admission would reassure the other movements that they are being taken seriously and have a path by which they can achieve legitimacy. But the Council of Elders here needs a figurehead who can be the focus of popular support, a front man or woman, whom they can point at to credit—or blame—for this change in their ancient policy. It’s a policy of strict adherence to an old treaty with the Hutts, a treaty that didn’t have an exit clause. They want and need to be able to say, We had no choice, that one’s leadership was too compelling. The problem is, the two leading contenders are too flawed. Reni Coll is smart enough to manage the organization and make the strong political decisions a point person must, but she lacks charisma. Padnel has the charisma, but he’s sticking to certain points that disqualify him to various potential supporters. If he acts like a galactic-level politician and condemns his brother’s action aboard the frigate Fireborn, he loses his core supporters in the Sand Panthers. He’ll do it if certain parties make blood oaths he believes he can count on, but not otherwise. And he’s never going to get those oaths.”

Han nodded. “So you’re leaning toward Padnel, but only if he decides to grow a brain stem.”

“Elegantly put … yes.”

“Well, I can fix this.”

She gave him a suspicious look. “Dropping a concussion bomb on the camp doesn’t constitute fixing the problem.”

“No, I mean, I can persuade Padnel to condemn the Fireborn thing, making him a viable candidate. Or maybe he’ll go berserk and kill everyone here. Either way, the stalemate will be broken.”

She looked at him more closely. “How would you do that?”

“Well, if I explained, you wouldn’t believe me. Or I can just do it. It’ll take less than five minutes.”

“Han—”

“Trust me, Leia.”

“Oh, you womp rat. How can you throw out that ‘trust me’ skifter at a time like this?”

“I’m serious. Trust me.” He batted his eyes at her.

“Stop doing that.” She scowled at him, the bad-mood-Leia look that had so suited her during imprisonment on and escape from the first Death Star, so many, many years before. Then she relented. “All right. Do it.”

He stood, gave her a cocky grin, and moved over to the buffet table. He picked up a particularly lush-looking round fruit and walked over to Padnel’s party.

Padnel, Reni, and Nialle looked up.

Han bit into the fruit, made a pleased expression at its tartness, and swallowed. “Not going well, huh?”

Padnel grunted a barely polite reply.

“I think I’ve got the problem figured out.”

Reni cocked an eyebrow at him. “And what is the problem?”

“It’s that Padnel here has the brains of a sand flea.”

Padnel stood. Though he was no taller than Han, he was far burlier, an intimidating, looming presence. “What did you say?”

“Work with me, Padnel, I’m giving you words of all one syllable. Sand flea. Brains of a sand flea. Which is how you’ll go down in the historical records. Doomed the Klatooinians to another twenty-five centuries of slavery because he had the brains of a sand flea.”

Padnel nodded as if considering that possibility for the first time. “I am going to kill you now. Unless you apologize.”

“Sand fleas don’t kill people. Smugglers kill people.”

“That’s it.” Padnel reached toward his holster.

And froze as Han’s blaster jammed into his snout, pushing it out of shape. Han put about a kilo of pressure on the trigger. He heard the thump as his dropped fruit hit the floor of the tent. In his peripheral vision, he could see the eyes of Reni and Nialle widen, but he didn’t know whether it was because of the danger the blaster posed or because of the speed of his draw.

He also heard several other noises. A creak from Leia’s chair as she rose. Scrapes of metal on leather as Klatooinian guards drew their blasters. One of them spoke harsh words in Basic: “Drop your weapon or I will open fire.”

Han breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t heard Leia’s lightsaber activate.

He ignored the speaker. “Now we have a situation where you can prove that you have more brains than a sand flea. Consider this. Your political rival, Reni Coll, is standing next to you. All she has to do is sneeze. That big jowly fellow over there with the blaster rifle twitches and fires. I die. In my death spasm, I pull this trigger and blow your head off, and you die. Reni can accomplish the perfect murder—and she’ll never be blamed for any crime, and she’ll be the uncontested candidate for Klatooinian rebellion leader.”

Padnel, his hand frozen partway to his own blaster pistol, scowled. “You draw very fast for an aging human.”

“Don’t I, though? But I have a simple answer for that. I’m a wily old veteran, and you’re nothing but a slave.”

“Another insult I will have to kill you for.”

Han grinned. “I think that sneeze is starting to overwhelm Reni.”

Reni shook her head. “I would not do that. It would be dishonorable.”

Padnel did not turn his head—to do so would be to crush his snout more painfully against Han’s barrel—but he did look sidelong at the guards. “Holster your weapons. At once.”

They did, growling to themselves.

Han nodded approvingly. “Good. Now understand something. I said you had the brains of a sand flea not because you do, since you don’t, but as an illustration of my other point, that you’re a slave, which you are.”

“Explain that.”

“Happy to. If I’d wandered into this tent an hour ago and told you, I command you to stand up, grab at your blaster, fail to get it into your hand, and look like an idiot, would you have done it?”

“No.”

“But you did. I made you do it. I walked up here intending that you do this thing, and you did it exactly as I wanted, because you’re a slave. If you can be counted on to do certain things when people say or do certain things to you, you are a slave. A button-operated droid. Trust me, I know, I’ve been one, in the spice mines of Kessel, the most famous and prestigious slave gig in the galaxy. The Sand Panthers know you won’t condemn what Grunel did, and that’s fine by them, because it means they can continue to do their fighting outside the law, since they’ll never go legitimate under you. The Council of Elders know you’re the tool of the Sand Panthers, so they won’t throw their weight behind you, but because you want to lead, they can lure you around and make you dance for their bait. And all your political opponents need to do is question your love of your brother to keep you pinned in place like an insect in a collection. At no point during this whole process do you grow up to be a free man.”

Padnel stared at him for long, hard seconds, then finally spoke. “Put your blaster away.”

Han withdrew it a few centimeters, twirled it, and holstered it. “Going to kill me now?”

“I should.” But instead, Padnel turned away and headed for the tent flap, his body language stiff, furious. When Nialle and his guards moved to follow him, he waved them back and departed alone.

Reni heaved a sigh and looked at Han. Hers was the expression of a sabacc player who’d just been bluffed out of the pot.

Han moved to stand beside Leia. She seemed at ease, but Han had seen her take that balanced, poised stance plenty of times. It meant she was a fraction of a second from drawing and striking with her lightsaber.

He smiled at her. “Lunch?”

They walked out into the sun.

Leia gave him a pensive look. “If I’ve grasped what just happened, you’ve manipulated Padnel into standing up against people who he now thinks have been manipulating him all along, whether or not they really have. And he’ll do it by condemning the destruction of the Fireborn because you’ve led him to believe that’s the only way he can assert his independence.”

Han nodded. “That’s about the size of it.”

“How, exactly, did that work?”

“No man under a certain age, or under a certain intelligence rating, can stand to be called a little boy holding on to his mother’s knee. I’ve fallen for that one plenty of times myself. Luke’s done it to me. You’ve done it to me. I knew I could do it to Padnel. After all, he has the brains of a sand flea.”

“Join me, Han, and we can rule the galaxy as wife and husband.”

He shuddered. “How about lunch with Allana instead?”

“All right.”