TWENTY

Jag Fel’s borrowed landspeeder skimmed along the streets of the Hapan city. Another time, he might have found the ornate buildings and their tropical gardens interesting, but today he was too deep in thought to care overmuch about his surroundings.

For most of his twenty years, Jag had devoted himself to learning military tactics, first from his family and then at the Chiss military academy. He’d devoted nearly as much time to developing logic and problem-solving skills as he’d spent learning to fly. But when it came to Jaina Solo, all this hard-won expertise abandoned him.

Jaina Solo was an excellent pilot, but her skills were no match for his own. In simulated flight, he’d shot her out of the sky nearly every time. For that matter, he could name several Chiss who’d flown under his command who matched her skill, and a few who were even better. Jaina was a Jedi, which was interesting but basically irrelevant.

He’d gone looking for Jaina again this morning, hoping to mend the incomprehensible quarrel between them, only to learn that she’d just left for another world in the far-flung Hapes Cluster. And she’d taken one of Jag’s best pilots with her, without any request, formal or otherwise.

It bothered him that she hadn’t requested a leave of absence for Kyp Durron. Even a Rogue Squadron pilot should have had more regard for protocol than that!

But she had not, and now she and Kyp were gone.

And Jag was on his way to the refugee camp, which made less sense to him than anything Jaina had done.

But if Jag was honest with himself—which he invariably was, even though he often found it a highly uncomfortable habit—he had to admit that his real purpose was a desire to meet the infamous Han Solo.

Princess Leia had disdained suitable personal and political alliances in favor of a rogue—a disgraced Imperial officer who’d found his niche as a smuggler. If any logic had guided her choice, Jag intended to find it. And if there was none, perhaps the alliance that had created Jaina Solo would serve as enlightenment—or perhaps as deterrent.

Almost before he realized it, Jag had left the city behind. The vast landing docks were crowded with ships and bustling with refugees, most of whom seemed determined to get offworld. Tempers were high, and the white uniform of the Hapan militia was much in evidence.

Beyond the landing docks lay vast open areas—parklands and lakes and deep forests that provided hunting and recreation for the citizens of the royal city. This had been given over to the refugees. As Jag approached, he struggled to see something of the land’s reputed beauty.

The sheer sprawl of the refugee camp staggered him. Rows of tents stretched across what had once been a parklike vista and disappeared into a distant forest. Jag showed his credentials to the perimeter guard and made his way down seemingly endless rows of tents.

A refugee camp was an incredibly noisy, pungent place. The displaced people of Coruscant crowded closely together, and thousands of voices mingled in a loud and discordant symphony. The narrow aisles teemed with beings of many species. Most brushed past Jag with averted eyes, encircled by the intense, artificial privacy that overcrowded conditions tended to foster.

The only unifying factor that Jag could perceive was the foreboding that hung over the encampment, as palpable as morning mist. No doubt all the residents knew the pattern of Yuuzhan Vong aggression. The presence of refugees was a potent lure to the invaders. He had the feeling that a familiar red button had been pushed, and everyone awaited the coming detonation.

Jag counted off the tents until he came to the one that had been assigned to the Solo family. While he was still several paces away, he heard muffled thuds and grunts coming from the enclosure. The sudden flare of a cooking fire in the small space between this tent and the next sent several silhouettes leaping onto the durasilk—an unmistakable tableau depicting an uneven battle.

Jag drew his one-handed charrik from his weapons belt and kicked into a run. He tore open the flap and charged in, leading with the small Chiss blaster.

A fist flashed up over his guard and into his face. Jag’s head snapped back, and he staggered back a couple of paces as he shook off the blow.

It took Jag only a second or two to regroup, but by then his assailant had already turned his attention to another foe, a tall man in Hapan uniform. The brawler delivered a punch that spun the Hapan around and sent him crashing facedown onto a folding table.

A familiar, lopsided leer lifted the corner of the man’s split lip, and he hurled himself at a burly warrior who was crouched in guard position. The two of them went down with a crash, taking a makeshift shelf and several pieces of battered crockery down with them.

This, then, was Han Solo, and Jaina’s father.

Feeling strangely enlightened, Jag took quick stock of the battlefield. Han Solo and the man he’d just taken down had struggled to their feet. They lurched about the tent, sometimes grappling for a disabling hold, then the next moment hauling back a fist to deliver a short-arm jab.

The uniformed Hapan was pushing himself away from the shattered table and onto his hands and knees. He lifted one hand to his belt and fumbled for his blaster.

Jag fired a short stun bolt that sent the man pitching forward, then swung his weapon toward the next assailant—a burly Hapan woman who’d snatched up a chair and hoisted it aloft with both hands. This she brought down, hard, in the general direction of the two struggling men.

Jag quickly fired a stun charge, but this only served to send the woman hurtling forward, adding momentum to her already impressive swing. The three combatants went down in a tangle of limbs.

Striding forward, Jag hoisted the uniformed man—the only person still moving—and tossed him off the aging Rebel hero. The Hapan dived for the tent wall and scuttled under the durasilk. Jag briefly considered pursuit, then knelt beside the too-still man.

Han Solo had fallen heavily, facedown, into the broken crockery. There was a large lump on his temple where the chair had struck him. Jag eased him over, and winced at the sight of the deep gash that rose from one cheekbone in a sharp angle, and then up deep into the hairline. The graying hair was dark and wet with blood.

Jag rose quickly and strode out of the tent. He seized the arm of a passing Bothan, a male wearing some sort of military uniform.

Feline eyes narrowed in menace, and the Bothan jerked his furry arm free of Jag’s grip.

“Summon the guard, and get a medical droid at once,” Jag snapped out. “Han Solo requires medical attention.”

As Jag expected, the Bothan’s eyes widened. “At once,” he agreed. “I’ll alert others to search for Leia Solo.”

He hurried off and Jag ducked back into the tent. The short-term stun charge had already worn off, and the assailants had disappeared. He looked around for something to stanch Han Solo’s cut, and noticed for the first time the shining pile heaped against one wall of the tent.

Jag got a fleeting impression of small sculptures, ropes of azure pearls, ornate metal caskets heaped with gems. This, however, was a puzzle for another time. He kicked aside a painted vase and snatched up what appeared to be a small linen shirt. This he wadded up, preparing to press it against the wound.

“Wait,” a female voice demanded.

An older, grimmer version of Jaina pushed past him and dropped to her knees beside Han Solo. Her fingers gently slid into the matted hair and inquired about for a moment. She grimaced and drew out a sharp fragment.

“Good. It wasn’t in very deep,” she murmured, and held out one hand. Jag placed the wadded shirt in it. She gently held it in place with one hand. The other she splayed over her husband’s chest. Her eyes drifted shut, and an intense listening expression fell over her face. A medical droid rolled into the tent and gently nudged Leia aside. Jag extended a hand, which she accepted with instinctive grace. She rose and watched as the medical droid tended the wounded man.

“There’s a thin crack in the skull,” the droid announced.

“Han’s skull. How is that possible?” she marveled in a distracted tone.

She took a long, steadying breath. By the time she turned to Jag, she was the calmly controlled diplomat he had first glimpsed at the diplomatic reception over Ithor.

“I hear that you stopped the fight and called for assistance. Thank you. I’d appreciate anything you can tell me about the attack.”

He described the scene he’d stumbled into, gave a brief description of the assailants, and then drew Leia’s attention to the pile of treasures in the corner of the tent. She caught her breath in a quick, startled gasp.

“I take it this was not an attempt at theft,” he concluded.

“Those things aren’t mine,” Leia said in a tightly controlled voice, “and they never will be.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Jag ventured.

Leia glanced up at him. “The giving of a dowry is a Hapan custom. Twenty years ago, Prince Isolder sent ambassadors to Coruscant and presented me with a pile somewhat larger than this.” She paused for a brief, humorless smile. “Obviously, I’ve depreciated over time.”

“More likely Hapes’s resources have been sorely strained by the war.”

This time the woman’s smile held genuine amusement. “When this war is over, Colonel Fel, you would do very well in the diplomatic service. For the moment, though, a few questions more. You said that some of the assailants wore uniforms. What kind?”

“Hapan royal guards, I believe. The uniforms were of one piece, like a flight suit. Quite fitted, deep red.”

“Not even Ta’a Chume would be bold enough to send uniformed assassins,” Leia mused. “They must have come to speak to me, and found Han instead. He would not be amused by their offer.”

The droid spun to face them. “The patient is stabilized. He can be moved for treatment. Proper medical transport awaits just outside the camp. Permission to arrange interim transport.”

Leia nodded her thanks and the droid rolled out. She knelt beside her husband, and a flicker of indecision touched her face.

“You are apprehensive about sending him to a Hapan medical facility,” Jag surmised. “Forgive me, but I’m not unfamiliar with General Solo’s early reputation. No doubt I’m not alone in this knowledge. Is it possible that this attack was an assassination attempt carried out in plain sight?”

She considered this, and then nodded. “That’s an astute observation. It wouldn’t be the first time Han was provoked into a fight. Once the first punch is thrown, how does one prove whether any resulting death was an accident or an assassination?”

“That was my thinking, yes. I understand the tactics, but not the motivation.”

“The former queen mother does not approve of the reigning queen, and she has made it plain more than once that she considers me a possible replacement. It’s entirely likely that she views Han as an ‘inconvenience,’ a problem that needed to be resolved.”

Jag shook his head in astonishment. “Surely even a former queen is constrained by laws.”

“Of course, but Ta’a Chume is devious and vengeful. I can’t evoke Hapan law without risking repercussions against the refugees, and she knows I understand her well enough to realize this.” She blew out a sigh. “This is a delicate situation. Maybe Jaina would have a better read on things. She’s been living in the palace.”

“Unfortunately, she left Hapes very early this morning for Gallinore. I came to bring you word,” he added hastily, seeing the faint touch of sadness, or perhaps regret, that touched the woman’s eyes. Though this was as close to a lie as he ever intended to come, he hoped that Leia would assume her daughter had sent him to bring word of her departure.

Leia didn’t offer comment one way or another. “In that case, perhaps I should take Han offworld. The refugees are scattering, most of the Jedi have left, and there is little more for me to do here. Will you be in contact with Jaina?”

“Of course.”

The words came out before he considered their implication. Something flickered in Leia’s eyes—speculation, and then, to his surprise, a moment of profound relief.

The medical transport had arrived, and Jag tucked away the questions he could not ask and helped the droids shift the wounded man onto a repulsorsled.

As they left the tent, Leia turned to him. “You’ve done so much already, but may I ask you for one more thing? Go to the docking bays and ask for the Millennium Falcon. You’ll find a young Jedi named Zekk working on it. He looks a bit like a young Kyp Durron—dark hair and green eyes, similar height …” She trailed off and she studied Jag appraisingly.

For a moment Jag thought she might comment on the fact that this description could just as well have been applied to him. In his opinion, there were far too many dark-haired, green-eyed men in Jaina Solo’s orbit.

“Would you tell him to get the Falcon ready to fly? Tell him to round up any of the other Jedi who haven’t yet found transport.”

Jag promised to do as she asked, then walked with her beside the sled to the gate of the camp. As they prepared to part, he asked, “What shall I tell Jaina?”

“Tell her about her father. She should know about that. Tell her we’ve gone to join her uncle Luke. She’ll know where.” Leia hesitated, and again that far-seeing expression fell over her face. “Tell her—and this is important—that I trust her to find her way back.”

Jag frowned, uncertain that he’d decoded these seemingly contradictory instructions. “I’m not sure that I understand.”

“Neither will she,” Leia said as she moved off. “At least, not for a while.”