Outside the Temple, a thousand Mandalorian thugs stood clustered around their QuickStryke assault sleds, dressed in full battle armor and looking generally hot, bored, and eager to start something. Behind them sat a pair of Canderous-class heavy hovertanks and a squadron of ungainly vyrhawk fighter-bombers, and in the Walking Garden across the plaza more than two dozen sniperscopes were flashing in the foliage. Han Solo was starting to think Daala just might be serious about taking over the Jedi Order—that she might actually believe that mere military force was enough to bend the Jedi to her will.
As he watched, the QuickStrykes fired their repulsorlift engines, retracted their struts, and began to hover. The Mandalorians came more or less to attention, balancing their weight over both feet and swinging their weapons toward the Temple. Even the vyrhawks ascended to strafing altitude, their stubby wings and barrel-bristled noses winking with the rosy tips of energizing weapons. The sudden change of posture put the media on high alert, sending news presenters scrambling for their makeshift broadcast stages and cambots swarming into the unoccupied land between the Mandalorian lines and the Jedi Temple.
A couple of seconds later, the dark ribbon of a Gallactic Alliance Security hovercade streamed into view. Coming from the direction of the Government Center, it consisted mostly of speeder bikes, armored air-cars, and cannon sleds. In the center of the procession were two large medical vans and a floating limousine that bore the emblem of the Galactic Alliance’s Chief of State.
“Okay, that has to be Daala.” Han turned away from the viewport and faced the small band of Jedi standing in the Temple’s majestic mirrsteel foyer. “Looks like we’re on.”
“Yes, finally,” Saba Sebatyne said. The Barabel stepped to the viewport, her thin tongue shooting between her pebbled lips as she glowered out at the hovercade. “How did you know Chief Daala would come in person?”
“Easy.” Han started to slap the Master on her shoulder—then recalled how Barabels reacted when touched and quickly lowered his hand. “Daala is a power-hungry—”
“Han,” Leia interrupted. She nodded at Allana, who was standing close beside her. “Admiral Daala is the Chief of State. She deserves to be referred to with a certain … decorum.”
“—politician.” Han glanced down at Allana and winked, then continued, “And power-hungry politicians love to gloat. No way is she going to miss this.”
“An astute observation, Captain Solo,” Kenth Hamner said, also stepping forward. He stopped just at the edge of Han’s personal space, looking as dignified and grave as he usually did these days. His always resonant voice grew deeper and more demanding. “But I worry about your tone. If your idea works—”
“It is working,” Allana interrupted. Her thin eyebrows were lowered in determination, and her bright gray eyes burned with the same frustration she no doubt sensed in the Force auras around her. “Otherwise Daala wouldn’t even be here, and you know that as well as anyone!”
Hamner’s lips tightened, and he addressed his reply to Han. “I’m not disagreeing with you, Captain Solo. I’m just urging you not to be quite so … smug.”
Behind Hamner’s back, Allana scowled and would have interrupted again, had Leia not laid a restraining hand on her shoulder. Han bit his lip and did his best not to aggravate the situation by smiling. He had insisted on bringing his granddaughter along because he wanted her to learn how to play a good hole card when someone else had most of the chips. But it was beginning to look like the lesson of the day would have more to do with internal politics—namely, that even Jedi Grand Masters could be nerf-brains.
Hamner seemed to sense Han’s drifting thoughts and shifted, placing himself between Han and his granddaughter. “Remember, our goal here isn’t to embarrass Chief Daala,” he continued. “It’s to convince her to lift the siege—”
“To force her,” Octa Ramis corrected. A slender Jedi Master about ten years older than Jaina Solo, Ramis was almost as tall as Han—and, on occasion, was known to exhibit a temper just as volatile. “Let’s be very clear on that, Grand Master. If this doesn’t work, the Council will be discussing other means.”
Hamner nodded. “Of course.” The Force was hardly necessary to sense the bitterness in his voice; even the Masters were no longer bothering to hide their frustration with his cautious leadership. “I’d just like to remind Captain Solo that the goal is to end the crisis, not exacerbate it.”
“No worries.” Han unbuckled his holster-belt and rolled it around his old DL-44, then handed it to Leia. “I don’t usually laugh in a chump’s face until after I close the deal.”
Hamner closed his eyes and exhaled hard, then turned to Kyle Katarn. “Maybe we should send someone else.”
Katarn stroked the short-cropped beard that covered his blocky jaw, then asked, “Because?”
“Because Captain Solo isn’t a Jedi,” Hamner replied evenly. “And because he doesn’t have the … patience to deal with Daala.”
“We’ve shown Daala too much patience already,” Kyp Durron said.
Cleanly shaven for a change—and reeking of algoraspice cologne—Kyp was standing with the two Jedi Knights who were key to Han’s plan. The first was a tall Chev male named Sothais Saar, the second a small human woman named Turi Altamik. Cilghal had assured everyone that the pair’s recovery from the Force psychosis was as complete as it was mysterious, and Han had known the healer far too long to doubt her judgment. Still, he would have felt a lot more confident if she had been there to keep a bulbous Mon Calamari eye on things. Instead she was down in the Asylum Block, running confirmation tests on the half dozen patients the GA did not know about.
“And Han has done too much for the Order—given too much of his own family’s blood—to be dismissed like that,” Kyp continued. “How many times does he need to prove himself?”
Kyp turned toward Corran and Mirax Horn, who were waiting a little apart from everyone else at the base of a soaring milkstone pillar. Corran’s long face was as haggard as Han had ever seen it, with a tangled, untrimmed beard and a brow so furrowed it looked like a Gamorrean’s. Though Mirax had at least brushed her hair and pulled it away from her face, her appearance was even worse, with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes.
Corran gave a single, quick nod of agreement. “Han has earned the Order’s trust a hundred times over.” He shot a scowl in Hamner’s direction, then added, “I don’t see how anyone could suggest otherwise.”
Mirax joined her husband in glowering at the acting Grand Master. “Honestly, after what they’ve been through, it’s an insult.”
Hamner’s eyes flashed at the cynicism in the voices of both Horns, and Han realized that if he didn’t set his plan in motion now, the Masters were going to be too busy arguing to back him up. He kissed Leia on the cheek, then dropped to his haunches and looked Allana in the eye.
“Keep a watch on these guys,” he said. “We don’t want them missing my signal because they’re, uh, discussing something.”
“You mean arguing.” Allana shot a scowl in the Masters’ direction, then said, “But don’t worry. I’ll be watching.”
Han chuckled. “Looks like I’m in good hands, then.” He rose and glanced over Allana’s head toward Saar and Altamik. “You two clear on your part?”
Saar replied with a nervous nod. “Of course.” Like all Chevs, he had pale skin and a heavy brow that made him look like a human thug—an impression that was only reinforced by the tailored cut of his shimmer-silk robe. “We wait for your signal.”
“Then just behave normally,” Turi added. As petite and athletic as Saar was tall and husky, she had green, mischief-filled eyes and a smile diabolic enough to suggest she’d be a lot of fun in a firefight. “And let Daala do the rest.”
Han flashed her a lopsided grin. “You got it, kid. I’ll handle everything else.”
He winked at Leia and turned toward the massive Temple doors. A pair of Jedi Knight guards peered through a security port, then wished him well and opened a small hatch in the base of one of the huge doors. He stepped out into the portico and stood looking down on the Mandalorian siege camp that lay spread across Fellowship Plaza. How this was not being blasted as illegal by every media outlet on the planet, he could not understand. If Daala had called in the GA’s own military, she could have at least claimed that she was merely taking action to protect the citizenry from a mysterious threat to public health. But the Jedi had a lot of friends in the GA military, and so she had turned to her Mandalorian allies instead.
Han had only a moment before a flock of hovercams came streaming toward him, weaving and bobbing as they jockeyed for a clear line of sight—and reminding him far too much of a swarm of bloodsucking skeetos. Knowing that Leia and the Masters would be eavesdropping on every sound he made, he took a deep breath and started down the stairs, singing one of his favorite Sy Snootles tunes, “Crazy Wicked Witch.”
The hovercade streamed over the Mandalorian line at a velocity approaching breakneck, then whipped around in front of the Temple and came to a nose-dropping halt at the base of the stairs. A dozen aircar hatches flew open, disgorging fifty blue-armored Galactic Alliance Security troops who quickly shouldered their weapons and began to peer through heat-sensing scopes in search of snipers.
Han stopped on a landing, about a dozen paces up the stairs from Daala’s limousine and the medwagons, and held his vest open to prove he was unarmed. That didn’t keep the officer in charge, a lanky human captain whose face remained hidden behind a reflective helmet visor, from giving him a thorough frisking that was documented in close detail by the swarm of hovercams whirring about their heads.
After the captain finished and stepped away, Han put on a hurt expression and stared after the man in feigned shock. “I feel so … dirty,” he said. “Maybe next time you could buy me dinner or something.”
“I don’t believe you’re Captain Harfard’s type … Captain Solo,” Daala said, emerging from her limousine. Dressed in a white tunic and slacks that looked an awful lot like the uniform of a Grand Admiral, she ascended the stairs and stopped a pace away from Han, then lifted her chin and glared at him in obvious disappointment. “I was expecting to see Grand Master Hamner, or at least one of the Council Masters.”
“Yeah, sorry about that.” Recognizing the captain’s name from a few earlier GAS run-ins, Han allowed his gaze to linger on Harfard for a moment, then cast a pointed glance at the massive security detail the man was overseeing. “We didn’t want to scare you—any more than we already have.”
Daala’s eyes narrowed. “Adequate security is a sign of prudence, Captain Solo, not fear.” She looked past him toward the Temple. “But I really don’t care who the Jedi send out to surrender.”
Han’s mouth started to water, the way it always did when he managed to put a player on tilt. “Surrender?” he demanded. “Who said anything about surrendering?”
Daala’s gaze snapped back. “Master Hamner did,” she said. “He commed me himself to say the Jedi are ready to turn over the maniacs they have been harboring.”
“Maniacs?” Han pretended to be confused for a moment, then nodded as though he suddenly understood. “Oh, you mean the patients.”
“Yes, the patients,” Daala confirmed. “Call them what you will. I want them. Now.”
“But just the psychotic ones, right?” Han clarified. “You don’t want the ones who just have sinus infections or stomach flu or stuff like that, right?”
Daala’s glare turned suspicious. “I want the barvy ones, Captain Solo: Sothais Saar, Turi Altamik, and all of the other unstable Jedi who pose a danger to the citizens of this planet.” She raised her chin and spoke directly to the holocams hovering overhead. “And to this galaxy.”
“And then you’ll lift the siege.” Han phrased this not as a question, but as a condition … and he made sure he was also speaking into a holocam mike. “That’s the agreement.”
“I’ll lift the siege after I’m satisfied that the Jedi are no longer sheltering psychotic Jedi Knights,” Daala said carefully. “And I am going to search the Temple. Let’s be very clear about that.”
Han rubbed his neck, pretending to hesitate, then finally nodded. “Okay, fair enough.” He looked toward the medwagons resting on their struts behind Daala’s limousine. “You brought the brain-breaker?”
“If by brain-breaker you mean xenopsychiatrist, then yes. I brought the best.” Daala turned toward the limousine and flicked her fingers in a summoning motion. Out stepped a tall, middle-aged Bith with a dignified bearing and a huge cranium so deeply green it was almost emerald. “Allow me to present Dr. Thalleus Tharn, chair of xenopsychiatric medicine at the Greater Coruscant University. His honors and titles are too numerous to recount, but I have every confidence that Master Cilghal will know his reputation.”
Han whistled, truly impressed, then extended a hand as Tharn stepped onto the landing. The xenopsychiatrist made no attempt to reciprocate, instead dropping his ebony eyes to study the appendage as though it were being offered as an object of contemplation rather than greeting. Never one to accept a slight gracefully, Han continued to hold his hand out until Tharn was finally forced to sidestep in order to avoid it.
“I never shake hands,” Tharn said, clasping his hands behind his back. “I’m also a surgeon.”
Han’s brow shot up. “You mean you cut people open by hand, yourself?” he asked. “No droids?”
“Brain surgery is more art than medicine, Captain Solo, and droids are not capable of art.” Tharn’s voice was deep and refined, the kind that Han sometimes heard narrating advertisements for luxury airspeeders and men’s personal grooming products. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want someone with sore fingers excising a suspicious node from your prefrontal cortex.”
“I wouldn’t want anyone digging around in there. No telling what they might find.” Han hitched a thumb toward Daala. “The Chief tell you why you’re here?”
“She did,” Tharn assured him. “To oversee the sedation and transfer of the Jedi patients to a facility where they can be safely secured.”
“In carbonite,” Han added, more for holocam’s benefit than Tharn’s. “She told you that part, too, right?”
Tharn nodded. “Of course.”
“And you think that’s okay?” Han allowed some of his very real outrage to show in his wide eyes and sharp expression. He needed to get Tharn on live HoloNet saying that carbonite was the last resort—and the easiest way to get a brain-breaker to do anything was to make him think he needed to calm someone down. “To freeze a being solid, then hang him on a wall like some trophy?”
Daala quickly stepped forward. “Dr. Tharn isn’t here to debate—”
“Unfortunately, Captain Solo, I do,” Tharn said, motioning Daala to stand aside. “Until we find a way to cure these patients, freezing them in carbonite is the only responsible thing to do. Jedi Knights are just too powerful to have wandering about in a psychotic state.” Tharn’s tone grew rhythmic and soothing. “Surely you agree with that.”
Han rolled his lips over his teeth, trying to pretend that this wasn’t going even better than he had hoped, then finally sighed and dropped his head. “So you think they can be cured?”
The Bith gave him a reassuring nod. “I’m looking forward to the challenge.”
“That’s not a yes,” Han noted.
“It’s not a no, either. I give you my word, Captain Solo, I won’t rest until we can thaw them out. No one here enjoys freezing Jedi Knights in carbonite.” Tharn turned to Daala. “Isn’t that true, Chief Daala?”
“Of course, Doctor.” The coldness in Daala’s eyes betrayed her lie, but she managed to put enough sincerity in her voice to avoid sounding vindictive. “Once we can be certain the sick Jedi are no longer a threat, they’ll be released immediately.”
Han resisted the urge to smile. “Then I guess we should get on with this.” He let his shoulders slump like a man defeated, then turned to Captain Harfard and spoke the words that Saar and Turi were waiting to hear. “Tell your bucketheads to hold their fire, will you? They’re coming out.”
“Who’s coming out?” Harfard demanded.
“Sothais Saar and Turi Altamik, for starters,” Han said. “Assuming you don’t blast them, there’ll be a few others.”
Daala sensed the trap and quickly looked to Tharn. “Do you think that’s wise, Doctor?” Her demanding tone suggested her own opinion. “Wouldn’t it be better to take custody of the pris—um, patients—under more controlled circumstances?”
Tharn paused a moment, as though considering the merits of her suggestion, then nodded sagely. “Indeed it would.” He turned to Captain Solo. “If you could just have someone open an entry bay, my orderlies will be happy to go in and remove the patients.”
Han ignored him and continued to look at Daala. “Our mistake,” he said. “When you told Kenth you wanted a public surrender, we thought you meant out here in front of the news, where everyone could see how well you’re going to treat the patients.”
“I meant that I wanted the situation resolved publicly,” Daala replied. “I didn’t mean we should endanger scores of beings by making the actual exchange out here in Fellowship Plaza.”
“Well, stang.” Han turned toward the Temple entrance, where Saar and Turi were already stepping out of the portico with their hands raised high in the air. “I wish you’d told me that earlier.”
A low growl sounded inside Harfard’s helmet as he barked an order, and a knot of blue-armored guards closed ranks around Daala. There were already hundreds of Mandalorian weapons pointed at the two Jedi, but a couple of dozen GAS commandos went rushing up the stairs to intercept the pair.
Han turned toward the wall of guards surrounding Daala. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Chief Daala,” he said. “But if you’re scared, we could let—”
“I am not scared, Captain Solo.” Daala pushed through the knot of guards and turned to Harfard. “I think it’s safe to have the troops stand down, Captain.”
Harfard made no move to obey. “With all due respect, Chief, this could be a Jedi trap.”
Daala looked up the stairs toward Saar and Turi, who were standing, calm and unarmed, with their hands raised, while dozens of blue-armored GAS commandos thrust blaster nozzles in their faces.
“They’ve already sprung their trap, you idiot,” Daala whispered. “Stand down … now!”
Harfard’s helmet remained turned in her direction for a moment, then he finally muttered something into his commset and turned away. The guards surrounding Daala quickly retreated to a less intrusive distance, and the ones surrounding Saar and Turi assumed a less aggressive stance, pointing their weapons at the two Jedis’ chests instead of their heads.
“Very clever,” Daala said to Han. “Who are they?”
Han scowled, genuinely confused. “Who are who?”
Daala pointed up the stairs. “Those two impostors,” she said. “Obviously, they aren’t Sothais Saar and Turi Altamik.”
“Nice try,” Han said, sneering. Whether Daala really believed they were impostors or just wanted to plant that doubt in the public mind, he should have realized she wouldn’t give up easily. “But that’s them.”
“And you expect the Galactic Alliance to take your word for this?” Daala asked.
“ ’Course not,” Han said. “You can have them prove it.”
“Just have them do something only Jedi can do.” Han motioned for Daala to follow him and started up the stairs. “They’re either Jedi, or they’re impostors. But they can’t be both, because the Order doesn’t have enough Jedi Knights in it to have doubles.”
Daala remained on the landing behind him. “There’s no telling what kind of illusions a Jedi Knight can create with the Force.”
Han turned back to Daala, his lips drawn tight in disgust. “Come on, you know those tricks only work on the weak-minded.” A hovercam floated down for a close-up, and he made a point of squinting at Daala as though he were trying to understand exactly what she was implying. “Say, you’re not trying to tell me that the Galactic Alliance has a weak-minded Chief, are you?”
Daala’s face flushed with anger. “You know better than that, Captain Solo.” She remained on the landing. “But there’s also plastic surgery.”
“And there’s a surgeon.” Han leveled a finger at Tharn. “He ought to be able to tell if they’ve had any work done in the last few days.”
Daala remained where she was, silent and no doubt trying to think of a way to turn the situation around.
“Fine,” Han said. “I’ll have them come down.”
As Han turned to wave the pair down, Harfard rushed up and pressed a blaster nozzle into his ribs. “Hold it there, Solo. We won’t let you endanger the Chief of State.”
Han sneered down at the blaster, then said, “Assassination isn’t really Jedi style, you moron.” He shifted his glance to Daala. “Will you call this narglatch off? If you haven’t guessed it by now, we’ve found a cure.”
“Why don’t we let Tharn be the judge of that?” Daala waved Harfard aside and motioned for the two Jedi to come down. “That is why you asked me to bring him along, is it not?”
The tightness of Daala’s smile suggested she still felt sure of what Tharn would say—and that was probably her worst mistake of the day.
Han nodded. “Sure thing. I’m looking forward to seeing the master at work.” He caught Tharn’s eye and looked up at the swarm of hover-cams, then added, “I’ll bet your colleagues are too, Doc—especially the ones who’ll be giving HoloNet commentary on your technique.”
Tharn’s eyes bulged as he realized what Han was implying, and he turned immediately to Daala. “This is hardly the proper venue for an evaluation,” he said. “I’ll need to take them back to my hospital for proper observation.”
“You sure you want them in your lab, with no one but a few Mando goons guarding them?” Han rubbed his neck, feigning concern for the Bith’s welfare, then lowered his voice and spoke in a menacing tone. “They might still be dangerous, and you said yourself that the only safe way to keep a crazy Jedi was on ice.”
The epidermal folds in Tharn’s cheeks drew down tight, and he appeared to contemplate Han’s words with an air of disdain. Then his green cheeks paled to chartreuse as he realized what Han was threatening—that taking the Jedi back to his own laboratory would result in its destruction—and he quickly shifted his gaze back to Daala.
“Perhaps I can make a preliminary field assessment,” he said. “I trust that will prove satisfactory.”
Without awaiting permission, he ascended the stairs toward Saar and Turi, a whirling mass of hovercams circling his head. Daala scowled at Han, who merely shrugged and silently mouthed, Your expert.
Tharn stopped in front of the two Jedi and stood in silence, looking first deep into Saar’s eyes, then into Turi’s. After a moment, he peered up at the Chev’s raised hands.
“Jedi Saar,” he said, “please tell me why your hands are raised.”
Saar furrowed his heavy brow, then shrugged and pointed his chin toward the line of Mandalorians spread across Fellowship Plaza. “Because I don’t want to get blasted?”
Tharn nodded. “That seems reasonable.” He turned to Turi. “Jedi Altamik, can you explain why those Mandalorians might want to blast you and Jedi Saar?”
Turi’s upper lip curled into an edgy half smile. “Sure—Sothais and I have been a bit barvy lately.” She shifted her gaze away, looking past Tharn down toward Daala, then added, “But we’re better now, Chief Daala … honest we are.”
The faint rustle of laughter from beyond the Mandalorian lines told Han all he needed to know about who was winning the public relations battle in Fellowship Plaza. The Jedi had Daala on the defensive—and she knew it. To Han’s surprise, she acknowledged Turi’s jibe with a sour smile and a dip of the head.
“I’m glad you think so, Jedi Altamik,” she said. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to hear that from Dr. Tharn.”
“I understand,” Turi replied. She looked back to the Bith. “To tell the truth, I’d kind of like to hear him say it, too.”
Another murmur of laughter broke out from the media encampment, this one louder than the first. Tharn waited for it to pass, then nodded.
“Just a few more questions, Jedi Altamik.” He turned back to Saar. “Jedi Saar, do you trust me?”
Saar thought for a moment, then shook his head. “To tell the truth, Doctor, not all that much.”
This reply drew no laughter, but Tharn took it in stride. “In your position, I don’t think I would trust someone hired by Chief Daala, either,” he said. “But please rest assured that whatever I do here, it’s for your own benefit.”
Saar regarded him warily. “If you say so.”
“I do. And please lower your hands. Nobody here is going to blast you without a direct order from Chief Daala.” Tharn continued to look at Saar, but addressed himself to Daala. “That’s correct, is it not, Chief Daala?”
“If that’s what you want, yes,” Daala replied.
“It is.” Tharn waited until Saar had lowered his hands, then turned back to Turi. “You, too, Jedi Altamik.”
Turi lowered her hands. “Thanks, Doc.”
“Your gratitude is not really necessary, Jedi Altamik,” he said. “But your trust is. Will you trust me?”
Turi’s green eyes grew thoughtful, her gaze turning inward as she reached out to examine his Force aura. After a moment, she nodded. “Okay.”
“Excellent.”
Tharn turned back to Saar, bringing a knee up between the Jedi’s legs so swiftly that the Chev was doubled over and groaning before Han quite realized what he was seeing. A hush of astonishment spread across the plaza, followed an instant later by the clatter of hundreds of blaster rifles being raised to armored shoulders. Tharn’s hand shot up, signaling for the troops to hold their fire, then he drew his knee back to strike Saar again.
In the next second, Tharn was high in the air, hanging aloft two meters beyond Turi’s outstretched hand. “Doc!” she cried. “Why in the blazes did you do that?”
“I was conducting a field test,” Tharn explained. He seemed surprisingly at ease for someone who had just assaulted a Jedi. He craned his neck around to look back down at Daala. “And since I still seem to be alive, Captain Solo is clearly correct. These Jedi have obviously been cured.”
Daala was too astonished to be angry. “You must be joking.”
“I assure you, I am not.” Tharn turned back to Turi, then said, “Would you please put me down, young lady? You’ve already proven that you are in control of yourself.”
A stunned Turi slowly lowered Tharn back to the landing. “You’re as barvy as we were, Doc,” she said. “You could have gotten us all killed.”
“Only if one of you had lost control, and I could see from the moment you left the Temple that wasn’t going to happen.” Tharn gestured toward Saar’s still-groaning figure. “That was just to prove it to Chief Daala.”
And, Han realized, to make himself look good in the public eye—nothing like kneeing a Jedi in the groin on live HoloNet to make sure everyone remembered your name. But Han wasn’t going to begrudge the Bith his fifteen moments of fame; even if it had taken a none-too-subtle threat, Tharn had defied Daala and done the right thing. For that, he was going to need whatever benefit his newfound celebrity brought.
Han turned to Daala and motioned up the stairs, to where Turi was holding Saar by the arm and trying to help him stand up straight. “If you’re satisfied,” he said. “I think Jedi Saar could use someplace private to recover.”
Daala nodded. “Of course.” She flashed a vengeful glare in Tharn’s direction, then added, “I’ll have that plaza cleared as soon as Dr. Tharn certifies that all of the patients still in Jedi custody have recovered.”
“Sounds good.” An immense wave of relief rolled through Han, but he forced himself to keep a neutral face. He had seen defeat snatched from the jaws of victory often enough to know that now was no time for one of his trademark smug grins. Han turned to Tharn. “I’m pretty sure Master Cilghal will be happy to show you anything you need to see.”
Actually, Han wasn’t completely sure of that, since Cilghal wasn’t all that sure of what had happened to cure the barvy Jedi Knights. But that was her problem, and now that Han had forced Tharn to throw in with the Jedi, the good doctor wasn’t going to be looking too hard for reasons to make a negative report.
Han waited while Tharn made a show of ascending the stairs and taking Saar’s free arm, then turned back to Daala.
“I guess that just leaves us with one last thing to discuss.”
A vengeful light came to Daala’s eyes, and Han’s heart began to sink even before she spoke. “What thing would that be, Captain Solo?”
“Valin and Jysella Horn,” Han said, deciding to go for broke. “We’ll be coming to pick them up, just as soon as your bucketheads drag their barricades out of our hangar exits.”
Daala’s smile turned cold. “Then you’ll be making the trip for nothing,” she said.
Determined not to take the Galactic Alliance Chief of State by her lapels on live HoloNet, Han grabbed the sides of his trouser legs, then demanded, “You’re going to keep them in carbonite? When you know Cilghal can cure them?”
“I don’t know that she can. In fact, I don’t know anything about this cure at all.” Daala paused and ordered Harfard to lift the siege, then turned back to Han. “And until I do know everything, Captain Solo—until I’m one hundred percent satisfied that the Jedi are holding nothing back from me—the Horns will be remaining in GAS custody.”