“You can’t blame a whole society for the actions of a few individuals,” Leia said—rather severely, Luke thought. “Especially not when a single political maverick has simply made a bad decision.”
“A bad decision?” Luke snorted. “Is that what they’re calling it?”
“That’s what they’re calling it.” Leia nodded. “Apparently, the Bimm who led us into the marketplace trap was bribed to take us there. He had no idea what was going to happen, though.”
“And I suppose he had no idea what the stuff he gave the chief negotiator would do, either?”
Leia shrugged. “Actually, there’s still no hard evidence that he or anyone else poisoned the negotiator,” she said. “Though under the circumstances, they’re willing to concede that that’s a possibility.”
Luke made a face. “Generous of them. What does Han have to say about us putting back down?”
“Han doesn’t have any choice in the matter,” Leia said firmly. “This is my mission, not his.”
“That’s right,” Han agreed, stepping into the lounge. “Your mission. But my ship.”
Leia stared at him, a look of disbelief on her face. “You didn’t,” she breathed.
“I sure did,” he told her calmly, dropping into one of the seats across the lounge. “We made the jump to lightspeed about two minutes ago. Next stop, Coruscant.”
“Han!” she flared, as angry as Luke had ever seen her. “I told the Bimms we were coming right back down.”
“And I told them there’d be a short delay,” Han countered. “Like long enough for us to collect a squadron of X-wings or maybe a Star Cruiser to bring back with us.”
“And what if you’ve offended them?” Leia snapped. “Do you have any idea how much groundwork went into this mission?”
“Yeah, as it happens, I do,” Han said, his voice hardening. “I also have a pretty good idea what could happen if our late pals with the stokhli sticks brought friends with them.”
For a long minute Leia stared at him, and Luke sensed the momentary anger fading from her mind. “You still shouldn’t have left without consulting me first,” she said.
“You’re right,” Han conceded. “But I didn’t want to take the time. If they did have friends, those friends probably had a ship.” He tried a tentative smile. “There wasn’t time to discuss it in committee.”
Leia smiled lopsidedly in return. “I am not a committee,” she said wryly.6
And with that, the brief storm passed and the tension was gone. Someday, Luke promised himself, he would get around to asking one of them just what that particular private joke of theirs referred to. “Speaking of our pals,” he said, “did either of you happen to ask the Bimms who or what they were?”
“The Bimms didn’t know,” Leia said, shaking her head. “I’ve certainly never seen anything like them before.”
“We can check the Imperial archives when we get back to Coruscant,” Han said, feeling gingerly at one cheek where a bruise was already becoming visible. “There’ll be a record of them somewhere.”
“Unless,” Leia said quietly, “they’re something the Empire found out in the Unknown Regions.”
Luke looked at her. “You think the Empire was behind this?”
“Who else could it have been?” she said. “The only question is why.”
“Well, whatever the reason, they’re going to be disappointed,” Han told her, getting to his feet. “I’m going back to the cockpit, see if I can muddle our course a little more. No point in taking chances.”
A memory flashed through Luke’s mind: Han and the Falcon, sweeping right through the middle of that first Death Star battle to shoot Darth Vader’s fighters off his back. “Hard to imagine Han Solo not wanting to take chances,” he commented.
Han leveled a finger at him. “Yeah, well, before you get cocky, try to remember that the people I’m protecting are you, your sister, your niece, and your nephew. That make any difference?”
Luke smiled. “Touché,” he admitted, saluting with an imaginary lightsaber.
“And speaking of that,” Han added, “isn’t it about time Leia had a lightsaber of her own?”
Luke shrugged. “I can make her one anytime she’s ready,” he said, looking at his sister. “Leia?”
Leia hesitated. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “I’ve never really felt comfortable with the thing.” She looked at Han. “But I suppose I ought to make the effort.”
“I think you should,” Luke agreed. “Your talents may lie along a different direction, but you should still learn all the basics. As far as I can tell, nearly all the Jedi of the Old Republic carried lightsabers, even those who were primarily healers or teachers.”7
She nodded. “All right,” she said. “As soon as my work load lightens up a little.”
“Before your work load lightens,” Han insisted. “I mean that, Leia. All these wonderful diplomacy skills of yours aren’t going to do you or anyone else any good if the Empire locks you away in an interrogation room somewhere.”
Reluctantly, Leia nodded again. “I suppose you’re right. As soon as we get back, I’ll tell Mon Mothma she’s just going to have to cut down on my assignments.” She smiled at Luke. “I guess semester break’s over, Teacher.”
“I guess so,” Luke said, trying to hide the sudden lump in his throat.
Leia noticed it anyway; and, for a wonder, misinterpreted it. “Oh, come on,” she chided gently. “I’m not that bad a student. Anyway, look on it as good practice—after all, someday you’ll have to teach all this to the twins, too.”
“I know,” Luke said softly.
“Good,” Han said. “That’s settled, then. I’m heading up; see you later.”
“ ’Bye,” Leia said. “Now—” She turned to give Threepio a critical look. “Let’s see what we can do about all this goop.”
Leaning back in his seat, Luke watched her tackle the hardened webbing, a familiar hollow pain in the pit of his stomach. I took it upon myself, Ben Kenobi had said about Darth Vader, to train him as a Jedi. I thought that I could instruct him just as well as Yoda.
I was wrong.
The words echoed through Luke’s mind, all the way back to Coruscant.
C H A P T E R 8
For a long minute Grand Admiral Thrawn sat in his chair, surrounded by his holographic works of art, and said nothing. Pellaeon kept himself at a motionless attention, watching the other’s expressionless face and glowing red eyes and trying not to think about the fate couriers of bad news had often suffered at the hands of Lord Vader. “All died but the coordinator, then?” Thrawn asked at last.
“Yes, sir,” Pellaeon confirmed. He glanced across the room, to where C’baoth stood studying one of the wall displays, and lowered his voice a bit. “We’re still not entirely sure what went wrong.”
“Instruct Central to give the coordinator a thorough debriefing,” Thrawn said. “What report from Wayland?”
Pellaeon had thought they’d been talking too quietly for C’baoth to hear them. He was wrong. “Is that it, then?” C’baoth demanded, turning away from the display and striding over to tower over Thrawn’s command chair. “Your Noghri have failed; so too bad, and on to more pressing business? You promised me Jedi, Grand Admiral Thrawn.”1
Thrawn gazed coolly up at him. “I promised you Jedi,” he acknowledged. “And I will deliver them.” Deliberately, he turned back to Pellaeon. “What report from Wayland?” he repeated.
Pellaeon swallowed, trying hard to remember that with ysalamiri scattered all through the command room, C’baoth had no power whatsoever. At least for the moment. “The engineering team has finished its analysis, sir,” he told Thrawn. “They report that the cloaking shield schematics seem complete, but that to actually build one will take some time. It’ll also be highly expensive, at least for a ship the size of the Chimaera.”