Fett watched the speeder approaching from the left cut across him without even slowing down.
He heard a loud crash, but no ba-dapp of a discharging blaster: had they collided? Had they hit someone who happened to be on the wrong road at the wrong time?
Mirta fired a grenade. "Gotcha!" A ball of flame lit up the night.
"One down, one to go. Reloading."
"Can't see the third speeder."
"Maybe they crashed."
"We've got a couple of minutes before the police join in," Fett said.
"Hey, where did he—"
There was a massive whoomp of a white-hot explosion behind them.
Fett saw the debris falling hot and red in the rearview of his HUD. "Good shot."
"Not me. Didn't fire."
"What is this, a crash epidemic?"
"I think we have help."
"I hate help I didn't ask for."
But help it was, so he took the breathing space with grudgingly grateful caution. Maybe their invisible benefactor was saving them for himself. Slave /was standing between two battered freighters, looking nothing special to anyone who didn't know the ship, just an old Firespray idling her drives.
Fett grounded the speeder bike and ran for the ship. Who would pick off Fraig's morons for him? Generosity like that came with a price. Fett left Mirta to dock the speeder in the hold and climbed up into the cockpit.
"Come on, girl, what's keeping you?" He tapped the console switches and Slave I whined up to full power, a faint tremor passing through her airframe. It said safe. It said home. It was the most reassuring sound he knew. "You've got twenty seconds before I close the cargo hatch."
There was no answer, and just as that fact registered, Slave I's entry warning light flashed. There was someone else on board. The systems didn't recognize them.
"Mirta? Mirta!"
The internal security cams showed nothing but the speeder. Fett grabbed his blaster and went aft to check. Even through the helmet filter, he could smell a strong, oily stench that he hadn't smelled in years.
He couldn't quite place it, but he knew it.
The speeder was stowed. The hatch was open. He raised the blaster and wondered whether to just seal the hatch and launch Slave I, and hate himself for the rest of his life, what was left of it.
Dad wouldn't have left you stranded. He'd have risked anything for you.
Fett had abandoned quite a few people over the years. He'd even left
Sintas wounded the last time he'd seen her—the very last time. It had seemed the right decision then.
And you wonder why your daughter and granddaughter tried to kill you.
Fett stood to one side of the hatch. His sensors showed him two shapes on the ramp, one humanoid and one animal whose form wasn't clearly defined. He counted to three and came out, blaster and flamethrower aimed.
Mirta, minus helmet, was in the tight headlock of a Mandalorian in gray armor, and a large gold-furred animal had its huge jaws locked around her leg, trailing a curtain of drool. It wasn't attacking: it was frozen, pinning her down—and stinking.
And she didn't look scared. Just embarrassed.
Fett stared down the barrel of a custom Verpine rifle aimed one-handed, and understood why he'd heard no blasterfire when the speeder bikes dropped from the air. Verpines were silent.
"Well, well . . . ," said the Mandalorian in gray armor. He really did have a very fine pair of gray leather gloves. "It's little Bob'ika.
Last time we met, my brother was shoving your head down the 'freshers to teach you some manners. What do you want me for, ner vod?"
GALACTIC ALLIANCE GUARD BRIEFING ROOM, GAG HQ, CORUSCANT
Ben was glad to be back among people he trusted. The sea of black uniforms might have been a sinister sight to
some people, but to him they felt like a brotherhood—like family.
He was in that rare position of being young enough to be treated like one of the troopers despite his officer status, and he liked that. The sense of camaraderie and the knowledge that everyone watched everyone else's
back was both comforting and thrilling.
He settled into a seat on the end of a row in the briefing room. A trooper called Almak nudged him.
"Nice vacation? Glad you could fit us into your busy schedule, sir."
"Couldn't wait to get back."
"You didn't miss much," Almak said. "Been a bit quieter. I thunk we've broken the back of the Corellian networks."
"I always miss the good stuff."
A couple of the other troopers in the row in front turned in their seats and joined in. "We'll find some excitement for you."
"Or some filing . . ."
" 'Freshers need a good clean. Here's a toothbrush."
Ben grinned and lobbed a pellet of flimsi at them. It was good to be part of a team. It was good to have friends. They didn't see him as Son of Skywalker, Jedi to be feared. He was just Ben, and they looked out for him as they always seemed to for young officers they liked.
And they never asked him where he'd been. Everything was on a need-to- know basis.
But the spate of bombings seemed to be over for the time being. It was just a case of working out who to keep an eye on and round up next.
Corellians, Bothans . . . and now Fondorians.
Captain Lon Shevu strode onto the dais at the front of the room, looking as committed as ever, but Ben felt the reluctance and misgivings in him. He could sense it in a few of the other troopers, too, generally the ones who'd been in the CSF. Jacen followed Shevu and got instant undivided attention.
Jacen could do that: Ben wasn't sure if he envied him or not. It was interesting that he seemed to enjoy being the focus for ordinary beings but chose to hide himself from Force-sensitives. It was as if he only wanted to be seen by the mundane world.
I have to learn how to do that. Mom says I did it as a little kid, but that was by instinct, like babies swimming. I want to learn how to do it like Jacen does.
"Brief for the next forty-eight hours, ladies and gentlemen," said Jacen. "We're moving into a different phase. The priority now is to look for professionals—Confederation intelligence agents. Now, normally we'd leave that to our colleagues in Alliance Intel, but seeing as we've got all their best operatives—" Applause and laughter interrupted him. He paused with a big grin and picked up again. "—seeing as we got the pick of the litter, we'll be helping them out. We'll also be providing close protection for Chief Omas and key ministers, to relieve CSF, and monitoring for them. Results of interrogation suggest we might be looking at more targeted and professional assassination attempts—as in government agents, not just disgruntled amateurs and bounty hunters."
A hand was raised at the front. Ben couldn't see who it was.
"What's monitoring in this context, sir?"
Jacen flashed a holoimage onto the screen behind him. It showed a diagram of the various routes by which GA ministers could be reached, physically or virtually: offices, home addresses, private clubs, routes to the Senate, comlinks. "Like this," he said.
"Are we Mowed to tap Senators' comlinks, sir?" asked Shevu.
"Under the Emergency Measures Act, we're authorized to carry out any surveillance to prevent acts of violence against ministers of state and visiting allies."
Shevu's face was unreadable, but Ben felt the sharp unhappiness in him.
Now, there was a guy who knew how to conceal what he was thinking.
Ben wondered if that was a more useful skill than hiding in the Force.