I know that the prince has extensive resources and several mercenary units at his command. With an effective, modern fighting force on the planet, there is no way that Teroenza’s guards would dare mount an armed challenge.” He faced her squarely, despite the pain of his bruised body.
“Will you ask him for me, Guri? Explain the situation?”
“I will,” Guri said. “However, His Highness rarely dispatches troops except to protect his own interests.”
“I know that,” Durga said dolefully. He didn’t like what he was about to say, but better this than to lose everything. “In return for his support, tell your prince that I will offer him a percentage of this year’s Ylesian profits.”
Guri nodded. “I will convey your proposition, Lord Durga. You will be hearing from His Highness.” She bowed slightly. “And now … I take my leave of you, Your Excellency.”
Durga nodded as well as he could with his aching, stiff neck.
“Farewell, Guri.”
“Farewell, Lord Durga.”
Bria Tharen was working in her office aboard her Marauder corvette, Retribution, when Jace Paol appeared on the holocomm. “Commander, we have an incoming message for you, your private code, on a very secure channel.”
“HQ?” she said.
“No, Commander. This is a civ transmission.”
She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Really?” Not many outsiders had her private code. A few of the Intelligence operatives—Barid Mesoriaam and others of his ilk—but they would hardly contact her this directly. “Well … patch it through to me here, please.”
Moments later, a small image formed atop her comm unit.
Bria stared in surprise. A Hutt? The only Hutt who had her private code was Jabba, so this must be he … though Hutts looked alike to her, especially in a fuzzy holo-message. She spoke to the image.
“Jabba? Is that you, Your Excellency?”
“It is I, Commander Tharen,” the Hutt replied.
“Yes … well … to what do I owe the pleasure of this call, Your Excellency?”
The Hutt leader inclined his head slightly. “Commander Tharen, I ask that you come to Nal Hutta immediately. I am now the leader of Clan Desilijic, since my aunt’s unfortunate demise. We must talk.”
Bria caught her breath. It had been only a month since her interview with Desilijic. And now Jiliac was dead?
She decided she didn’t want to know. Bowing her head respectfully, she said, “I will come immediately, Your Excellency. I take it you wish to re-open our negotiation regarding the Ylesian enterprise?”
“Yes,” said Jabba. “I have begun placing operatives on Ylesia to take care of the t’landa Til. I am ready to proceed with the Ylesian raid.
It is time to put an end to Besadii’s economic tyranny.”
“I’ll be there in two days,” Bria promised.
12
Ice…
Five days after Jiliac’s death, Han Solo and Chewbacca visited Han’s favorite tavern in the Corellian section of Nar Shaddaa. The Blue Light didn’t serve food, only liquor, and it was just a little hole in the wall, but Han liked the place. There were holo-posters on the wall that depicted famous landmarks on Corellia. And the management served Han’s favorite brand of Alderaanian ale.
The bartender, Mich Flenn, was an aging Corellian who had been a smuggler until he’d accrued enough credits to buy the bar. Han enjoyed hearing his yarns about the old days, though he had to take everything the old geezer said with a big grain of salt. After all, who ever heard of sentients with strange powers who could leap ten meters into the air and turn somersaults, or project blue lightning from their fingertips?
Han and Chewie stopped by there most evenings. This particular one, they were standing at the bar, side by side, sipping their drinks, listening to another of Mich’s tall tales. The Corellian was dimly aware that someone came in during the story and stood beside him, but he did not turn to glance at the newcomer.
Mich’s tale was a long one, wilder than ever, about a sentient tree that had once been a powerful sorcerer, and a race of beings who transferred their essence into battle-droids in order to become the perfect fighting force.
Finally Mich ran down, and Han shook his head. “Mich, that was a real doozy. You oughta write all the stories down and sell ‘em to the tridee producers. They’re always lookin’ for crazy stuff like that for their shows.”
Chewie voiced an emphatic agreement.
Mich grinned at Han, then began polishing a glass industriously and addressed the newcomer. “And what will you have, pretty lady?”
Han reflexively glanced to his right to see the person Mich was addressing—and froze, startled.