“But he’ll know who was responsible,” Lando said. “I think we should ask him.”
Han and Leia exchanged a glance. “It may not be as easy as that,” Leia said. “We’ve already tried to reach him by comlink. All we got was a recorded message saying that he and his family were celebrating his retirement by going on vacation. Not where, not for how long, no information on how to reach him.”
“Who would know?”
“Their best friends are on the other side,” Leia said. “Tycho and Winter Celchu.”
Han frowned. “He’s leaving Corellia.”
Leia and Lando both looked at him. Lando looked confused, as if Han had been using stepping-stones to cross a stream and Lando couldn’t spot the stones to follow him. “How do you figure that?” Lando asked. “His home is here.”
Han irritably waved that notion away. “His home is the military. For him, Corellia’s just a good place to retire. He didn’t even grow up on planet. He grew up on a refueling station that doesn’t exist anymore. No, he’s got to get offworld. He’s in disgrace with his former bosses, bosses who assassinate, and he’s not going to leave his family vulnerable to them.” He considered for a moment. “He’ll be in hiding now. What we’d have to do is figure out how he’s going to get offworld-assuming he hasn’t already-and meet up with him. And that would be a lot of work.”
Leia nodded. “We may want to forget about him and go straight for Dur Gejjen or Denjax Teppler instead.”
As it had on previous cycles, the Coronet news feed reached the Jedi assassins story: “In related events, mystery surrounds the savage street attack by Galactic Alliance Jedi on unnamed Coronet citizens shortly after Admiral Antilles’s retirement announcement.” The holocam view switched to show a tall, strongly built young man, dressed in sweat-stained agricultural coveralls, a big, panicky grin partially concealing his bantha-in-searchlights look. “First rodder just shot first Jedi,” he said, his voice marked by the distinctive twang of agrarian townships surrounding Coronet. “Second rodder kicked second Jedi, put him right out. Whole thing took two seconds.” The grin suddenly went from nervous to genuinely pleased. “Jedi aren’t so tough. Later, bunch of us are gonna go on a Jedi hunt.”
Leia grimaced. “Fake Jedi? Or is the whole story fake?”
“Not our problem,” Han said. “Dur Gejjen is a reptile, and I don’t intend to walk into his nest. Denjax Teppler may have no power, but he’s been friendly before and may know something. Let’s see if we can get to him.”
CORONET, CORELLIA
In the quietest hours of the morning, the three of them huddled around a small table in the most private sort of cantina.
The privacy didn’t come from remoteness. Situated on a major thoroughfare near the city’s main spaceport, it was well trafficked during daylight and evening hours. Because it catered so much to offworlders and business traffic, its clientele was not chiefly made up of local regulars. Strangers elicited no curiosity. Bartenders with access to a modified spray-pattern blaster discouraged trouble and the official attention trouble might bring, while a commercially minded bar owner who paid all the correct under-the-table bills discouraged other official or criminal inspection.
The table Han, Leia, and Lando sat at was toward the back of the main room, where the thousand colorful rays of light from above-the-bar decorations and along-the-wall glow rods fell only dimly. They had a good angle on the door, and looked up every time someone entered the cantina.
And this time they didn’t instantly dismiss the new customer as a prospect; the glow rods above the door showed him to be wrapped in a cloak, its hood casting his face into deep shadow. He stood there as the door swung shut behind him and scanned the bar’s interior.
Not sure whether this was Teppler’s intermediary, Han straightened, made a look-at-me motion, and caught the new customer’s attention. The man walked over and, without invitation, sat on the table’s fourth chair. He didn’t lower his hood, but at this distance Han recognized Denjax Teppler. His were handsome, if bland, features, the sort that belonged to a drinking buddy employed as a statistician or sales manager.
Han cocked an eyebrow at him. “Isn’t it risky for you to travel alone? I thought for sure you’d send a Rodian with a scar and a limp to escort us to a secret hideaway.”
Teppler snorted. “All my hideaways are being monitored. As I am. But awhile back I hired a look-alike, and my surveillance follows him home. Meaning I can sometimes walk around freely.”