“Your theory spooks me, farmboy. Because it answers a lot of the questions we’ve been asking. Why Lumiya would have infiltrated the Galactic Alliance Guard-to gather information about Jacen or Ben and prepare for revenge if she needed to take it. Why she would have been around for as long as we’ve known she has been but didn’t attack you until a few weeks ago-because that’s when she received the word about her daughter dying.” Her frown deepened. “And what if this is the reason for all Jacen’s bad decisions? What if Brisha or the Sith apprentice on that planetoid got to him, affected him-infected him in some way?”
“Then whatever’s afflicting him might be easily curable.”
Mara slammed her fists down on the tabletop and turned away from Luke. Far from being pleased by that possibility, she’d been angered by it, and even without the benefit of their Forcebond, Luke thought he knew why.
Because if Jacen were the victim of some Sith brainwashing technique, he wasn’t responsible for his recent actions. In which case Mara couldn’t forge and sharpen her emotions, her dedication, to oppose and eliminate him as a former Emperor’s Hand should be able to.
“We have to find out what happened on that asteroid,” Luke said. “And we have to confront Jacen face-to-face to do that. We can’t be in a position where all he has to do is press an off switch to shut us out.”
“I agree.” Mara’s voice was strained. “I’ll make the arrangements.”
“Before you go…” A little pain crept into Mara’s voice. “Luke, who was Brisha’s father?”
Luke shrugged as he rose. “How would I know?” Then he caught the look on her face, a combination of suspicion and an eagerness to let any answer wipe that suspicion away, and he said, “No.”
“You’re sure.”
He offered her a reassuring grin. “Mara, we were involved emotionally, but not physically.”
“All right.” The suspicion eased from her expression, but through their Forcebond Luke could still feel a touch of disquiet from her.
As Luke hurried off to make flight arrangements to Corellia, he cursed Lumiya-for managing to introduce strife, however fleeting, into his life, this time without even trying.
CORELLIAN EXCLUSION ZONE
ERRANT VENTURE
The universe was not cooperating, and Alema Rar was becoming impatient with it.
There was a Jedi-other than herself-aboard Errant Venture. She was sure of it. As she stalked the darkened passageways and shadow-filled casinos, as she wandered, wrapped in robes that concealed her disfigurement enough to allow her to mingle with drunken gamblers and revelers, she would occasionally feel little pulses and eddies in the Force that were characteristic of Jedi presence.
But she never spotted the Jedi. To the logic she employed in her calculations, that meant one thing: the Jedi was hiding-hiding from her-and therefore it was Leia.
That evening, in the cabin she surreptitiously shared with Captain Lavint, she spoke of these matters. “You are almost free of your debt to us,” she said. “You have brought us to where the Solos, at least Leia, conceal themselves. But we cannot find her. Them. When we see them, then you are free.”
“I’m in no hurry,” Lavint said. She sat cross-legged on the bed, a small bottle of expensive prewar Corellian whiskey trapped between her ankles. “We-you and I, that is, not just me-are making a killing at the gambling tables. Did you ever think about giving up your quest, whatever it is, and turning pro?”
“No.”
“All right. Here’s a hint, then. You’re using only your Jedi magic and your royal we instead of your brain.”
Ordinarily Alema would have been offended by such a declaration. She would not necessarily have demonstrated it, except to exact a little revenge. But Lavint was not trying to insult. She simply had no filter between her brain and her mouth. Whatever she thought came tumbling out, particularly when she had some alcohol in her.
Tell us, then, what we are doing wrong. What we are not thinking.”
Lavint raised a forefinger. “One. What is Han Solo?”
“Adventurer, friend to Jedi, husband, father, smuggler, general, ship captain -
“Those are all the branches. Except smuggler. That’s the trunk. Corellian smuggler.” She raised two more fingers. “Two. Wedge Antilles, who just vanished from Corellia. What’s he?”
“That’s three.”
“Eh?”
“That’s three fingers, not two.”
Lavint glared down at her hand and folded one of her fingers down. “Antilles.”
“General, admiral, pilot, husband, father, friend to Jedi…”