[Legacy Of The Force] - 01(29)

The passenger-seating compartment was not ideal. It was, in fact, a cargo container, the sort used to transport bulk goods from one port to another. But it had been fitted with reclinable seats from decommissioned passenger shuttles. Every row was a different color, and some of the seats smelled bad.

Jaina’s smelled bad. If she’d been in a self-destructively contemplative mood, she might have speculated that at some time in the distant past, it had been occupied by a Hutt with a digestive disorder. Every so often, an injudicious movement on Jaina’s part would compress the padding she was sitting on and an odor, half bitter, half sweet, all repulsive, would cause her nose and the noses or equivalent equipment of the other passengers in the vicinity to twitch.

Those passengers were an interesting collection, Jaina decided. Most looked and acted like beings on the run, eyes alert to anyone who might be giving them too much attention, clothes bulky enough to conceal the blasters tucked away underneath, bags and satchels containing who-knew-what always close at hand. Some were humans, some Bothans, some Rodians. Jaina spotted one Bith at the rear of the compartment. It appeared that one passenger was a beaten-up YVH 1 combat droid traveling without a companion.

And of course there were Jedi, though they didn’t look like Jedi. Jaina was dressed in a fashion that would have let her fit in with her father’s old friends-tight-fitting trousers and vest of black bantha leather, a red silk shirt with flowing sleeves and a matching hair scarf, a blaster holster on her belt. Half her face bore an artificial tattoo, a red flower on her cheek with green leafy tendrils spreading across her jaw and up to her forehead, and her hair was blond, a temporary dye job.

Next to her, Zekk, eyes closed in sleep, wore a preposterous tan jacket of fringed leather. Beneath it was a bandolier holding eight vibroblades. Two false scars marked his face, one a horizontal gash across his forehead, the other down from the forehead to the right cheek; an eye patch with a blinking red diode covered that eye.

The two compartments directly aft were sectioned into small, claustrophobic sleeping berths. The compartment aft of that held luggage.

And they were surrounded by containers holding Tibanna gas, harvested on Bespin, where this cargo vessel had begun its journey. If the vessel was attacked, incoming damage could ignite the cargo, and Jaina and all her Jedi friends would be vaporized.

This was, despite its size, a smuggling vessel. The Tibanna gas it carried boosted the destructive power of blasters. Its mining and export was carefully limited by the Galactic Alliance government, which was why a daring smuggler with a large cargo of the stuff could make a substantial profit by taking it to a system whose industries wanted it-for instance, Corellia, this vessel’s destination. And since the cargo was intended for weapons manufacturers receiving the tacit blessing of Corellia’s government, this vessel would, upon reaching the Corellia system, be ignored by customs inspectors … meaning that its passengers, many of whom were lightsaber-carrying Jedi, would also be unmolested. Mara, Jaina’s former Master, had prevailed on her oldest friend, smuggler Talon Karrde, for a way by which a unit of Jedi could enter Corellia with their lightsabers and other gear unnoticed, and he had offered the name, flight route, and departure time of this vessel.

And its smelly seats.

Zekk’s eyes opened. “Are we on Corellia vet?” His voice was pitched as a whisper.

Jaina shook her head. “Not for several hours.”

His eyes closed. Then they reopened. “Are we on Corellia yet?”

Despite herself, Jaina grinned. “Why don’t you go play outside for a while?”

CORUSCANT

There was a lot of open floor space between the office and dormitory portions of the room, and Wedge made use of it, taking his rolling chair there and playing a new game. Sitting facing one wall, he would suddenly stand, propelling his chair backward with his knees, and then turn to see how close he’d come to placing the chair near a mark he’d made on the floor.

At exact six-hour intervals, Titch came in with Wedge’s meals. When at the office desks, Wedge habitually sat at the one closest to the outer door, with his back to the door; he thought of it as the number one desk. Every six standard hours, morning, noon, and evening, Titch brought Wedge’s food and drink to the next desk to the left, the one Wedge thought of as the number two desk, and set the meal down there.

The first time Titch entered while Wedge was playing his rolling-chair game, Titch paid him no special attention. This was exactly what Wedge expected; Titch, Barthis, and possibly more security officers had to be watching his activities on hidden holocams, and so were already aware of Wedge’s new preoccupation. Titch merely set Wedge’s meal down in the usual place, then gave the older officer a condescending, pitying shake of the head before walking out the door and letting it slide shut behind him.