“And this gathering projects the idea that things are calm,” Leia added. “There are newsgatherers and historians here. They’ll see the calm, the unconcern, and they’ll report on it to the HoloNet today.”
Han grimaced. “I need my blaster,” he said.
Jacen, right behind his father with Ben in tow, said, “You feel defenseless without it, Dad?”
“Nothing of the sort. I just want to shoot everyone who decides on these protocols.”
Jacen nodded agreeably. “If I ruled the universe, I’d let you do that, as a service to galactic civilization.”
Luke’s smile lasted for another two steps; then he straightened, looking forward. He stepped to the side of the Jedi formation to let it pass and began looking right and left.
Mara, Han, and Leia stepped out with him, letting the others continue on. Jacen, Ben, Jaina, and Zekk moved toward the center of the room, Ben sparing his father a curious glance. Mara asked, “What is it?”
“He was here,” Luke said. “The man who doesn’t exist.”
Mara began a slow, casual, visual sweep of the room and asked, “How long ago?”
“I’m not sure,” Luke admitted, “I just had a flash of him in the Force. But it was clear and distinct … and, again, no dream.”
“He has to exist, then,” Mara said.
Han cleared his throat. “Anybody care to toss a clue to a non-Jedi?”
Leia said, “I’m in the dark, too, Han.”
“An enemy,” Luke said. “I became aware of him when he didn’t yet exist. And now I’m beginning to think he sometimes exists and sometimes doesn’t.”
“That’ll make him hard to track down,” Han admitted. “Hard to make him pay up his rent.”
Luke shot Han an admonishing glance, then followed the other Jedi.
“He’s actually worried,” Han said.
Mara nodded. “And getting more worried.”
Leia linked her arm through her sister-in-law’s. “So tell us about this man who doesn’t exist.”
The party, Luke had to admit, did serve its main purpose-giving the newsgatherers information that would probably reassure the public at large-and a secondary purpose, that of an icebreaker.
At its start, the attendees stood about in rigid little groups dictated by their function and place of origin-here Corellian politicians, backs to a functionally identical group of Coruscant politicians a meter away, there a cluster of Jedi. At various points around the wall stood pairs and trios of security operatives-here GA, there CorSec, next Toryaz Station experts.
Oddly, it was a pair of aging pilots who began to thaw the hard edges of the groups. Walking together, Wedge Antilles and Tycho Celchu moved from cluster to cluster, shaking hands, clapping backs, telling stories. Their genuine affection for the people they were addressing was obvious, as was their genuine unconcern for the political boundaries of the gathering.
Tycho was first on the dance floor with Prime Minister Saxan; Wedge, with Leia, was next. Soon the noise level in the chamber rose and the boundaries between groups increasingly blurred.
Jaina, dancing with her father, told him, “You can be doing that, too.”
Han gave her a puzzled look. “Dancing? I am. If crushing my daughter’s toes one by one counts.”
“Not what I meant. Did you know, there’s someone here that everybody on both sides likes and admires?”
“Sure.” Han looked around. “Luke’s over there. He’s talking to Pellaeon right now.”
“No.” Jaina shook her head, setting her hair swaying. “I mean you. A hero to the Corellians and the rest of the GA. And you could be walking around, getting to know everyone, and making everybody feel better about being here.”
Han gave her a mock grimace. “I hate that sort of thing.”
“My father, the hero, won’t walk around smiling, even if it keeps war from happening?”
“Not fair. Who taught you to argue?”
“Morm. Besides, you can get up to speed just by staying here on the dance floor. In case you haven’t noticed, there are ladies from both sides hovering, waiting for when you find yourself without a dance partner. Like this.” The music, a familiar dance number, signaled a twirl, and when Han completed it, Jaina was two meters away, dancing with Zekk and giving her father one last merry smile.
Han pointed at her, an Ill-get-you-for-this gesture, then felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned. Before him stood a young woman with short blond hair; she wore the uniform of a junior officer of the GA security team. “General Solo?” she asked. “I’m Lieutenant Eisen Barthis. Could I have this dance?”