“What?” Han stared at him, the whole situation tilting slightly off vertical. He looked at the alien’s neck piece-it was Tav Breil’lya, all right. “What did you call me?”
“You’re an Imperial spy,” Breil’lya repeated, his fur rippling again. “Come to destroy our friendship, or even to kill us all. But you’ll never live to report back to your masters. He turned to the tall woman. “You must destroy him at once, Sena,” he urged. “Before he has the chance to summon your enemies here.”
“Let’s not do anything rash, Council-Aide Breil’lya,” Sena soothed. “Irenez has a good picket screen in position.” She looked at Han. “would you care to respond to the Council-Aide’s accusations?”
“We have no interest in the ravings of an Imperial spy,” Breil’lya insisted before Han could speak.
“On the contrary, Council-Aide,” Sena countered. “Around here, we have an interest in a great many things.” She turned back to Han, lifted his ID. “Do you have any proof other than this that you’re who you claim to be?
“It doesn’t matter who he is,” Breil’lya jumped in again, his voice starting to sound a little strained. “He’s seen you, and he must certainly know that we have some kind of arrangement. Whether he’s from the Empire or the New Republic is irrelevant-both are your enemies, and both would use such information against you.”
Sena’s eyebrows lifted again. “So now his identity doesn’t matter,” she said coolly. “Does that mean you’re no longer certain he’s an impostor?”
Breil’lya’s fur rippled again. Clearly, he wasn’t as quick on his verbal feet as his boss. “He’s a very close likeness,” the other muttered. “Though a proper dissection would quickly establish for certain who he is.”
Sena smiled slightly. But it was a smile of understanding, not of humor : and suddenly Han realized that the confrontation had been as much a test of Breil’lya as it had been of him. And if Sena’s expression was anything to go by, the Bothan had just flunked it. “I’ll keep that recommendation in mind,” she told him dryly.
There was a soft beep, and the gray-haired woman pulled out a comlink and spoke quietly into it. She listened, spoke again, and looked up at Sena. “Picket line reports another man approaching,” she said. “Medium build, dark blond hair, dressed in black”-she threw a glance at Breil’lya-“and carrying what appears to be a lightsaber.”
Sena looked at Breil’lya, too. “I believe that ends the discussion,” she said. “Have one of the pickets meet him, Irenez, and ask him if he’ll join us. Make it clear that’s a request, not an order. Then return Captain Solo’s weapon and equipment to him.” She turned to Han, nodded gravely to him as she returned his ID. “My apologies, Captain. You understand we have to be cautious. Particularly given the coincidence of this.” She gestured toward the outside wall.
Han frowned, wondering what she meant. Then he got it: she was indicating the sirens still wailing outside. “No problem,” he assured her. “What are the sirens for, anyway?”
“It’s an Imperial raid,” Irenez said, handing him his blaster and comlink.
Han froze. “A raid?”
“It’s no big deal,” Sena assured him. “They come by every few months and take a percentage of the refined biomolecules that have been packaged for export. It’s a covert form of taxation the city governments have worked out with them. Don’t worry, they never come any farther in than the landing level.”
“Yeah, well, they may change the routine a little this time,” Han growled, flicking on his comlink. He half expected someone to try to stop him, but no one even twitched. “Luke?”
“I’m here, Han,” the younger man’s voice came back. “My escort tells me I’m being brought to where you are. You all right?”
“Just a little misunderstanding. Better get in here fast-we got company.
“Right.”
Han shut off the comlink. Sena and Irenez, he saw, had meanwhile been having a quiet conversation of their own. “If you’re as touchy about Imperials as Breil’lya implied, you might want to find a hole to disappear into,” he advised.
“Our escape route’s ready,” Sena assured him as Irenez left the room. “The question is what to do with you and your friend.”
“You can’t just firm them loose,” Breil’lya insisted, trying one last time. “You know full well that if the New Republic learns about you-“