Chewbaca had reached the center now. Pulling himself partway up on the chain with one hand, he unceremoniously dumped Threepio into the star dish. The droid gave one last screech of protest, a screech that broke off halfway through as the Wookiee reached into the dish and shut him off. Dropping back to the floor with a thud, he hit the ground running as the repulsorlifts outside went silent.
“Hurry!” Leia hissed, holding the door open for him. Chewbacca made it across the dukha and dived through the narrow opening, jumping up on the bench and turning around to face forward, his head jammed up against the sloping ceiling and his legs spread to both sides of the bench. Leia slid in behind him, sitting down in the narrow gap between the Wookiee’s legs.
There was just enough time to ease the door closed before the double doors a quarter of the way around the dukha slammed open.
Leia pressed against the back wall of the booth and Chewbacca’s legs, forcing herself to breathe slowly and quietly and running through the Jedi sensory enhancement techniques Luke had taught her. From above her Chewbacca’s breathing rasped in her ears, the heat from his body flowing like an invisible waterfall onto her head and shoulders. She was suddenly and acutely aware of the weight and bulge of her belly and of the small movements of the twins within it; of the hardness of the bench she was sitting on; of the intermingling smells of Wookiee hair, the alien wood around her, and her own sweat. Behind her, through the wall of the dukha, she could hear the sound of purposeful footsteps and the occasional clink of laser rifles against stormtrooper armor, and said silent thanks that they’d scrubbed her earlier plan of trying to escape that way.
And from the inside of the dukha, she could hear voices.
“Good morning, maitrakh,” a calm, coolly modulated voice said. “I see that your thirdson, Khabarakh, is here with you. How very convenient.”
Leia shivered, the rough rubbing of her tunic against her skin horribly loud in her ears. That voice had the unmistakable tone of an Imperial commander, but with a calmness and sheer weight of authority behind it. An authority that surpassed even the smug condescension she’d faced from Governor Tarkin aboard the Death Star.
It could only be the Grand Admiral.
“I greet you, my lord,” the maitrakh’s voice mewed, her own tone rigidly controlled. “We are honored by your visit.”
“Thank you,” the Grand Admiral said, his tone still polite but with a new edge of steel beneath it. “And you, Khabarakh clan Kihm’bar. Are you also pleased at my presence here?”
Slowly, carefully, Leia eased her head to the right, hoping to get a look at the newcomer through the dark mesh of the booth window. No good; they were all still over by the double doors, and she didn’t dare get her face too close to the mesh. But even as she eased back to her previous position there was the sound of measured footsteps:and a moment later, in the center of the dukha, the Grand Admiral came into view.
Leia stared at him through the mesh, an icy chill running straight through her. She’d heard Han’s description of the man he’d seen on Myrkr-the pale blue skin, the glowing red eyes, the white Imperial uniform. She’d heard, too, Fey’lya’s casual dismissal of the man as an impostor, or at best a self-promoted Moff. And she’d wondered privately if Han might indeed have been mistaken.
She knew now that he hadn’t been.
“Of course, my lord,” Khabarakh answered the Grand Admiral’s question. “Why should I not be?”
“Do you speak to your lord the Grand Admiral in such a tone?” an unfamiliar Noghri voice demanded.
“I apologize,” Khabarakh said. “I did not mean disrespect.”
Leia winced. Undoubtedly not; but the damage was already done. Even with her relative inexperience of the subtleties of Noghri speech, the words had sounded too quick and too defensive. To the Grand Admiral, who knew this race far better than she did:
“What then did you mean?” the Grand Admiral asked, turning around to face Khabarakh and the maitrakh.
“I-” Khabarakh floundered. The Grand Admiral stood silently, waiting. “I am sorry, my lord,” Khabarakh finally got out. “I was overawed by your visit to our simple village.”
“An obvious excuse,” the Grand Admiral said. “Possibly even a believable one:except that you weren’t overawed by my visit last night.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Or is it that you didn’t expect to face me again so soon?”
“My lord-“
“What is the Noghri penalty for lying to the lord of your overclan?” the Grand Admiral interrupted, his cool voice suddenly harsh. “Is it death, as it was in the old days? Or do the Noghri no longer prize such outdated concepts as honor?”