Conder’s here at Izzik’s watching Nim Tar, the bobble-headed Quermian. That long-necked senator sits off in the far corner, nervously nursing some kind of fruit drink and looking like he doesn’t want to be here at all. “Patience,” Conder says. “Night’s still young.”
“I’m still young, too,” Temmin says. He’s the last of them, and he’s across from the Senate house on a balcony, keeping an eye on Grelka Sorka, the senator from Askaj. She’s already busy working, running some committee about—well, Sinjir forgets what. Probably a committee designated to give themselves pay raises. Or a committee designed to design other committees. Temmin groans. “I’m young now but I feel myself getting older by the minute. This sucks vapor. I hate it.”
Sinjir wants to chide the boy—It is necessary, Temmin—but that’s a line he’s not sure even he buys. He wants to do what they all want to do: grab the Falcon, fly to Jakku, blow up the Empire single-handedly, and save Norra and Jas as an epic, heroic gesture. Except they can’t. They’ll get killed. Or start a galactic incident and end up getting Wartol elected anyway. So here they wait. Watching senators in the hope that at least one of them is visibly corrupt in a way to provide them with enough leverage to win the vote.
—
Hours pass.
Nothing happens. At least, nothing interesting. At Izzik’s, the Torphlusian tentacle-pile is still “singing.” Two Verpine advisers got into a loud argument at a table, chittering and rubbing their saw-blade arms together (the resultant sound made Sinjir want to puncture both of his eardrums with a toothpick), and now those same two Verpine are leaning over a different table, lustily rubbing their mouthparts together. Otherwise, it’s the same glad-handing, back-scratching crowd of politicos.
Ashmin Ek is tireless. Other senators have gone, their numbers replenished as the night goes on, but not Ek—the senator from Anthan Prime remains, the same plastic smile on his face, the same half-full drink in his hand, the same time spent whirling about.
The others aren’t having any luck, either. Dor Wieedo remains in his ship. Rethalow remains inside its poma-club dep tank. Temmin reports that Grelka Sorka is no longer in committee and is now outside the Senate house, just milling about. Nim Tar has loosened up a little bit and has left the safety of her corner table, moving one table over to talk to the young Ryloth emissary, Yendor. (Sinjir spies Conder hovering about in that direction. Every time he catches that glimpse, his heart rate picks up, his mouth goes wet, his throat gets tight. He tells himself it’s because he’s bored, or anxious, or not properly drunk enough. Which is to say, not drunk at all—a heinous mistake if ever there was one.) Night drifts toward the cliff’s edge of morning.
And then Solo says:
“I got something here.”
A flurry of questions: What? Who? Where?
“Couple of Nikto. Plus a Klatooinian. They’re headed toward Wieedo’s ship. They’re not armed, but they sure don’t look like they’re from Nakadia, and neither could be senators. I know scum when I see it.”
“Be careful,” Jom says over the comm.
“Relax, I got this,” Han says.
Now Sinjir’s blood is up. It’s probably nothing, but his skin prickles with the twin sensations of excitement and fear. He roots himself near the bar and keeps an eye out. There’s Ek, over by a table of Arconans—and approaching now is someone in the gold, red, and white of Alderaan. Did they finally elect a senator, even though the planet is destroyed? A nail of guilt sticks in Sinjir’s heart. He had literally nothing to do with the destruction of that planet, but even still, when he heard that the Empire had destroyed it, he had weeks of nightmares about it. Millions of people dying…
A hand grabs his elbow.
He tenses up like an animal about to strike, spinning heel-to-toe— Only to see a young woman standing there. A young man hurries up behind her. She has golden hair and bronze skin. He’s a bit shorter, with a body thin as an antenna but a head round as a moon.
“You’re him,” she says.
“And you’re her,” Sinjir answers, irritated. “Glad we got that out of the way, now if you’ll excuse me—”
“You’re the Imperial,” the young man says, beaming.
“Ex-Imperial,” she corrects with a very temporary scowl before her big smile returns. To Sinjir she says in a low voice: “You’ll have to excuse Dann, he is a bit thick. My name is Merra.”
“Yes. Good. Fine. Nice to meet you.”
In his ear comes Temmin’s voice: “Hold on. Senator Sorka is slipping away—she’s ducking around the corner. I’m gonna follow her.”
“Be careful,” Jom chides. “Han, you got anything?”
But there’s no answer.
Sinjir tries to push past the two wide-eyed wonder children standing there, but the girl reasserts herself in front of him, blocking his path.